His skin is hot—dragon-hot—and the fire doesn’t burn him. He holds me steady while I shake, while the flames roar higher and then slowly, slowly begin to recede.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you stop burning.”
“I can’t—“ My voice cracks. The flames surge again. “I can’t control it.”
“You don’t have to control it. You just have to let it pass.” His grip is firm but not painful. Grounding. “It’s not going to hurt me. And it’s not going to hurt you. Let it burn, Aisling. Let it out.”
I don’t have a choice. The fire has its own will now, fueled by everything I’ve been refusing to feel. It pours out of me in waves—grief and terror and rage, weeks of horror finding voice in flames.
Rurik holds on through all of it.
When it finally stops—when the last ember fades and I’m left shaking in his grip—the infirmary is untouched. The shelves are intact. My careful organization survives.
I don’t know how that’s possible. Don’t understand why my fire destroyed nothing.
“Dragon fire knows its target,” Rurik says, answering the question I didn’t ask. “Yours didn’t want to hurt the room. It wanted to be released.” He lets go of my wrists slowly, carefully. “Feel better?”
I should say no. Should maintain the walls, rebuild the distance, pretend this moment of weakness never happened.
But my body feels lighter than it has in a while. The constant pressure in my chest—the one I’ve been ignoring, organizing around, pretending doesn’t exist—has eased.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.” He steps back, giving me space. “Take your time figuring it out.”
I expect him to leave. To make some joke, break the tension, return to the easy chaos that seems to be his default setting.
Instead, he sits down. Picks up one of the veterinary books. Starts reading—actually reading, book right-side up.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping you company.” He doesn’t look up. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything. I’m just going to sit here and learn about dragon respiratory systems.”
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be alone right now.” He turns a page. “And because I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re okay. So you might as well get used to me.”
Against every instinct, I feel my mouth curve. Not quite a smile. But the closest I’ve come since before the mountain.
I sink into the chair across from him. Pick up my own book. Let the silence stretch between us—not comfortable exactly, but not unbearable either.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand conversation. Just sits there, turning pages, occasionally muttering about “fascinating scale patterns” in a tone that suggests he’s understanding about half of what he’s reading.
Eventually, without meaning to, I start explaining. The terminology he’s stumbling over. The anatomical differences between dragon and mammalian respiratory systems. The way scaled creatures regulate temperature differently.
He listens. Asks questions. Makes jokes that are terrible and somehow exactly right.
And somewhere between lung capacity and the proper treatment for scale rot, I realize I’m not thinking about the mountain anymore.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For the books.”
“Thank Auren. He’s the one who collected them.” But his grin is warm. “Just try not to reorganize his library. He’ll actually murder you.”
“No promises.”
