Chapter 14
K.
I stand in the empty cabin, staring at the door Mara just fled through.
The air still smells of her. Of us. Of sex and woodsmoke and the sweet wine on her breath.
And beneath it all—shame.
Lyria.
I didn’t mean to say it. Didn’t even realize I had until I saw Mara’s face change. Saw the warmth drain from her eyes, replaced by something cold and devastated.
I should go after her.
My body moves toward the door before thought catches up. Hand on the rough wood, ready to pull it open and run after her into the night.
But what would I say?
I’m sorry I called you another woman’s name while inside you?
I don’t know who she is, but apparently, some part of me still remembers her?
You’re not a replacement, even though I just proved you are?
The excuses taste as hollow as they sound.
I let my hand fall.
She needs space. Time to process what just happened. And chasing after her now—trying to explain something I don’t understand myself—would be selfish. Would be about easing my own guilt rather than respecting her pain.
Even if every instinct I possess screams at me to follow.
To find her. Protect her. Keep her close.
There’s a pressure in my chest that feels like compulsion. I ignore it.
I pace the small cabin instead. Three steps to the far wall. Turn. Three steps back. The space suddenly feels too small. Too confining.
Lyria.
Who is she?
I close my eyes, reaching for the memory that spoke her name without permission.
Pieces surface. Disjointed. Distant.
A woman’s face—pale skin, dark hair, eyes I can’t quite focus on. Rain falling. The scent of fire. A laugh that made something in my chest ease.
Then grief. Sharp enough to make my breath catch.
Loss.
But the emotion feels… wrong. Disconnected. Like trying to feel warmth from a fire that burned out centuries ago. The shape of it remains—duty, honor, an oath I can’t remember making—but the heat is gone.
I owe her something. This Lyria. Some debt of honor my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t.
But what I feel when I think of her isn’t love.
It’s obligation.
The realization should bring clarity. Instead, it makes everything worse.
Because if Lyria is duty, then what is Mara?
The woman whose absence tears at me like missing a limb. Whose scent I can still taste on my lips. Whose body fit against mine like it was made for that purpose alone.
I scrub my hands over my face.
What have I done?
Mara gave me everything. Her body. Her trust. Her vulnerability laid bare in a way I know—know—doesn’t come easily to her.
And I repaid that gift by calling her someone else’s name.
The pacing continues. Five minutes. Ten. I’m wearing a groove in the dirt floor.
She said she needed space. Said she didn’t want me there.
So I stay. Even though it tears at something fundamental in my chest.
Even though her absence feels wrong in ways I can’t articulate.
The questions circle endlessly. No answers. Just the hollow ache of Mara’s absence and the name I can’t take back.
Lyria.
A woman I owe something to. A ghost I can’t remember clearly enough to mourn properly.
But not—
Pain lances through my chest.
Not physical. Something deeper. Wronger.
I stumble, catching myself against the wall. My hand pressed to my sternum where the sensation originated.
What—?
It comes again. Sharper this time. Pulling.
Not pain. Fear.
But not mine.
Mara.
The certainty is unquestionable. She’s in danger. Real danger. The kind that—
I’m moving before thought completes.
Boots on. Leather pants laced with hands that know how to move fast. Out the door into cold mountain air that bites at bare skin.
The village is dark. Silent. Everyone asleep after the feast.
I run anyway. Following nothing but instinct and that pulling sensation in my chest that screams wrong, wrong, WRONG.
The tree line. The path she would have taken. I know it without knowing how.
Then I hear it.
A scream. Muffled. Cut short.
Mara!
I sprint. Branches whip at my face and arms. The path barely visible in moonlight filtered through pine.
Voices ahead. Low. Clipped. Speaking English with accents I don’t recognize but instinctively distrust.
Weapons. Men surrounding something—someone—on the ground.
It’s her.
She’s struggling weakly. Head lolling. They’ve drugged her.
Bastards!
Rage floods my system. Not thought. Not calculation.
Pure, incandescent fury.
Heat erupts beneath my skin. Not the warmth I’ve carried since waking; this is molten. Volcanic. My bones crack and reform. My spine extends. Muscles tear and rebuild themselves larger, stronger, other.
Pain should accompany this. Should make me scream.
Instead, it feels like rightness.
Like finally remembering how to breathe.
My vision shifts. Sharpens. Colors bleeding into ranges I’ve never seen. I can smell their stench now—aggression sharp and acrid beneath tactical gear and gun oil.
One of them sees me. His eyes widen. Mouth opens to shout a warning.
Too late.
My body launches forward. Except I’m not running. I’m—
Flying.
Wings. Massive. Golden. Catching air currents I can sense without thinking.
The men scatter. Shouting. Weapons raised.
I don’t care.
My focus narrows to Mara. Unconscious now. One of them hauling her over his shoulder like cargo.
Like she’s nothing.
I descend.
The impact shakes trees. Claws—I have claws—dig furrows in frozen earth. My tail whips out, catching two men and sending them flying into trunks with sickening cracks.
The one holding Mara drops her. Fumbles for his weapon.
I roar.
The sound is primal. Terrifying. It reverberates through the forest and makes the men freeze.
Then I’m on them.
Fire erupts from my throat. Not small flames—this is a torrent. A wall of molten gold that turns night to day and sends the operatives scrambling.
But some of them aren’t running.
They’re changing.
Bones crack. Flesh tears. Scales emerge.
Dragons.
The realization should shock me. Should make me pause.
It doesn’t.
Because they’re smaller. Weaker. Their scales dull compared to the brilliant gold covering my body.
And they tried to take her.
The first one lunges. Bronze scales catching firelight. Claws extended.
I meet him mid-air. My jaws close around his throat. One shake and he’s falling, shifting back to human form before he hits the ground.
The others attack together. Coordinated. Professional.
It doesn’t matter.
I am fury made flesh. Rage given wings and claws and fire.
My tail catches one across the chest, sending him crashing through trees. My claws tear through another’s wing membrane, and he falls with a shriek that cuts off when he hits earth.
Fire pours from my throat in waves. To disable. To burn wings. To force submission.
Within minutes, it’s over.
Bodies litter the forest floor. Human and dragon both. Groaning. Broken. Defeated.
I shift my attention to Mara.
She’s exactly where they dropped her. Curled on her side. Breathing shallow but steady.
The rage drains instantly. Replaced by something gentler.
I approach slowly. Carefully. My massive form—
The thought stops.
My massive form.
I look down.
Gold scales catch moonlight. Claws longer than daggers dig into frozen earth. A tail—my tail—extends behind me, powerful enough to snap trees.
What—?
What am I?
The shift happens without conscious thought. Scales receding. Wings folding into my back. Bones reforming until I’m standing on two legs instead of four.
Human again.
Naked, I realize distantly. The transformation destroyed my clothes.
I stare at my hands. Human hands. But seconds ago, they were—
Claws.
The memory is vivid. Undeniable.
I just—
I just flew.
The ground shifts. I catch myself against a tree, breathing hard.
Dragon.
The word surfaces from somewhere deep. From the cave paintings. From Dragana’s cryptic comments. From the villagers’ wary respect.
Fire-blood.
Old blood.
Your kind.
I’m a dragon.
The truth settles like lead. Heavy. Undeniable.
I’m a—
A soft sound pulls me from spiraling thoughts.
Mara.
She shifts slightly. Makes that small noise again—distressed, unconscious.
The questions can wait.
I drop to my knees beside her. Gather her carefully against my chest. Her head lolls against my shoulder.
She’s warm. Breathing. Alive.
Because I—
Because I flew to save her.
Because I turned into something impossible and tore through trained operatives like they were nothing.
The implications are staggering. Overwhelming.
But they matter less than the weight of her in my arms.
I rise. Start back toward the village at a run.
My body moves automatically. Human legs carrying us both through forest that feels different now. Sharper. I can smell things I couldn’t before—pine resin and animal musk and the lingering scent of dragon fear.
My senses haven’t fully returned to human normal.
The village square is lit when I arrive.
Lanterns burning. Villagers emerging from dwellings with weapons drawn. Dragana standing in the center, spine straight, eyes sharp.
She sees me. Sees Mara unconscious in my arms.
Her expression doesn’t change. Not surprised. Not shocked.
Like she expected this.
“Bring her,” she says simply. Gestures toward our dwelling.
I follow. My bare feet silent on cold stone.
Inside, she points to a pallet. I lay Mara down carefully. Arrange her limbs so she’s comfortable. Brush hair from her face with fingers that shook with adrenaline moments ago.
Dragana produces a kettle. Pours something that smells of herbs and earth into a wooden cup.
“When she wakes, make her drink this. It will clear her senses.”
I take the cup. Set it beside the pallet.
Then I just… stand there.
Staring at my hands.
Human hands.
That were claws minutes ago.
“The attackers…” I say.
“Are gone. Our men will check the outskirts to be sure.”
I nod, not quite content, but too overwhelmed to push further on it.
“You have questions,” Dragana says. Not asking.
I tear my gaze from my hands. Meet her wizened eyes.
“What am I?”
She studies me. Then: “What do you think you are?”
The word sticks in my throat. Impossible. Insane.
But undeniable.
“Dragon,” I force out.
“Yes.” She nods once. Satisfied. “Gold dragon. The old blood. The strongest line.” Her gaze drops to Mara. “You shifted to protect her.”
Not a question. An observation.
I look down at Mara. At the woman who ran from me because I called her another woman’s name.
The woman I just killed for.
The woman whose fear I felt in my chest like it was my own.
“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. “Any of this.”
“You will.” Dragana moves toward the door. Pauses. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, you remember more.”
She leaves before I can ask what that means.
I’m alone with Mara and questions that have no answers.
I settle onto the floor beside her pallet. Too wired to sleep. Too overwhelmed to think clearly.
My hand finds hers automatically. Her fingers small and warm against my palm.
I stare at our joined hands. Human hands.
But mine were claws tonight.
Wings.
The memory floods back—wind beneath scales, the power of flight, the absolute certainty of what I was in that moment.
Dragon.
I’m a dragon.
The truth should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like the first solid ground I’ve stood on since waking in these mountains.
I know what I am now.
Even if I don’t know who I am.
Even if I don’t understand why I said another woman’s name while making love to this one.
Even if everything is still broken between us.
I know what I am.
And somehow, that’s enough for tonight.
I rest my head against the wall beside Mara’s pallet. My hand still holding hers.
And I wait for morning.
For answers.
For the rest of my memory to return.
For Mara to wake up and decide whether she can forgive me.