Arvid
ELEVEN
The memory of Calix's transformation replayed in her mind with startling clarity.
One moment he'd been running toward them in human form, the next a massive red dragon had materialized with earth-shaking force.
His wingspan had blocked out the sky, his scales had gleamed like molten fire in the sunlight, and those black-cored flames had erupted from his throat with devastating beauty.
Something primal had stirred in her chest watching him fight those rogue dragons—not fear but recognition that felt both alien and oddly familiar.
I didn't need rescuing, she reminded herself firmly, though the lie tasted bitter.
The three dragon shifters would have overwhelmed her and Tal eventually. And seeing Calix in his true form, witnessing the lethal grace with which he'd driven off their attackers with, had done something unsettling to her equilibrium.
"We should head back to Ashspire," Calix said, his deep voice carrying that familiar note of command. "You need rest after that fight."
Arvid stopped walking, turning to face him with incredulous dark eyes. "Rest? People need me right now. And besides, the market closes soon—I need to investigate those stalls before they pack up for the evening."
His jaw tightened, authority radiating from every line of his imposing frame. "Arvid, you were just attacked by three rogues. You're not going anywhere without—"
"Without what? A babysitter?" The words came out sharp, colored by years of being told what she could and couldn't handle. "I'm not some fragile woman who needs protecting."
"No, you're not. I clearly saw you can handle yourself," he agreed, surprising her with the admission. "But you're a target now. Which means I'll be your escort while Tal recovers."
The announcement sent conflicting emotions warring through her system.
Irritation at being managed battled with something warmer—relief, perhaps, or anticipation she didn't want to examine too closely.
Having Calix near felt both dangerous and oddly right, like her body recognized something her mind refused to acknowledge.
"Fine," she said, the word emerging more breathless than she'd intended. "That makes sense."
They began walking toward the market, and Arvid found herself falling into step beside him with startling ease.
Their strides matched perfectly despite their height difference, as if they'd been walking together for years instead of days.
The realization unsettled her almost as much as the way his presence seemed to calm the restless energy that had plagued her for years.
"Who would attack us like that?" she asked, glancing sideways at his profile. "Random violence doesn't fit the pattern."
Calix's expression darkened, his protective instincts clearly engaged. "I don't know, but I intend to find out. In the meantime, you don't leave my side. For any reason."
The possessive edge in his deep voice made her pulse spike even as her independence bristled. "That seems excessive—"
"Those rogues weren't from Ashvorn, and they targeted you for some reason." His green eyes blazed with barely contained fury. "Until we understand why, you stay close to me."
The concern in his voice felt personal rather than professional, protective in a way that went beyond his duty as king.
It should have alarmed her—powerful men who issued commands and expected compliance had destroyed her military career.
Instead, something deep in her chest responded to his fierce protectiveness with dangerous satisfaction.
The market soon came into view ahead, eerily quiet compared to its usual bustling activity. Only a handful of vendors remained at their stalls, serving the few customers brave enough to venture out after the dragon battle.
"At least people listened about staying inside," Calix observed, scanning the reduced crowd with tactical awareness. "Until we identify those rogues and their purpose, caution serves everyone better than curiosity."
Arvid nodded, pulling out her datapad from her small bag as they approached the first market stall. "Well, let's see what we can figure out here."
For the next hour, they moved methodically through the market stalls, Arvid documenting everything she observed while questioning vendors about their wares.
Dried herbs hung in fragrant bundles beside containers of powdered minerals she didn't recognize.
Preserved foods filled glass jars with labels written in flowing script.
Each vendor answered her questions with helpful enthusiasm, though none of their products immediately struck her as potential culprits for Ash Fever.
"Tell me about the communal gatherings Dorn mentioned," she said as they paused near a beverage stall. "What's typically served at those events?"
Calix considered the question, his brow furrowing with concentration. "I haven't attended them in months—not since the outbreak began. But traditionally there are specific dishes and drinks, ceremonial items that connect us to our dragon heritage."
"Such as?"
"Ember-root stew, flame-kissed bread, crystallized fire-fruit." He paused. "And Flameroot tea. It's considered a cultural staple—supposed to strengthen our senses."
Arvid's stylus stilled against her datapad screen. "Interesting. We will need to study all these items closer in the lab. Nothing is jumping out at the moment, but I think we are getting closer."
Suddenly, exhaustion and hunger hit her like a tidal wave.
The day's events—the ambush, the investigation, the emotional whiplash of being near Calix— caught up with her all at once.
Her datapad felt heavy in her hands, and she realized she'd been running on adrenaline and determination for hours without pause.
Calix noticed immediately, his sharp gaze cataloging the subtle signs of fatigue and hunger she couldn't quite hide. "That's enough for today. We're going back to Ashspire now."
For once, Arvid didn't argue. She had enough data to begin her analysis, and the thought of some quiet time to process everything—including the confusing pull she felt toward the man beside her—actually sounded appealing.
"Alright," she conceded, surprising them both with her compliance. "I suppose I have enough information to work with for now."
As they turned to leave the market, Arvid caught herself stealing glances at Calix's profile, and she quickly looked away before he could catch her staring.
Professional distance, she reminded herself firmly, even as every step beside him felt impossibly right.
Ten minutes later, the front door of Ashspire closed behind them with a resonant thud that seemed to echo through Arvid's bones.
The familiar warmth of the estate wrapped around her like an embrace, though she refused to acknowledge why.
Her stomach chose that precise moment to produce a growl so loud and demanding that it might have registered on seismic equipment.
Heat flooded her cheeks as Calix's attention immediately zeroed in on her with laser focus.
"When exactly did you last eat?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.
Arvid shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how hollow and shaky she felt. "I had a pastry from the cafeteria vending machine this morning."
His dark eyebrow arched in disapproval. "That barely qualifies as food, let alone proper nourishment."
The way he said it—protective, almost possessive—sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest. She'd spent years carefully avoiding anyone who might try to take care of her, yet here stood this impossibly commanding man making her want things she'd convinced herself she didn't need.
"I can make us something," he continued, already moving toward what she assumed was the direction of the kitchen. "Follow me."
The casual way he issued the instruction should have triggered every defensive instinct she possessed.
Instead, she found herself trailing behind him through corridors lined with ancestral portraits and ancient artifacts, her scientific mind noting the way his presence seemed to fill every space they entered.
The kitchen, when they reached it, proved surprisingly normal despite its impressive size.
Copper pots hung from wrought iron hooks above a massive stone island, and the scent of herbs and spices lingered in the air like an invitation.
Calix moved through the space with the same confident authority he displayed everywhere else, pulling ingredients from an advanced refrigeration unit.
"I'm helping," Arvid announced, unable to simply stand there while he worked. "I refuse to watch you do everything."
His hands stilled on a package of what looked like meat. "You don't need to—"
"Yes, I do." She was already moving toward the sink. "Point me toward the vegetables."
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or approval. He gestured toward a collection of unfamiliar but appealing produce arranged in baskets near the window. "Those need washing and chopping."
Minutes later, working beside him felt oddly natural, their movements falling into an easy rhythm that spoke to something deeper than mere professional relations.
Arvid found herself stealing glances at his hands as he seasoned the meat, noting the way his fingers moved with decisive confidence.
When he reached across her to grab a pan, his scent—that intoxicating combination of spice and rain—wrapped around her like a drug.
This is dangerous, she reminded herself, focusing intently on reducing vegetables to uniform pieces. You're here to work, solve the outbreak, then return to your perfectly manageable life on Earth.
The thought should have filled her with anticipation and purpose. Instead, it created a hollow ache in her chest that she absolutely refused to acknowledge.
"You're very good at that," Calix observed, nodding toward her precise knife work.
"Military life produced unexpected benefits." She kept her tone light and professional.