He laughs—bright and unguarded—and I feel something shift in my chest. Not trust, not yet. But the possibility of it. The first fragile thread.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, standing to leave.
“I might be busy. Selene thinks I should present my ideas to Auren.”
“Even better.” His eyes light up. “I’ll bring snacks. Watching Auren’s face when someone else is as smart is my favorite entertainment.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s hilarious. There’s a difference.”
He’s at the door before I can respond. Pauses on the threshold.
“Aisling.”
“Yes?”
“Valdris had you for three weeks. She used your blood. She spoke to you through her ritual.” His voice loses its lightness. “But she didn’t break you. You’re sitting here making lists andplans and strategies to fight back. That’s not nothing. That’s not weakness.” He meets my gaze. “That’s someone who survived.”
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know if I believe him.
“Goodnight, Rurik.”
“Goodnight, Aisling.”
The door closes quietly behind him.
I sit in the silence, surrounded by organized shelves and scattered books and the lingering warmth of flames that didn’t destroy anything.
Then I pick up my pen and return to my list.
Questions for Auren:
- Pattern analysis of Fire-Bringer disappearances
- Current status of all four Relics
- Known rogue strongholds and leadership structure
- Methods for severing Valdris’s blood-claim
The fire in my blood settles. Steadies.
Tomorrow, I’ll present my ideas. Tomorrow, I’ll start being useful.
But tonight, for the first time since the mountain, I sleep without nightmares.
FOUR
AISLING
The research chamber is exactly what I expected and nothing I was prepared for.
The room sits deep in the fortress’s eastern wing, carved from the same ancient stone as everything else but somehow colder. Cleaner. Instruments line the walls—some I recognize from my veterinary training, others that belong in a museum of medieval torture. Crystal vials catch the light from narrow windows. Charts covered in symbols I can’t read hang beside anatomical diagrams of dragons in various stages of transformation.
I catalog everything. Exits: one main door, one smaller passage half-hidden behind a curtain. Potential weapons: scalpels in the third drawer, bone saws mounted on the far wall, glass containers heavy enough to crack a skull. Tools that could be repurposed: the metal examination table, the adjustable restraints designed for wings.
Paranoia. The kind that kept me functional during those weeks when functionality was all I had.
