“Found these back at the facility.” His voice is careful. Neutral. “Sorry. They were all I could grab.”
“Better than what I was wearing.” I try for light. For normal.
He doesn’t turn around. “Your turn to keep watch. I need a few minutes.”
Then he’s gone. Disappears into the washroom before I can respond.
I pull on the borrowed clothes. The flannel swallows me, soft and warm and smelling like storage and dust. The pants I have to roll three times at the ankles.
I settle by the fire and let heat soak into bones that haven’t stopped shaking since the transport.
Luke returns maybe ten minutes later. Hair damp. Wearing clean clothes from the pack. Cargo pants, a gray shirt that’s seen better days but isn’t covered in blood.
He’s still bleeding from his shoulder, a dark stain spreading through fabric.
“Sit.” I point at the chair.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding. Sit.”
He looks at me for a second. Then complies.
The surprise of it stuns us both into silence. Up until now, he’s been the one giving the instructions.
I kneel beside him with the first-aid kit he pulled from the supply cache. My hands are steadier now that I have a purpose. Something to do besides think about everything that’s happened.
“Take off your shirt.”
He pulls it over his head without argument. The firelight catches every line of him: broad shoulders, defined chest, a dragon tattoo that winds across his back. And beneath it all, layers of scars. Old injuries that healed wrong or healed too many times.
The fresh wound cuts deep across his collarbone. Still seeping blood despite his attempts to stanch it.
I clean it carefully. He winces when antiseptic hits raw flesh but doesn’t pull away.
My fingers trace the edges. Scarred flesh is evidence of a life I can’t imagine, centuries of fighting and surviving and enduring.
The silence stretches. Comfortable rather than tense.
“How did you get out?” My voice comes out soft as I focus on what I’m doing.
“I had help.” He’s quiet for a moment. “From something I don’t fully understand.”
I pause, hands stilling on the bandage. “The pulse.”
“You felt it too.”
“In the cell. When they took me.” I resume wrapping gauze around his shoulder. “Like the mountain was… listening.”
“It broke my restraints.” Luke’s voice carries something I’ve never heard from him before. Wonder, maybe. Or fear. “Slowed the bleeding from this wound. Opened my cell door like it wanted me free.”
My hands go still completely. “The same power that’s been draining us.”
“Except this time, it gave instead of taking.” He turns slightly, meeting my eyes. “The ancient dragon presence we’ve been tracking. The Sleeping King. Whatever it is, it’s aware. And it chose to help.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of what you are. Hybrid magic might have triggered something.” He pauses. “The Syndicate’s been trying to access the tomb. To tap into the Sleeping King’s power. Iris and Riven stopped whatever they were planning in his chamber, but clearly, they’ve been working on this for a while.”
