Chapter 13 Aisling #2
The tunnel opens onto the ridge where we landed. Morning light spills across the volcanic rock, and I shift without slowing—bones cracking, wings erupting, my body stretching into dragon form around Aisling until she’s cradled against my chest in a protective cage of scales and flame.
“Move!” Drayke roars.
We launch into the sky as the mountain behind us groans.
The fortress took three days to reach at normal flight speed.
We make it home in one.
Drayke pushes us harder than I’ve ever seen him push—no rest, no stops, just endless hours of beating wings against cold mountain air. Auren and Zyphon flank us, watching for pursuit. The other dragons from our original party have scattered to their posts, carrying word of what we found.
What we woke.
Aisling doesn’t speak for the first six hours. She sits between my wings, her damaged wrist cradled against her chest, and stares at nothing. I can feel her shaking. Can feel the way she flinches every few minutes, as if someone is speaking directly into her ear.
Valdris. The brand is letting Valdris into her head.
I should have killed her. The thought circles through my mind. Should have shifted fully, should have poured every ounce of fire I had into that projected form until there was nothing left.
But I couldn’t. The chains still held her. She was there and not-there, untouchable despite being close enough to mark my—
To mark Aisling.
Aisling’s shaking eases slightly. Her other hand moves to rest on my scales—a light touch, barely there. But I feel it everywhere. The warmth of her palm seeping through to the nerve endings beneath, sending sparks down my spine.
My brother catches my eye and nods—understanding, approval, something that might be sympathy. He knows what this feels like. Knows the helpless rage of watching someone you—
Don’t finish that thought.
But I can’t stop myself from tracking the way Aisling’s fingers trace absent patterns on my scales. From noting the way her breathing steadies when she touches me, as if the contact grounds her somehow.
The brand on her wrist flares visibly. A beacon. A tether.
Valdris left a piece of herself in Aisling.
And I have no idea how to cut it out.
AISLING
The fortress walls don’t make me feel safe.
Three weeks ago—was it only three weeks?—I woke in the infirmary and started organizing supplies to cope with my terror. Now I sit in the same infirmary, surrounded by the same stone walls, and all I can feel is her.
Little flame.
Valdris’s voice slides through my thoughts like oil. Not constant—not yet—but often enough that I can’t relax. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except sit here with my wrist cradled in my lap and wait for the next intrusion.
The brand is a ruin of raised skin. A design I don’t recognize—spirals and flames and something that might be scales, all burned into my flesh in angry red lines. It doesn’t hurt anymore. That’s almost worse.
“The mark is psychic as well as physical.” Auren’s voice cuts through my haze.
He’s been examining my wrist for the past hour, his detachment a comfort rather than a coldness.
Here, at least, is someone who approaches problems the way I do.
“It creates a permanent link between you and Valdris.
A channel she can use to track you, communicate with you, and potentially—“ He pauses. “—influence you.”
“Influence how?”
“I don’t know yet.” He meets my gaze, and there’s something like respect in his expression. “Your resistance in the cavern was remarkable. Most Fire-Bringers who’ve faced beings of her magnitude—what few records we have—didn’t maintain command of their fire. You did.”
“Barely.”
“Barely is enough.” He sets my wrist down gently. “I’ll research countermeasures. The brand can’t be removed without extreme measures, but it may be possible to weaken her hold.”
“Extreme measures?”
“Claiming, primarily.” His tone doesn’t change, but something shifts in the air. “A claiming bond might override Valdris’s mark. The magic is similar—bonding, linking. But claiming requires consent, while her brand does not.”
The word sits heavy in my chest. Claiming.
I think of Rurik’s voice in my quarters last night. You’re mine. Mine to protect. Mine to fight for.
Not like Valdris’s possession. Different. Chosen.
“Where is he?” I ask.
Auren’s eyebrow rises fractionally. “Rurik? Drayke has him in the war room. They’re discussing defensive protocols.” A pause. “He hasn’t left your door for more than twenty minutes since we returned. Drayke had to physically drag him to the meeting.”
The information settles into me, warm despite everything. He’s been guarding me. Even when I didn’t know.
Always showing up, Selene said once. When it matters, Rurik shows up.
The door opens. Selene enters, carrying a tray of food I don’t want but know I need to eat.
“Auren.” Her tone carries affectionate exasperation. “You’ve been grilling her for two hours. Let the woman breathe.”
“I was providing information, not grilling.”
“Same thing when you do it.” Selene sets the tray on the table beside me and perches on the edge of the infirmary bed. “How are you feeling? And don’t say ‘fine.’ I can spot that lie from three territories away.”
I consider my options. Denial won’t work with her—it didn’t work in the early days either. She sees through pretense with the same casual ease she sees through everyone.
“I can hear her,” I say. “Not constantly. But often. Murmurs at the edge of my thoughts. Little flame, little key, you’ll burn for me.” My hands clench in my lap. “I reorganized the medical supply cabinet three times this morning because I couldn’t make it stop.”
Selene’s expression doesn’t shift to pity. Thank every god for that.
“I know what it’s like.” Her voice is soft but steady.
“Having something overwhelming in your head.
Something that wants to own you. When Drayke and I first—“ She stops, starts again.
“The claiming bond was intense at first. I could feel him everywhere. Every thought, every emotion. It took weeks to learn how to filter.”
“This isn’t a claiming bond. This is a leash.”
“Yes.” No sugarcoating. No false comfort. “But you’re not alone in it. That’s the difference. Valdris thinks she owns you, but she’s wrong. You have people who will fight for you. Who will stand beside you while you learn to shut her out.”
“How? How do I shut out a creature like that?”
“The same way you survived everything else.” Selene takes my hand—the one without the brand. “One moment at a time. One breath at a time. With help, when you can accept it.”
The door opens again.
Rurik.
He looks like hell—shadows under his eyes, jaw shadowed with stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave, red hair more chaotic than usual.
His shirt is half-untucked, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
But his gaze finds mine immediately, those bright eyes locking onto me with an intensity that makes heat bloom beneath my skin.
“Auren. Selene.” He nods at them both, already moving toward me. His stride is loose, predatory without meaning to be. The way he carries himself—all that coiled energy barely contained—shouldn’t make my mouth go dry. Not now. Not when I have far more pressing concerns.
It does anyway.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Right here,” I say flatly. “Capable of answering questions about my own condition.”
His mouth twitches. Just barely. “How are you?”
“I have a primordial dragon queen invading my thoughts and a brand on my wrist that flares every time she’s paying attention.” I meet his stare. “So. Not great.”
“Yeah.” He stops at the foot of the bed, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t trust what they’ll do if he lets them loose. “I figured.”
Silence stretches between us. Auren and Selene exchange a look I don’t quite catch, and then Selene is standing, tugging Auren toward the door.
“We’ll give you two a minute. Aisling, eat something. Rurik, don’t hover.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You hover like a dragon over treasure.” The door closes behind them.
We’re alone.
RURIK
She looks fragile in a way that has nothing to do with weakness.
Pale skin against the stark white of the infirmary sheets. Dark circles beneath green eyes that are too bright, too alert—the hypervigilance of someone waiting for the next blow. The brand on her wrist glows faintly in the low light, a constant reminder of what I failed to prevent.
But her jaw is set. Her spine straight. Even now, even battered and invaded, she’s holding herself together through sheer bloody-minded determination.
Gods, she’s magnificent.
“You should sit.” Her voice is dry. Measured. The tone she uses when she’s barely keeping it together. “You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”
I drop into the chair beside her bed. “Can’t help it. My dragon’s been losing his mind since she touched you.”
“Your dragon.”
“He’s very invested in your well-being.” I run a hand through my hair, realize I’m proving Selene’s point about hovering, and force myself to stop. “Also murderous. Mostly murderous, actually. The investment is just an excuse for the homicidal urges.”
Her mouth curves. Just barely, but it’s there. The hint of a smile that makes something loosen in my chest. “Charming.”
“I try.”
The silence that falls is different from before. Charged. I’m aware of the space between us—the few feet that feel like miles. Aware of the way her pulse jumps in her throat when our eyes meet. Aware of my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
“You stepped between us.” She says it like a statement, but I hear the question underneath. “In the cavern. You were partially shifted, facing down something that could destroy you without effort, and you didn’t hesitate.”
“Of course, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
The word hangs in the air. Simple question. Complicated answer.