“It’s temporary.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “The sustained magical contact is taxing. But once the wyrmling stabilises fully, I’ll be able to rest properly, and—“
“And if he doesn’t stabilise?” She wasn’t letting go of my wrist. “You’ve been Quieting him every three hours for two days. How long can you keep this up before your hands stop working entirely?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
The truth was, I didn’t know. The Academy texts covered standard Creaturae Arts exhaustion, the muscle fatigue from restraining thrashing patients, the minor burns from accidental dragonfire exposure. But my gift wasn’t standard. There were no chapters on what happened when you poured your magicinto a creature three times daily, when you reached inside their fractured power and held it together with nothing but will and frost-bitten fingers.
The wyrmling found me before I could argue further. He came barrelling around the corner from the kennel, his claws scrabbling against the flagstones, and slammed his head into my chest. The impact knocked me back a step. His scales burned through my blouse, fever-hot, and that desperate keening sound rose from his throat, the one that meantnow, now, please now.
“Easy.” I cupped my hands around his skull, sliding my fingers into the groove behind his jaw where the scales grew softer. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
His whole body shuddered against mine. The intervals were shortening. Yesterday, he’d managed four hours between episodes. This morning, barely two. Now it had been less than ninety minutes since I’d last Quieted him, and already the madness was clawing its way back to the surface.
I sank to my knees and the wyrmling followed me down, pressing closer, until his snout was buried against my sternum and his wings mantled around us both like a desperate embrace.
“Briony,” I said. “Give us a moment.”
She hesitated in the doorway. I heard her intake of breath, the protest forming on her tongue. Then her footsteps retreated, and the door clicked shut.
Good. She didn’t need to see this. I closed my eyes and reached.
The Quieting poured down my arms in a rush. The wyrmling’s magic thrashed against mine. I pushed deeper, wrapping my will around those jagged edges, smoothing them down, down, until—
The infirmary’s lanterns flickered, then dimmed, then shifted to an eerie, underwater blue that made the shadows stretch long and strange. The wyrmling lifted his head from my chest. His amber eyes, still fever-bright, fixed on something behind me.
The hairs on my arms stood upright. A letter rested on the examination table. Heavy parchment, edges crisp, sealed with dark wax that gleamed wetly in the blue-tinged light. The table had been empty, I was certain of it. I’d wiped it down myself not ten minutes ago, cleared away the bone-saw and the stained cloths and the bowl of cold water I’d used to check the wyrmling’s reflection. Nothing had been there, and now something was.
I rose slowly, the wyrmling still pressed against my thigh. The seal caught the strange light and threw it back in fragments: a dragon coiled around a lightning bolt, its scales rendered in precise detail, jaws open around the crackling strike. If I remembered correctly, that was the Stormgarde sigil. Strangely, the wax was still warm when I touched it. I cracked the seal, curious to read the letter. The handwriting was beautiful.
Miss Emberlin,
I write to you regarding a matter of mutual benefit, though I confess the formal language feels inadequate for what I must ask.
I am dying.
Not quickly, perhaps. But the curse that has consumed my household these past years has begun consuming me as well. My condition worsens daily. The episodes grow longer, the periods of clarity shorter. I am told you have a gift that might help.
I do not know how long I have left.
My throat tightened.
What I propose is this: a formal magical union. Marriage in the legal and arcane sense, binding our households together. In exchange, I offer immediate payment of your family’s debts: all of them, including those your father has not yet confessed to you. I offer access to the Stormgarde library, which contains texts on creature magic that the Academy has long since restricted from general study. I offer resources for your research, funding for your infirmary, and the protection of my name.
What I ask in return is your presence and your gift. I will not pretend this is a romantic proposal, but I am told that you are not easily swayed by romantic endeavors.
I hope they are right.
If you refuse, I will understand. The letter will burn itself within the hour, and you may forget this offer was ever made.
The script faltered here. A single word had been crossed out, then rewritten, then crossed out again. I couldn’t make out what it had been. It could have beenPlease.
Lord Fenrik Stormgarde
Something slipped from between the pages as I turned to the signature. A pressed flower, fell into my palm. It was a Moonflower. In Lumenvale tradition, moonflowermeant truth in darkness. It meantI am showing you what I hide from everyone else.It also meantbelieve me.
The wyrmling pressed harder against my leg, a low sound building in his chest. I looked at the letter again. It promised my family the salvation they were waiting for and for me a trap around my throat.
The letter trembled in my grip. I read it again, slower this time, letting each word settle.Marriage.A formal magical union with a lord I’d never met, in exchange for my family’s survival. The moonflower’s faint glow pulsed against my palm. The wyrmling whined and pressed his snout harder against my thigh. His scales had cooled slightly, the Quieting holding for now, but I could feel the wrongness building beneath the surface again.
