“I know.”
“And terrify me.”
“I know that too.”
“And—” He stops. Swallows hard. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue.
I don’t push. Not now. There’s too much between us already—too much said and unsaid, too much want and fear tangled together like vines.
“I need to check the eastern perimeter.” He releases my wrist. “Stay inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Yes, sir.” I mock-salute. He doesn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally.
He’s gone before I can say anything else.
With Drayke patrollingand the cabin locked tight, I turn to Grandma’s journals.
I’ve read them—or thought I had. The history of Fire-Bringers, the legends of dragons, the prophecies that seem to multiply the more I learn. But today, restless and frustrated with waiting, I examine the oldest journal more closely.
A seam in the leather binding catches my eye. A hidden pocket I missed before.
I work my fingers into the gap and pull out a folded cloth bundle, small enough to fit in my palm. The fabric is old—linen, maybe, yellowed with age and covered in symbols that make my eyes water when I stare too long.
When I try to unwrap it, the symbols flare with heat. Not enough to burn, but enough to warn.
Wards. Protection against anyone who isn’t meant to read what’s inside.
I close my eyes. Focus on the fire in my blood—the power that’s become as familiar as breathing over the past days. Push that warmth into my fingertips, coaxing rather than forcing.
The wards flicker. Resist. Then dissolve like morning mist, recognizing me as one of their own.
Inside the cloth, a smaller journal. Leather so old, it’s almost black, pages brittle with age. The handwriting isn’t Grandma’s—it’s older, more formal, written in a dialect that takes me a moment to parse.
But the diagrams need no translation.
Dragons and women. Fire and flesh. A ritual described in meticulous detail across page after page.
The claiming.
I read with growing understanding. The ritual isn’t just physical—it’s magical. A merging of dragon fire and Fire-Bringer blood that creates a permanent mark. A joining so complete that the claimed pair can sense each other’s emotions, share strength across distances, fight as one.
“Dragon’s fire flows into mate’s skin,” I read aloud, tracing the faded ink. “Creating permanent mark of claiming. Two become one, fire and blood, until death severs what life has joined.”
Beautiful. Terrifying. Final.
I turn the page and find the warnings.
The claiming requires absolute trust. Complete surrender from both parties. If the Fire-Bringer resists—even unconsciously—the dragon’s fire will overwhelm instead of merge. Previous attempts without proper preparation... The next words are heavily underlined. ...resulted in the Fire-Bringer’s death.
My breath catches.
I flip through more pages. Notes in different hands—Fire-Bringers across generations, recording their experiences. Some successful. Many... not. The failures are described in clinical detail. The dragon lost control. The Fire-Bringer was consumed from within. The claiming fire burned too hot, too fast.
But there’s a pattern in the successes. Trust, always trust. And time—time to build that trust, to strengthen the Fire-Bringer’s power, to prepare body and soul for the merging.
“But what if I’m strong enough?” I whisper to the empty room. “What if I’m ready?”
The fire in my blood pulses in response. Eager. Hungry.
