“Very detailed drawings.” Her eyes are bright with mischief. “Auren asked for copies.”
“Traitor.” But I’m grinning, because this—this playful, teasing version of her—is new. And I want more of it. “Fine. No fire-related requests today. I come bearing something better.”
I hold up the parchment with a flourish.
She sets down her tools and crosses to me, curiosity plain on her face. “What’s that?”
“Things Aisling Byrne Should Experience Before Deciding All Dragons Are Terrible.”
She takes the parchment. Reads the first line. Her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline.
“Cliff diving.” She looks at me. Back at the paper. Back at me. Then she laughs—a full, genuine laugh that transforms her entire face. “You made me a list. You, the man who can’t sit still for thirty seconds, actually sat down and wrote an organized list.”
“I’m a man of hidden depths.”
“Hidden shallows, more like.” But she’s grinning as she scans the rest. “Night flying through a thunderstorm. Swimming in an allegedly haunted lake. Fighting a—“ She stops. “Did you cross out ‘fighting a bear’?”
“The bear was deemed too aggressive for a first outing.”
“A first outing.” She’s still laughing, shoulders shaking with it. “Rurik, this is insane. Half of these would kill a normal human.”
“Good thing you’re not normal.” I lean forward. “You’re a Fire-Bringer who burned a rogue to ash with her bare hands. I think you can handle a little cliff diving.”
“A little cliff diving.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “You’re completely mad.”
“Runs in the family. Drayke’s just better at hiding it.”
She considers the list again, tapping one finger against the paper. Then she looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Wait here.”
She disappears into the supply room. I hear drawers opening, paper rustling. When she returns, she’s holding a fresh piece of parchment and a quill, her face arranged into exaggerated seriousness.
“What are you doing?”
“Leveling the playing field.” She hops up onto the examination table beside me—close enough that our shoulders brush—and starts writing with aggressive purpose. “Things Rurik Malor Should Experience Before He Gets Himself Killed.”
I lean over to read. She angles the paper away, hip-checking me back.
“No peeking.”
“I showed you mine.”
“And I’m showing you mine. When it’s finished.” She shoots me a sideways look, eyes dancing. “Patience. I hear it’s a virtue.”
“Who told you that? They were lying.”
Her laugh echoes off the stone walls. She keeps writing, occasionally pausing to tap the quill against her lips or shakeher head at her own ideas. Once, she snorts at something she’s written and has to stop to collect herself.
“That good?” I ask.
“You have no idea.”
She finishes with a dramatic flourish, blowing on the ink to dry it, then holds up the paper with the same formality I’d used.
“Reading a book. An entire book, cover to cover, without complaining.”
I clutch my chest. “Brutal.”
