“I’d do it again.” His voice is quiet. Certain. “A thousand times. A million. Whatever it takes.”
The fire in my veins pulses. Warm and steady and reaching for him.
I don’t pull away.
Drayke finds us there—mekneeling in dragon blood, hands pressed against Rurik’s shoulder, both of us too exhausted to move.
The Guardian King shifts back to human form as he approaches, bronze scales receding into tanned skin. He looks like he’s been through a war—because he has. Blood streaks his arms, and a fresh burn marks his cheek. But he’s walking, which is more than I expected.
“Casualties?” Rurik’s voice is stronger now, some of the pain fading as his wounds continue to close.
“Three of ours wounded. None dead.” Drayke’s gaze shifts to me, evaluating. Assessing. “Zyphon is tracking the survivors. Auren is coordinating cleanup.”
I wait for the judgment. The criticism.You should have stayed inside. You’re a liability. Your presence endangered the entire fortress.
Instead, Drayke nods once. A sharp, decisive motion.
“You fought well.”
I blink. “What?”
“The barrier you created. The rogues you killed.” His amber gaze holds mine, and for the first time since I arrived, I see something other than wariness in his expression. Respect. “Fire-Bringer combat instincts are rare. Most need years of training before they can contribute in a pitched battle.”
“I just—I didn’t think?—“
“That’s the point.” The corner of his mouth rises. Almost a smile. “You reacted. Trusted your fire instead of fighting it. That’s exactly what we’ve been trying to teach you.”
Rurik shifts beneath my hands, and I realize I’m still pressing against his shoulder. Still touching him. Still close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“Told you she was impressive.” Rurik’s voice carries something like pride. “Burned a rogue to ash without breaking a sweat.”
“I was definitely sweating.”
“Details.”
Drayke watches the exchange with an expression I can’t read. Then he turns to his brother, and his voice hardens.
“We need to talk. That attack was coordinated. Professional. Someone knew our patrol schedules, our defensive gaps, where to hit us hardest.” His jaw tightens. “And that message about Valdris?—“
“I heard it.” Rurik’s grin fades entirely. “She felt Aisling’s blood. She’s waking.”
The words send ice down my spine.
My blood. My fault. Whatever’s stirring in the darkness, I’m the one who fed it.
Drayke’s attention shifts back to me. “You survived three weeks of captivity. You know more about Valdris’s operation than anyone else we have.” His voice is formal. Official. “I need you in the war room. Once you’ve both recovered.”
“I’ll be there.”
He nods. Hesitates. Then adds, almost grudgingly: “Welcome to the Brotherhood, Aisling Byrne.”
He walks away before I can respond.
I stare after him, something warm and unexpected blooming in my chest. Not just relief. Not just survival. Something that feels dangerously close to belonging.
“Did he just...” I trail off, uncertain.
“Accept you as one of us?” Rurik’s grin returns, smaller but genuine. “Yeah. He did.” He reaches up with his uninjured arm and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light. Almost accidental. “Drayke doesn’t give compliments. Ever. You just got two in thirty seconds.”
