“Good,” he says, setting a tray on the low table beside the bed. “You’re awake.”
His hair is still damp and slightly curly at the ends, as though he’s been outside.In the garden, I realize as I spot the golden rose resting beside the plate. His black tunic looks regal despite its simplicity, its sleeves rolled to his elbows. He moves with quiet purpose, as if even gravity has learned to obey him.
“You should eat,” he says, handing me a cup of something warm that smells faintly of cinnamon and honey.
I push myself upright with a soft groan, wincing as the motion tugs at my side. “I’m fine,” I lie.
He gives me a look that says he’s heard that before. “You’re stubborn.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
He sits down at the edge of the bed, close enough that the heat from his body cuts through the morning chill. “You’re healing well, but let’s not test it. Take it slow today. With any luck, you’ll be fully mended by tomorrow.”
I glance toward the pool, where starlight still glimmers faintly across the surface. He follows my gaze.
“The waters will help,” he murmurs. “Spend some time in them today.”
I hesitate, then nod. My eyes drift toward the heavy black door behind him, its frame carved with vines that seem almost alive. “It isn’t locked, is it?”
One of his brows lifts, and the corner of his mouth curves. “Do you want it to be?”
I narrow my eyes. “I’d just like to know if I’m free to leave, or if this is another ‘gilded cage’ situation.”
He exhales, half-amused, half-resigned. “You’re not my prisoner, Fire. You can go wherever you please. Though if you do, I’ll have Arther stationed outside your door to accompany you.”
My stomach twists. “A guard? Really? I don’t need a bodyguard.”
He smirks, rising to his full height. “No. But you do seem to need supervision.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already moving toward the door.
Before he leaves, he glances back, his expression unreadable. “If you need anything, I’ll be in my study. Ask Arther; he’ll show you the way.”
The door closes behind him.
I sit there for a long moment, the echo of his words settling in my chest. Then I gingerly reach for the bandages. The linen peels away with a soft tug, and the air bites cool against my skin. The wound has closed, but the flesh around it is still puffy and dark. A raised scar curls along my ribs like the mark of something ancient.
I trace its edges lightly, wincing. It’s warm to the touch. For a heartbeat, I swear I feel it pulse.
The memory of the dragon flashes through my mind—the gold veins, the heat beneath my palm, the roar that wasn’t just sound but something inside me breaking open. I shake the thoughtaway and rise carefully from the bed, letting the blanket slip from my shoulders.
The pool ripples as I approach, reflecting the fractured light of morning. I ease into the water, gasping as its warmth wraps around me. It feels alive, like hands smoothing over every ache, coaxing away pain I hadn’t realized I still carried. My muscles unwind. My heartbeat steadies. And only then do I truly see where I am.
The chamber stretches, vast and cavernous, carved directly into the mountain’s heart, as if the stone itself has been hollowed out—in reverence rather than conquest. The ceiling arches high above, ribs of rock veined with faint mineral shimmer, catching the fractured morning light that pours in from a wide, cave-like opening along one wall. Beyond it, a sheer drop and a broad landing platform wait, large enough for wings, for fire, for something far greater than a man.
The pool I’m submerged in dominates the room’s center, fed by unseen springs, its surface breathing softly, as if the water itself is alive. Steam curls upward, blurring the edges of the chamber, lending everything a dreamlike haze.
To one side, a massive four-poster bed stands on a raised stone dais, draped in dark linens that look rarely disturbed yet carefully kept. Opposite it, a hearth burns low and constant, its flames reflected in polished stone and metal alike, warmth radiating through the space like a second heartbeat.
There’s order here—but not excess. A broad desk carved from a single slab of obsidian rests near the fire, scattered with maps, scrolls, and half-burned candles. Shelves line the rock wall beside it, holding a small but well-worn library—histories, spellcraft, languages I don’t recognize. Books meant to be used, not displayed.
Beyond the steam, I glimpse a washroom carved seamlessly into the stone, water channels etched into the floor like ancientrunes. And farther still, half-hidden in shadow, a narrow doorway disappears directly into the mountain itself—no frame, no markings. Just darkness, waiting.
This is not a bedroom.
It’s a cave. A war room. A lair.
