Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
The lake stretched wide and still beneath the afternoon sun, its surface glittering with ripples like threads of silk. Warmth pressed down gently from above, golden and slow-moving, and the air buzzed faintly with the hum of bees and the flutter of insect wings.
They were alone here, tucked into a meadow where the grass grew tall and the world forgot to look, in the sacred place where the fires of Elowen and Midas’ love had first been tempered.
Elowen lay back on a woven blanket, her hair spread like silk against the soft earth, her dress wrinkled and sun-warmed. Her head was turned slightly to the side, eyes half-lidded, watching the children.
The twins toddled a few feet away in the grass, round and soft with the plumpness of toddlerhood. One was chasing a pale-winged butterfly, arms outstretched in clumsy wonder. The other had fallen onto his bottom and was laughing at the way the wind lifted dandelion fluff into the air.
Midas sat behind Elowen, his legs stretched out long in front of him, his wings and tail relaxed.
His human form glowed faintly in the light, skin kissed with gold, his dark hair tousled by the breeze, one braid that Elowen had woven with locks of her own falling from right above his ear.
One arm was braced on the ground behind him; the other forearm rested over his bent knee.
But it was his tail that united them all. It had curled around them in a loose circle. A border. A wall of warm, scaled flesh that enclosed them in the softest kind of protection.
One of the boys tripped, and Elowen sat up instantly, but Midas was faster—his tail caught the child with a gentle thud, nudging him upright again before he could cry. The boy blinked, wide-eyed, then giggled and stumbled back toward his brother.
Elowen exhaled a breath of quiet relief and settled back on her elbows.
Midas didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He only watched her and the way the sunlight touched her cheekbones.
The way she tilted her head when one of the boys shrieked in delight.
The way her eyes softened when she looked at them—like the very sight of their children smoothed the raw edges of the world.
She wasn’t smiling for him. She didn’t know he was watching. And that made it all the more precious.
And he saw, with perfect clarity, something he hadn’t dared to acknowledge fully before—not until this very moment.
Elowen had never pitied him. Nor did she tolerate him out of necessity or loneliness.
She had never looked at him as something to fix, or to endure.
From the very beginning, she had looked at him and chosen him.
He, who was made of fire. He, who had lost his kind and carried that rage in his bones. And still she had loved him. Had trusted him with her life. Her body. Her children.
Midas’ chest ached with something soft and too large to name. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple, his breath warm against her skin. He hummed low in his throat at her comforting scent and nuzzled against her gently, pulling the curl of his tail in closer.
The children laughed again, chasing nothing in particular, whole lives ahead of them. They had no reason to expect violence. Not today.
Which was why it came like a knife to the back.
The first arrow struck the water with a wet thunk. The second embedded itself in a tree just behind Elowen’s head. She turned—and froze.
There were six men from the village. It was the same men that threatened his den from before—he could smell them. Dirty, red-faced, their eyes wild with fear and righteous hatred. And in their hands—swords. Ropes. Torches. Tools of destruction.
“Get the demon children!” one shouted. “Before they grow fangs and burn the rest of us!”
Elowen screamed. Midas was already moving—body convulsing, the sound of bones shifting, magic flaring like lightning through the air. His skin split, wings tearing forth, horns curling into place as his form ballooned into shadow and gold and death.
But they were so close. There was no time to think. Elowen scooped the twins into her arms, one under each arm, their little faces panicked, mouths open in confusion.
She bolted into the trees, trusting Midas to find them where they would hide, branches whipping against her arms, her feet raw and bloodied on the forest floor. Behind her, she heard Midas roar in the way that could crack mountains down the middle and end cities in a breath.
The men had scattered, the stronger ones acting as a distraction for Midas, the others following her. They caught her less than a mile into the trees.
One man tackled her from behind, sending the twins tumbling to the dirt. Elowen fought—biting, clawing, screaming. But they tore her away. Two more men pinned her down, pressing her face into the leaves.
“Hold her. Make her watch.”
Kalen screamed, arms flailing in her direction. His brother just cried, reaching for her. They pinned the children, too.
“No—no, no please!” Elowen sobbed, voice breaking. “They’re children. They haven’t done anything! Do whatever you want to me, just please don’t hurt them!”
“Dragon spawn,” spat the man with the knife. “We won’t let them grow into monsters!”
He turned the blade in his hand. And then there was a scream.
It wasn’t Elowen’s. It was Kalen’s. A high, raw, baby’s scream. They had cut off one of his horns without mercy or remorse. Blood gushed over his face, his sobs hiccupping into something soundless. His twin shrieked, trying to get to him.
Elowen howled, pulling against her restraints with everything she had. Her wrists tore, her back split open again where a whip cracked down. Once. Twice.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Please stop! I’ll do anything—just stop hurting them!”
“Cut out her cursed womb!” one of them said. “We must burn it! Purge the world of its evil!”
None of them saw the shadow pass overhead. Not the men. Not Elowen. Not the boys.
They only heard the sound; the sudden silence of the forest, as if the trees themselves had gasped.
Midas landed so hard trees were ripped from their roots from the force. He did not roar this time. He didn’t need to.
The first man was crushed before he could draw another breath. The second was impaled with talons larger than his body. The third tried to run but made it only two steps before Midas’ tail lashed out and snapped his spine like dry wood.
The one that held Kalen’s severed horn like a trophy turned, dagger raised, and Midas opened his jaws.
Flame made of raw rage escaped his throat. It scorched the earth, reduced the trees to ash, superheated the air until the man ceased to exist—not even ashes remained.
Midas stood heaving, breath ragged, smoke rising from the trees around them. His claws were soaked with blood. His wings were trembling with adrenaline and wrath.
And then his eyes fell on Elowen.
She was still tied down with ropes, struggling with panic to break free. She was bleeding and bruised. Midas used his great claws to slice through the ropes, and Elowen instantly scooped her children to her chest, hovering over them like a shield.
Her boys lay on the ground under her, scared and crying—Kalen limp with pain. Midas made a sound then, deep and guttural, an animal’s cry of grief. He stepped forward and lowered his head. He gathered Elowen, then the boys—cradled them all.
He carried them back to the cave in silence.
When he landed at the mouth of the cave, Midas moved deeper and laid them down gently.
Elowen first, nestled against the soft bed of furs.
She hadn’t spoken once since he’d untied her, not even when her feet bled or her arms shook so badly she nearly dropped the children.
Her eyes had been glassy, far away, and her breath was shallow and quick, caught high in her chest. She did not respond to his voice.
She did not respond when her sons whimpered for her.
Her hands fluttered once, then fell still.
Her lashes trembled, and then her body collapsed entirely, her breath caught in a half-sob before silence overtook her. Midas froze.
Elowen? he asked, voice thick with fear. No answer.
He shifted down into his human form, barely breathing through the pain of it. He knelt beside her and pressed a hand to her cheek. Her skin was clammy. Pale. Her body too limp. Too still. The attack had sent her into a panic, and she had gone someplace inside herself that he could not reach.
For a moment, terror gripped him in a way even the death of his kind never had. This was a wound no salve could heal.
He reached for the bowl of springwater they kept near the hearth and soaked a strip of linen in it. Gently he dabbed her forehead, her temples, her wrists. He bundled her close with another fur, wrapping her trembling body as one might swaddle a wounded bird.
“You are safe,” he whispered, over and over again, though he wasn’t sure if it was for her sake or his.
He turned next to the twins. Auric was curled into a ball, hiccuping small cries into his fists.
Midas touched his back and murmured in dragon-tongue, the words sacred and old, made of warmth and earth and firelight.
Slowly, Auric shifted closer to his father, burying himself in the crook of Midas’ folded legs.
Kalen whimpered, still bleeding, his tiny hands twitching with pain. Midas bent over him like a prayer. He wrapped the child’s head with a cloth soaked in salve—Elowen’s teachings serving him well now.
He remembered her teaching him which blend soothed pain, which one sealed wounds. His fingers were too big for such delicate work, but he forced himself to be careful. He worked with trembling, reverent hands, coating Kalen’s wound with the salves mixed together.
It was like caring for embers; one breath too harsh and they might go out.
When Kalen's bandages were secured, Midas lifted both boys into his arms. He sat with them cradled against his chest, Elowen beside him, unmoving but breathing now—slow and steady. He rocked his sons gently, his voice humming again in that ancient cadence only dragons remembered.
His lullaby was low and melodic, a song of caves and fire and hoarded love.
But inside his heart, Midas felt that bitter agony of failure, and would never forgive himself.