My hands curl into fists. The dragon snarls.
“What I don’t know,” she continues, as if discussing a medical case rather than her own torture, “is what happens next. Selene says I’m safe here, but safe is relative. I need data. Variables I can account for.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Starting with why you’ve been stationed outside my door for seventy-two hours straight.”
The question hits hard. I’ve asked myself the same thing a hundred times. Told myself it’s instinct, duty, protection. Told myself any Guardian would do the same for someone in danger.
But that’s not the whole truth, is it?
“Because I can’tnotbe here.” The words come out rougher than I intend. Honest in a way I’m not used to being. “My dragon—“ I stop. Start again. “There’s something about you. Since we found you, I haven’t been able to think straight. Every instinct I have screams to stay close. To protect you. To?—“
I cut myself off before I say words I can’t take back.
Aisling watches me. Waiting.
“To what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I drag a hand through my hair. “You’re not ready to hear it, and I’m not sure I can explain it. Just know that I’m not going anywhere. Whether you want me here or not.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“I’ve been told.”
Another almost-laugh. Another fraction of tension easing from her shoulders. We’re still separated by the length of the room, but the distance feels smaller than before.
“The woman—Valdris.” Aisling’s voice goes harder. Colder. “Selene said she’s still imprisoned. That the Relics holding her are still intact.”
“Mostly intact.” I hate saying it. Hate watching the flicker of fear cross her face before she locks it down. “Your blood weakened some of the barriers. Not enough to break them, but enough that she’s stirring. Reaching out.”
“Reaching out how?”
“Through the mark she left on you.” I take a step closer. Stop when she tenses. “The Relic energy in your blood—it created a thread between you and her prison. She can sense you. Track you. And when she’s strong enough?—“
“She’ll come for me.”
“Yes.”
Aisling absorbs this. Her expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind those green depths. Calculation replacing fear. Assessment replacing panic.
“Then I need to learn how to defend myself.”
The words come out quiet. Controlled. But I catch the tremor beneath them—not defiance, but fear. The kind of fear that’s been processed and repackaged into something that looks like determination.
“You need to rest. Recover. You’ve been through?—“
“I’ve been through enough to know exactly what happens when I can’t protect myself.” Her voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’twaver. Just goes colder. More clinical. “Three weeks. That’s how long they had me. All those days being completely helpless while they took whatever they wanted.”
The words hit me in the chest. Three weeks of whatever horrors Valdris’s followers inflicted on her. I want to burn something. Want to hunt down every dragon who touched her and tear them apart with my bare hands.
But I don’t move. Don’t let the rage show on my face. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about her.
“What do you need?” The question comes out coarse. Barely controlled.
She blinks. As if she expected a different response. “What?”
“To feel safe. To feel in control. What do you need from me?”
Silence. Long enough that I wonder if she’ll answer at all. Then her chin lifts—that stubborn angle I’m already learning to recognize.
“Teach me to fight.”
