The Guest
The fire had burned low, steady and even. No crackle, no hiss—just the slow collapse of ember into ash. Justin sat in its warmth, wrapped in heavy blankets, his back braced by a cushion. At some point, Tomas had brought him out of bed. Now he sat where he’d been left, the weight of the covers pressing him down, eyes fixed on the hearth.
He’d been watching the fire for what felt like hours.
Outside, the snow had come again—soft, constant, silent. It smothered the sound of everything, even his thoughts. Time moved strangely here. Days bled into one another, quiet and indistinct. There were no bells, no duties, no war council waiting at the edge of dawn.
Only the fire, and the boy in the other room, moving through the stillness.
His leg ached. Always did, though the pain had dulled to something familiar. He could stand now, even walk short distances if Tomas steadied him. The healers said there was nothing more to fix. What remained was his to reclaim—if he chose to.
But nothing in him reached for it.
His memories had begun to settle, at least. He could hold them now, without shaking.
He remembered the way it began—the dispatch that looked right on paper but wasn’t. The orders behind doors, meant only to send him out alone.
He should’ve known. He went anyway.
He remembered the ambush—the dragons expecting him. Taking him apart like it was nothing. He reacted as he’d been taught. His arm was gone before he understood the cost.
He only saw later why they’d taught it to him.
He remembered the curse—not striking from outside, but rising from within. Sharp, invasive, like his own body had turned against itself. Every breath, every heartbeat, wrong.
He should’ve died.
But he didn’t. He woke in a quiet room, barely breathing, and no one knew why.
The rest came in fragments—fever, pain, the slow drag of wounds that wouldn’t heal. There were moments—too many—when he wanted it to end. Not from fear. Just from being too tired to go on.
And then… it changed. The fever broke. The pain eased. He woke in another bed, and Eliane told him the court believed he was dead. A part of him wished they were right.
What followed felt unreal—dragons in human shape, speaking of healing, of sanctuary. They said it was rare magic. Something old, ruby-dragon-born, that kept his soul tethered when his body failed.
He didn’t believe it. Still didn’t. It didn’t explain how any of it happened. Or how he ended up back at the royal city. Or why they went to the trouble to find him—or what use they saw in a knight who had none.
He had nothing left to live for. But somehow, he chose this.
He had no memory of that choice.
After that, only the road—drawn-out days through fading trails and early autumn, leading to the valley. And then nothing—just empty space, like time had skipped forward without him. When he woke, the curse was gone, but so was everything else that made sense.
Nothing about him felt right anymore.
Sometimes he thought the not-knowing was the worst of it—not the pain, but the sense that something was gone, and he couldn’t name what. Just a blank between what was and what is, and nothing in him able to bridge it.
And even now, even with time, there was a weight behind his thoughts that never quite cleared. Not just the arm. Not just the life he lost. Something deeper. Something vital. He could feel the shape of it sometimes, when the firelight flickered just right, when a word caught in his throat and wouldn’t come. Like a scar in the soul.
He didn’t speak of it. There were no words for what was missing, no proof he could offer. Only the ache.
The floor creaked softly as Tomas stepped into view, a cup in his hands.
“I stoked the fire,” he said. “There’s more tea if you want it.”
Tomas set the mug gently into his hand. The warmth touched his fingers. He didn’t look up—just closed his hand around the mug without thinking. He thought he nodded. Maybe he didn’t.
The boy stepped away, his retreat muffled by the blanket-draped floor. Justin watched the fire, watched the light move along the stone, and wondered, not for the first time, if this—this shell of a life—was truly living.
He had no answers. Only warmth, breath, and the wrongness that neither should have been his.
He didn’t know what he was meant to do with this.
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