Chapter 14 Branded
FOURTEEN
brANDED
AISLING
The brand wakes me before dawn.
Not with pain—I’m almost used to that now. It’s the whisper that drags me from sleep, sliding through my dreams with the intimacy of a lover’s voice against my ear.
Little flame. I’ve been watching your dragon sleep.
My jaw clenches. Three days of this. Three days of Valdris threading through my thoughts like she belongs there, commenting on everything I do, everything I feel. The violation isn’t the pain anymore. It’s the constant presence. The knowing that no thought is truly private.
He barely closes his eyes. So devoted. So foolish.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake Rurik. He’s in the chair beside my bed—same position he’s held every night since the mountain. Stubborn bastard won’t leave, no matter how many times I tell him he needs actual rest.
The crimson mark on my wrist catches the pre-dawn light. I’ve stopped trying to hide from it. Stopped obsessing over every shift in its patterns. Acceptance isn’t surrender—it’s efficiency. I can’t fight what I won’t look at directly.
Practical little flame. I do admire that about you.
“Get out of my head.” I pitch the words low enough that Rurik doesn’t stir.
Valdris’s amusement ripples through my skull. I am in your blood, child. In your fire. You might as well ask yourself to leave.
I swing my legs over the bed’s edge and stand. My body moves through the motions automatically—bathroom, cold water on my face, the sharp shock of it grounding me in the physical. In something that’s mine and mine alone.
The woman in the mirror looks tired. Dark circles. Pallor beneath the freckles. But her jaw is set and her spine is straight, and when I meet my own reflection’s gaze, I don’t flinch.
I’ve survived worse than a voice in my head. Survived the draining. Survived the mountain. Survived my entire worldview shattering and rebuilding around the existence of dragons.
A dead queen with delusions of ownership isn’t going to break me now.
Not dead, Valdris corrects, her tone sharpening. Not for much longer.
“We’ll see about that.”
I pull on clothes—dark pants, long sleeves to cover the mark, practical boots. When I open the bathroom door, Rurik is awake. Standing by the window, tension coiled in his shoulders, morning light catching the copper strands in his hair.
“She’s getting louder.” Not a question. He knows.
“She’s getting annoying.” I move past him toward the door. “There’s a difference.”
His hand catches my elbow—light, easy to pull away from. “Aisling.”
I stop. Turn. The concern written across his face is almost harder to look at than the brand on my wrist.
“Council’s meeting this morning,” he says. “Auren thinks he’s found options for dealing with the mark.”
“Good.” I keep my voice neutral. “It’s about time someone had a plan that didn’t involve me hiding in the infirmary.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You know that’s not—“
“I know.” And I do. The Brotherhood hasn’t been coddling me—they’ve been regrouping, researching, preparing for a fight none of them expected.
But three days of lying in bed while Valdris whispers in my ear has worn my patience thin.
I need to do something. Contribute something.
Be more than the Fire-Bringer with a target painted on her soul.
“I want to be there,” I add. “At the council. Whatever options Auren’s found, I want to hear them myself. Not secondhand, not summarized. I want to sit at that table and be part of whatever comes next.”
Rurik’s mouth curves—not quite a smile, but something warmer than I’ve earned. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”
“Were you?”
“Selene threatened to set Drayke’s hair on fire the first time he tried to have a strategy meeting without her.” His hand slides from my elbow to my fingers, a brief squeeze before letting go. “You’ve more than earned your seat.”
The warmth that spreads through my chest has nothing to do with fire.
In the war room, Drayke stands at the head of the table, Selene at his side.
Auren has spread scrolls and leather-bound texts across the stone surface, his precise handwriting filling page after page of notes.
Zyphon occupies his usual shadow-draped corner, violet-shot darkness rippling with unusual agitation.
I take the empty chair beside Selene. Her hand finds mine under the table, squeezes once—quick, reassuring. Fire-Bringer to Fire-Bringer. She knows what it’s like to sit in this room surrounded by dragons, waiting to hear what they’ve decided about your fate.
Rurik positions himself at my other shoulder—not sitting, but present. His warmth radiates against my back, steady and grounding.
“The mark Valdris placed on Aisling is old magic.” Auren wastes no time on pleasantries. “Older than the Brotherhood. Older than most recorded dragon history. It functions as a tracker, a communication channel, and—“ His cold gaze meets mine. “A claim. She’s marked you as hers.”
“I’m aware.” I keep my voice level. “She reminds me every few hours.”
A flicker of something crosses Auren’s face. Respect, maybe. Or surprise that I’m not falling apart.
“I’ve identified three potential approaches.
” He taps the scrolls before him. “First: a ritual removal. The magic binding the mark to your blood could theoretically be unraveled through counter-enchantment. The problem is finding practitioners with sufficient skill. Most witches capable of such work are either dead, corrupted, or unwilling to challenge Valdris directly.”
“So option one requires allies we don’t have.” I nod. “What else?”
“Second: physical removal. Cutting away the marked flesh.”
My stomach tightens, but I don’t let it show. “Would that work?”
“Unknown. The mark has bonded with your blood at a fundamental level. Removing the physical evidence might not sever the actual link. And given the mark’s location—“ He gestures toward my wrist. “The surgery would be extensive. Risky.”
“Risky, meaning potentially fatal.”
“Risky meaning we don’t know what Valdris might do through the bond if we attempt to cut her out by force.”
I absorb this. Not good options, but options, nonetheless. “And the third approach?”
Silence falls over the room. I watch Auren glance at Drayke, watch Drayke’s hand tighten on Selene’s shoulder, watch something unspoken pass between the brothers.
“The claiming bond.” Zyphon’s voice emerges from the shadows, low and rough. “If a dragon claims you—fully, permanently—their fire would supersede Valdris’s mark. Burn through it. Replace her hold with theirs.”
The air in the room shifts. I feel Rurik go rigid at my shoulder.
“Permanence.” I finish for him. “A mate bond. Forever.” It’s been mentioned before.
“Yes.”
I let the information settle. Process it with the clinical detachment I’ve spent years cultivating—the same detachment that got me through veterinary school, through building a practice from nothing, through three weeks of captivity and draining.
“Right.” I lean back in my chair. “So my options are find a powerful witch willing to risk Valdris’s wrath, let someone cut my arm open and hope for the best, or get claimed by a dragon.”
No one responds.
“I appreciate the honesty.” I mean it. They could have softened this, presented the options through layers of diplomatic vagueness. Instead they’ve given me the truth, blunt and ugly as it is. “Now I have a question.”
Drayke inclines his head. “Ask.”
“What happens if we do nothing? If I just—live with the mark. Learn to tune her out. Wait for another opportunity.”
“The mark weakens your fire over time.” Auren’s voice carries no judgment, just facts. “Valdris designed it to drain slowly. Subtly. You might not notice for weeks. Months. But eventually—“
“I become a liability.” The word tastes bitter. “My power fades, she gains more access, and everything I’ve built since arriving here unravels.”
“That’s the worst-case scenario.”
“What’s the best case?”
“That we find another solution before any of that happens.” Drayke leans forward, his amber gaze intent.
“The ritual removal is difficult but not impossible. We have contacts—neutral parties who might be persuaded to help if the price is right. Auren will pursue those channels. Meanwhile, Selene has been researching Fire-Bringer techniques that might strengthen your resistance to the mark’s influence. ”
Selene nods, eyes warm. “The journals my grandmother kept—there are references to Fire-Bringers who survived similar violations. Mental disciplines. Ways to wall off parts of your consciousness.”
“It’s not nothing,” I acknowledge. “But it’s not a solution either.”
“No.” Drayke doesn’t insult me by pretending otherwise. “It’s buying time. Time for Auren to find allies. Time for you to grow stronger. Time for us to prepare for whatever Valdris is planning.”
I consider this. Consider the mark on my wrist, the whisper at the edge of my thoughts, the ancient queen’s attention pressing against my skull.
Three weeks ago, I would have demanded immediate action. Would have pushed for the riskiest option just to feel like I was doing something. But three weeks of training with dragons has taught me something about patience. About strategy. About the difference between bravery and recklessness.
“How long?” I ask. “How long do we have before the mark starts seriously affecting my fire?”
Auren hesitates. “Weeks. Perhaps a month or two. We can’t know precisely until—“
“Then we use that time.” I straighten in my chair, decision crystallizing.
“Pursue the ritual removal contacts. Teach me the mental disciplines.
Let me train—really train—so my fire is as strong as possible before she starts draining it.
And if none of that works—“ I glance at Rurik, still standing rigid at my shoulder. “Then we revisit the other option.”
The silence that follows is different. Less tense. More considering.
“That’s a solid approach.” Drayke’s voice carries approval. “Strategic. Patient.”