Chapter 36
The moment she disappeared, I spun to face Lincatheron. He was pale, blood seeping from the gash on his shoulder. His eyes met mine, a mix of pain, anger, and something close to fear dancing in their depths.
“Are you alright?” I asked, my voice tight with concern.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snarled, struggling to keep himself upright. “She could have killed you. She could have—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Reckless. You’re a reckless idiot.”
I shrugged. “Probably. But also, what kind of fucking name is Bloodwitch anyway?”
Lincatheron stared at me. Blinked.
Then let out a huffed breath, somewhere between a groan and an incredulous laugh. “Not her real one.”
I lifted a brow. “Does everyone from that court have a terrifying nickname they gave themselves?”
This time, he actually laughed, though it quickly turned into a wince. I tugged his hand away, frowning as I inspected the wound, taking stock of how deep the blade had cut.
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Though I know the source of that nickname.” His expression darkened. “And it wasn’t her.”
My head snapped up. “So, who was she then?”
Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, shaking his head. “That was Xyliria.” He met my gaze again, fury in his. “Ashterion’s wife.”
“His wife.” I stared at Lincatheron, processing his words. “And she just… waltzed in here and decimated an entire war camp?”
Lincatheron nodded grimly, his face tight with pain. He glanced around at the devastation surrounding us, his expression hardening. “This was her holding back.”
My stomach turned to stone.
Ashterion’s wife.
The woman who had torn through this camp wasn’t some war-hardened general. She was the wife of the High Lord himself.
And she had been toying with us.
The distant clang of steel on steel had faded. The battle was done. What remained was destruction—ash, blood, and the few surviving warriors picking through the carnage.
“Wildfire.” Kaelen’s growl sent vibrations through the earth. “We need to discuss your definition of ‘staying safe.’”
I could feel the rage radiating from him in waves. Not just anger, but the bone-deep fear of a creature who’d watched something they valued nearly get destroyed. His massive head swung toward me, those amber eyes burning with emotions too complex and too raw for words.
“I’m fine,” I said aloud, though my answer came out smaller than I’d intended.
“Fine.” He repeated the word like it tasted of poison. “You threw yourself between trained killers and certain death. Repeatedly. That is not ‘fine,’ that is suicidal.”
“I saved his life,” I shot back, gesturing toward Lincatheron.
“And nearly lost your own in the process.” Kaelen’s voice dropped low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? What it would have cost?”
The raw pain beneath his fury made my chest tight. I could feel it through our bond, the way his heart had stopped every time a blade came too close, the way terror had clawed at him when that woman’s magic had surged across the field.
“Kaelen—”
“No.” He cut me off, but the mental snarl lacked real heat now. “Just... no more throwing yourself at enemies you can’t defeat. Please.”
The please broke something in me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, reaching out to touch the warm scales of his neck. “I didn’t think—”
Lincatheron cleared his throat, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounded shoulder. “We should move. If Xyliria was here, there might be more coming.”
A handful of soldiers converged on us, their expressions severe, their armour scorched and smeared with dirt. Less than a dozen left standing.
Lincatheron squared his shoulders despite the blood dripping from his wound. “Anyone else alive?”
One of the warriors, a female with soot streaked across her face, shook her head. “If they are, they’ve already retreated.”
Lincatheron exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right then. Let’s go. Has anyone signalled for a squad to search for survivors?”
A male soldier nodded. “Yes. Already done.”
“Good,” Lincatheron said. He pressed a hand against his bleeding shoulder and turned to me.
I looked at him with narrowed eyes, taking in the ashen cast to his skin beneath the blood, the way he held himself too carefully straight.
“You’re flying with me,” I said, crossing my arms.
Lincatheron’s jaw went tight. “I’m perfectly capable of flying my own dragon.”
I snorted. “Right. And I’m perfectly capable of explaining to Fenric why you fell off your mount and splattered across the countryside like some tragic war ballad. That’ll go over well.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Like hell you’re not.” I stepped closer, letting him see exactly how serious I was. “You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you just went head-to-head with someone insane enough to call herself Bloodwitch. You’re not flying alone.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Isara—”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand. “Don’t you dare ‘Isara’ me in that reasonable commander tone. I watched you nearly die today. I watched that bitch carve you open like she was peeling fruit. So no, you don’t get to play the stoic military hero right now.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“It’s a flesh wound that’s still bleeding.” I gestured at the crimson spreading across his leathers. “And we both know what happens when people lose too much blood at altitude.”
Lincatheron was quiet for a long moment, his gaze flicking between me and his dragon. I could practically see him weighing his options, his pride warring with whatever practical voice in his head was probably screaming at him to accept help.
Finally, he let out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But I’m not riding behind you like some helpless—”
“You’re riding with Kaelen and me,” I interrupted. “Your dragon can fly formation.”
He grumbled something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary, but nodded.
“Good. Now sit.” I pointed to a relatively clean patch of ground. “Let me see that shoulder properly.”
“I’m fine.” Lincatheron huffed, swaying. “But Isara,” his voice dropped lower, “what you did back there was incredibly reckless.”
I stiffened, preparing for a lecture. “I know, but—”
He held up a hand, cutting me off. “Let me finish. It was reckless, and dangerous, and...”
He dragged a hand through his blood-matted hair. His jaw clenched once, twice.
Then, with visible effort, he added, “And incredibly brave.” He said it like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Thank you.”
A warmth bloomed in my chest. Not just from the words, but from who they came from. Lincatheron was a warrior. A leader. A male who did not offer thanks lightly. And yet, here he was, looking me dead in the eye, saying it anyway.
“You’re welcome,” I said, my answer soft but not small. “Though next time, maybe we could skip the part where you nearly get yourself killed?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now sit down. Right now.”
“I’m fine.”
He was swaying. His face had gone too pale. The wound in his shoulder was bleeding more than I’d thought.
“For fuck’s sake, Lincatheron.” I threw my hands up. “Sit. Before you die out of sheer spite.”
Lincatheron’s jaw tensed, ready to argue, like it physically pained him to be told what to do. But then he sighed through his nose and sat down anyway, grumbling the entire time.
“This is going to hurt,” I warned. I knelt in front of him, fingers already working to peel away the shredded fabric around his shoulder wound. “So sit still.”
Blood was still oozing, sluggish but steady, staining his leathers. But that wasn’t the only stain. My eyes tracked across his chest, the way dark crimson had soaked into the leather at his ribs, his forearm. Too much blood for one wound.
Lincatheron caught me looking. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not mine.”
“All of it?”
“I’m fine.” The words came out rough, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
I pressed against the wound to make a point. Lincatheron hissed as I did so, his muscles tensing beneath my hands.
I smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
He let out a low groan, tipping his head back. “If I die, I’m haunting your bedroom first. No peace. No sleep. Only annoying ghost shit.” A smirk twitched at his lips. “I’ll whisper Isaraaaa into your ear at night just to piss you off.”
I snorted. “You’re not dying.” I reached for the dagger at my belt and began cutting away more of the torn fabric.
“But if you do, I’ll have Fenric throw your ghost into the most annoying corner of the realm.
Somewhere really awful. Maybe a bakery, so you can be stuck smelling fresh bread but never eating it. ”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’re right,” I said solemnly, tearing strips from the cleanest part of my shirt. The fabric came away in long, steady ribbons—not ideal, but it would have to do until we could get him to a proper healer. “Though Fenric’s bedroom would be worse.”
That earned me a full chuckle, before he winced. “Stars, Isara, don’t make me laugh.”
“Stop being weak then.” I wrapped the binding tight enough to hold but not so tight it would cut off circulation. “It’s not even that bad.”
“You really do have a terrible bedside manner.”
“Oh, horrible,” I agreed, smirking. “But you’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Lincatheron shook his head, a genuine grin breaking through the exhaustion on his face.
I wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Lincatheron was always composed, always the stoic commander, his presence a constant force of steady strength.
But here he was different. Looser. Warmer.
As though I was seeing him for the first time, past the armour, past the battlefield.
“I mean it,” I said after a moment, wiping away some of the dried blood. “You’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
His teal eyes softened, a fondness shimmering there. “I know,” he said, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard it.
For a second, neither of us said anything.