13. Chapter 13
AMARIA
The great hall roared with life.
Long wooden tables stretched the length of the cavern, laden with platters of stone-roasted meat, baskets of dark bread, pitchers of amber liquid that smelled like dried orange and molasses.
Braziers burned at intervals, throwing heat and light across the crowd.
Furs draped every bench, every chair, piled so thick the stone beneath disappeared entirely.
Warriors packed the tables shoulder to shoulder. Laughing and arguing. Slamming tankards against wood hard enough to slosh liquid across the grain. Someone had started a song at the far end—deep voices rising in Skal'Varin, the melody rough and thundering.
We'd claimed a section near the middle—Dreadscale silent and watchful at one end—his watchfulness angling toward Serenya more often than not. Serenya already charming a scholar with questions about the archive. Caden sat across from me.
He'd said the healers were making progress—well enough to take a break for dinner. I didn't ask what happened in those chambers. He'd tell me when he was ready.
Eryndor sat at the far end of our group, five warriors between us. A careful, necessary distance.
"—and then she says, 'That's not a wyvern, that's my mother-in-law!'"
The table erupted. Serenya was holding court, her hands animated, her eyes bright with mischief. The Dragonborn beside her was wheezing into his tankard. Even Dreadscale's mouth had twitched.
She looked good. Better than she had in weeks—shadows faded, voice strong, timing sharp. She landed the punchline like she'd been performing for crowds her whole life. I'd almost forgotten she was sick.
The thought crept in cold and unwelcome. I shoved it down. Reached for my tankard instead.
"Is it always like this?" Caden's voice, barely audible under the noise.
I turned. He sat rigid on the bench, a plate of untouched food before him. His hands gripped the edge of the table. Knuckles white.
"The noise?"
"Everything." His jaw worked. "The light. The people. The—" He gestured at the chaos. "It's a lot."
"You can leave if you need to. No one would judge."
"No. I want to be here. I just..." He trailed off. Stared at his plate.
I waited.
"I spent years in the dark." He stared down at his plate. "Quiet. Alone. This is—" A smile that didn't quite land. "An adjustment."
"Give it time."
"Time." He picked up a piece of bread. Turned it over in his hands. "Everyone keeps saying that. Like time fixes things."
"It doesn't fix them. It just... makes them fit differently. Sometimes, depending what we do with that time, it shrinks them. Makes them feel more distant, less important."
He looked at me. Recognition passed between us, tentative and unfinished. Two people still figuring out what shape the pieces made.
"That's surprisingly wise," he said. "For someone who stabs things for a living."
"I contain multitudes."
His mouth quirked.
A roar of laughter from the far end of the table drew my attention. I craned my neck to see—
Maxx.
He'd wedged himself into a corner—arms crossed, expression carefully bored, clearly aiming for mysterious and aloof. It would have worked if not for the dragon in his lap. The size of a large cat. Copper scales, wings folded tight, head tucked under Maxx’s elbow, tail wrapped around his wrist like it owned him. Maxx was pretending it didn't exist.
His hand, however, was sneaking scraps toward the creature's snout. The dragon snapped them up without lifting its head.
"He's had that thing attached to him for an hour," Serenya giggled. "Won't admit it, though."
"Of course not. That would ruin his image."
"What image? He's being used as a heating pad by a baby lizard."
The dragon chirped. Maxx's hand froze mid-sip. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Everyone had noticed.
"Shut up," he said to the table at large. "It's cold. The creature is confused. I'm providing a public service."
The dragon burped a tiny flame and nuzzled deeper into his lap.
Dreadscale rumbled. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing.
"She's chosen you," he said.
"She has not chosen me. She's temporarily enamored with my body heat."
"In Skal'Varin, when a hatchling claims a perch, it's a sign of—"
"Don't." Maxx held up a hand. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."
"—profound trust and—"
"LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
The table dissolved into laughter. Even Caden cracked a real smile—small and surprised.
The hatchling had positioned itself between Maxx and his plate like a gargoyle guarding a cathedral. Every time he reached for his own food, it chirped approval. Every time anyone ELSE so much as glanced at it, a low rumble started in its chest.
"I think it thinks your dinner is its hoard," Serenya said.
"It's brEAD. It's hoarding brEAD."
"Dragons start small," Dreadscale offered.
“It’s adorable,” Serenya added, unhelpfully.
"This isn't adorable. This is a hostage situation. I'm the hostage."
The warrior next to him snorted and reached across Maxx's plate.
The hatchling's head snapped up.
Maxx went very still. "Don't."
"It's the size of a cat," the warrior said.
"It's a dragon. They don't have a setting for 'small.' They only have 'mine' and 'fire.'"
The warrior's hand kept moving.
"I'm being very serious right now and I need you to understand that's not something I do often—"
The warrior's fingers touched the meat.
The hatchling inhaled.
Such a small sound. Such a tiny chest expanding.
Such a disproportionate amount of fire.
The warrior screamed. Maxx screamed. The dragon screamed louder than both of them.
The dog decided to help. It seized a flaming napkin and bolted—trailing fire across the table like a very small, very stupid comet. A second pile of linens caught. Then a third. The hatchling shrieked approval. The dog yapped back. Maximum volume, maximum chaos, zero useful contribution.
I was on my feet before I knew it.
So was Eryndor.
We both reached for the water pitcher, and our hands closed on the handle at the same time.
The Marks ignited.
Oh, shit.
The bond yanked me forward—boots screeching, body ragdolling—straight into the table.
"Amaria—" Eryndor braced on the other side, muscles shaking.
I reached to brace—grabbed a platter instead.
It flipped up.
I slipped—
—and our heads cracked together over the roast.
We both made the same brilliant decision at once: panic.
My hands shoved at his face. He shoved my shoulder.
The pitcher swung wild and missed the fire entirely.
The dog lost its mind—barking at us, the flames, and the general concept of dinner.
I tried to plant a foot on the table to push away, and caught the lip of a dish.
The bowl of root vegetables launched itself across the hall and nailed someone in the chest.
Wine sloshed in a slow, inevitable wave. A warrior dove out of the way.
My limbs gave out. The bond didn't.
I rocketed across the table, the steel blades strapped to my knees and elbows gouging deep tracks into the wood and catching the linens. Platters scattered. Plates skidded. The feast became airborne.
Wine arced through the air in a perfect ruby ribbon.
Serenya shouted something. Caden swore. Maxx was still screaming about his dragon.
Eryndor's back hit the table. I landed on top of him. Plates shattered. Gravy soaked into my hair. A chicken leg bounced off my shoulder and smacked a warrior in the face.
The Marks howled. Closer. Closer—
Eryndor's hand shot up.
The pitcher slammed between our chests. Metal between his Mark and mine.
The pull stuttered.
"Off," he gritted out. "Amaria—you have to—"
I wriggled uselessly. Hands clamped on my shoulders and hauled. Dreadscale—grip like iron—yanked me off the table, off Eryndor. Five feet. Ten.
Other warriors dragged Eryndor the opposite direction. He still clutched the pitcher against his chest.
The Marks subsided. Slowly. Reluctantly. Snarling their disappointment.
I stood in the wreckage, gasping. The table—destroyed. Food everywhere. Wine dripping onto the stone floor. A warrior still patting out flames on his sleeve. Maxx clutching the hatchling to his chest, both of them wide-eyed and gravy-covered.
Serenya had a smear of mashed something across her cheek. She looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Caden had somehow protected his plate through the entire catastrophe—one hand clamped over his cup, the other shielding his food, completely stoic. He took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully.
Dreadscale stood motionless. Wine dripped from his chin. A piece of carrot clung to his eyebrow.
He did not acknowledge the carrot. His expression had not changed at any point during the catastrophe. I wasn't sure it had changed in the last century.
"And they say I'm dramatic," Maxx said.
The baby dragon burped another tiny flame. A warrior started laughing. Then another. Then the whole hall—the sound building like a wave until it shook the rafters.
I looked at Eryndor across the ruins of dinner.
He looked back.
The pitcher was dented where we’d smashed into it. His hair was full of gravy. A green bean was stuck to his collarbone.
His mouth twitched.
I lost it.
The laugh burst out of me—wild, unhinged. He broke too, shoulders shaking, hand over his face.
We stood on opposite sides of the demolished feast, covered in food, surrounded by howling warriors, and laughed until we couldn't breathe.
I wanted a hundred more disasters if they ended like this.
"Well." Maxx surveyed the carnage. "Is anyone going to eat that chicken leg, or—"
The hatchling hissed.
"Right. Never mind. The chicken leg belongs to the dragon now. Everything belongs to the dragon now. I see how it is."
A yip from under the table. The dog shot out like a furry cannonball, snatched the chicken leg from the wreckage, and bolted for the door—cape streaming behind it, prize clamped in its jaws.
The hatchling's head whipped around. It launched off Maxx's lap and gave chase.
"And now they're both gone." Maxx stared after them. "With my dinner. This is fine. Everything is fine."
Serenya patted his arm without looking up from her plate. Dreadscale reclaimed his seat beside him and nudged a fresh piece of bread onto Maxx’s plate. Maxx accepted both without comment.
I stepped over a shattered plate, found a section of bench that wasn't soaked in wine, and sat down.
Eryndor did the same. Opposite side of the table.
Someone passed me a fresh plate. Someone else righted a pitcher that had somehow survived. The warriors around us went back to eating, talking, laughing—absorbing the chaos like it was just another Tuesday.
I picked up a piece of bread and bit into it.
Maxx grabbed a pitcher and poured himself a generous cup.
"You know what I'm looking forward to?" He gestured with his drink, sloshing wine. "After we gut the King? Watching you two finally sit on the same side of a table." He gasped dramatically. "Maybe even touch. Revolutionary concept."
Laughter rippled around us. Serenya snorted. Even Caden's mouth twitched.
I opened my mouth to fire back something sharp—
And caught Eryndor's eye.
The laughter died in my throat.
He wasn't smiling. Wasn't joining in. He was looking at me the way you look at something you're about to lose. Like he was trying to memorize a ghost.
After.
Everyone kept saying it like it was a destination. Like we just had to survive long enough to reach it. Kill the King. Bond the Marks. Heal the Veil.
But the prophecy didn't end with happily ever after.
It ended with sacrifice.
The bread turned to ash in my mouth. I set it down. My hands were steady—I made sure of that. But something cold had crawled into my chest and made a home there.
The "after" we were fighting for wasn't a life together.
It was a funeral we'd have to attend as the guests of honor.
Eryndor caught my gaze. He held the same knowledge, the same weight in his eyes. He'd been carrying it too.
He raised his cup in acknowledgment, our own morbid toast.
I know. I know what's coming. I'm still here.
I raised mine back.
So am I.
We drank.
Around us, the feast went on. Laughter and shouting and the crash of cups. Life, loud and messy and beautifully unaware.