Rest. As if I could.
Not with the sea roaring just beyond the chamber’s skin. At first, I thought it was an illusion painted in liquid light. But the sound was too loud. The entire wall had been cut into an arching window, a full moon of glass that revealed the ocean thrashing against the cliffs below. I had barely taken three steps inside when a wave rose like a god’s hand, hurling itself toward me.
Fine, I screamed.
The wave had struck, the chamber rattled, and then…nothing. Just the invisible shudder of some unseen barrier.
Ronan had snorted at me, mouth curled like he’d been waiting for me to make a fool of myself. “It’s charmed,” he’d explained, quite amused. “Ancient rune magic. Witches used to weave it into stone before their gifts were stripped from them. Old power lingers longest.”
And sure enough, the runes glowed faintly at the edges of the arch, etchings I hadn’t noticed until the water lit them up with seafoam light.
I could smell the brine, could taste salt on the back of my throat. The breeze still found me, whispering through cracks that weren’t really cracks. The sea was here, but it couldn’t touch me.
Then Ronan had shown me the secret. How to place my palm on the rune and how the glass would split, the balcony would rise, and the sea would be mine.
He’d said it casually, but I knew he’d locked it to recognize my handprint. That he’d imprinted this little pocket of control into the fortress of his palace.
Maybe it was protection. Maybe it was possession. Maybe both. More likely so Aelora couldn’t sneak in here and drown me out.
I let my fingers graze the runes now, feeling the hum under my skin as the waves clawed, desperate to reach me, but I stood above them. Safe, powerful, and alone.
For once, I almost believed I could rest. The fireplace gaped wide into the granite wall, scarred by time as it crackled. The fire inside was no soft domestic flame, but born of dragon-air, each snap like a growl from some beast content in its lair.
The warmth of it seeped outward in patience, not seizing me the way the sea had, but settling.
Books leaned against one another across the mantle, exhausted by centuries of keeping vigil. Their leather spines were worn, flaked, with soot clinging to the creases. Knowledge hoarded and forgotten, like relics gathering dust in the dragon’s den. Dust stained my fingers as I plucked one at random, not to read, not really, but to touch something ordinary in a place that was anything but.
The chair I picked still smelled weakly of oil and leather, barely softened by others. I lowered myself into it, my weight molding the first impression.
Sleep dragged its nails gently along the back of my skull as the fire hummed its serenade. I tried to read, eyes following words without meaning, until they blurred into rivers of ink. The flames danced across the pages in trembling light, spilling shadows against the walls.
My eyelids slipped heavier, until the book sagged in my lap and the last thing I felt was a gentle blaze curling around me, steady, protective, the fire itself promising to keep me safe.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Verena
THE LAST THING I WANTED TO DO was to sit at some long-lavish table and play guest for a nest of dragons who’d probably rather char me for supper than pass me bread.
Yet sleep had stolen nearly five hours from me, and when I woke, the first thing I saw was a gown waiting in the armoire—two pieces, the color of twilight, fine fabric that whispered luxury even from a distance.
Beside it was a note. Ronan’s handwriting was neater than I expected. It was regal and royal and fit for a king.
Join us for dinner when you are ready.
You may decline, in which case I will meet you
by the firebath for dessert.
Just us.
— Yours, R.
Mine.
My throat caught on the word, even as my heart betrayed me with a ridiculous, stretching smile. I bit my lip to cage it, but the flutter only bloomed wider.
Gods, what in the hel was a firebath?
