Hartshorne didn’t ask if I was ready.
He just adjusted the angle of the bed so I was a little more upright, like we were about to have a civilized chat instead of a magical surgery that would carve out the best and worst part of me and lock it in a box. “Let’s bring your heart rate down,” he said, glancing at the monitor. “You’re agitated.”
I barked a humorless laugh. “You don’t say.”
He didn’t respond. He reached for one of the vials on the tray instead, held it up to the light. The liquid inside caught the glow and shifted color, a slow bleed from silver to faint gold. My dragon went very still. “First, stabilization,” Hartshorne murmured. “To keep you conscious, but…pliable.”
“No,” I said, feeling the panic. I flinched against the restraints.
“It’s medical,” he replied, as if that made it okay. “We need you lucid enough to keep the construct anchored. Completely unconscious subjects tend to…resist unconsciously.” His gray eyes met mine. “You don’t want that.”
I wasn’t sure what I wanted, other than Phoenix and a different life, and it was too late for both. It was, wasn’t it? I hadn’t been honest with him. "No," I tried again, and tried to jerk away. "I don't want this. I refuse my consent." My father just waved a hand and they both ignored me. He swabbed the inside of my elbow, quick and practiced. The alcohol was cold. The needle wasn’t.
The dragon flinched as the fluid slid into my vein. A bitter chill crawled up my arm. For a second the world sharpened—the overhead light too bright, my father’s cologne too strong, the beeping too loud—and then everything softened, the edges going smudged. Sedative. Not enough to knock me out. Enough to slow my thoughts, like they were fighting through syrup.
“Good,” Hartshorne said when my shoulders finally stopped trying to climb up around my ears. “Better.”
The dragon didn’t think it was better. It paced under my ribs, restless, pressing against the old lines of the first binding. I could almost feel those lines as something physical, like scar tissue on the inside of my bones. Like a need for Phoenix. "No," I whispered, knowing it was too late.
My father stayed seated, watching. He’d moved the folder back to his lap, fingers resting on it lightly, like a threat he didn’t need to voice anymore. “I’ll be right here,” he said, and the worst part of me, the youngest part, still wanted that to be comforting.
“I don't want…” I slurred, already losing track of my thoughts.
“Mapping the current lattice,” Hartshorne said. “Then reinforcing the weak points. Tightening the seals.” He spoke the way coaches talked about systems, about neutral zone structure and forecheck schemes. Technical. Detached. “If necessary, we add an auxiliary band around the emotional centers. Your last flare was clearly triggered by stress.”
Was it? I squeezed my eyes shut but then opened them because they couldn’t stay shut. Hartshorne set the vials aside and picked up the thin brush. Up close the bristles werefine as hair. He uncapped another bottle—a thicker fluid this time, dark and faintly luminous.
My father stood.
“Try to be still, Cole,” he said. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Little late,” I mumbled.
The first brushstroke hit the inside of my left forearm, and my breath caught. It felt…wrong. This seeped through, dragging cold behind it, sinking past flesh into bone, then deeper. The dragon recoiled, hissing.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Conductor,” Hartshorne said, distracted, as he painted another line that snaked up toward my wrist. “Links surface sigils to the existing construct. Makes the binding more efficient.”
Efficient. Like we were optimizing a power grid instead of locking up a living, feeling thing inside me.
The lines crept, branching, forming a pattern that made my eyes ache if I tried to follow it. I stared at the ceiling instead. Focused on the faint hum of the ventilation system. Counted my breaths.
One. Two. Three. In. Out.
The dragon pushed against the new lines, testing them. They slid cold around it, catching, then tightening. My chest hurt.
“You’re doing well,” Hartshorne said, which was bullshit because I wasn’tdoinganything. “Your system is responding. That’s good.”
The sedative dragged at me. My thoughts wanted to slip sideways into memory—crowd noise, locker room laughter, the team’s stupid dumb jokes muttered under their breath to make me smile. I clung to those instead of the crawling cold in my veins. Then Phoenix. I wanted him here. Ineededhim here.
Something tightened around my wrist. I looked down. Hartshorne had fastened another metal band there, the etched symbols on it flaring briefly as they touched the ink-lines and then sinking to a dull shimmer. The band felt too heavy. Too tight. Like a cuff.
“It’s just a focus,” he said when my breathing hitched. “We’ll remove it when the lattice stabilizes.”
“Promise?”I slurred. Then I hated myself for asking. Where was Phoenix?
He didn’t answer.
