“Me.” I tap the map where the cave network begins. “I’m the one he wants. My blood for his artifacts. If I approach openly—visibly—his attention will be on me. On the prize he’s been hunting since the beginning.”
“Absolutely not.” Drayke’s response is immediate. Predictable.
“Hear me out.” I hold up a hand before he can continue. “I’m not suggesting I walk in alone. But a visible approach draws his forces to the surface. Makes them think I’m the attack, when really I’m the distraction. While he’s focused on capturing me—” I trace a line around the cave system to a secondary entrance. “—you hit him from behind. Underground. Where he’s not expecting an attack because all his eyes are on the Fire-Bringer at his front door.”
Rurik whistles low. “That’s devious. I like it.”
“It’s risky,” Auren counters. “If they capture her before we’re in position?—”
“They won’t.” Zyphon’s shadows ripple with approval. “I can mask our approach through the secondary entrance. By the time Veylor realizes the trap, we’ll be inside his defenses.”
“And if something goes wrong?” Drayke hasn’t moved, hasn’t relaxed the tension in his shoulders. But he’s not shutting the idea down. He’s listening.
“Then I burn my way out.” I meet his gaze, hold it. “I’ve done it before. I can do it again. And this time, I’ll have backup.”
The silence stretches. I watch the brothers exchange glances—Rurik’s grin, Zyphon’s shadowed nod, Auren’s calculating assessment. And finally, Drayke.
Auren gives an approving nod.
“Good instincts.” Zyphon’s approval carries weight. “Better than good.”
Drayke exhales slowly. “We refine the plan. Test it. But...” He glances at me, and there’s something new in his eyes. Not just protectiveness. Not just desire. Respect. “It has merit.”
“High praise from the Guardian King.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
His hand squeezes my thigh, and when I glance at him, there’s heat in his gaze that has nothing to do with strategy.Later, that look promises. I squeeze back. Looking forward to it.
Rurik catches the exchange and groans. “Get a room. Preferably one with thick walls. Some of us have sensitive hearing.”
“You could always sleep in the stables,” Drayke suggests.
“You could always learn restraint.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I lean into Drayke’s side, and his arm comes around me automatically—comfortable, natural, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks. The Brotherhood might pretend to be annoyed, but I’ve caught Zyphon’s shadows settling softer when he watches us. Caught Auren’s rigid posture relaxing by fractions. Even Rurik’s complaints carry warmth underneath the mockery.
They’re not just tolerating our relationship. They’re glad for it. Glad that their brother—their leader—has finally found something beyond duty and battle.
The Brotherhood becomes my family.
It happens gradually, without any of us acknowledging it out loud. Rurik starts teaching me dragon history during our target practice sessions—stories of ancient wars, legendary Fire-Bringers, the founding of the Brotherhood itself.
“Your bloodline goes back centuries,” he tells me one afternoon, adjusting my stance before I throw another flame bolt. Drayke watches from the shadows of the courtyard, arms crossed, a possessive gleam in his eye that makes me want to miss my target just to see him come correct my form himself. “The Wards were one of the great Fire-Bringer families. Your grandmother was the last known practitioner before you.”
“She never told me. Never showed any sign of power.”
“The ability can skip generations. Lay dormant for decades. But it never disappears completely.” He grins. “Lucky for us, yours woke up when it mattered.”
“Lucky for you, I’m the one who had to figure out why my hands were suddenly on fire.”
“Consider it character building.”
“Consider shutting up and letting me practice.”
He laughs—a wild, reckless sound that echoes off the stone walls. “I like you, Fire-Bringer. You’ve got teeth.”
