Chapter 11 Aisling
ELEVEN
AISLING
The war room feels different when you’re the subject of discussion.
I stand at the edge of the massive table, watching Drayke trace routes across a map that means nothing to me.
Mountain ranges blur together. Rivers snake through territories I’ve never seen.
And somewhere in the eastern reaches, marked with a red X that makes my stomach clench, sits the prison where Valdris waits.
Where I was held. Where my blood fed ancient magic I still don’t understand.
“Three days’ flight.” Drayke’s voice carries command. “We follow Aisling’s memories to the prison. Assess how close the queen is to breaking free.”
My memories. As if they’re a resource to be mined instead of nightmares that still wake me screaming.
Rurik shifts beside me. His shoulder brushes mine—deliberate, grounding—and I lean into him without hesitation. Two weeks ago, I would have stiffened at the contact. Now his warmth is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking visibly.
“The team?” Auren’s question is clipped, efficient.
“Myself, Rurik, and eight of our younger guards—ten dragons total. Plus both Fire-Bringers.” Drayke’s gaze flicks to me, then to Selene. “Enough force to handle whatever scouts Valdris has positioned, small enough to move without drawing attention.”
“Ten dragons and two Fire-Bringers against an unknown force.” Auren’s mouth thins. “The odds could be better.”
“We’re not attacking.” Drayke rolls up the map, tucking it into a leather case. “Reconnaissance only. In and out before they realize we’re there. The guards provide cover if we need to extract quickly.”
Zyphon’s voice drifts from the shadows near the door. “And if the queen senses the Fire-Bringers approaching? Their blood calls to her. She’ll know they’re coming.”
The room goes still. My hands won’t stop shaking, and the scar tissue on my wrists burns with phantom memory.
Three weeks in that place. Three weeks of chains and blood and a voice in the darkness promising worse to come.
“Then we deal with it.” Drayke’s jaw tightens. “Selene and Aisling are our best chance at understanding what we’re facing. Their fire can sense things ours can’t.”
Rurik’s fingers find mine under the table. He squeezes once, solid and steadying.
I squeeze back.
We leave at dawn.
The air is cold and thin, mist rising from the valleys below as ten dragons launch from the fortress ramparts.
Drayke leads in bronze splendor, Selene perched between his shoulder blades with her hair whipping in the wind.
Behind him, eight younger guards fan out in formation—scales of copper and amber and burnished gold catching the early light.
I settle onto Rurik’s back, finding my grip on the ridges of his neck. His scales radiate warmth beneath my thighs, familiar now after weeks of training flights and midnight adventures.
Just reconnaissance. In and out. Simple.
The formation tightens as we climb above the clouds.
The younger guards move with practiced precision, each one taking their assigned position without instruction.
I recognize a few from training sessions—Marcus with his copper scales, Theron whose wingspan rivals Drayke’s, young Kael who once asked me to explain how human surgery worked and listened with genuine fascination.
They’re not just escorts. They’re believers. Dragons who chose to follow the Brotherhood’s vision of protection rather than domination.
The first hour passes without incident. Mountains give way to forests, forests to rolling plains, plains to more mountains. The world spreads beneath us in shades of green and gold, beautiful in a way that feels almost offensive given what waits at the end of this journey.
Selene catches my attention from Drayke’s back. She makes a gesture—hand flat, tilting side to side—that I don’t recognize.
I shake my head. What?
She points at Drayke, then makes claws with her fingers and snaps them together. Then she rolls her eyes dramatically.
He’s being overprotective.
I snort. Point at Rurik, make the same claw-snapping gesture, then pretend to tear my hair out.
Her laugh carries across the gap between our mounts. Drayke’s head swings around, confused. Rurik rumbles beneath me—a questioning sound.
“Nothing,” I call over the wind. “Girl talk.”
The rumble turns suspicious. I pat his scales and say nothing.
By midday, we’ve developed an entire vocabulary.
Hand signals for he’s being ridiculous and mine won’t stop checking on me and if he asks one more time if I’m okay, I’m going to set something on fire.
Selene adds gestures for hungry, need to stop, and pretty sure they’re having a telepathic conversation about us right now.
The last one comes with a pointed look at both dragons, whose heads have tilted toward each other in a way that suggests exactly that.
I make the sign for definitely talking about us and add a new one—finger to my temple, then a dismissive wave. They think they’re subtle.
Selene’s grin is visible even from this distance.
Behind us, I catch Marcus watching our exchange with poorly hidden amusement. When I raise an eyebrow at him, he ducks his head and pretends to study the landscape below.
We make camp as the sun sinks toward the horizon.
The clearing is large enough to accommodate our group, surrounded by ancient pines that block the wind. The younger guards fan out immediately—some setting perimeter watches, others gathering firewood, still others unpacking supplies with military efficiency.
Drayke and Rurik shift to human form near the center of camp, already deep in conversation about tomorrow’s approach. Selene and I are left to organize bedrolls and rations, which suits me fine.
“They’ve been strategizing the whole flight.” Selene’s voice is low, amused. “Rurik keeps asking Drayke if you seem okay. Drayke keeps telling him to stop hovering. Neither of them is listening to the other.”
“Shocking.” I sort through the travel rations, organizing them by type. Old habits. “Rurik? Not listening? I’m stunned.”
“To be fair, Drayke’s just as bad.” She passes me a water flask. “He asked me three times if I thought you were handling the trip well. As if I have some Fire-Bringer telepathy that lets me read your mind.”
“Do you?”
“God, no. That would be exhausting.” She grins. “I just have eyes. You’re tense, but you’re managing. Anyone would be tense, going back to—“ She stops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s fine.” The words come out steadier than I expect. “You’re right. I am tense. But it helps, having—“ I gesture vaguely at the camp, at her, at the guards moving purposefully around us. “This. People who understand. A small army at our backs.”
Her face softens. “Yeah. It does.”
Rurik returns with an armload of wood, dumping it near the ring of stones Drayke has arranged. He crosses to where I’m kneeling by the supplies before the branches stop rolling.
“Need help?”
“I’m organizing rations. It’s not exactly surgery.” But I’m smiling as I say it—genuinely smiling, the way I’ve been doing more often lately.
“I could hold things. Pass you things.” He crouches beside me, restless energy radiating off him in waves. “Provide moral support for the ration situation.”
“The ration situation is tragically under control.” I hold up a strip of jerky. “Though this one does look suspicious. Might need supervision.”
His face lights up at my teasing. “See? I knew it. Very suspicious jerky. Could be dangerous.”
“Extremely dangerous.” I toss it at his chest. “You should probably eat the evidence.”
He catches it, grinning, and I realize I’m humming under my breath—a habit I’d lost years ago that’s somehow come back since arriving at the fortress.
I look at him. Really look at the worry he’s trying to mask with jokes, at the way he can’t keep still, at the coiled readiness in every line of his body. The humor fades from my face.
“I’m okay,” I say, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “Really.”
“I know.” But some of the tension bleeds from his frame. “Just checking.”
“You’ve checked fourteen times today.” I bump my shoulder against his. “I’ve been counting.”
“Fifteen. You missed one while you were doing hand signals with Selene.” His mouth curves. “What was that about, anyway?”
“Trade secrets.” I lean into him, letting my head rest briefly against his shoulder. “Very classified Fire-Bringer business.”
“Fire-Bringer trade secrets?”
“Absolutely. You wouldn’t understand. Too much dragon brain.” I tap his temple. “Not enough appreciation for the finer points of mocking overprotective males.”
He laughs—really laughs—and the sound loosens something in my chest. I’ve gotten good at making him do that.
I finish organizing and stand, brushing dirt from my knees. “Are you going to hover all night, or can I trust you to find something productive to do?”
“Define productive.”
“Anything that doesn’t involve asking if I’m okay every thirty seconds.”
He clutches his chest. “You wound me.”
“You’ll recover.” I’m smiling as I say it, and when he catches my hand to pull himself up, I don’t let go right away.
Neither does he.
Dinner is dried meat and travel bread, eaten around a fire that pops and crackles in the gathering dark. The guards have split into two groups—those eating now, those on perimeter watch. They rotate with wordless efficiency, a choreography born of long practice.
Drayke and Selene sit on the far side of the flames, her head resting against his shoulder, their murmured conversation lost beneath the sound of wind through pines.
Rurik is beside me—close enough that our thighs press together, close enough that I’ve stolen half his blanket without asking. He didn’t complain. Just shifted to give me better access and pretended not to notice when I burrowed into his side.
He’s been subdued since we landed—not silent, never silent, but thoughtful in a way I’ve rarely seen.
“You’re thinking,” I say.
“Dangerous habit. I try to avoid it.”
“What about?”