“Isn’t it?” She stands and offers me a hand. “Come on. The others sent me to collect you before Aisling storms out here and drags you back by your hair. She has very strong feelings about recovery protocols.”
I take her hand and let her pull me to my feet. My legs are steadier than they were this morning, though a faint tremor still runs through my muscles when I move too quickly.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Selene continues, looping her arm through mine as if we’ve known each other for years instead of hours. “But first—the grand tour. You should know where things are if you’re going to be stuck here with us.”
“Stuck here,” I echo.
“That’s how I saw it at first.” Her voice carries a wry edge. “Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else. This place has a way of growing on you. Like a fungus. A very dramatic, fire-breathing fungus.”
The Brotherhood fortressis larger than I expected.
Selene guides me through corridors of ancient stone, pointing out landmarks with a running commentary that makes me forget, for moments at a time, that I’m a refugee in hostile territory.
“Great hall—where formal gatherings happen and Drayke pretends to enjoy politics. Training grounds through those windows—currently empty because the brothers are probably arguing about strategy somewhere. And that—” She gestures toward massive double doors. “—is the library. Auren’s domain.”
“Let me guess. Don’t enter without permission.”
“You can enter. He doesn’t guard it like a dragon hoarding gold.” She pauses. “But everything in there serves a purpose. Every book positioned where he can find it in seconds. Every scroll cataloged by threat assessment, strategic value, historical relevance. It’s not organization for organization’s sake—it’s a weapon. When you need information in the middle of a battle, the difference between knowing exactly where it is and having to search could mean lives.”
I file that away. Not pedantic. Tactical.
We pass the armory next—weapons from every era lining the walls, blades and axes and things I can’t identify.
“Rurik’s favorite place,” Selene explains. “He’s got a collection of ‘emergency explosives’ hidden somewhere in there.Auren knows exactly where they are—probably calculated the blast radius for each one—but he lets Rurik think it’s a secret.”
“Why?”
“Because Rurik performs better when he thinks he’s being clever. And Auren’s job is making sure everyone performs at their best, even if that means letting them believe things that aren’t true.” She grins. “Strategic manipulation. Very on brand.”
She shows me the Fire-Bringer quarters last. A suite of connected rooms in the eastern wing, designed specifically for women with flame in their blood. Fireplaces that crackle to life as we enter, responding to our presence. Surfaces that resist burning. Wards humming softly in the walls.
“This is where we gather,” Selene says, “when we need to be among our own kind. When the dragons get too intense and we need to remember that we’re not actually insane for choosing to live with them.”
Nasyra is already there, curled in an armchair near the window with a book that looks older than some kingdoms. She looks up as we enter, her mismatched gaze tracking my movements with quiet assessment.
“You survived,” she observes. “I owe Aisling five coins.”
“You bet against me?”
“I bet you’d set something on fire before the conversation ended.” She sets the book aside with careful reverence. “Aisling had more faith in your restraint. Apparently she was right.”
“Barely.” I sink onto a low couch, suddenly aware of how tired I still am. “It was a near thing.”
“Near things are still things.” Nasyra unfolds from her chair, moving to pour something from a carafe on a nearby table. “The difference between ‘nearly lost control’ and ‘actually lost control’ is the difference between sitting here having this conversation and standing in a pile of ash.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Speaking from having watched Zyphon ‘nearly’ level a mountain when his temper slipped.” She hands me a cup. “The mountain is still standing. Barely. He considers this a victory.”
“Dragon standards of success,” Selene adds, settling onto the arm of a chair. “Charmingly low.”
I take a sip—tea, herbal and faintly sweet. “Selene mentioned you were resurrected. I don’t—” I stop, unsure how to phrase the question. “Is that something you talk about?”
Nasyra’s mismatched gaze meets mine, and something flickers in those depths—not offense, but a kind of dark amusement.
“Five centuries dead,” she says, reclaiming her chair. “Brought back by magic I didn’t ask for, with memories twisted to make me a weapon against people I loved.” A ghost of a smile. “The first few months here were educational. I spent most of them trying to kill Zyphon.”
“Because you thought he murdered your brother.”
