Chapter 5
Morning arrived with a sensation so foreign I didn't recognize it at first—the absence of fear.
No checking for threats before opening my eyes, no calculating escape routes before my feet touched stone.
Just warmth from Pebble's small body curled against my ankle and the distant sound of Garruk moving through his morning routines somewhere above me.
Safety.
That's what this weightless feeling was.
The last time I'd felt it, I'd been six years old, before the fever took my mother and the debts took our home.
Before I learned that small girls who couldn't fight had to run, and those who couldn't run had to hide, and those who couldn't hide didn't last long in the warrens.
But here, in this impossible underground palace, with a dragon standing guard over my sleep—here I was safe. The knowledge bubbled up through my chest like those thermal springs, and with it came something else I hadn't felt in sixteen years.
Mischief.
Through the bond, I felt Garruk settle into his study, his attention turning to those endless geological surveys he loved more than gold. Perfect. I slipped from bed, Pebble chirping a question at the disturbance.
"Want to play?" I whispered.
His ancient eyes lit with interest that proved some things transcended age—like the universal joy of causing chaos. We padded through the corridors on silent feet, or at least I did. Pebble's claws clicked against stone with every step, but stealth had never been his strong suit.
Garruk's study door stood partially open, and through it I could see him bent over his desk, completely absorbed in comparing mineral compositions.
The morning light caught those crystalline veins in his neck, pulsing with slow contentment.
He looked . . . peaceful. Which made what I was about to do even better.
His tools hung on the wall in perfect order—hammers graduated by weight, chisels by size, picks by purpose. Each one polished to gleaming, each in its designated place. The organization spoke of centuries of routine, of finding comfort in knowing exactly where everything belonged.
Well. Time to redecorate.
I worked with the focus of someone who'd spent years learning to steal without sound.
Hammers went where chisels should be. Chisels replaced picks.
The special crystal-testing mallet? Hidden behind a display of quartz samples.
But the true artistry was in the sample collection itself.
He had them organized by mineral composition and magical resonance, a system probably perfected over millennia.
I reorganized them by prettiness.
The rose quartz (clearly the winner) went in the place of honor. That boring gray granite he seemed to value? Shoved to the back. The samples that sparkled got premium placement, while the dull ones—no matter how magically significant—got demoted to the bottom shelf.
Pebble watched with what I could only describe as draconic glee, his tail swishing in approval. When I held up one of the geological surveys—dense with Garruk's precise notations about ore veins and fault lines—he opened his mouth in a silent laugh.
"Where should we hide this one?" I asked.
He scampered toward the thermal vents, and I followed, rolling the survey into a tube. The heat would probably damage it, but not destroy it. Just enough to make Garruk's jaw do that lovely clenching thing when he found it.
We hid five more throughout the Sanctum.
One tucked under Pebble's sleeping cushion, where his body heat would wrinkle the parchment.
Another wedged behind a statue I'd noticed Garruk never quite looked at—something about the feminine cast of its features made me suspect it was from his past. One went into the pantry between preserved goods.
The best one, though, we saved for last.
In the kitchen, someone—probably those silent stone elementals—had stacked bowls in a perfect pyramid. The precision of it screamed Garruk's influence. Pebble looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the bowls.
"Accidentally, of course," I said.
He chirped agreement, then very deliberately swung his tail in a wide arc that sent the bottom bowl flying. The pyramid collapsed in a cascade of ceramic that rang through the Sanctum like bells. But before we could properly appreciate our handiwork, I had an even better idea.
"The floors," I whispered. "They're too clean."
Pebble's eyes went wide with understanding.
The thermal pools left mineral deposits that dried to a chalky white—perfect for tracking through the Sanctum's pristine black stone.
We made three trips, our feet (and claws) painting abstract art across floors that had probably been spotless since their creation.
The little prints led nowhere and everywhere—circles around pillars, meandering paths that ended at walls, one ambitious attempt at writing my name that turned into illegible squiggles.
Pebble added his own flourishes, including what might have been an attempt at drawing Garruk's scowling face near his study door.
We were back in the kitchen, teaching Pebble the finer points of bowl-rolling (it's all in the wrist), when the walls cracked loudly.
"Little brat."
Garruk stood in the doorway, one of his water-damaged surveys clutched in his fist. Through the bond, I felt his internal war—dragon instincts screaming to pin me down and show me exactly who commanded this mountain, while the man fought for control, for restraint, for the patience he'd promised during our three-day trial.
"You're testing me." His voice had dropped to that register that made my bones hum.
I grinned, completely unrepentant. "Maybe I want to see what happens when stone cracks."
The heat that flared in his eyes made my stomach flip, made my thighs clench, made me want to push harder just to see what would happen when that legendary control finally shattered.
For a moment, I thought I'd won. His hands clenched and unclenched, those crystalline veins pulsing erratically.
Through the bond came waves of want mixed with frustration, the urge to throw me over his knee and—
"Physical training," he said suddenly, and the unexpected shift made me blink. "You're weak. Underfed. Untrained."
I opened my mouth to protest—I'd survived sixteen years in the warrens, thank you very much—but he continued, stepping closer with each word.
"If you're going to survive here—" Another step.
"Survive what the bond will do—" Another, until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Survive your transformation into something more than human—" His hand came up to hover near my throat, not touching but close enough that I felt the heat. "You need strength."
The promise in those words, the dark anticipation of what 'training' might entail, made my mouth go dry. This wasn't the discipline I'd been angling for, but something told me it might be worse. Or better. With Garruk, the two seemed to be the same thing.
"When do we start?" I managed.
His smile was all predator. "Now. Unless you'd prefer to continue redecorating my study? I'm particularly curious about why my three-thousand-year-old jade sample is now filed under 'ugly green rocks.'"
Pebble chose that moment to knock over another bowl, his timing impeccable as always.
The training chamber was a new experience.
Every surface had been carved from black granite, polished to a sheen that reflected our movements like dark water.
Padding covered the floor in strategic areas, made from some material that gave slightly under my bare feet but supported my weight perfectly.
Weapons lined one wall—not the crude clubs and rusty knives of the warrens but works of art, each one balanced to perfection.
"You won't need those," Garruk said, noting my attention. "The Stone Way doesn't rely on weapons."
He'd changed into training clothes—loose pants that hung low on his hips and nothing else.
The crystalline veins that traced across his chest and arms pulsed with steady rhythm, and I found myself tracking their patterns, wondering if they felt different from his regular skin.
Through the bond, I felt his awareness of my looking, the pleased rumble that he didn't voice.
"The Stone Way," he began, moving to the center of the padded area, "is what dragons developed when we needed to fight in human form. It's about understanding pressure points, leverage, using your opponent's strength against them."
"Sounds like what pickpockets do," I said, joining him on the mat. "Redirect attention, use their momentum to your advantage."
"Similar principle." He circled me slowly, assessing. "But pickpockets run. The Stone Way is for those who stay and fight. Plant yourself like mountain roots. Let your enemy break themselves against you."
"Show me."
The words came out breathier than intended, and his eyes flashed with heat that had nothing to do with combat. But he kept his voice steady, controlled. "First, the stance."
He moved behind me, close enough that I felt the heat radiating from his chest. His hands settled on my hips, adjusting my position with careful precision that made my skin burn through the thin training clothes.
"Wider," he murmured, using his knee to nudge my legs apart. The position made me hyperaware of my body, of how the fabric clung to curves I'd never paid attention to in the warrens. "Weight distributed evenly. You're stone—solid, unmovable."
His hands traveled up from my hips to my waist, correcting my posture. Each touch was clinical, instructional, and absolutely devastating. My body didn't understand the difference between training and foreplay, especially when his breath warmed my ear as he explained the next movement.