9
It should have taken a few weeks. It took the better part of two months.
The route twisted south, then west. They avoided roads the court still watched and towns where names might be recognized. The dragons set the pace—neither hurried nor idle. They slowed where the ground grew rough, where the woods grew close, or where Justin’s strength wore thin.
Some days he could sit upright, the weight of the cloak enough to hold his posture still. Others he lay flat, not in pain, but worn through—the road wearing at what the curse had only barely spared.
He spoke little. Only when necessary. Most of the time he watched the trees pass, or the light shift through the narrow carriage slats. His hand stayed over the amulet, as always.
Tomas filled the silence. Not loudly, not carelessly—only in quiet intervals, when he thought no one would mind. He asked questions in pieces, listened more than he spoke, and learned more than most ever would.
From Vaeril’s sparse answers, he managed to gather enough to understand. The people they were going to meet were different—not just from humans, but from most dragons as well. They believed in protection, not destruction. To them, fire was sacred—a symbol of life and endurance, not a weapon to wield.
He gathered that this belief didn’t make them popular. The warlike clans that held to old ways called them weak. Traitors, even. Those who refused the call to conquer were marked as lesser—something to be hunted, not honored. And so, these dragons learned to live quietly, in places the world forgot. Not seeking glory, not drawing eyes. Just enduring.
When Tomas asked why they stayed near humans at all, Vaeril paused for a long time. Then he said, simply, “Because humans are worth protecting. Even when they don’t see it.”
Tomas glanced at Justin, but his lord didn’t look up—just kept tracing the amulet’s edge, eyes fixed on the ground like the words hadn’t touched him. For a moment, he wondered if his lord remembered—because he did, clear as a knife’s edge.
The courtyard was empty except for them. Late enough that the practice yard had gone still, early enough that the lamps hadn’t been lit.
Tomas was on his knees, hands scraped raw against the cobblestones, head bowed under the weight of the man’s grip on his collar. He didn’t dare look up. Sir Harlan Arlath’s voice cut through the quiet, low and vicious.
“You think you can shame me, boy? Who do you think you are? Squire or not, I’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut when your betters speak.”
Tomas didn’t answer. He’d made the mistake of pointing out that the northern skirmishes weren’t as successful as Sir Harlan claimed. He only meant to offer what he heard from the scouts—but the knight didn’t like being contradicted in front of the others.
A blow landed hard against his shoulder—not enough to break, but enough to bruise deep. Tomas gritted his teeth, holding back any sound.
“You listen when I’m speaking to you.”
Sir Harlan yanked him upright, giving him a rough shake. A hiss of pain slipped from Tomas before he could stop it.
“Enough.”
The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut the air like steel.
Sir Harlan froze, his grip loosening just enough for Tomas to take a breath. They both turned to see Sir Justin standing at the far end of the yard, his stance relaxed, but his gaze fixed.
“Sir Justin,” Harlan said, trying for something close to respect. “This isn’t your concern.”
“It is now,” Sir Justin said, moving closer, his steps unhurried. “I seem to recall the King’s edict. No violence against squires under any circumstance. Or do you feel the law doesn’t apply to you?”
Sir Harlan’s face darkened. “The boy spoke out of turn. He needs to learn—”
“Discipline is taught,” Sir Justin interrupted, his tone cold. “Not beaten in. Unless you intend to explain to the King why his First Knight allows his squires to be treated like dogs.”
Sir Harlan let go of Tomas’ collar, trying to act as if nothing had happened. He didn’t quite succeed.
“With respect, Sir Justin, squires these days think too highly of themselves,” he said, voice tight. “They speak out as if they’re our equals.”
Sir Justin’s eyes didn’t waver. “They aren’t our equals. But they’re still worth protecting. You forget that, and you don’t deserve the title you wear.”
Sir Harlan looked away first. With a muttered curse, he turned and stalked off, boots striking hard against the stones.
Tomas stayed kneeling, his hands still on the ground, trying to steady his breath.
Sir Justin stepped closer, and his voice softened just a little. “On your feet, Squire.”
Tomas pushed himself upright, careful not to show how his shoulder ached. He kept his head bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”
Sir Justin didn’t answer right away. When he did, his tone was low but firm. “You spoke the truth. That’s not a mistake.”
Tomas chanced a glance up, startled. Justin met his eyes without judgment.
“Speak carefully, but don’t swallow your words,” he said. “If you do that long enough, you’ll forget how to say what matters.”
By the time the carriage reached the valley’s mouth, the settlement was already awake to their arrival. No gates. No watchtowers. No heralds waiting at the bend. Only the slope of the trail beneath the wheels and the hush of trees arching overhead, gold and crimson with the turn of the season. The path narrowed as old stone gave way to packed earth. Low sunlight filtered through branches that had known magic longer than men.
The settlement itself was small, hidden in the way old things learned to be—not with walls, but with silence. Its homes were carved into the valley’s rise, half-timbered and half-grown, nestled between stone and tree as if they had chosen to grow there. Unlit lanterns stood at the doors, and thin wisps of smoke rose from chimneys, carrying the faint scent of herbs and old ash.
There was no fanfare—just quiet awareness. Movement behind windows, faint murmurs carried on the wind. No one stepped forward to greet them, but Tomas felt the attention—not unfriendly, just cautious, like they were weighing each new presence before stepping into the open.
It wasn’t a place that wanted to be found. It didn’t need to be. It was enough that it remained—a sanctuary shaped by those who chose to live quietly, without fire and fury, even when it meant hiding from their own kind.
The carriage turned down a narrow path toward the northern edge, where a long, low house waited beneath the eaves of a copper-leafed oak. The steps were swept. The door was open.
A room had been prepared. Spare but clean. Two beds, a table, a basin, fresh linens folded neatly at the foot. Tomas carried the satchels inside without instruction. No servants appeared. No one needed to speak.
The ritual would not begin at once. The preparations were already underway, the rites laid out and waiting. But for this night, they were given rest—time to breathe, to sleep, to arrive in full.
For now, they were here. The valley would hold them until morning.
The earth still bore the scars.
No markers had been left, no cairns raised, but the ground remembered. Char and ash clung beneath jagged stone, tucked into crevices where even the rain hadn’t reached. The blighted slope still loomed at the edge of the hollow, broken by time but not by distance. Wind moved through the sparse brush without sound. Nothing sang.
The others stood nearby—Tomas at a careful distance, watching with a crease between his brows; Sira at the circle’s edge, checking the lines carved into stone. The ritual had been laid. The rites were ready.
Vaeril stood before Justin, voice low.
“We will put you to sleep. The tether will break hard—it would be worse if you were awake.”
Justin sat where they’d placed him, the travel cloak drawn around his shoulders, the rough wool dulled by ash. His hand rested over the amulet. His gaze hadn’t moved in some time.
“The severing will tear through memory first,” Vaeril went on. “You may feel it resist. You may try to hold it. That will pass.”
Still, Justin said nothing.
Vaeril’s tone did not change. “Once it’s done, the healers will stabilize what remains—mind, soul, blood. What’s lost can’t be reclaimed, but the rest can begin to heal.”
Justin’s fingers shifted slightly around the amulet, but he didn’t look down. Not at Vaeril. Not at the stone.
“Whatever it is,” he said at last, without inflection. “Just see it done.”
Vaeril nodded. Not as answer—but acknowledgment.
Sira looked up from the circle. “It’s time.”
Mud filled his mouth.
He couldn’t lift his head. The weight of it pressed down too hard—blood-slick, bone-heavy, half-buried in ash and earth.
His right arm was gone. Not numb—gone. The pain had come and passed, but the absence remained, vast and hollow and sickeningly wrong. He couldn’t tell where the spell had ended and his body had begun.
The ground beneath him reeked of scorched stone and ruptured earth. He could still feel the heat. Still smell the fire. The dragons lay still around him, massive forms collapsed in death, steam rising off the crumpled scales where they fell.
Something inside him writhed.
Not in the flesh—deeper. Beneath it. Like smoke in the marrow, thick and sour, curling tighter with every breath. His skin blistered without flame. His blood stung in his veins. When he tried to breathe, the air caught and seared. When he tried to move, his spine pulled in the wrong direction—bent inward, convulsing against something not his own.
He was dying. And the dying knew.
The world pulsed at the edges, narrowing. Heat flooded his skull. His fingers would not close. His mouth filled with ash.
Then—a shadow.
A figure stepped into view, faint at first, blurred in the corners of his vision. Someone knelt beside him. Not with weight. Just presence.
Metal touched his neck—cool, unfamiliar—and a voice, quiet and close, spoke a word he didn’t know. His body jerked once. Light flared behind his eyes. A surge of warmth tore down through his spine—fierce, blinding, steady.
He tried to look. Tried to see who it was.
Through the blur, he caught the edge of a figure turning away—a girl, maybe. A shape already coming apart in the light. Her outline shimmered, broke, dissolved like dust through water.
Then the pull came.
Not a sound. Not a hand. Just the world slipping sideways beneath him—folding in, closing around the last breath he couldn’t take.
And then there was nothing.
He woke to stillness.
There was no fire in his blood, no weight dragging through his chest, no pressure behind his eyes. Only breath—thin and dry—and the creak of old wood beneath him as the cot shifted with the movement of his frame. His skin felt strange against the linens, too clean, too cool. Light filtered through the window slats in pale streaks, green at the edges.
Somewhere nearby, water moved in a basin. The room smelled of crushed leaves and faint smoke, warm stone and something older. It was not the barracks. It was not the hospice. It was not anywhere he recognized.
He did not move at first. His limbs answered, but sluggishly. The pain was gone, but not the weight. Something in him had been unspooled, and now there was only the shape it left behind.
When he turned his head, it was slow—not from weakness, but disorientation. The motion felt wrong, as if the world had shifted by a fraction while he slept.
Tomas was there. Seated near the foot of the bed, half-hunched over in a straight-backed chair, his posture too stiff to be comfortable. He must have been there for hours, perhaps longer. His eyes widened the moment they met Justin’s, and he stood at once, the motion sharp with relief.
“My lord,” he said, his voice breaking into a smile. “You’re awake.”
Justin did not answer. He tried, but the words caught against the dryness in his throat. He let the attempt pass.
Tomas stepped closer, but didn’t reach for him. His hands remained at his sides.
“You’ve been asleep for ten days,” he said. “The healers have been watching over you. They said to let you wake on your own.”
Justin’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling. It was unfamiliar—low-beamed, old, whitewashed to a soft grey. He did not know this place, but it did not feel hostile. Only still. Only waiting.
“You’re safe,” Tomas said, more gently now. “You needn’t do anything yet. Only rest.”
Justin’s hand moved slowly, without thought, across his chest. His palm brushed over the space where he might have expected something—but there was nothing there.
He did not know what was missing.
The frost had gone soft weeks ago. Snow lingered only in the deepest tree-shadows, where the sun could not quite reach. The air had begun to shift—thinner now, cleaner, touched by the promise of warmth not yet here. Sap moved again beneath the bark. Birds returned in pairs. The ground no longer cracked beneath the weight of boots.
It was early spring.
Justin no longer slept through the day. The healers had withdrawn long ago, satisfied with what could be mended. His wounds had closed, and the fever had not returned.
The torn side of his face had settled into something solid—three deep scars, cut clean across temple, cheekbone, and jaw, stark against the skin. He wore a cloth mask when he walked the village paths. Not always, but often enough. The children didn’t point, and didn’t ask, but they looked—and he had no wish to be the reason they stopped smiling.
His leg had healed as far as it would. He walked slowly now, the limp slight but permanent. His balance remained careful, shaped by the weight he no longer carried on the right. The sleeve hung empty at his shoulder, plain and unremarked, and those who greeted him no longer glanced toward it.
His hair had grown out, kept tied back by Tomas each morning in a rough, neat knot. The boy had settled easily into the rhythms of the village—helping where help was wanted, trading stories for supper, learning the names of everyone who offered theirs in kind. He still addressed Justin as my lord, though he’d been asked more than once not to.
He rose each morning when the light reached the sill, spent most of the day seated outside the house, tucked into the shade where the bright light wouldn’t catch his grazed eye, watching the wind move through the trees.
Sometimes he was asked to help, and he did. Small things. Steady things. Things that did not ask for more than one hand—and the rest of the time, he sat in the quiet.
He was never asked to leave, or asked to stay. He was just there.
He was meant to be returning from an errand.
Nothing urgent—just a note passed between healers, a request for dried roots that the upper valley kept in supply. He’d done the walk before. It was a familiar trail, one he could follow without thinking. And perhaps that was why, somewhere past the second fork, he stopped thinking at all.
The path had narrowed. The trees had thinned. He meant to veer east, but the land sloped wrong beneath his feet, and he followed it without care. By the time he realized the sun was in the wrong place, the valley had vanished behind the rise.
The ridge above the village was quiet.
The trees here grew thin and crooked, shaped by wind and time, their roots clinging to stone like veins pressed against skin. The earth underfoot was dry, scattered with pale lichen and loose shale. No signs of planting. No scent of smoke. The wind moved through the branches without carrying anything of home.
He slowed when the trees began to break.
A figure stood just ahead—a young woman, half-turned, still as the slope behind her. Her hair moved with the wind, dark red in the fading light—a color too deep for rust, too vivid for auburn, somewhere between flame and blood. She wore no cloak. Just a travel-worn dress, simple in cut, its hem dusted with dry soil.
Justin stopped.
She turned at the sound—not surprised, but aware. Her eyes settled on him with a warmth he couldn’t place, as if she had been waiting for him without knowing why. A small amulet hung at her chest, catching the light as she moved.
Justin realized, belatedly, that he wasn’t wearing his mask. He reached for it, then let his hand fall. No point, not now. His voice came quiet, shaped by old habit.
“Forgive me,” he said, turning his face slightly away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
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Chapter 10