“How many?” The question sounds small in the darkness. “Centuries, I mean.”
“Three.” He caps his water bottle, tucks it back into the pack. “Give or take.”
Holy shit!
Three hundred years. The number makes my head spin. I’ve always known dragons lived longer than humans, but knowing and understanding are different things. He’s lived lifetimes. Seen empires rise and fall. Survived things I can’t even imagine.
God, I’m such a child.
“What was it like?” I ask. “When you were young?”
Something flickers across his face, too quick to read. “Different world. Smaller. You knew every dragon within a thousand miles because there weren’t that many of us left back then.”
“What happened to them?”
“War. Politics. The same things that kill everyone.” His voice is flat, factual. But I catch the edge underneath. Old grief worn smooth by time. “We were never numerous. Even before humans started building cities, we were dying out.”
I think about what that means. Growing up knowing your kind is fading. Watching friends disappear one by one.
“That must have been lonely.”
“Lonely implies you expect something different.” He finally tears open his ration bar, takes a bite. Chews methodically before continuing. “I learned early not to expect much.”
The words are casual. Too casual. Like he’s said them so many times, they’ve lost their meaning.
“Is that why you’re…” I search for the right word. “The way you are?”
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. I find myself wishing I could make him do it.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he says.
“Controlled. Detached.” I pull my knees up to my chest, conserving heat. “Like nothing touches you.”
“Things touch me.” He meets my eyes in the torchlight. “I’m just good at not showing it.”
“Why?”
“Because showing it doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t make you safer or the situation better. It just gives your enemies something to use against you.”
The honesty in his voice cuts deeper than the words themselves. I think about growing up with my mother; learning to hide what I felt, to present the right face for every situation. Always performing, never quite real.
“My mother taught me the same thing,” I say quietly. “How to smile when I was terrified. How to seem confident when I was falling apart. How to be whatever people needed me to be.” I glance down and trace patterns in the dirt beside me. Avoidinghis eye. “I thought I was good at it. But you… You’re on another level.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Then Luke shifts, angling toward me slightly.
“Tell me about her. Your mother.”
The request surprises me. “Why?”
“Because I’ve known Vanya Arrowvane by reputation for some time: Shadowhand operations, political maneuvering, information networks that most governments would envy.” His voice is thoughtful. “But I don’t know her as your mother. And that seems like the more interesting story.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not completely. But enough to breathe a little easier.
“She’s…” I search for the right words. “She’s two people. The Shadowhand—cold, calculating, always three steps ahead of everyone else. And then there’s my mom. The woman who sat on the edge of my bed and told me stories about dragons who could touch the stars.”
