Traumatized.The word lands like a slap. My nails dig into my palms.
“Fire responds to fire.” Drayke doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice carries the power of centuries, the kind of authority that brooks no argument. “And she tolerates him.”
Both brothers turn to look at me. So does everyone else in the room.
Tolerates.That’s one word for it. Yesterday, he dragged me to rescue a dying wyvern and somehow made me remember that I used to be good at something. That I used to be more than a collection of nightmares and shaking hands.
I don’t confirm or deny. Just hold Drayke’s gaze until he nods once, accepting my silence as consent.
“My mate tells me you’re stronger than you appear.” Something shifts in his expression—not quite warmth, but close. “Prove her right.”
Selene catchesmy arm as we leave the war room.
“Aisling, walk with me.”
It’s not a request, but her grip is gentle, her presence a steadying anchor against the chaos still spinning through my head. We move through the fortress corridors—ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of dragon claws, torchlight flickering against carved symbols I don’t recognize.
“Drayke’s gruff, but fair.” She matches my pace, keeping her voice low. “And he trusts Rurik more than anyone except me.”
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “He seems?—“
Reckless. Loud. Incapable of sitting still for thirty consecutive seconds.
“—unconventional.”
Selene’s laugh echoes off the stone walls. “That’s diplomatic. He is reckless. Impulsive. Makes decisions with his gut instead of his brain.” Her smile softens, turning thoughtful. “But he’s also the most loyal dragon in the Brotherhood. When it matters, Rurik shows up. Always.”
Always.I file that away, uncertain what to do with it.
The training yard opens before us—a massive courtyard of packed earth surrounded by scorched stone walls. Target dummies line one edge, already charred from previous sessions. Weapons racks stand at intervals, filled with blades that catch the morning light. Everything radiates centuries of violence barely contained.
Rurik waits at the center, arms crossed, that infuriating grin spreading across his face when he sees me.
“There’s my favorite arsonist.” He gestures at the space around him with theatrical flourish. “Welcome to my domain.”
“Your domain is a glorified sandbox.”
“A sandbox I’ve set on fire approximately seven hundred times.” He steps closer, all coiled energy and barely restrained chaos. “You’ll fit right in.”
Selene squeezes my arm once before releasing me. “You’ve got this.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m alone with the wildest dragon I’ve ever met and the fire that’s been trying to burn through my skin since I woke in this fortress.
“Light a candle.”
Rurik points at a rack of candles arranged on a stone pedestal. Six of them, wicks fresh and white, waiting to be ignited. Simple. Controlled. The kind of exercise I’ve seen in meditation retreats and wellness seminars.
You can do this. It’s just fire. You’ve been doing fire accidentally for days.
I extend my hand toward the nearest candle. Focus on the wick. Will the flame to appear—controlled, precise, just enough heat to?—
The entire rack explodes.
Fire erupts in a column that reaches for the sky, consuming all six candles in a heartbeat. Wax melts and splatters across the stone. The pedestal cracks from the heat. I stumble backward, hands raised, trying to pull the flames back, but they’re already spreading to the nearest training dummy, licking at the straw stuffing with hungry orange tongues.
“Shit—I didn’t mean?—“
“Okay!” Rurik claps his hands, entirely too cheerful for someone watching a Fire-Bringer burn down his training equipment. “We’ll work up to candles.”
