“Shhh.” His tone softens into something almost like prayer. “I’ve got you.”
The water glows faintly where my blood hits it. The green light curls and thins before disappearing into steam.
My teeth chatter, mirroring my body. “Distract me. Please.” I whisper. “Tell me a story.”
He exhales, almost a laugh, though frayed around the edges. “I thought you loathed the sound of my voice.”
“Exactly,” I manage. “It’ll help keep my mind off the pain,” I say through gritted teeth.
He chuckles. The sound hums against my spine, low and warm. “Once,” he says softly, “there was a boy born in a house too big and too silent. He had no siblings or friends. His father was a king, cold and proud. His mother was gentle, radiant, and often ill.
“Every afternoon, after his tutors dismissed him, he’d run down the hill, through the woods, and into the city. There, among the market stalls and fire jugglers, he could pretend he was someone else. Not a prince. Not a burden.
“Then one day, his mother fell deathly ill. She was carrying another child, and her body failed quickly. The court healers were useless. Their only hope came from a traveler passing through who spoke of an ancient cure, an herb that only grew in the heart of a dragon.
“So, the king and his best men went hunting.”
“They found the dragon’s lair and a single egg. The king, believing that a baby dragon’s heart would have the same healing properties as an adult’s, ordered the physicians to extract the hatchling from the egg and carve out its heart.”
“But even with the dragon heart tea, the boy’s mother did not improve. Enraged, the hatchling’s mother hunted down their home and burned it to ash, then the boy’s father, mother, and unborn sibling. And the boy…” His voice falters. “The boy escaped, but eventually, the dragon found him and devoured him, too.”
His voice is different by the end. Softer. Raw. And for some reason, that hurts more than it should.
I shiver. “That’s a terrible story.”
“You asked for a distraction.”
The pain surges again, and my body seizes violently. I cry out, and he holds me tighter.
What feels like hours pass, with episodes coming and going in waves. He holds me through all of them—even after I bite his arm in one of the worst.
But he doesn’t let go, not even once.
At some point, the burning turns to freezing. As if sensing it, the pool begins to warm. My body finally stills, the pain dulling to something bearable.
He carries me from the water, wraps me in a velvet blanket, and sets me gently before the hearth, which bursts to life the moment we approach. He hands me a goblet of water, and I drink greedily. Then he goes to the wardrobe and returns with a change of clothes—his, but clean and warm.
“May I?” he asks, eyeing my blood-soaked shirt.
“No. Turn around.”
Worry scorches his eyes. “Fire—”
“Turn,” I say firmly.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, and turns.
I try to peel the shirt off myself but gasp as pain stabs through my side. Blood clings to the fabric.
“I’m going to count to five,” he says.
“Don’t you dare!” Wincing, I try to untangle myself from the blanket.
“One… Two…”
“You’re counting too fast!” I bark.
“Thhhrrreeee…” he continues, drawing out the syllables.
