Chapter 3
Gamble
I wake to the smell of cedar smoke and something sweeter, honey rolls, maybe, and the low, steady thump of a dragon’s heart under my ear. For one brief heartbeat I think I’m still dreaming…
Then the thump shifts, and a massive hand settles on the small of my back, warm as Asterian sun-kissed stone.
“Morning, little thief,” Sarak rumbles. His voice is morning-rough, deliciously so, and it curls straight into my belly.
I blink up at him.
We’re in his bed, tangled in wool blankets that smell of him.
My tunic is gone. So is the fire stone. I’m wearing one of his shirts, sleeves rolled to my elbows, hem brushing my thighs. The fabric is soft from years of wash and wear, and it smells like forge smoke and pine. I burrow deeper into it like a greedy cat.
“Morning, Daddy,” I mumble into his chest. The word slips out easy now, like it’s always belonged there. His answering growl vibrates through me, half warning, half pleasure.
Sarak shifts, propping himself on an elbow. The movement makes the cot creak. “How’s the side? It should feel better after your rest.”
I wiggle experimentally. The slice across my ribs is a dull ache, nothing more. “Mybe. It could be your salve’s magic,” I say. “Or perhaps you just kiss better than any healer.”
Sarak’s dark brow arches. “Flattery will get you spanked, brat.”
I don’t know where I summon the courage—or perhaps the foolishness—but I poke my tongue out of my mouth and arch my eyebrow in Sarak’s direction.
“The dragon doesn’t scare me,” I say, sticking my tongue out once more and wiggling it provocatively. “In fact, I think I’d be more afraid of being spanked by a Mount Elan squirrel!”
With that, Sarak takes me in his arms and promptly carries me over toward the large oak chair opposite. I gasp as Sarak hikes up the shirt to reveal my bare bottom.
“Now this is what happens when a naughty elf crosses the line,” Sarak growls, bringing his hand down on my buttocks and making them wobble in the warm light.
“Owwww!” I holler, the shock of the sharp pain hitting me. “That hurts!”
“Good, it’s supposed to,” Sarak bellows, his voice full of relish as he brings down four more spanks in rapid succession, each one landing with precision and making me whimper and cry. “And two more for good luck!”
“Owwwww!” I squeal. “Yooooowwwww!”
“Ah, the little elf’s ears are dampened,” Sarak chuckles, noting how my ears have indeed turned down, a sure sign that my red-bottom bottom is in sufficient pain. “Well with that lesson well and truly learned, I think it’s time for a little cuddle. How does that sound?”
I giggle as Sarak holds me close and runs his hands through my hair and gently strokes my ears until they are back to their usual selves.
But my smile falters when I catch sight of the anvil across the room.
The lead cloth is gone. The fire stone sits in its place, cracked but pulsing faintly, crimson veins sluggish, like a heart that forgot how to beat properly.
“It’s… quieter,” I say, my heartrate rising and my bottom still throbbing from the punishment.
“For now.” Sarak follows my gaze. “Our little trick bought us hours, not days. Revaster will feel the tether fray. He’ll send worse than Night Hounds and mercenaries.”
The name Revaster lands like a stone in my gut. I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest.
“I have to move,” I say. “There’s a mage in the Emberfall Glades, Elowen, old blood, older debts. If anyone can break the curse—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Sarak’s hand cups my nape, thumb stroking the hollow beneath my ear. “Not alone. And not until I tend to that rear end of yours. I’ll fetch some Milk of Lido, that will do the trick. But, to repeat… you’re not going anywhere alone.”
I open my mouth to argue, I’ve been alone for weeks, I’m fast, I’m clever, but the look in his eyes stops me. It’s not just protective. It’s terrified. The big, bad dragon is scared. For me.
My heart skips a beat, “Sarak…”
“Rule three,” he says, voice soft but steel beneath as he returns and beings to apply the Milk of Lido to my ass, instantly soothing the redness and gently beginning to wash away the stinging sensation.
“You don’t leave this cabin without me. Not for water, not for air, not for the gods themselves. Say it.”
I swallow. “I don’t leave without you.”
“Good boy.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering. “Now eat. You’ll need strength for what comes next.”
My dragon Daddy protector moves predatory grace, all long limbs and sculpted muscle. I ogle shamelessly as he pads to the table, bare feet, loose trousers riding low on his hips, scars crisscrossing his back like a map of battles won. My mouth goes dry.
Sarak catches me staring in the polished shield hung on the wall. “Eyes up, elf.”
“Can’t help it. You’re very….”
He snorts, but there’s a pleased curve to his mouth as he tears a honey roll in half. Steam curls from the golden center. Sarak brings it to me, along with a mug of something that smells like winterberries and smoke.
“Eat,” Sarak commands, settling beside me. “Then we talk strategy.”
I obey, because the roll is heaven and because his proximity makes my brain fuzzy. Crumbs tumble onto the blanket. Sarak brushes them away with a thumb, then, without breaking eye contact, licks the honey from his skin. Slowly.
I choke on my bite.
He smirks. “Problem?”
“Evil dragon,” I wheeze.
“Guilty,” Sarak chuckles, a hint of menace in his voice.
We finish breakfast in companionable quiet, the fire stone’s faint pulse a comfort. When the plates are clean, Sarak pulls me into his lap. I go willingly, straddling his thighs, knees sinking into the mattress on either side. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing the hem of his shirt.
“Tell me everything,” he says. “Revaster. The stone. Elowen. All of it.”
I take a breath. “Revaster wasn’t born a warlord.
He was a scholar once, or so the stories go.
Born in the Ashen Marches, youngest son of a minor noble house.
Brilliant, but overlooked. He devoured forbidden texts, blood-binding, the old dragon-pacts.
When his family tried to marry him off to secure an alliance, he refused.
Burned the marriage contract in the hearth and the entire manor with it.
His siblings, his parents, everyone. The ashes spelled his new name in the cinders. ”
Sarak’s grip tightens. “I’ve heard whispers. The Ashen Scion.”
“That’s him.” I trace the scar on Sarak’s collarbone, grounding myself.
“He spent decades in the Wraithspine Mountains, bargaining with things that should stay buried. The fire stone was his masterpiece, a soul-leech forged from a fallen star and the heart-blood of a bound dragon. He used it to conquer the southern kingdoms, one village at a time. My home was just… practice.”
Sarak’s eyes blaze. “He’ll pay for every life.”
I nod, throat tight. “The stone’s the key. It anchors the curse, siphons life to feed his immortality. If we break it, the tether snaps. He ages. He dies. But only a blood-mage of Elowen’s caliber can do it.”
“Tell me about her.”
I smile, remembering. “Elowen of the Emberfall Glades. She’s ancient, older than the oaks, older than the mountains maybe.
Her people were the first to weave elf-song with dragon-flame.
My mother saved her life during the Red Winter, thirty years ago.
Elowen swore a life-debt. She’s… eccentric.
Lives in a cottage that some say can move of its own accord through time.
She hoards teacups and grudges. But her magic is unmatched.
If anyone can unmake Revaster’s leash, it’s her. ”
Sarak’s thumb strokes my hip. “And the cost?”
I hesitate. “Blood. Always blood. Hers, mine, yours if you offer. The rite demands balance.”
Sarak nods, unsurprised. “Dragons pay in fire and blood. It’s our way.”
The fire stone flares suddenly, a spike of pain lancing through my sternum. I gasp, clutching at Sarak’s shoulders. The cracks glow angry red, veins writhing like living things.
“Gamble?” Sarak’s grip tightens.
“It’s… hungry,” I grit out. “Needs blood. Mine, preferably.”
My protector’s face goes thunder-dark. “No.”
“It’s how the curse works. It feeds on the thief until the tether snaps back to Revaster.” I force a smile. “I’ve been dosing it with scraps of my magic. Last night’s overload starved it. It’s angry now.”
Sarak’s snarl rattles the windows. “Then we starve it permanently.”
He lifts me off his lap, sets me on the cot like I’m made of glass. “Stay.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”
He stalks to the forge, yanks open a drawer, and pulls out a small iron box. Inside: a vial of dragon blood, his, thick and shimmering like liquid ruby. He uncorks it, tips a single drop onto the fire stone. The cracks drink it greedily, crimson veins retreating to a dull glow.
“Temporary patch,” he says. “But it’ll buy us a day.”
I watch, awed. “You just… carry that around?”
“Dragons hoard what’s precious.” He meets my eyes. “Including blood. And elves.”
My cheeks heat. “Sap.”
“Brat,” Sarak chuckles. He pockets the vial, then hauls me up by the wrist. “Gear. Now.”
We dress together, me in my patched tunic and cloak, him in leather and steel. Sarak buckles a short sword to my hip, fingers lingering.
“You know how to use this?”
“I prefer illusions and running away,” I admit. “But I can stab if I need to. It. all depends on the motivation.”
He taps my nose. “Motivation: don’t make me spank you in front of mercenaries.”
I salute. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the village is waking. Smoke curls from chimneys; children peek from doorways. Hanna the baker waves nervously. Sarak nods, all gruff reassurance. I catch whispers, dragon’s mate, cursed elf, Revaster’s wrath, and feel my spine straighten.
Let them talk. I’ve got a dragon at my back.
We’re halfway across the square when the fire stone screams.
Not metaphorically. An actual, glass-shattering shriek that drops me to my knees.
Villagers clap hands to ears. Sarak snarls, shielding me as the stone rips free of its chain, hovering in midair.
Cracks spiderweb wider; black smoke pours out, moving into a spectral hound the size of a horse.
Its eyes are Revaster’s, cold, cruel, amused.
“Thief,” it hisses, voice layered with a thousand screams. “You think a dragon’s kiss can sever my claim? I forged this leash in the bones of your ancestors. Return it or watch this village join the ashes of your kin.”
Sarak steps forward, sword drawn. “Over my charred corpse.”
The hound laughs. “Gladly. I still remember your clan’s screams, Sarak of the Emberfall Line. Your mother begged so desperately....”
Sarak’s snarl is pure dragon. “You knew my kin?”
“I ended them,” the hound sneers. “Their blood fueled my rise. Your little elf is just the latest in a long line of toys.”
Rage ignites in Sarak’s eyes, molten gold. I grab his arm. “Don’t listen. It’s baiting you.”
But the damage is done. Sarak lunges. The hound meets him midair, smoke and fire clashing. They crash through the well, wood splintering.
I scramble up, heart in my throat. “Sarak!”
He roars, pinned beneath the beast. The fire stone spins above them, drinking the chaos. I feel its pull, come to me, little thief, feed me, and my knees buckle.
No. Not like this.
I draw the short sword, channel every scrap of elf magic I have. Illusions bloom: a dozen Saraks, a hundred Gambles, a storm of phantom fire. The hound snarls, confused, striking at shadows. I dart beneath its guard, slash at the tether, a glowing cord of crimson linking hound to stone.
The hound howls, rounding on me. Sarak surges up, wraps an arm around its neck, and breathes. Dragon fire engulfs the beast, turning smoke to ash. The tether snaps. The fire stone plummets to the ground.
Silence.
Sarak staggers, scales receding. I catch him as he sways, both of us collapsing in the snow. The stone lies between us, cracked in half, crimson veins dark.
“Is it…?” I whisper.
“Dead?” He nudges it with a boot. No pulse. “For now.”
Villagers creep closer, awed. Hanna presses a fresh basket into my hands. “For the road,” she says shyly.
Sarak hauls me to my feet. “We leave. Now. Before Revaster sends something worse.”
I nod, the adrenaline pumping around my veins. “Frostfang Pass?”
“Frostfang Pass.” He cups my face, kisses me hard and filthy in front of the entire village. “And Gamble?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you call me Daddy in public, I’m bending you over the nearest table.”
Heat floods me. “Looking forward to it.”
Sarak grins, all teeth and promise. “Don’t be so sure. That earlier spanking was merely a taster of what you will come to expect.”
We stride out of the village hand in hand, the broken fire stone tucked safely in Sarak’s pouch, the taste of honey and dragon fire on my tongue.
Behind us, the villagers cheer. Ahead, the pass looms, icy, treacherous, full of mercenaries.
I squeeze his fingers. “Think we’ll make it by nightfall?”
“With your illusions and my wings?” He smirks. “We’ll make it by lunch.”
I laugh, wild and free, and for the first time in years, hope feels like more than a stolen stone.
Suddenly, hope feels like home.