Chapter 2
Sarak
The elf is asleep before his head hits the pillow.
Gamble, he said. Of course it is. The name tastes like mischief and smoke on my tongue, and I’m already in deeper than I have any right to be.
In all of the smoking wreckage of my life, I’ve never felt like this.
I stand over the bench, arms folded, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Snowmelt drips from his braid onto my floorboards, each drop hissing where it lands near the forge.
The fire stone rests against the boy’s bare skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Crimson veins crawl across the black glass every time he exhales, as if it’s drinking him in. My dragon snarls, low and possessive, claws flexing beneath my human nails.
Mine, it says again. Louder this time.
I shove the beast down, but it’s like trying to cork a volcano in the Asterian Kingdom. And I should know.
Outside, the village is quiet.
Too quiet. The hunters are gone—for now—but their stink lingers: wet dog, sulfur, and the copper tang of blood.
I scent the air through the cracked window.
No fresh tracks yet. Good. That gives me until dawn to decide what in the nine hells I’m going to do with a cursed elf who just declared me Daddy in a voice that went straight to my cock.
“Curse it all,” I grumble, my manhood hardening and my mind playing all kinds of wicked tricks on me as I imagine just what I could do to that damned elf.
I drag a hand over my face. The scar along my temple throbs—a souvenir from the last time I played hero. That ended with a village in ashes and a dragon’s heart in pieces.
I swore never again.
Yet here I am.
Gamble shifts in his sleep, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like Ma-ma. The sound cracks me open. I’ve seen that look before—on lost boys, on orphans, on the faces of those Revaster broke just to watch them bleed. My dragon doesn’t care about politics or borders. It only knows protect.
I crouch, unhook the fire stone’s chain from around Gamble’s neck with careful fingers.
The moment it leaves his skin, the pulsing slows.
I hold it up to the forge light. The crimson veins retreat, coiling like serpents.
Revaster’s seal is etched into the back…
a stylized flame inside a circle of thorns.
I’ve seen it branded on slaves, on war banners, on the throats of the dead.
This isn’t just a power source. It’s a collar. And the elf stole the leash.
“Foolish little thief,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Only awe. The boy is brave, the kind of elf whose name would provoke equal degrees of love and irritation in his home village no doubt.
I set the stone on the anvil, far from his reach, and cover it with a lead-lined cloth. The forge’s heat muffles its thrum. Gamble sighs in his sleep, tension easing from his shoulders.
Good.
Whatever the curse is doing, distance helps.
I strip off my soot-streaked shirt, toss it into the hamper, and roll my neck. My wings itch beneath my skin, wanting to unfurl, to stretch, to fly.
But the cabin’s too small, and the village is too close.
I settle for pacing instead, boots thudding against the packed earth floor.
The boy—elf—is twenty, he said. Barely more than a fledgling. And yet he ran through Revaster’s Night Hounds with a warlord’s leash around his neck and fire in his eyes. My dragon preens at the thought.
Strong mate. Clever mate.
I tell it to shut up. It laughs.
I stop at the weapon rack. My broadsword hangs there, nicked but sharp. Beside it, the dragon-forged dagger I made the year I turned two hundred.
I lift it, test the balance.
If Revaster’s dogs and mercenaries come back, they’ll meet steel and fire.
I glance at Gamble. And if they come for him, they’ll meet something worse.
A soft knock at the door.
I scent the air—Hanna, the baker’s wife, with her usual basket of night-baked honey rolls. I open the door a crack.
“Thought your guest might be hungry,” Hanna whispers, eyes wide. “And… Sarak? The square’s a mess. Blood. Charred… bits.”
“Tell the reeve I’ll clean it at first light,” I say. “No one enters the forge till then.”
Hanna nods, thrusts the basket at me, and scurries off. I lock the door, set the rolls on the table. The smell of yeast and honey fills the room. Gamble’s nose twitches. His eyes flutter but don’t open. Still out cold.
I should let him sleep.
Instead, I find myself kneeling beside the bench again, brushing a strand of silver-green hair from his cheek. His skin is cool, too cool. Elves run warmer than humans; the curse is siphoning his heat. I frown, press two fingers to his throat. Pulse steady but fast. Like a hummingbird.
“Easy, little one,” I murmur. “Daddy’s got you.”
The word slips out before I can stop it. My dragon purrs. I grit my teeth. This is not the time.
I lift him—gods, he’s light—and carry him to the cot in the back room.
My bedroom.
The sheets smell of cedar and smoke, of me. I tuck Gamble in, pull the wool blanket to his chin. He burrows into it with a contented sigh, one hand fisting the fabric like a child with a toy.
I stand there too long. Watching. Memorizing the curve of his ear, the freckles across his nose, the way his lips part when he dreams. My chest aches in a way I don’t recognize.
Get a grip, Sarak.
I force myself away, back to the forge. I bank the fire, set water to boil for tea—winter-bark and frost-leaf, good for shock and blood loss.
While it steeps, I clean the elf’s blood from my hands.
The slice on his ribs wasn’t deep, but it was jagged.
Infection’s a risk. I mix a salve of dragon’s blood resin and silver-root, smear it on a clean cloth.
When I return, Gamble’s awake. Barely. His eyes are slits of emerald, luminous in the dim light.
“Hey,” he croaks.
“Hey yourself.” I sit on the cot’s edge, careful not to jostle him. “Drink.”
I hold the mug to his lips. He sips, grimaces. “Tastes like pine needles and… ass.”
“Medicine usually does,” I laugh. “I won’t ask how you know what ass tastes like…”
I set the mug aside, lift the bandage to check the wound. The salve’s already working; the edges are knitting.
“You’ll live,” I say. “Unfortunately for my peace of mind.”
Gamble huffs a laugh, then winces. “Sorry about your square. And your… everything.”
“You’re sorry?” I arch a brow. “You crashed into my life like a meteor, bled on my stones, and called me Daddy in front of half the village. Apology accepted.”
Color floods Gamble’s cheeks. “I was delirious.”
“Were you?” I lean in, voice dropping. “Because you looked pretty lucid when you said it.”
The elf bites his lip. The sight goes straight to my groin. I shift, grateful for the shadows.
“Tell me about the stone,” I say, to distract us both, and also because I need to know more.
Gamble’s gaze flickers to the anvil, where the lead cloth bulges slightly. “It’s… complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
Gamble sighs, pushes up on his elbows. The blanket slips, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the faint glow of elf-marks along his sternum—swirling runes that pulse in time with the stone.
“Revaster cursed my village five years ago,” Gamble begins. “Said we harbored rebels. The oaks started dying. Then the wells. Then the children.” His voice cracks. “My sister… she was eight. The curse took her voice first. Then her sight. She’s alive, but she’s… fading.”
I go very still.
My dragon’s rage is a living coal in my chest.
This is the kind of tale that has seen me vanquish many a foe over my time.
“The fire stone is the anchor,” Gamble continues.
“Revaster uses it to siphon life from the land. If I can get it to a mage who knows the old blood rites, we can break the tether. Save them. All of them.” He meets my eyes, fierce and pleading.
“I didn’t steal it for glory, Sarak. I stole it for hope. ”
The sincerity in his voice undoes me. I cup his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not alone anymore, little elf,” I say. “I see you. I know your struggle.”
His breath hitches. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” I lean closer, until our foreheads touch.
“I know you ran through a blizzard with death on your heels. I know you smiled while bleeding. I know my dragon claimed you the second you looked at me.” I pull back just enough to meet his wide eyes.
“And I know you’re mine to protect. Whether you like it or not. ”
Gamble swallows. “And if I do like it?”
My control snaps. I kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s five years of loneliness, a lifetime of restraint, the roar of a dragon who’s found his hoard.
Gamble gasps into my mouth, fingers tangling in my hair. He tastes like snow and honey and mine. I angle his head, deepen the kiss, swallow his moan. My hand slides down his side, careful of the bandage, to grip his hip. He arches into me, submissive and perfect.
I break the kiss before I lose myself entirely.
“Rule two,” I growl against his lips. “No more secrets. You tell me everything. Or I’ll spank it out of you.”
His laugh is breathless. “Promise?”
I nip his lower lip. “Brat.”
Gamble grins, wicked and bright. “Your brat.”
The words sear into me like a brand. I kiss him again, slower this time, savoring. My dragon settles, content for the first time in decades.
A distant howl shatters the moment. Night Hounds. Closer than before.
I pull back, every sense on alert.
“They’ve circled the village,” I warn. “Tracking the stone.”
Gamble’s face pales. “They’ll burn everything to get it.”
“Not while I breathe.” I stand, stride to the weapon rack. “Stay here. Lock the door behind me.”
“No,” Gamble protests. He’s off the cot, swaying but determined. “I’m not hiding while you fight my battles.”
“Gamble—”
“I’m not useless, Sarak.” He grabs his tunic, winces as he pulls it on. “Elf magic. Illusions. Distractions. I can help.”
I want to argue.
I want to bundle him back into bed and stand guard. But the fire in his eyes stops me. This isn’t a fledgling. This is a warrior.
“Fine,” I say. “But you stay behind me. You follow my lead. Break formation, and I will tan your hide later.”
He salutes with mock seriousness. “Yes, Daddy.”
I groan. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Only if Revaster gets there first.”
I grab my sword, buckle it on. Gamble retrieves the fire stone, slipping the chain over his neck. The moment it touches his skin, the pulsing resumes—faster, hungrier. He grits his teeth but doesn’t falter.
We step into the night.
The village square is empty, lanterns swaying in the wind. Snow falls thick and silent. I scent the air—six hunters, maybe seven. Warlocks among them. They’re fanning out, searching.
Gamble’s hand finds mine. “Plan?”
“You create a decoy. I take the real stone and lead them away. You get the villagers to the cellar under the tavern—there’s a tunnel to the river.”
He squeezes my fingers. “And you?”
“I’ll be the dragon they’re hunting.” I grin, all teeth. “They want fire? I’ll give them an inferno.”
Before the elf can argue, I shift.
The change is seamless—bones lengthening, muscles coiling, wings erupting in a rush of heat. Scales ripple over my skin, black and gold, impervious to steel and spell. Gamble’s eyes go wide, reflecting the forge-glow of my gaze.
“Hold on,” I rumble, voice like thunder.
He scrambles onto my back, fingers digging into the ridge of my neck. The contact sends a jolt through me—mate-bond, raw and new. I launch into the sky, wings beating snow into whirlwinds.
Below, the hunters spill into the square. One points. Another slashes his sword across a supply of frozen apples.
Spells light the night—crimson bolts, shadow chains. I roar, breathe a lance of dragon fire that turns the nearest warlock to ash.
Gamble laughs, wild and free, and casts an illusion: a dozen phantom Gambles sprinting in every direction. The hunters hesitate, confused.
I bank hard, leading them away from the village. Gamble clings tight, his magic weaving with my fire—elf-light and dragon-flame braiding into something beautiful and deadly.
Together, we are a storm.
But the fire stone burns hotter against his chest. I feel it through the bond, a searing pull. He’s fading.
“Gamble!” I shout over the wind.
“I’m fine!” the boy yells back, but his voice is thin.
No, you’re not. I dive, skimming the treetops, and land in a clearing miles from the village. The hunters are minutes behind. I shift back to human form, catch Gamble as he slides from my shoulders. He’s trembling, the stone glowing like a coal.
“Take it off,” I order.
“Can’t. It’s bound to me now.” He meets my eyes, fierce despite the pain. “But I have an idea.”
“Tell me.”
Gamble grins, wicked and brave. “Kiss me again. Hard. Channel your fire into the stone. Dragon magic and elf magic—maybe we can overload it. Maybe we can buy time.”
I don’t hesitate.
I know this is a risk, but it’s one I simply have to take.
I crush him to me, kiss him like the world’s ending. My dragon pours into him—heat, power, claim. The stone flares, crimson light spilling between us. Gamble cries out, but he doesn’t pull away. His magic rises to meet mine, green and gold and wild.
The stone screams. Cracks spiderweb across its surface. The hunters’ howls falter, then cut off entirely.
We break apart, gasping.
The stone is dark, silent. For now.
Gamble slumps against me. “Did we…?”
“Stunned it,” I say, cradling him close. “Not broken. But it’s enough.”
In the distance, the village lights still glow. It’s safe. But only for tonight.
I lift him into my arms. “Come on, little elf. Let’s go home.”
He burrows into my chest, whispering, “Yes, Daddy.”
My heart stumbles. My dragon sings.
Whatever tomorrow brings, we’ll face it together. And if anyone tries to take my mate, they’ll learn what happens when a dragon’s fire meets a trickster’s spark.
They’ll burn in all nine hells for the rest of eternity…