“In a dream,” I say, blinking.
He nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like we didn’t just side-step a godsdamned battlefield.
“Did she show herself to you, or was it just her voice?”
I stare at him. Did he not hear me? I just told him I didn’t sleep with Kieran—and he said he was glad I didn’t.
I heard that. Right?
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead, like we’re talking about the weather. Like he didn’t just tie my insides in knots and walk away. And somehow—because all the heat in me has drained out—I answer again.
“I saw her,” I say quietly. “She stepped out of the mist . . . and there she was.”
He nods once. “What does she look like?”
And that’s it. No follow-up. No acknowledgment. We’re just not talking aboutit.
Fine.
We’re back to that. The push. The distance. The silence between landmines.
I breathe out slowly, re-centering myself. “Silvery-white. Iridescent. Like moonlight and frost.”
I’m done.
Done putting myself out there. Done playing this game where I bleed and he gets to pretend he’s unaffected.
Kieran it is.
Dragons, then.
Fine.
My turn.
I shift in my saddle, jaw tight.
“What about Xaroth?” I ask, voice cool. “How did he call you?”
A beat.
Then—still calm, still infuriating—“When Xaroth called, I thought I was having a nightmare. First there was light, and then everything went so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. It felt like an endless, starless void. The blackness was suffocating. Then a booming voice called out my name.”
His lips purse, as if weighing whether to say the next part. His eyes drop, then flick to me, then back to the path beneath the horses’ hooves. His mouth twitches.
“I pissed the bed.”
He glances over, eyes dancing.
“Take that to your grave.”
I bark out a laugh. “You didn’t!”
He shrugs, lazy, unbothered. “I did.”
“Were you in a bunk in the barracks?”
“That I was. Top bunk.”
