Chapter 8 Aisling #2
“I don’t contain it. Not really.” He half-turns, profile sharp against the morning light. “I just... give it something else to focus on. Something other than destruction. Stories. Jokes. Movement. Anything to redirect the energy instead of suppressing it.”
Redirect instead of suppress.
“That sounds like avoidance.”
“It is.” He grins, but there’s no humor in it.
“Three hundred years of avoidance. I’m excellent at it.
” The grin fades. “But here’s what I’ve learned: the dragon doesn’t burn out of control when I’m laughing.
When I’m moving. When I’m so focused on something outside myself that there’s no room for the fire to build. ”
Something clicks in my chest. A mechanism I’ve never considered, an approach entirely opposite to everything I’ve ever done.
“So instead of controlling the emotion...”
“You give it somewhere to go.” He turns to face me fully, that restless energy humming just beneath the surface. “You’re a surgeon, right? When you’re elbow-deep in a complicated procedure, are you thinking about your fear? Your anger? Whatever trauma’s haunting you that day?”
No. The answer is immediate, instinctive. In the operating theater, I’m nothing but focus. Nothing but skill. The rest of me disappears into the work.
“The fire’s the same.” He steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his skin. “It responds to emotion, yeah. But emotion doesn’t make you lose control. Fighting emotion makes you lose control. You’ve been suppressing everything—and when it comes out, it explodes.”
I think about the candle rack. The training dummies. The fire that erupted every time I tried to force it into submission.
“What do you suggest instead?”
He tells me stories.
It sounds absurd—standing in a scorched training yard while a three-hundred-year-old dragon regales me with tales of battles gone wrong, of practical jokes that backfired spectacularly, of the time he accidentally set Auren’s entire research library on fire and had to flee the fortress for a week until his brother calmed down.
“He didn’t speak to me for a month.” Rurik paces as he talks, hands moving in animated gestures.
“A month. Zyphon had to translate his glares. ‘Rurik, Auren says if you touch his books again, he’ll remove your hands at the wrist.’ ‘Rurik, Auren says your face makes him want to commit fratricide.’ Very helpful, Zyphon. Very supportive.”
Despite myself, a sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh—I’m not ready for that—but something close. An exhale that carries the ghost of humor.
Rurik’s head snaps toward me, something triumphant flickering in his gaze. “Was that... amusement? From the ice queen herself?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Frost princess? Winter monarch? Her Royal Frigidness?”
“I will set you on fire again.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” He gestures at me with both hands. “Threats! Emotion! Let it out!”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches. And as it does, something strange happens.
The fire in my veins settles.
Not disappears—I can still feel it simmering beneath my skin, ready to be called. But the chaotic pressure that’s been building since I woke in this fortress, the constant sensation of barely contained explosion, eases by a fraction.
“Your fire likes when you’re amused.” Rurik’s voice has lost its manic edge, gone observational. “Not when you’re forcing control. When you’re actually feeling something other than fear.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Try it.” He nods at my hands. “Don’t think about control. Don’t think about fear. Think about something that makes you feel... I don’t know. Good?”
Good. I almost laugh at the concept. When was the last time I felt good? Before the kidnapping? Before they strapped me to that table and—
No. Not that direction.
I think about the wyvern yesterday. The way its poisoned body went still under my hands, trusting me despite its pain. The quiet satisfaction of sutures placed correctly, of bleeding stopped, of a life saved through skill and knowledge and steady hands.
Fire dances in my palm.
Not explosive. Not chaotic. A small flame, curling and swaying like something alive, responding to the warmth in my chest instead of the terror.
“There.” Rurik’s voice is soft. “There she is.”
I stare at the flame. It’s beautiful, in a way I’ve never noticed before. Not destructive—just warm. Just light. Just... mine.
“How did you know this would work?”
“I didn’t.” He grins, but there’s something genuine underneath it now. Something that looks almost like pride. “But I know what it feels like to be at war with yourself. And I know that war can’t be won by fighting harder. Only by stopping the fight.”
The flame flickers in my palm, steady and controlled. Not because I’m forcing it into submission, but because I’m finally, for one moment, not afraid of it.
“Same time tomorrow?”
The question catches me off guard. I glance up to find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite decipher—something warmer than his usual manic energy, something almost careful.
“You want to keep training me?”
“That was the assignment.” The grin returns, but it’s softer now. “Besides, watching you almost burn me to death is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in decades. I’m not giving that up.”
“You’re insane.”
“Completely. It’s part of my charm.” He winks, already backing toward the yard’s exit. “I’ll bring fireproof pants tomorrow. Maybe some extra dummies. The good kind that don’t scream when they burn.”
“The dummies don’t scream.”
“Exactly! The good kind.” He’s at the gate. “Get some rest, Aisling. We’re just getting started.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in the scorched training yard with fire still dancing in my palm and something unfamiliar settling in my chest.
Not trust—I’m nowhere near that. But something adjacent to it. A crack in the walls I’ve built. A suggestion that maybe, possibly, there’s more than one way to survive.
Selene finds me on the ramparts as the sun sets.
I’ve been standing here for an hour, watching the sky bleed through shades of orange and pink, replaying the training session in my head. The fire in my veins feels different—still present, still powerful, but less like a trapped animal and more like a current I might learn to navigate.
“I heard you burned down half the training yard.”
I don’t turn. “Only a third, actually. Rurik exaggerates.”
“Rurik says you almost lit him on fire twice and he’s never been happier about it.”
That does make me turn. Selene leans against the stone battlements, her chestnut hair catching the dying light, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
“He told you that?”
“He told Drayke that. Very enthusiastically. With hand gestures.” She moves to stand beside me, gazing out at the mountains. “He also said you made a flame dance in your palm without panicking. That’s significant progress for one session.”
One flame. One moment of not-panic. It seems like such a small thing compared to the destruction I caused.
“It doesn’t feel like progress.”
“It never does. Not at first.” Selene’s voice carries experience—of someone who walked this path not long ago. “When I first came into my power, along with the curtains, I set Drayke’s bedroom on fire three times in one week. He didn’t tell you that, did he?”
I shake my head, surprised.
“His exact words were ‘excellent potential for property damage.’” She laughs softly. “Dragons have a very different relationship with fire than we do. To them, burning things isn’t failure—it’s just the learning curve.”
I think about Rurik’s grin when my flames caught his sleeve. His genuine delight at the destruction I caused. The way he didn’t flinch or pull back, just absorbed the chaos like it was exactly what he expected.
“He’s not what I thought he’d be.”
Selene’s smile sharpens with understanding. “None of them are. Underneath the jokes and the chaos, Rurik’s... complicated. He puts on a show so nobody looks too closely at what’s underneath.”
A show. I think about the cracks I glimpsed today—the raw admission about fighting his dragon, the softness that emerged when the performance dropped. “What’s underneath?”
“That’s his story to tell.” She bumps my shoulder gently with hers. “But I’ll say this: he chose to train you. Drayke didn’t order him—he asked, and Rurik agreed before Drayke finished the sentence.”
Something shifts in my chest. A question I’m not ready to examine.
“Why would he do that?”
“You’d have to ask him.” Selene pushes off the battlements, turning toward the fortress interior. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.”
She leaves me with the sunset and my spinning thoughts, the fire in my veins settling into something almost peaceful as the first stars emerge.
That night, I reorganize my quarters.
The familiar work steadies me in ways that Rurik’s stories couldn’t quite achieve on their own.
Organization prevents chaos. The old mantra surfaces, but it feels different now. Not a desperate attempt to control the uncontrollable—just a habit. A preference. Part of who I am rather than a wall against who I might become.
I think about what Zyphon said. Stop fighting yourself.
I think about what Rurik said. Emotion doesn’t make you lose control. Fighting emotion makes you lose control.
I think about the flame in my palm, steady and warm and mine.
The fire in my veins pulses once, like an acknowledgment.
For the first time in this fortress, I fall asleep without nightmares.
Dawn finds me in the training yard before Rurik arrives.
I’ve brought supplies from the infirmary—bandages, burn salves, the emergency kit I assembled last night. Professional preparation for what I suspect will be another session of spectacular failure.
But as I wait, watching the sun climb over the mountains, I notice something strange.
The fire doesn’t press against my skin the way it usually does.
It’s still there—a constant warmth in my chest, a power waiting to be called. But the desperate pressure, the sensation of barely contained explosion, has eased overnight. As if acknowledging it instead of fighting it changed something fundamental about the way it exists inside me.
Acceptance instead of suppression.
I extend my hand and think about the wyvern. The satisfaction of saving something. The warmth that came with remembering who I am.
Fire blooms in my palm.
Steady. Controlled. Not forced into submission, but flowing naturally, responding to the intent I’m allowing myself to feel instead of the fear I’ve been trying to bury.
I let it burn for a long moment, watching the flames dance. Then I close my fist and let them fade.
“Not bad.”
Rurik’s voice comes from behind me. I don’t jump—somehow, I sensed his approach, a warmth at the edge of my awareness that I’m learning to recognize.
“You’re early.”
“I’m always early. I just usually hide until the dramatic entrance seems appropriately timed.” He moves to stand beside me, studying the training yard with an expression that’s almost serious. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about yesterday.”
“The part where I nearly burned you alive?”
“The part where you laughed.” He turns to look at me, and for a moment, the performance drops entirely. No grin, no restless energy, no manic deflection. Just Rurik, raw and present and unexpectedly vulnerable. “You should do that more often.”
Something shifts in my chest. Not attraction—not even close. But curiosity. The unfamiliar sensation of wanting to know more about someone instead of just cataloging them as a threat or an obstacle.
“Maybe I will.”
The grin returns, but it’s softer than before. “Good. Now—“ He claps his hands, energy surging back. “Let’s see if we can get through today without any structural damage. I’ve got a bet with Zyphon, and I really don’t want to owe him anything.”
“What’s the bet?”
“That I can teach you to light a single candle before the end of the week.”
I glance at the new candle rack he’s positioned in the center of the yard. Fresh wicks. Pristine wax. Six chances to not destroy everything in sight.
“And if I can’t?”
“Then I spend a month doing his patrol routes, and he tells everyone I cried during my last name day celebration.”
“Did you cry?”
“That’s classified information.” He points at the candles. “Focus. One flame. You’ve got this.”
I extend my hand toward the nearest candle. Think about the wyvern. Think about the flame that danced in my palm this morning. Think about the warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something I can’t quite name yet.
The candle lights.
One flame. Perfect. Controlled. Exactly what I intended.
“Ha!” Rurik actually jumps, pumping his fist like a child who’s just won a game. “Take that, Zyphon! Who’s crying now?”
I stare at the single burning flame, something dangerous kindling in my chest.
Hope.
Despite everything—despite the trauma, the nightmares, and the walls I’ve built around myself—I almost smile.
Almost.
But that’s still more than yesterday.