“No. You don’t.”
Something cracks in Aisling’s rigid posture. Not a collapse—she’s too controlled for that—but a fracture. The first sign that the walls she’s built might not be as impenetrable as she needs them to be.
My chest aches.
Comfort her,my dragon demands.Hold her. Make it better.
But I can’t make this better. Can’t fix what was done to her with jokes or charm or any of the weapons in my usual arsenal. The only thing I can do is stand here in this doorway, useless, watching someone else provide the support I want to give.
Selene doesn’t try to touch Aisling. Just sits in the dirt beside her, presence without pressure. “When they had me, I thought I had to hold it together. Thought if I let myself feel what was happening, I’d shatter completely.”
Aisling’s hands have stilled. She’s listening, even if she’s not looking.
“But feelings don’t go away because you refuse to acknowledge them.” Selene’s voice carries experience. “They just find other ways out. Usually at the worst possible moments.”
“You’re suggesting I should schedule a breakdown?” Aisling’s dry humor is the first crack of actual personality I’ve heard from her since we brought her here. “Put it on the calendar between training and meals?”
“I’m suggesting that you don’t have to be alone while you fall apart.”
The silence stretches. I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Finally, almost imperceptibly, Aisling leans into Selene’s shoulder. The contact is minimal—barely touching—but it’s contact. It’s trust.
It’s not me.
I tell myself that doesn’t sting. That I have no right to want her trust, her contact, her carefully rationed vulnerability. We’ve known each other only days. She owes me nothing. I’ve given her nothing except books she probably won’t read and intrusions she definitely didn’t want.
But my dragon doesn’t care about timelines or logic. It’s been pacing since the moment I caught her scent, since the moment inthe infirmary, since the moment I saw fire in her hands and iron in her spine.
Ours,it insists.She’s ours.
“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath.
“Talking to yourself?” Zyphon materializes from the shadow beside me, violet-tinged eyes fixed on the scene in the garden. “Usually a sign of deteriorating mental state.”
I don’t startle. Centuries of living with a brother who appears from darkness without warning has cured me of that particular reflex. “Usually a sign of not having anyone better to talk to.”
Zyphon doesn’t rise to the bait. His attention remains on Aisling—studying her with the same unsettling intensity he brings to everything. The shadows around him writhe with unusual agitation, curling and uncurling in patterns I’ve never seen.
“The shadows in me are reacting.” His voice is low. Flat. Carrying information he clearly wishes he didn’t have.
The implications settle into my gut, cold and heavy. “Reacting to what?”
“The Relic’s awakening.”
The ice in my gut spreads to my chest. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
“We may not have a choice.” Zyphon’s gaze returns to Aisling. In the garden, she’s straightened slightly, no longer leaning on Selene but not quite standing either. The tremors have subsided. The mask is rebuilding itself piece by piece. “Valdris is patient. She’s waited millennia for freedom. She’ll keep reaching for what she’s already touched. And that girl has been touched more thoroughly than any Fire-Bringer in centuries.”
“Then we protect her.”
“From an ancient dragon who can invade dreams? Who can speak through blood rituals across continents?” Zyphon’s voicecarries no judgment. Just cold assessment of facts I don’t want to hear. “You can’t stand guard against nightmares, brother. Some enemies attack from the inside.”
I don’t have an answer for that. Don’t have a solution or a strategy or even one of my usual deflecting jokes. All I have is the sight of Aisling in that garden, slowly reassembling her armor, and the bone-deep certainty that I will tear apart anything that tries to hurt her again.
My dragon roars its agreement.
PROTECT. CLAIM. OURS.
