Chapter 3
T he fog was too thick. But that wasn’t fog at all…
Shrouded over everything, a layer of smoke so heavy that Alora’s lungs screamed not to breathe as she hurdled over the sea of fallen trees. The bark scratched against her battle leathers with every step.
It burned—the air. So terribly did it burn. But it wouldn’t stop her.
And the smell.
Not the alluring scent of smoked dawnwood that was Garrik’s Smokeshadows but that of a fiery beast on a rampage. Hungry—ravenous for its next kill, no matter the devastation in its wake. But this smoke didn’t bring the smell of death.
Not yet.
Liquid clouding her eyes, nose burning, lungs screaming, Alora focused on the glowing green hue ahead. A hint of something utterly putrid laced within the burning aroma as she rounded a half-fallen tree, disturbing the wisps and tendrils of dust, ash, and smoke.
Then blood.
She tasted the iron in the air.
Sonic hissing shook the dirt. It sounded so deathly, so painful, she was certain the blood came from the shrieking beast.
The alternative wasn’t an option.
It couldn’t have been from Garrik. He was fine. He had to be .
Half-shredded membranous wings spread wide across the leveled forest. A disgustingly alluring green hue glowed against its intricate veins. Bleeding from multiple stab wounds and slashes, and impaled on four broken trees, it reared its seven-horned head as it laid on its back, thrashing its legs and barbed tail.
Alora ran into the carnage, sliding to a harsh stop.
A dragon—bigger than Castle Galdheir itself.
Fire erupted from its horns to its tail in waves, tracing every harsh line and curling around scales. The fire flowed like molten lava, danced its cherry glow in wisps of smoke from every bit of its body, and flared from its mouth to burn itself free.
A strangled groan had her jerking her head to the right.
Blood pouring down the side of Garrik’s face almost completely covered his hair. His fingers dug into the leather at his abdomen, leaning partially on a bent knee with his sword pierced into the dirt as he held onto the hilt.
Alora moved to shout to him, but a burst of splinters sent her scrambling into the trees for cover.
The dragon was free.
Its thunderous roar shook the mountain and sent waves rippling over the putrid swamp. She watched as Garrik shook his head in exhaustion and stood on shaking legs, unsteady, yet determined, with an outstretched sword.
One moment he was flesh and bone and blood. The next …
What tore across the leveled clearing was a manifestation of the pits of Firekeeper’s realm and nightmares combined.
In a whirling funnel cloud, as black as a treacherous storming night, Garrik … transformed .
That something more she had once thought he could be was no longer simply a question. It was real.
A thing of nightmares, a face of death incarnate, reformed from Smokeshadows and exploded from the creature— from Garrik— until a mighty ruler of night emerged.
Made entirely of darkness, tendrils burst from a mess of dagger-edged claws. Horrendous spikes jutted from every inch of his new body. Razor-sharp teeth gnashed inside a head so terrifying, one look threatened her with rebirth in the afterlife.
Like fog on a misty morning, haunting wings of shadow tripled his size as he slammed his front legs onto the forest floor, rocking the entire mountain and splitting trees from their roots.
Alora’s traitorous lungs couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t form words for what she witnessed.
For what he was.
A shadow dragon.
Void of light, Garrik’s reptilian eyes swirled with vortices of shadow, unmoving as if he were merely a sculpture. He measured the beast across the clearing, who seemed as astonished as she was.
That moment of calm shattered when Garrik’s head simply cocked. As if it were a battle cry in the wind, chaos unleashed itself.
Every blade of grass, every leaf, every branch bowed as Garrik’s breathtaking wings flexed and shot him skyward.
The dragon launched forward, meeting him with a clash of bared teeth and spikes and claws.
Garrik’s shadowy body countered, expertly blocking each blow. But those wings … those wings tangled in a mess of shadow and membrane, and the dragon’s rage echoed off every mountain peak.
Alora trembled in horror and amazement as they attempted to rip each other apart. Claws sunk into one another’s bodies, teeth snapped at throats, explosions of Smokeshadows tore across scales as blood sprayed to the ground below.
Garrik roared when claws tore across his chest.
He buckled into himself before swinging a damning blow to the dragon’s head.
The swirling heap of Smokeshadows and dragon flesh barreled toward the forest floor, landing in a dust cloud that sprayed debris hundreds of feet around them.
Whatever foolish part of her that possessed a death wish—beyond the stars-given tattoo on her arm—had her running. Before she could protest the stupidity, she stood beneath her High Prince, sword outstretched. Ready to fight.
Garrik’s spiked head swung down, contorting to stare directly into her eyes with the abyss of swirling smoke and ash. Death Incarnate’s razor teeth appeared inside that snarling mouth.
It was painfully clear he wasn’t pleased with her presence, but as he whipped his head to the incoming swing of claws, his terrible mouth opened. Exploding with an imperceptible air wave that ripped across the carnage and slammed into the beast, enraging it more.
Sunbursts of sparks and white flames intensified inside her palms, and bones shaking, Alora scanned the molten pathways around the dragon’s scales as it heaved in a hot breath.
But she’d help fight fire with fire. They would not die today.
She had lived through the gamroara. Had slain a reike. Escaped Kaine.
Nothing will break me.
Flames burst from the dragon’s mouth.
Alora ignited.
A blazing white inferno choked the incoming flames. Lapping them up in a storm of white fury, the stars in the sky pulsed.
Garrik released an earth-shaking roar that invoked a mighty air wave, merging with her flames.
Alora threw her arms out, unleashing herself—her power—and carrying along her High Prince’s. They molded together as their strength smashed into the beast and seared deep burns across its scales.
Then Garrik’s foot hammered the ground, so she steadied herself against the quake. His head reared, taking in a monstrous inhale before he released another shield.
Alora didn’t balk. Fire ignited in her palms with dancing sparks tearing from her hands, carrying that inferno toward the dragon. Their powers slammed it backward. Over and over. Releasing joint devastation. Gaining a foothold on the beast until it yielded against the few standing trees.
Garrik’s tendrils and clouds of shadow misted behind him as he prowled forward. His wary eyes locked onto the felled beast. Every step trembled the earth, leaving indentations in the debris and dirt.
Alora cautiously followed until she stood under the cover of Garrik’s misting black belly, arm resting on his Smokeshadow leg.
A deep growl reverberated through him. Deep down into her body.
She didn’t have to look to know that he was glaring at her. But something graceful laced its tone … and it sent a shudder along her spine. She imagined a dragon’s growl to be menacing, but this one …
Was he thanking her?
There wasn’t time to decide. Across the swamp, a figure moved.
Alora squared her shoulders to it, watching the darkened form step near the edge of the swamp.
Its hands drifted to the cloak it wore, pulling the hood from its head to reveal glowing ruby eyes that bore into her so ominously that she felt a heavy presence scraping down her neck.
She shuddered at those eyes. At those rotting black lips curling into a snarl. At the way the being did nothing but stare at her as if she was a trophy for a mantel.
Kerimkhar, she cursed.
Away from what looked like a mausoleum, Mercy descended the staircase, stopping on the last step at the edge of the water. Before he could prowl onto the winding wooden path, Garrik turned his shadowy head, and his monstrous mouth opened with a roar so lethal she thought her ears would bleed.
With an ancient, revolting grace, Kerimkhar only smiled.
Alora ripped her attention away. The dragon—it still hadn’t moved.
Garrik surveyed the clearing one last time before Smokeshadows whorled around him. Raging clouds of smoke and ash and shadow coiled, then receded, returning him to the High Fae male she knew.
But as he stood, facing the dragon, back turned to her … something was … off.
He didn’t carry his usual finesse. The strength in his shoulders appeared depleted, lowered. In that one step toward the beast, he stumbled.
Then she saw it.
Dark, dripping liquid.
How his arm was angled over the front of his armor.
His next step yielded more. Then another. And another. Every step left behind a blood trail until he buckled at the waist and pulled his sword from the rubble.
Garrik turned, and her eyes widened in horror.
Blood dripped from his head. Shredded frays of his flesh marred his abdomen.
Wounded—he was wounded badly.
While darkness covered his eyes, she glimpsed the tremble of his arm as he repositioned the sword, attempting to sheath it. Saw the way his shadows slowed around him, around the wounds. He was faltering as he twisted a ring on his finger. From it, static energy thrummed through her just as Thalon had done the day they thought they had lost Garrik to Galdheir.
In that horrendous moment, she realized a terrifying fact; he had ensured the shield around camp remained if he could not hold it.
No one would know.
No one would come looking.
Kerimkhar’s snicker echoed across the swamp, building with every drop of blood, like he was feeding on it.
Garrik stumbled backward. Something final gathered in his eyes.
Alora watched her High Prince collapse, sword toppling from his hand with a clang.
The blood. Oh stars. There was so much— too much— blood.
“Impeccable timing, clever girl.” With a strained rasp, Garrik’s eyes rolled back. His hair fluttered as his head dropped and landed with a thud, leaving nothing but the sound of his name amongst the devastation as he lost consciousness.
Garrik.
He will not die. She wouldn’t allow that to happen.
She’d stand before Darkness himself and beg for mercy if she had to.
As if the stars had sent her, Ghost showed up. Garrik would’ve laid dying in that devastated wasteland if she hadn’t.
Garrik’s horse dipped low enough that Alora dragged him onto her bare back. Then she settled behind him and pulled him to her chest.
Soon they weaved from the carnage and into full-standing trees. Led by moonlight, with each step, Garrik’s limp body tousled side to side, threatening to slip off and fall. In the silence, the haunting cadence of Garrik’s dripping blood made her shiver as it cast dark crimson streaks across Ghost’s pure white withers and shoulders.
To make matters worse … delirium settled in.
Alora struggled to keep him upright. But the pain in her spine was nothing compared to the ache in her heart every time Garrik violently jolted.
Ripped from restless unconsciousness, he half-awakened with slurred murmurs and painful whispers. And every time, he dug his nails into her arms, holding tight, clawing at the invisible shackles he whimpered about.
“Hold on, mighty prince,” Alora pleaded when in one breath, he called to Ozrin—their healer—and in another, he cried out for the torture to end. Her arms tensed around him from the strain, feeling the frigid rush of blood soak her leathers, listening to him in so much pain that his mind couldn’t make sense of where he was.
Garrik didn’t stop mumbling, didn’t stop calling out until he fell unconscious again and his head rolled limply against her.
It didn’t last long.
He viciously jolted awake again. This time, his weakened arm swung out, colliding with air before it fell against his thigh. The other stirred, but the first swing cost him the little strength he had, and instead, it dug into her leather-covered arm.
She grabbed his hand to keep him from clawing wounds into her skin.
“Don’t,” he begged, sounding terrified. “ Stop … stop touching me .”
Alora cupped his winter-soaked forehead, stopping his thrashing. “Stop fighting me. You’re safe. It’s me, Alora,” she whispered in his ear while he quivered and surrendered like all hope was lost. It broke her.
“Please.” Alora glimpsed the stars and pleaded with them, too, as she did him. “Please, I need you to hold on.”
The meadow cast shards of beaming light through the silhouettes of trees. And not soon after, she had slipped off Ghost’s back before the mare lowered herself.
Pulling Garrik to the lush grass and flowers below, Alora made quick work of assessing his wounds. Uttering curses under her breath with every scratch and bead of dried blood she found. She had half the mind to pull the battle leathers from his body, but remembering what Thalon had once said left her hesitant to do so.
Garrik never allowed them to see.
She found the saddle bag where she’d left it and knelt beside him, quickly dumping the contents into the grass. Spotting the cleaned cloths—what was left of them since he used an absurd amount for his neck earlier—she pressed a piece into the gushing wound, turning the entirety of his hair into a sickening shade of scarlet.
His abdomen and the five impressive claw marks slashed across it were next.
A low, painful groan vibrated from her High Prince’s throat.
Alora had hoped that he’d stay down until she fully tended to his wounds.
Muddy-gray orbs fluttered, partially reflecting the night sky as they bobbed open. “Fuck,” Garrik groaned when she pressed harder, words struggling to form around his bloodless lips. “That hurts.”
A relieved sigh betrayed her. He was awake, speaking normally. But she could send sparks into his blood for the absolute stupidity he had displayed.
Instead, she threw a harsh bite into her words, masking her concern. Masking the relief she refused to show him. Not now anyway. “That’s what you get for trying to fight a dragon by yourself. Fool.” With a quick scrape, Alora pulled the cloth away to check the bleeding and quickly pressed it back.
“If I always receive this lovely bedside manner…” He coughed, pebbling blood across his colorless lips. “I will be sure to attract danger more often.“ Garrik winced and clutched his abdomen.
“You’ve gone mad.” Alora shook her head, mouth in a thin line.
Garrik’s strained grin trembled. “Dark, darling. Not mad. And you are the star that saved my life.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you wouldn’t have gone off alone.”
He attempted to smirk but failed. “Comes with the High Prince title.”
“ Bullshit, ” she snapped. Her hands trembled, wrapping the cloth around his head.
The ice of Garrik’s hand clasped around her palm, and her worried eyes flickered to his.
“What were you thinking?” She shook her head.
Garrik coughed, sputtering more blood. “I wasn’t,” he admitted. “It would seem I pissed off a dragon in doing so.”
Alora bit back the hostility growing behind her teeth and ground out, “Fighting a damn dragon. ” She scoffed to hide the shake in her voice. “Don’t do that again or I swear I’ll kill you myself.”
“An honorable way to die.” This time, he half-smirked, and she tightened the cloth to make him wince and chuckle, forcing his hand to grip his abdomen and painfully regret the movement.
Alora’s eyes flashed with worry; his did, too. But she stiffened. “Don’t tempt me, mighty prince.”
“Yes, princess,” Garrik breathed. That irritating smirk swiftly fell as he clenched his eyes.
Alora growled and wiped blood-covered hair from his face. “I’m not a princess.”
“Your Majesty?”
“ Stop .” Shuffling her attention, her finger traced the five long gashes in his leathers. They looked bad in the darkened night, even with the glow of flowers under the moonlight, but she couldn’t be certain.
Garrik’s hand hadn’t moved from applying pressure, and blood seeped around his fingers, over the back of his hand. If he let go …
She needed to get him back to camp. High Fae can sustain a significant amount of blood loss before succumbing to their wounds, but she was not entirely sure how much. She had never been in such a position to find out.
“Can you dawn us home?” she asked, scanning the mountains.
Garrik’s eyes opened, his expression unreadable.
“Can you dawn us to camp?”
His lips quivered as he focused his eyes and exhaled a painful breath. Garrik twisted his hand that lay unmoving in the grass, fingers twitching as his face scrunched taut.
Smokeshadows trickled from his skin, much less than she thought would, until they misted away and vanished in the grass.
He let out an excruciating sigh and forced a swallow, then grimacing, said, “No.”
Starsdamnit. Alora peeled back a layer of leather, exposing one of the gashes?—
“ Fuck !” Garrik groaned in agony; his face blanched whiter. “Don’t do that.”
She returned the leather to his abdomen and pressed. “Sorry.” Hands hovering, Alora studied each wound until her voice cracked. “I have to close this somehow. I don’t … I … I don’t know what to do.“
“Burn me.” He said it so simply that she blinked in fear she had heard correctly.
When she didn’t move, Garrik’s hand wrapped around hers, pulling it to his leathers. “Go inside the armor. Seal them, Alora. Otherwise, I will bleed out.”
“No, I can’t.” She would do no such thing. Not that—not again .
“You must,” he growled.
Alora nervously shifted her weight, looking at his blood-soaked palm wrapped around hers, then back at the gouges in his leathers. There was no denying it. Her face had paled as much as his.
“This will hurt.” That didn’t help. “And I will scream. Do not stop until it is done.”
She looked into those murky-gray eyes and trembled. “I don’t know if I can.”
Garrik huffed. “You fire-roasted a starsdamned dragon and do not think you can burn me?” A strained amused smile played on his lips.
Alora’s stomach threatened to hollow out, eyes narrowed in horror as she shifted her palm to his skin and hesitated.
“Think of it as payment for Telldaira. For the night I stole you?—”
“Rescued me,” she blurted.
A weak smile ghosted his face before he guided her hand to his abdomen. “You can do it, clever girl. Do not worry about being precise, just get it done. What is another scar?”
Alora’s mouth twisted. Another scar. She wasn’t entirely sure there would be room for any more. Her fingers lightly touched his skin beside the jagged edges of the gashes. Then her palm lowered as bile burned her throat.
Oh stars. Was she going to do this? Her breath came short, refusing to steady.
“Hey?” Garrik’s voice sounded calm. Good. She wouldn’t be able to handle this otherwise. “Do not pass out. Breathe.”
“I should be telling you that.”
“I am an expert at this. Nothing can make me— stars-fucking-fuck !” Garrik tensed as all the air in his lungs heaved out.
With both of them distracted, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to shove her hand inside and light his skin aflame.
She fought off nausea, but not as intensely as he fought the agonized screams. They shattered something deep inside her—something she didn’t know existed.
Alora resisted the urge to vomit and sliced a glance at the stars. Perhaps searching for the strength to continue this torture because every lick of her flames and the overpowering smell of burning flesh … might destroy her.
Please. Please pass out. She stroked a hand through his hair, uncaring of the clotted and wet blood. Please.
Being burned like this … no one could simply withstand it. And she didn’t think less of him as his screams intensified.
She pulled her burning palm away and shoved it into the second slash.
Alora needed to stop, needed to end the agony, and give him a moment to breathe. But he told her not to until she was finished. Her blazing-hot palms released flames and sparks across the third slash, sealing it before she traveled to the next.
“I hate—hated—flowers.” She didn’t know why she said it. To distract him? Her? It didn’t matter as long as his eyes focused on her. “I would’ve sat in this meadow and been utterly disgusted.”
White flames sizzled in her palms as she tried not to notice the flaming piece of ashen skin floating in the air.
Garrik clamped down, curling his fingers in the dirt.
“Kaine gave me these stars-awful bouquets of red roses every time he’d…” Alora shook her head. “But now, well, maybe I wouldn’t mind having a garden. Although, I kill about every living thing I put my hands on.”
“That is … encouraging,” Garrik gritted out through his teeth. “Seeing as you are tending to this living thing. ”
She would’ve almost laughed if it wasn’t for his scream.
On the fourth wound now, he arched under the pain. And she imagined him as built from the stars themselves with the strength he had to even remain awake.
Garrik gripped her wrist, holding pressure, but couldn’t speak.
Alora let her flames diminish and studied his face, giving him a moment. The worst of the wounds were closed. Only one remained. She caught Garrik’s thankful curse and said, “You know, I should have Aiden teach me how to cook.”
“Please. Do not talk about cooking things right now.”
Huffing a nervous laugh. “Right. Poor choice of words.” Alora bit her bottom lip, eyes wandering to the flowers, then to the snowy caps of mountain peaks too high to climb. Searching for anything to distract him with, she admitted, “I love snow. When I was a faeling, my mother took us north where the snow fell, and I felt as much at home there as I did with them. I wish we had some snow right now.” For his burns, she didn’t say.
“Fuck, me … too,” he breathed.
“You wish.” Scarlet instantly blushed her cheeks, and she may have found anything else than his face more interesting.
But Garrik only smirked, asking, “And if I did?” That smirk conjured a leather and metal scent—and her … in the furs of his bed at nightfall.
Were they really talking about this now?
Alora leaned close to his face. Mischief danced in her eyes. “Then I’d say … in your damned dreams.” Her palms ignited with embers once more, blasting searing-hot flames along his last wound before he could say a word.
Before Garrik roared once more.