12. Chapter 12
AMARIA
The room was quiet.
Eryndor was gone—training with Dreadscale, Maxx had said, they were learning how to fight alongside dragons instead of against them. Good. I needed the space.
I spread my supplies across the stone floor. The arnica, bright yellow against the grey flagstones. The gnarled comfrey root that looked like dead fingers. The delicate calendula petals, orange and soft as skin. The dark sprig of wyrmsroot. Serenya had left me a mortar and pestle.
I picked up the arnica first.
Crush the arnica and comfrey together. Add the oil slowly. Calendula last.
Simple. Precise. I could do precise.
I dropped the flowers into the mortar and started grinding.
Too hard. Too fast. The petals didn't just bruise; they shredded, turning into a brown, useless mush under my force.
I wasn't making medicine; I was punishing the stone.
I swore under my breath as I scraped the ruined paste from the stone, forcing myself to begin again.
The scent rose up—vegetal and faintly bitter. I breathed it in. Focused on the rhythm.
Circle. Press. Circle. Press.
My mind kept drifting. The cut at his temple and the bruises spreading across his side.
The way he'd absorbed those blows like he deserved every one.
Circle. Press. Then the healer's hands on his skin.
Clinical. Efficient. Touching him because she was allowed to.
Touching him while I stood three feet away, burning.
I gripped the pestle harder. The rhythm grew aggressive. I added the comfrey root. Tougher. It fought back against the stone. I leaned into it, grinding until my shoulder ached, until the root broke down into fibrous pulp that mixed with the crushed flowers.
Better. This was better. Something to do with my hands. Something useful.
The oil came next. I uncorked the bottle and tilted it over the mortar. A thin stream. Slow. Serenya's voice in my head: Add the oil slowly.
It pooled in the mixture. Worked it in with the pestle. The texture changed—gritty becoming smooth, dry becoming slick. The pine scent mingled with the arnica, tangy and clean.
I could do this.
I could grind these herbs into a remedy that would do exactly what I was forbidden to do—sink into his skin and mend the bruises I wasn't allowed to touch.
The wyrmsroot sat in a cup of hot water, steeping. I'd heated the water over the brazier, holding the cup in the coals until steam rose from the surface. Now the liquid had gone almost black, smelling of damp earth and sulfur.
I strained it through a scrap of cloth. The liquid dripped into the mortar, dark threads swirling into the pale mixture.
Calendula last.
I picked up the petals. Orange and gold, thin as paper. It's delicate, Serenya had said. Loses potency if you overwork it.
I scattered them into the mortar. Folded them in with gentle strokes and coaxed them into relaxing. Letting them release what they had to give.
The salve came together.
The mixture finally yielded, turning into a warm paste where the dark root and bright flowers merged into the color of dusty gold.
I'd done it.
I scooped the salve into a small clay pot and pressed the lid on tight, holding the warm vessel in my hands for a moment while the heat seeped into my palms.
It would have to be enough.
I tucked the pot into my pocket and turned for the door. Time to find him.
The training grounds were deeper in the mountain.
I followed the sound of steel on steel, the echo of grunts and impacts reverberating off stone walls. The corridor opened into a massive cavern—natural, by the look of it, the ceiling lost in shadow high above. Torches lined the perimeter, casting pools of orange light across sand-covered floors.
Serenya sat on a stone bench near the entrance.
I dropped down beside her. "Didn't expect to find you here."
"Maxx wanted to watch." She nodded toward him, lounging against the far wall, arms crossed, grinning at something happening in the ring. "I wanted to make sure he didn't get himself killed making comments."
"Smart."
She turned to face me and her expression softened.
"I have a message from one of the healers."
I braced myself. "Caden?"
"He's alright. But he asked to pass on the message—he doesn't want to be interrupted. He’s started the deep work." She paused. "He said it's going to be long, dark, and messy. And he doesn't want you to see him like that."
I closed my eyes.
Long. Dark. Messy.
Years of corruption threaded through his spirit—then weeks of being hollowed out and filled with other people's pain. There was no quick fix for that. And there was no world in which he didn't try to face it by himself.
"I get it," I said. The words scraped my throat. "Tell him—if you see him—tell him I'm here. When he's ready."
Serenya took my hand. I laced my fingers through hers and held on.
Then I finally looked at the ring.
And my brain stopped working.
The space was large—fifty feet across, maybe more. Sand floor, raked smooth between bouts. Stone pillars marked the boundaries, carved with dragons in flight.
But the pillars weren't what made my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
The Dragonborn warriors were. There were six of them in the ring. Sparring in pairs, moving through forms, their bodies flowing between strikes and counter-strikes with a fluidity that shouldn't have been possible for creatures that size.
Because they were massive.
Not just tall—built. Shoulders wide enough to block doorways. Arms corded with muscle that flexed and rippled with every movement. Bare from the waist up, their skin gleaming with sweat, scales-cloth trousers slung low on hips that—
I bit my lower lip and squirmed in my seat.
One of them executed a throw. His partner hit the sand and rolled, came up swinging. The first warrior caught the blow on his forearm, absorbed it, then redirected it into a joint lock that had his opponent tapping out in seconds.
The move was a seamless blend of terrifying speed and perfect leverage—absolute control manifested as pure, lethal efficiency wrapped in more muscle than I'd ever seen on a living creature.
"Amaria." Serenya's voice. Amused. "You're staring."
"I'm assessing."
"You're drooling."
"I am not—" I wiped my mouth. Nothing there. She smirked. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Another pair squared off. This one was faster—a blur of strikes and blocks, their bodies weaving around each other like dancers who'd been partnered for decades. One of them laughed as he ducked a punch that would have taken his head off.
They moved with a starving, lethal grace. Like dragons given human form. Every muscle was under absolute control, channeling cold precision into devastating power.
The one who'd laughed caught his partner in a hold. Twisted. Brought him down to the sand with a thud that echoed through the cavern.
He looked up.
Right at me.
Dark eyes. High cheekbones. A scar cutting through one eyebrow. Sweat dripping down a chest that looked like it had been carved from the same stone as the mountain.
He grinned.
I looked away so fast my neck cracked.
"Shut up," I said to Serenya.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your silence is very loud."
She laughed. The sound bounced off the stone walls, mixing with the grunts and impacts from the ring.
I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
But I could still see them in my peripheral vision. Still feel the heat radiating off their bodies, the controlled violence in every movement.
I understood, suddenly, why Dreadscale moved the way he did. Why the stillness never felt like passivity. He'd been forged in this place, alongside these warriors.
No wonder he was terrifying.
"Where's Eryndor?" I asked, desperate for something else to focus on.
Serenya pointed.
Far corner of the ring. Away from the sparring pairs.
Eryndor moved through forms alone. A training sequence, by the look of it—strikes and blocks flowing into each other, his body cutting through the air with that ruthless precision I knew so well.
He'd stripped down to just his trousers. Barefoot. Bare-chested. The bruises from this morning had deepened to purple and black, darkening his ribs.
He was looking right at me.
He waited, eyes narrowed.
I jerked my chin toward the exit. A question.
He nodded once. Finished the form. Collected his shirt from the sand without putting it on.
I stood. "I'll see you later."
Serenya's smile was knowing. "Take your time."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
Eryndor met me at the edge of the training grounds. Still shirtless. Still sweating. Still watching me with that sharp focus that made my skin prickle.
"See something you like?"
The words came out low, teasing. His gaze flicked to the ring behind us, then back to my face.
"Research," I said. "Know your allies and all that."
"Mm. And what did your research conclude?"
"That Skal'Varin has very specific recruitment standards."
He smirked. "Disappointed I don't measure up?"
I let my eyes drag down his chest, appreciatively. Over the bruises. The sweat. The ridges of muscle that shifted as he breathed.
"You'll do."
His eyes darkened with heat.
“Generous.”
“I’m known for my charity.”
His smile lingered as he fell into step beside me.
We walked back through the corridors. At least three or four feet apart.
But the silence between us had texture now—weighted with things unsaid, with the memory of last night, with the awareness that we were heading back to that room with its single bed and stone walls.
By the time we reached it, my skin felt too tight.
The door closed behind us. I crossed to the small table by the window. Pulled the clay pot from my pocket and set it down.
"What's that?"
"Salve." I stepped back. Put distance between us before my Marks could wake up and start making demands. "For the bruises. I made it."
He went still. "You made it."
"Serenya helped with the recipe. But yes." I retreated to the far wall. Pressed my back against the cold stone. "The stuff that healer used was garbage. This is better." I lifted my chin, daring him to argue.
Eryndor picked up the pot. Turned it over in his hand with reverence.
"You made me a salve."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not." But he didn't stop looking at it. Turning it in his hands like it was something sacred.
"You're looking at it like it's going to bite you."
"I'm looking at it like it matters." His eyes lifted to mine. "Because it does."
He uncorked the lid. Inhaled. His eyes closed for a moment.
"Pine," he said. "And something else. Something warm."
"Wyrmsroot. It holds heat." I crossed my arms over my chest. Armor against the softness.
"I was going to say like you." He inhaled again. "It smells like you."
My pulse stumbled. He watched me struggle for composure. His lip curled with satisfaction.
"Just—put it on." I forced the words out. "The bruises on your side first. Those are the worst."
"As you command."
He dipped his fingers into the pot. The salve glistened in the low light—honey-dark, catching the glow from the brazier.
He spread it across his ribs. I watched, my mouth suddenly going very dry.
His hands moved slowly. Pressing the salve into his skin, working it over the purple-black bloom of bruises. His fingers traced the same paths the healer's had—but different. These hands I knew. These hands had held me, had trembled against my body like I was something precious.
"Higher." My voice came out rough. "There's a bruise just under your—yes. There." He found it. But he didn't rush. He worked the salve into his pectorals with slow circles, watching me watch him. Turning my instruction into a game.
Bastard.
The wyrmsroot was doing its job. Heat spread across his skin, easing the tension in his muscles. He breathed deeper.
"The cut on your temple."
He scooped more salve. Brought his fingers to his hairline. Dabbed gently at the wound I'd watched split open this morning.
"Slower," I managed. "Let it absorb."
He slowed. His eyes found mine across the room. Held them.
"Like this?" Low. Knowing. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"I could feel you today." He continued to rub in the salve. Kept touching himself where I couldn't. "Your rage during the fight." His voice dropped. "Your jealousy, when she touched me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His eyes darkened with satisfaction. "You wanted to rip her hands off."
"She was incompetent."
"She was touching what's yours."
I ignored him. "Your shoulder." I forced my voice steady. "The one that took the hit."
He turned. Reached back. His shoulder blade flexed as he worked the salve in.
"I would have let them break every bone in my body," he said quietly, "if it meant you could be the one to put me back together."
"That's not—"
"It's the truth." He turned back. The pot sat half-empty in his palm. "No one has ever made me anything by hand, Little Fox."
I pressed harder against the wall.
"It's just salve."
"No." He set the pot down. His skin gleamed where it had soaked in. "It's your hands when you can't use them. It's you taking care of me from ten feet away." His voice roughened. "It's the closest anyone has ever come to loving me."
The word hung in the air.
Neither of us breathed.
"Don't get hit so much tomorrow," I whispered.
"Come closer and tell me that."
"You know I can't."
"I know." He held my gaze. The firelight carved shadows into the planes of his face.
"Doesn't stop me from wanting it." His eyes traced down my body. Slow. Deliberate. "Doesn't stop me from planning."
My knees almost buckled.
"Breathe, Amaria."
I hadn't realized I'd stopped.