Chapter 3 Aisling #2
“He was Valdris’s most devoted general.” Selene’s jaw tightens.
“A true believer in her vision of dragon supremacy. He spent decades hunting Fire-Bringers, gathering blood to weaken the Relics that keep her imprisoned. He found me first—tracked me to my grandmother’s cabin in the mountains.
Used my blood to crack the first seal.” She pauses. “And then they found you.”
“And used mine too.”
“Both of us. Together.” Selene’s voice goes flat. “Our combined blood opened the first Relic enough for Valdris to communicate through it. And apparently—“ She looks at me. “She could speak to you too.”
I think about the stone altar. The channels carved into rock, always hungry, always pulling. The voice that called me useful like I was a tool rather than a person.
“In the mountain,” I say slowly, “through the ritual. She said my blood was singing to her. That I was hers.”
Selene goes very still.
“Drayke killed Veylor weeks ago. Tore his throat out during a battle at his fortress.” Her voice is carefully controlled. “We thought that would slow things down. Buy us time. But if Valdris was already speaking to you directly—“
“She’s closer to waking than you thought.”
“Yes.”
The word hangs between us. Outside the window, I can see the mountains stretching toward the horizon—beautiful, ancient, hiding horrors beneath their peaks.
“Even though Veylor is dead,” I say, thinking out loud, “the rogues who served him—they’re still out there.
Still loyal to Valdris. Most of them scattered after Veylor fell.
But scattered isn’t gone. And Valdris has been gathering followers for two thousand years.
Veylor was her most devoted general, but he wasn’t her only one. ”
“So there are others. Other generals. Other rogues willing to hunt Fire-Bringers for her.”
“Yes.”
I pick up my cup again. The tea has gone cold, but I drink it anyway. Need something to do with my hands while my mind races.
“The Relics,” I say, “there are four of them. Four locks on her prison. How weakened are they?”
“Two are partially. Auren’s been trying to assess the damage, but the Relics are scattered across different territories.
The one Veylor was using—the one my blood was channeled into—went dormant after the battle.
Drayke and I managed to seal it again with combined fire.
” She hesitates. “But dormant isn’t destroyed.
And if the other Relics are also being targeted—“
“Then someone else is doing what Veylor was doing. Hunting Fire-Bringers. Gathering blood. Picking up where he left off.”
“That’s what we’re afraid of.”
I set down the cup. Stand. Move to the window, where the light is stronger and the walls don’t feel quite so close.
“How many Fire-Bringers are there? In total?”
“We don’t know. The bloodline was nearly wiped out centuries ago—Valdris’s original breeding program, then the wars that followed her imprisonment. Most Fire-Bringers today don’t even know what they are. The power stays dormant unless something triggers it.”
“Something like being kidnapped and used as a blood battery.”
“Or falling in love with a dragon.” Selene’s voice carries a hint of dark humor. “That’s what triggered mine. Very romantic. Very traumatic. Would not recommend as a first date.”
Selene suddenly set her cup down. “Did you dance?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Before. In your other life. You move like someone who trained in something physical.”
I stare at her for a moment, thrown by the observation. By its accuracy.
“Irish dance. Céilí and sean-nós, mostly. I started when I was six.” The memory surfaces despite my attempts to keep it buried—Mrs. Flaherty’s studio, with its scuffed wooden floors and mirrors that showed every mistake.
The satisfaction of a perfect treble reel.
The ache in my calves after a competition.
“I stopped when I started vet school. No time.”
“But you miss it.”
“I—“ I pause. Consider the question honestly. “Yes. Sometimes. When everything was chaos at the clinic, when a case was going badly and I couldn’t fix it, I’d think about dancing. About how simple it was. Just you and the music and the movement. No decisions to make. No lives depending on you getting it right.”
“Will you go back to it? When this is over?”
When this is over.
Such a simple phrase. Such an impossible assumption—that there’s an “over” waiting somewhere, that I can return to a life that feels like it belonged to someone else.
“I don’t know if there’s a ‘when this is over,’” I say quietly.
“Based on what you just told me, this war has been going on for two thousand years. Valdris isn’t going to stop.
The rogues aren’t going to stop. And I’m—“ I touch my wrist, where the scars from the manacles are still healing. “I’m marked now. My blood’s been used in her ritual. She called me hers.”
“The claiming can break that hold.” Selene’s voice is careful.
Gentle. “When a Fire-Bringer bonds with a dragon—really bonds, through the claiming ritual—it severs any other magical claims. That’s part of why Valdris’s followers target unclaimed Fire-Bringers specifically. We’re vulnerable until we’re not.”
I file that information away. Don’t respond to it directly.
“If Valdris needs Fire-Bringer blood to break free,” I say instead, “and Fire-Bringers are rare, then I’m not her only target. There must be others—women who don’t know what they are, who have no Brotherhood to protect them. If we could identify them before Valdris’s people do—“
“We’ve discussed that.” Selene leans forward, interest sharpening her features. “Auren’s been trying to trace bloodlines, but the records are a mess. Incomplete, scattered across centuries.”
“What about working backward?” The analytical part of my brain—the part that’s been running in circles for three days with nothing useful to analyze—finally finds traction.
“Not looking for bloodlines, but for patterns. Unexplained disappearances. Missing persons cases with strange circumstances. If Valdris has been hunting Fire-Bringers for years—decades—there might be a trail.”
“That’s actually brilliant.”
“It’s basic epidemiology. Track the outbreak to find the source.” I shrug. “I used it once to trace a parvo outbreak through six kennels. Same principle.”
“You’re comparing ancient blood magic to dog diseases.”
“Patterns are patterns. The scale changes; the method doesn’t.”
Her grin returns, wider than before. “Damn, Auren is going to love you. Or hate you. Possibly both. He gets weird when someone else is competent.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s a prediction.” She stands, gathering the empty cups. “Come to the war room during the next meeting. Present your idea. The worst he can do is say no.”
“And the best?”
“The best is we find other Fire-Bringers before Valdris does. Save some lives. Prevent an ancient evil from breaking free and destroying everything.” She pauses at the door. “You know, Tuesday stuff.”
I watch her go, something unfamiliar settling in my chest. Not quite hope. But maybe the precursor to it.
Tuesday stuff.
In Cork, Tuesdays meant routine surgeries and wellness checks. Vaccine schedules and dental cleanings. Mrs. Callahan bringing scones.
Now Tuesdays mean war councils, blood magic, and tracking patterns of violence across millennia.
I look at my organized shelves. My color-coded lists. My careful systems that keep the chaos at bay.
Then I pull out a fresh piece of paper and start a new list.
Things I Know About Valdris:
- Ancient dragon tyrant, ~2000 years old
- Imprisoned, not dead
- Four Relics serve as locks on her prison
- Needs Fire-Bringer blood to break free
- Can communicate through rituals—spoke to me directly
- Most devoted general (Veylor) killed—she’ll want revenge
Things I Need to Learn:
- Status of all four Relics
- How many rogues remain loyal to her
- Who’s leading them now that Veylor’s dead
- How to break her hold on my blood
I write until my hand cramps.
The door crashes open.
Not opens. Crashes. Wood slams against stone with a bang that sends my pulse spiking, fire surging to my hands, body spinning into a defensive crouch before I’ve processed what I’m seeing.
Rurik stands in the doorway.
He’s carrying an armload of books—leather-bound volumes piled so high, they obscure half his face. Wild red hair. Crooked grin. Eyes bright with something that might be enthusiasm or insanity.
“Veterinary journals!” he announces this like a battle cry. “Selene said you were a vet, so I raided Auren’s library. He’s furious. Completely worth it.”
I stare at him.
Fire still flickers around my fingers. My heart hammers against my ribs. Three days of carefully constructed calm, scattered by a man who apparently doesn’t understand the concept of knocking.
“What are you doing?”
“Bringing you books.” He says this as if it’s obvious. As if crashing through doors with armloads of stolen literature is a perfectly normal activity. “About animals. Your specialty, right? Figured you might want something to read besides inventory lists.”
“The lists are important.”
“The lists are a coping mechanism.” He dumps the books onto my table. Several vials wobble. A roll of bandages falls to the floor. My carefully written notes scatter. “A healthy one, probably, but still. Thought you might want to cope with something more interesting.”
I should tell him to leave. Should tell him to pick up the bandages he knocked over, to respect the organization I spent three days building, to stop barging into rooms where he isn’t wanted.
Instead, I find myself looking at the books.
Comparative Anatomy of Scaled Species. Dragon Physiology: A Comprehensive Study. Veterinary Applications in Non-Human Populations.
“These are—“ I pick up the top volume, flipping it open. The pages are old but well-preserved, filled with detailed illustrations of dragon anatomy. “These are actually useful.”