"What's in it?"
"Herbs. Roots. Things the healers use for transformation sickness in young shifters." He pauses, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. "It's safe. I wouldn't give you anything that would hurt you."
I believe him. Whatever else is between us, whatever secrets he's kept and lies he's told, I don't think he wants me suffering. The bond tells me that much—the genuine concern underneath his guarded expression, the worry he can't quite hide no matter how hard he tries.
"Thank you," I say, and I'm surprised to find I mean it.
Something eases in his expression, tension bleeding out of the lines around his eyes, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. Not quite a smile, but close—the shadow of one, maybe, the memory of what smiling used to feel like before three hundred years of grief carved it out of him.
"I'm still angry," I tell him. "About the secrets. About not being told."
"I know."
"But I believe you're trying to help."
He nods once, accepting this partial truce for what it is—not forgiveness, not yet, but the possibility of it somewhere down the road. "Drink the tea. Every night. It really will make the changes easier."
Then he turns and walks away, his footsteps quiet on the packed earth, and I watch him go until he disappears into the shadow of the colonnade.
The anger is still there, banked like coals but not extinguished. He kept things from me, made decisions about my own body without consulting me, watched me change and said nothing while I stumbled through the dark alone.
But he's also trying to help. Researching, preparing, looking for answers in burned texts and scattered fragments. The nail polish to hide my symptoms from people who would kill me for them. The tea to ease my transformation into whatever I'm becoming.
Maybe that's enough for now. Maybe trust can be built in small steps, one careful gesture at a time.
That night, I brew the tea the way he described.
Water from the kettle the servants keep hot, poured over the herbs in a ceramic cup one of the kitchen girls broughtme weeks ago. Steep for exactly five minutes—he was specific about that, something about the oils releasing at the right rate—and the smell fills my chambers as the leaves unfurl, bitter and medicinal and earthy. It reminds me of my grandmother's cottage, the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters like sleeping bats, the way she'd brew remedies for every ailment while telling me stories about wild omegas who lived in the deep forest and answered to no one.
I wonder what she'd think of me now. Contaminated with dragon blood, transforming into something unnamed, drinking tea made by a monster who's trying to keep me alive.
She'd probably approve. She always said survival was its own kind of victory.
I lift the cup to my lips and drink.
The tea is bitter going down, coating my tongue and throat like medicine, like penance for sins I haven't committed yet. Not pleasant—nothing that's good for you ever is, my grandmother used to say—but not unbearable either. I finish the whole cup, feeling the warmth spread through my chest and settle into my belly like a small sun taking up residence.
The bond hums quietly between us, that invisible thread stretching across the castle to wherever he is. Still awake, probably, surrounded by his crumbling texts and scattered fragments, looking for answers. Looking out for me in his own guarded, secretive way.
I set the empty cup aside and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The tea settles warm in my stomach, and I do feel something—a loosening, maybe, a softening of the tension I've been carrying in my muscles for weeks. Like tight knots slowly coming undone.
He said it would help with the transformation. Make the changes easier to bear.
I think it's working.
I fall asleep with the taste of bitter herbs on my tongue and the bond glowing warm in my chest, feeling safer than I have in weeks.
Trusting, for the first time, that maybe I'm not facing this alone.
15
Rhystan
The summons catchesme off guard.
I'm in my study surrounded by crumbling texts and cold tea, the same place I've spent every evening for the past week, searching for answers in fragments that refuse to coalesce into anything useful. The afternoon light has gone gold and thick through the narrow windows, and I've lost track of time the way I always do when I'm buried in research—when I'm trying not to think about what I'm doing to her.
"Your Majesty." The guard hovers in the doorway, clearly uncertain whether to interrupt. "Lady Kess has requested your presence at dinner. The main hall. Sunset."
