Chapter 4
FOUR
TAMSIN
Iwatch Auren’s retreating form until he disappears around the corner of the infirmary, his stride as precise and controlled as everything else about him.
If that’s what you need to tell yourself.
I shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have pushed at the cracks in his armor when he’s already looking for reasons to distrust me. But something about his insistence that catching me was just following orders—something about the obvious lie of it—made the words slip out before I could stop them.
He caught me. Carried me. Stayed with me through the night to ensure I didn’t burn the infirmary down. Whatever hatred he carries for my bloodline, his actions tell a different story than his words.
I don’t know what to do with that.
The afternoon sun has started its descent toward the mountains, painting the garden in shades of amber and gold. I should go inside. Rest, like Aisling ordered. Prepare for whatever dawn brings.
Instead, I stay on the stone bench and let myself breathe.
Three days of running. Of hiding and starving and not letting myself stop because stopping meant dying. And now I’m here, in a fortress full of dragons who should want me dead, and I’ve been told I can stay.
The relief should be overwhelming. Instead, it feels distant. Muted. Like my body hasn’t caught up to the reality that I might actually live.
“You look like someone told you the execution’s been postponed but not cancelled.”
I turn to find Selene approaching through the garden archway, her chestnut hair catching the late light. She moves with an easy confidence that speaks to months of belonging here—months of making this fortress her home.
“Is that not the situation?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She settles onto the bench beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “But the trick is to pretend you don’t notice. Really throws them off.”
The casualness catches me off guard. In Valdoria, no one sat this close to a princess without invitation. But Selene treats the space between us like it doesn’t exist—or like it shouldn’t.
“You survived the ice dragon treatment,” she continues, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankle. “How many restrictions? I’m guessing at least two.”
“Four. Possibly five. I lost count.”
“Amateur numbers. When I first arrived, he managed seven in a single conversation.” Her smile widens. “Granted, I didn’t have your particular complications. Just the crime of being the first Fire-Bringer found in decades and therefore automatically a variable he couldn’t predict.”
“A variable?”
“That’s how he thinks. Patterns and probabilities. Threats and opportunities. Everything fits into some larger calculation.” She shrugs. “It’s unsettling until you realize he’s usually right. The man sees seventeen moves ahead while the rest of us are still figuring out the board.”
“How did you end up here?”
“Inherited my grandmother’s cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Turns out ‘middle of nowhere’ was actually ‘dragon territory,’ and my grandmother had been hiding her Fire-Bringer bloodline for fifty years.
” She shrugs like this is a perfectly normal sentence.
“Drayke found me before anyone less friendly could. Brought me here for training and protection. Auren spent the first month trying to figure out what angle I was playing.”
“Were you playing an angle?”
“I didn’t even know the game existed.” Her gray gaze finds mine, and the humor softens into something more genuine. “Just unlucky enough to stumble into a world I didn’t know existed and stubborn enough to survive it. Sound familiar?”
More than I want to admit.
“How long before he stopped treating you as a threat?”
“Define ‘stopped.’” She laughs at my expression. “I’m mostly joking. He adjusted eventually—and by ‘adjusted’ I mean he recalculated my probability of betrayal and decided I was more useful as an ally. That’s practically a declaration of love by Auren standards.”
“Encouraging.”
“Isn’t it?” She stands and offers me a hand. “Come on. The others sent me to collect you before Aisling storms out here and drags you back by your hair. She has very strong feelings about recovery protocols.”
I take her hand and let her pull me to my feet. My legs are steadier than they were this morning, though a faint tremor still runs through my muscles when I move too quickly.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Selene continues, looping her arm through mine as if we’ve known each other for years instead of hours. “But first—the grand tour. You should know where things are if you’re going to be stuck here with us.”
“Stuck here,” I echo.
“That’s how I saw it at first.” Her voice carries a wry edge. “Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else. This place has a way of growing on you. Like a fungus. A very dramatic, fire-breathing fungus.”
The Brotherhood fortress is larger than I expected.
Selene guides me through corridors of ancient stone, pointing out landmarks with a running commentary that makes me forget, for moments at a time, that I’m a refugee in hostile territory.
“Great hall—where formal gatherings happen and Drayke pretends to enjoy politics. Training grounds through those windows—currently empty because the brothers are probably arguing about strategy somewhere. And that—” She gestures toward massive double doors. “—is the library. Auren’s domain.”
“Let me guess. Don’t enter without permission.”
“You can enter. He doesn’t guard it like a dragon hoarding gold.
” She pauses. “But everything in there serves a purpose. Every book positioned where he can find it in seconds. Every scroll cataloged by threat assessment, strategic value, historical relevance. It’s not organization for organization’s sake—it’s a weapon.
When you need information in the middle of a battle, the difference between knowing exactly where it is and having to search could mean lives. ”
I file that away. Not pedantic. Tactical.
We pass the armory next—weapons from every era lining the walls, blades and axes and things I can’t identify.
“Rurik’s favorite place,” Selene explains. “He’s got a collection of ‘emergency explosives’ hidden somewhere in there. Auren knows exactly where they are—probably calculated the blast radius for each one—but he lets Rurik think it’s a secret.”
“Why?”
“Because Rurik performs better when he thinks he’s being clever. And Auren’s job is making sure everyone performs at their best, even if that means letting them believe things that aren’t true.” She grins. “Strategic manipulation. Very on brand.”
She shows me the Fire-Bringer quarters last. A suite of connected rooms in the eastern wing, designed specifically for women with flame in their blood. Fireplaces that crackle to life as we enter, responding to our presence. Surfaces that resist burning. Wards humming softly in the walls.
“This is where we gather,” Selene says, “when we need to be among our own kind. When the dragons get too intense and we need to remember that we’re not actually insane for choosing to live with them.”
Nasyra is already there, curled in an armchair near the window with a book that looks older than some kingdoms. She looks up as we enter, her mismatched gaze tracking my movements with quiet assessment.
“You survived,” she observes. “I owe Aisling five coins.”
“You bet against me?”
“I bet you’d set something on fire before the conversation ended.” She sets the book aside with careful reverence. “Aisling had more faith in your restraint. Apparently she was right.”
“Barely.” I sink onto a low couch, suddenly aware of how tired I still am. “It was a near thing.”
“Near things are still things.” Nasyra unfolds from her chair, moving to pour something from a carafe on a nearby table. “The difference between ‘nearly lost control’ and ‘actually lost control’ is the difference between sitting here having this conversation and standing in a pile of ash.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Speaking from having watched Zyphon ‘nearly’ level a mountain when his temper slipped.” She hands me a cup. “The mountain is still standing. Barely. He considers this a victory.”
“Dragon standards of success,” Selene adds, settling onto the arm of a chair. “Charmingly low.”
I take a sip—tea, herbal and faintly sweet. “Selene mentioned you were resurrected. I don’t—” I stop, unsure how to phrase the question. “Is that something you talk about?”
Nasyra’s mismatched gaze meets mine, and something flickers in those depths—not offense, but a kind of dark amusement.
“Five centuries dead,” she says, reclaiming her chair. “Brought back by magic I didn’t ask for, with memories twisted to make me a weapon against people I loved.” A ghost of a smile. “The first few months here were educational. I spent most of them trying to kill Zyphon.”
“Because you thought he murdered your brother.”
“Because I watched him murder my brother.” Her voice stays level. Matter-of-fact. “What I didn’t remember was that my brother had just sold me to be sacrificed in a blood ritual. So the murder was rather justified.”
The words land in the room with the weight of stones.
“The point is—” Nasyra continues, as if she hasn’t just dropped something devastating into the conversation, “—I understand what it means to arrive somewhere convinced you know who your enemies are, only to discover the truth is considerably more complicated. I also understand what it means to carry a sibling’s betrayal.
” Her gaze sharpens. “Yours is still alive. Still hunting you. That’s worse, in some ways.
At least mine had the decency to stay dead. ”
The honesty steals my breath. Not sympathy—something harder. Recognition.
The door opens before I can respond, and Aisling strides in with her medical bag and an expression that suggests someone is about to be lectured.
“There you are.” She sets the bag down with a thump. “I told Selene to bring you back an hour ago.”
“I got distracted showing her the fortress.”
“You got distracted talking about Rurik’s explosives.” Aisling points at the couch. “Sit. Stay. Don’t move until I’ve checked your vitals.”
“I’m already sitting.”
“Then you’re ahead of schedule. First time for everything.” Her hands are cool and clinical as she checks my pulse. “How do you feel? And ‘fine’ is not an acceptable answer. I need specifics.”
“Tired. Shaky. Like someone hollowed out my insides and filled them with sand.”
“Specific. I appreciate it.” She pulls a small crystal from her bag and holds it against my wrist. It glows faintly, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. “Your reserves are at roughly sixty percent. Which is medically fascinating, given that you should be dead.”
“She’s very comforting,” Selene stage-whispers. “It’s her gift.”
“My gift is keeping idiots alive despite their best efforts.” Aisling doesn’t look up from the crystal. “Speaking of which—Auren wants to start training you at dawn.”
“I heard.”
“You need a week of rest. I told him that. He said your combat readiness is a higher priority than optimal recovery.” She tucks the crystal away. “He’s not wrong about the strategic calculation. But bodies don’t care about strategy.”
“He’s right about my control being unstable. Last night proved that.”
“Last night proved you were exhausted and traumatized and your body reacted accordingly.” Aisling’s gaze is sharp. “There’s a difference between unstable and depleted. Pushing yourself before you’ve recovered won’t fix the first and will definitely make the second worse.”
“She’s right,” Nasyra says. “I’ve watched Zyphon push through recovery. It never ends well. Usually it ends with property damage and Aisling threatening creative violence.”
“The threats are medicinal.” Aisling pulls a small vial from her bag and presses it into my hand. “Drink this before bed. It’ll help your reserves replenish faster. And eat everything at dinner. If I see you pushing food around your plate, there will be consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?”
“The kind that involve force-feeding and detailed lectures about nutrition.” She shoulders her bag. “I’m very thorough.”
“She means it,” Selene says. “She once cornered Rurik for an hour about the importance of vegetables. He still flinches when anyone mentions carrots.”
“He was being deliberately difficult.”
“He’s always deliberately difficult. It’s his entire personality.”
“Which is why I had to be thorough.” Aisling moves toward the door. “Dinner in thirty minutes. I’ll be watching.”
She sweeps out, leaving silence in her wake.
“Is she always like that?” I ask.
“Only when she cares,” Nasyra says quietly. “When she doesn’t care, she lets you suffer in peace.”
Something about the way she says it makes me think she’s speaking from experience. I wonder how many times Aisling refused to leave her alone during whatever recovery followed her resurrection.
“So,” Selene says brightly, breaking the moment. “Dinner. Dragons. The ongoing adventure of surviving this place. Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. But asking makes people feel better.”