Chapter 2 Rurik
TWO
RURIK
Three days.
Three days of pacing this corridor like a caged animal, sleeping in snatches against cold walls, listening to muffled sounds from behind a door I’m not allowed to open—Selene’s gentle voice, the clatter of trays, and once, a scream that had me halfway through the oak before Drayke’s hand caught my shoulder.
She’s fine. Nightmare. Selene’s handling it.
Handling it. While I stand out here wearing grooves in ancient floors, useless as wings on a fish.
My dragon hasn’t stopped pacing either. Seventy-two hours of protect, guard, OURS thundering through my skull until I can’t tell where its demands end and my own thoughts begin.
I’ve slept maybe six hours total. Eaten when someone shoved food into my hands.
The rest of the time, I’ve been here. Waiting.
For what, exactly?
I don’t know. Permission. A sign. Some indication that the woman on the other side of that door doesn’t still see me as the monster from her nightmares.
The hallway stretches empty in both directions. Morning light filters through narrow windows, painting golden stripes across the flagstones. Somewhere in the fortress, I can hear the distant clang of training—younger dragons running drills, keeping sharp for threats we all know are coming.
I should be there. Should be doing anything useful instead of haunting this passage like some lovesick ghost.
But every time I try to leave, my feet carry me back. Every time I convince myself to walk away, my dragon snarls and snaps until I’m pressed against this wall again, listening for any sound that might tell me she’s okay.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic.
I don’t care.
The door opens.
Selene emerges, and I’m standing before I consciously decide to move. She doesn’t look surprised—just tired. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders tight with tension. Being a Fire-Bringer apparently doesn’t exempt you from exhaustion.
“She’s asking for you.” A small grin graces her face. “Voluntarily, I mean. No weapons involved this time.”
The words don’t register at first. “What?”
“Aisling. She wants to talk to you. Specifically. I know—I’m as shocked as you are. Apparently near-death experiences make people temporarily insane.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. “Why?”
“Why do you think, genius?” She steps aside, gesturing toward the open door.
“Maybe because you’ve been lurking outside her room like a golden retriever waiting for its owner to come home.
Very subtle, by the way. No one noticed at all.
” The sarcasm could cut glass. “Don’t make her wait.
She’s nervous enough already, and frankly, you smell like you haven’t showered since the rescue.
For everyone’s sake, make this quick so you can discover the miracle of soap. ”
Nervous. About seeing me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
I move past Selene, catching her scent—herbs and fatigue and something that smells like determination. At the threshold, I pause. Take a breath. Force my dragon to settle instead of surging forward with demands.
Easy. Slow. Don’t scare her.
The infirmary looks different in daylight. Cleaner. More organized than I remember—and I realize with a start that Aisling has been arranging things. Medical supplies sorted by type. Bandages stacked in neat rows. Even the bed linens are precisely folded.
She’s standing by the window when I enter, silhouetted against the morning light.
Wild red hair pulled back from her face.
Shoulders rigid beneath a borrowed shirt that’s too big for her frame.
She doesn’t turn when she hears my footsteps, but I see her spine stiffen.
See her hands curl into fists at her sides.
“Selene says you’ve been out there the whole time.” Her voice is steadier than I expected. Quieter too—careful, controlled, nothing like the raw terror from three days ago. “Standing guard like some kind of oversized watchdog.”
“Sitting, mostly.” I stay near the door. Don’t advance. Don’t retreat. “My legs got tired.”
She turns. Studies me with those sharp green depths that seem to catalog everything—my rumpled clothes, my unwashed hair, the shadows under my own eyes that probably match hers.
“You look terrible.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Her mouth twitches. Not a smile—not quite—but close enough that my dragon rumbles with satisfaction. “There was no other guy.”
“There was a wall. I leaned on it pretty aggressively.”
That earns me an actual exhale. Almost a laugh, if you squint. Progress.
Silence stretches between us. She’s still studying me, and I realize I’m being evaluated. Measured. Judged by criteria I don’t understand but desperately want to pass.
“Selene filled in some gaps.” Aisling’s voice goes flat. Clinical. The tone of someone reciting facts to avoid feeling them. “Dragons. Guardians. An ancient brotherhood. The political structure I was apparently chained in the middle of.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“I already knew the important parts.” Her shoulders tighten.
“Fire-Bringer. Rare bloodline. Valuable commodity for anyone trying to wake ancient horrors.” A pause, and her voice drops even flatter.
“They told me what I was while they were draining me. Valdris was very thorough in her explanations. She wanted me to understand exactly why I was suffering.”
My hands curl into fists. The dragon snarls.
“What I don’t know,” she continues, as if discussing a medical case rather than her own torture, “is what happens next. Selene says I’m safe here, but safe is relative.
I need data. Variables I can account for.
” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Starting with why you’ve been stationed outside my door for seventy-two hours straight. ”
The question hits hard. I’ve asked myself the same thing a hundred times. Told myself it’s instinct, duty, protection. Told myself any Guardian would do the same for someone in danger.
But that’s not the whole truth, is it?
“Because I can’t not be here.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
Honest in a way I’m not used to being. “My dragon—“ I stop. Start again. “There’s something about you. Since we found you, I haven’t been able to think straight.
Every instinct I have screams to stay close. To protect you. To—“
I cut myself off before I say words I can’t take back.
Aisling watches me. Waiting.
“To what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I drag a hand through my hair. “You’re not ready to hear it, and I’m not sure I can explain it. Just know that I’m not going anywhere. Whether you want me here or not.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“I’ve been told.”
Another almost-laugh. Another fraction of tension easing from her shoulders. We’re still separated by the length of the room, but the distance feels smaller than before.
“The woman—Valdris.” Aisling’s voice goes harder. Colder. “Selene said she’s still imprisoned. That the Relics holding her are still intact.”
“Mostly intact.” I hate saying it. Hate watching the flicker of fear cross her face before she locks it down. “Your blood weakened some of the barriers. Not enough to break them, but enough that she’s stirring. Reaching out.”
“Reaching out how?”
“Through the mark she left on you.” I take a step closer. Stop when she tenses. “The Relic energy in your blood—it created a thread between you and her prison. She can sense you. Track you. And when she’s strong enough—“
“She’ll come for me.”
“Yes.”
Aisling absorbs this. Her expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind those green depths. Calculation replacing fear. Assessment replacing panic.
“Then I need to learn how to defend myself.”
The words come out quiet. Controlled. But I catch the tremor beneath them—not defiance, but fear. The kind of fear that’s been processed and repackaged into something that looks like determination.
“You need to rest. Recover. You’ve been through—“
“I’ve been through enough to know exactly what happens when I can’t protect myself.” Her voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t waver. Just goes colder. More clinical. “Three weeks. That’s how long they had me. All those days being completely helpless while they took whatever they wanted.”
The words hit me in the chest. Three weeks of whatever horrors Valdris’s followers inflicted on her. I want to burn something. Want to hunt down every dragon who touched her and tear them apart with my bare hands.
But I don’t move. Don’t let the rage show on my face. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about her.
“What do you need?” The question comes out coarse. Barely controlled.
She blinks. As if she expected a different response. “What?”
“To feel safe. To feel in control. What do you need from me?”
Silence. Long enough that I wonder if she’ll answer at all. Then her chin lifts—that stubborn angle I’m already learning to recognize.
“Teach me to fight.”
“You need to heal first. Regain your strength—“
“A stiff wind could knock me over.” She finishes flatly.
“I’m aware. I’ve been monitoring my own vitals.
Heart rate’s still elevated. Blood pressure inconsistent.
I’ve lost approximately eight pounds I didn’t have to spare.
” She looks away. “I’m not an idiot. I know I need recovery time.
I’m asking for a timeline. A structure. Something I can plan around. ”
A plan. Of course. Organization. Control. She’s trying to rebuild the walls they tore down—using schedules and strategies instead of emotions.
“A week or two,” I hear myself saying. “Rest, eat, sleep. Let the healers do their work. After that—“
“After that, you’ll teach me?”
“After that, I’ll teach you everything I know.” The promise falls from my lips before I can stop it. Reckless. Binding. Exactly the kind of commitment I should run from. “Combat. Weapons. Fire control. Whatever you need.”
She studies me. Those sharp green depths searching for deception, for manipulation, for any sign that I’m lying.
She won’t find one.