Impossible. Useless. Bijass does not care about usefulness. It cares about mine.
No. Not mine. Not unless she chooses. Not when she is bleeding. Not when fear is trying to put claws on love before that love has been named.
I press one hand flat against the stone beside her thigh. Hard. The rock cracks under my claws. Sera looks at the crack. Then she looks at me.
“Kavor.”
Her voice is quiet. Warning. Anchor. I breathe. Once. Pause. No. Not that rhythm. My own rhythm swelling from deep in my heart. My soul. The dragon.
Mine.
“I am here,” I say.
“I can see that.”
“No. I mean…” The words scrape. “I am here.”
Her expression shifts. She understands enough. Maybe not all, but enough.
“Good,” she says. “Then stay there and fix the scratch.”
The command should irritate me. Instead, it steadies me.
“Yes.”
I take water first.
“Do not waste drinking water on blood,” she says.
I give her one look and she closes her mouth. Small mercy. Rare creature.
I rinse the wound carefully, using as little as possible, though still more than she likes. Blood thins and runs down her arm. Gray dust clings stubbornly to the three center marks. This is not dust. Residue. The red of bijass returns, stronger. I bite it down.
Sera watches my face too closely. “Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Useful bad or panic bad?”
“Both.”
“Pick one. I’m busy,” she says.
“With what?”
“Not panicking.”
I look up at her. Her face is pale under the dust. Mouth tight. Eyes too bright, but steady. Always fighting toward steady.
“Useful bad,” I say.
“Good.”
“I need to remove the residue.”
“With?”
I pull the quiet knife from her belt.
