Chapter 28 #2
He exhales, almost a laugh, though frayed around the edges. “I thought you loathed the sound of my voice.”
“Exactly,” I manage. “It’ll help keep my mind off the pain,” I say through gritted teeth.
He chuckles. The sound hums against my spine, low and warm. “Once,” he says softly, “there was a boy born in a house too big and too silent. He had no siblings or friends. His father was a king, cold and proud. His mother was gentle, radiant, and often ill.
“Every afternoon, after his tutors dismissed him, he’d run down the hill, through the woods, and into the city. There, among the market stalls and fire jugglers, he could pretend he was someone else. Not a prince. Not a burden.
“Then one day, his mother fell deathly ill. She was carrying another child, and her body failed quickly. The court healers were useless. Their only hope came from a traveler passing through who spoke of an ancient cure, an herb that only grew in the heart of a dragon.
“So, the king and his best men went hunting.”
“They found the dragon’s lair and a single egg. The king, believing that a baby dragon’s heart would have the same healing properties as an adult’s, ordered the physicians to extract the hatchling from the egg and carve out its heart.”
“But even with the dragon heart tea, the boy’s mother did not improve.
Enraged, the hatchling’s mother hunted down their home and burned it to ash, then the boy’s father, mother, and unborn sibling.
And the boy…” His voice falters. “The boy escaped, but eventually, the dragon found him and devoured him, too.”
His voice is different by the end. Softer. Raw. And for some reason, that hurts more than it should.
I shiver. “That’s a terrible story.”
“You asked for a distraction.”
The pain surges again, and my body seizes violently. I cry out, and he holds me tighter.
What feels like hours pass, with episodes coming and going in waves. He holds me through all of them—even after I bite his arm in one of the worst.
But he doesn’t let go, not even once.
At some point, the burning turns to freezing. As if sensing it, the pool begins to warm. My body finally stills, the pain dulling to something bearable.
He carries me from the water, wraps me in a velvet blanket, and sets me gently before the hearth, which bursts to life the moment we approach. He hands me a goblet of water, and I drink greedily. Then he goes to the wardrobe and returns with a change of clothes—his, but clean and warm.
“May I?” he asks, eyeing my blood-soaked shirt.
“No. Turn around.”
Worry scorches his eyes. “Fire—”
“Turn,” I say firmly.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, and turns.
I try to peel the shirt off myself but gasp as pain stabs through my side. Blood clings to the fabric.
“I’m going to count to five,” he says.
“Don’t you dare!” Wincing, I try to untangle myself from the blanket.
“One… Two…”
“You’re counting too fast!” I bark.
“Thhhrrreeee…” he continues, drawing out the syllables.
By the time he gets to five, I’m stuck, half-naked, wrapped like a mummy in damp bandages.
“If you laugh, I swear I’ll break your nose again.”
“I don’t know,” he says, amused. “I quite enjoy it when you threaten me.”
He moves closer, kneeling down in front of me before gently helping ease the tunic over my head. His fingers still when the fabric brushes my back.
The burn.
His eyes darken. “I wish I could heal it,” he murmurs. “But the waters won’t touch a wound like that.”
I blink at him. “Why not?”
“They can’t undo what was made by dragonfire,” he murmurs. “Magic knows its own.”
The words sink through me like stones breaking water.
The dragon again. Always the dragon.
He looks wrecked, as if saying it costs him something. His fists close against his knees, their knuckles white. A shadow passes over his face. Anger? Grief? Guilt? It feels like all three at once.
I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” The lie burns just as deeply as the scar.
He swallows hard. “It should never have happened.”
The air thickens between us, filled with everything neither of us can bring ourselves to say. I can feel the tension humming beneath his skin—the barely leashed power, the careful control.
I cough, and pain twists my ribs. He catches me before I crumple forward, his arms steady and sure. For once, I don’t fight it. I let myself sink into the warmth of him, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
“It’s strange,” I whisper, words slurring as exhaustion drags me down. “You feel like fire… but you don’t burn.”
He exhales softly, like a laugh. “You’re safe now, Fire. Rest.”
Then he carries me to the bed, tucking the blanket around me with the same precision he uses to draw his sword.
After a moment, he moves to the hearth, dragging a spare blanket to the floor.
The firelight cuts across his profile as the room fades into warmth and crackling light.
His shadow lingers at the edge of my vision until sleep finally claims me.
And just before I slip under, I hear his voice, softer than the fire’s breath: “You’re wrong, Fire. I burn for you.”