Page 34 of Ash and Burn

"What does that mean?" Calix demanded, though part of him already knew and dreaded the answer.

"It means something served at the communal events is causing Ash Fever," Arvid replied, her voice taking on a flat clinical tone.

Lyssi's hand flew to her mouth. "What happens now?"

The question hung in the air like a sword waiting to fall. Calix looked at the faces surrounding him—Ryx's grim understanding, Lyssi's dawning horror, and Arvid's determined resolve.

His people. His responsibility. His failure to protect them from a threat that had been hiding in plain sight.

"King Calix should probably stop all communal events until further notice," Arvid said quietly, her words carrying the weight of inevitable consequence.

The recommendation hit him like a slap. The communal gatherings weren't just social events—they were the foundation of Ashvorn's identity, the traditions that bound his people together across class and clan lines. They represented everything he'd tried to preserve and protect during his fifteen-year reign.

And now he had to end them to save lives.

"Ryx," Calix said, his voice carrying absolute authority, "issue an immediate bulletin. No more communal events until we resolve this crisis. Alert the council and make sure the word reaches every district."

"Understood," Ryx replied, already moving toward the door.

As his second-in-command disappeared into the corridor, Calix stared at the ingredients Lyssi had brought—innocent-looking items that had been part of Ashvorn's culture for generations. The irony felt like a knife twist. The very thing that had kept his people united was slowly killing them.

What kind of king fails to protect his people from their own traditions?

The thought burned through him, his dragon's rage matching his own self-recrimination.

But beneath the fury and frustration, another emotion stirred—something that felt dangerously close to hope. Because Arvid had found the pattern. His brilliant, impossible mate had identified the source in less than forty-eight hours when four months of investigation had yielded nothing.

Maybe, just maybe, they could still save everyone.

THIRTEEN

ARVID

The hours crawled by with the methodical precision of a military operation, though Arvid found herself relegated to the role of observer rather than active participant. She stood at the central workstation, watching Dorn's team dissect Lyssi's carefully gathered ingredients with the systematic approach of forensic investigators. Their movements were efficient and practiced—the kind of expertise that came from years of analyzing biological compounds and understanding their effects on dragon physiology.

This should be me, she thought, her fingers tightening around the datapad. I should be the one running these tests.

But the harsh reality was that her expertise lay in blood analysis and tissue samples, not food chemistry. She could identify pathogens in bodily fluids, track the progression of disease through cellular breakdown, understand how organs failed when overwhelmed by toxins. The intricate dance of herbs and spices, the subtle interactions between traditional ingredients—that required a different kind of knowledge entirely.

The frustration built in her chest like pressure behind a dam. Every instinct screamed at her to take action, to do something useful instead of standing here like a decorative consultant while other people handled the real work. She'd identified the pattern, established the connection between communal events and Ash Fever outbreaks, but now she was trapped in the liminal space between discovery and solution.

"The spectral analyses will take another day minimum," one of the younger healers announced, not looking up from his equipment. "Maybe longer if we need to run additional purity tests."

Arvid's jaw clenched. Another day. Another day of waiting while patients suffered, while Essin lay in that hospital bed missing her childhood milestones, while the disease potentially spread to new victims despite the halt on gatherings.

She sensed Calix's presence before she heard his voice, the way her body seemed to attune itself to his proximity with embarrassing consistency. He'd remained at her side throughout the day, a silent sentinel who anticipated her needs with unnerving accuracy. When she'd needed additional datapad storage, he'd procured it. When she'd required access to patient files, he'd made the calls. His attention felt both supportive and intensely personal in ways that made her stomach flutter despite her best efforts to maintain a professional boundary.

"How about we interview the patients?" His voice carried that natural authority, but there was something else underneath—a gentleness specifically reserved for her. "See what they remember consuming at the events. We might find patterns the lab work can't reveal."

The suggestion hit her like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Patient interviews were exactly her wheelhouse—extracting crucial information through careful questioning, identifying details that might seem insignificant but could prove vital to understanding disease transmission.

"Yes," she said, probably with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. "That's the logical next step. Direct testimony could help us narrow down which specific ingredients to prioritize."

His smile sent warmth spiraling through her chest, the expression transforming his entire face from regal authority to something approaching boyish satisfaction. As if her approval mattered more than any council vote or territorial decree.

Dangerous, she warned herself, but the thought lacked conviction.

They moved toward the lab exit together, his presence a solid warmth at her back. His hand didn't quite touch her spine, but she could feel the heat of his palm through her white blouse, close enough to make her hyperaware of every breath. The gesture felt protective without being possessive, supportive without being controlling—a balance she hadn't known was possible.