Chapter 535: Failing Fortress

ERIS

No, I replied to myself instantly. Rejected.

I had been meticulous. I had taken the potions Kristina provided every single day. I had doubled the dosage on the many, very many, occasions when Soren had been particularly persuasive about the merits of not sleeping. I was a queen of strategy; I didn’t make mistakes with logistics.

Besides, I wouldn’t have lived long enough to carry anything. The seal was eating my core. The dragon was burning me from the inside out.

My body was a failing fortress; it couldn’t possibly be a cradle. And three? Three was beyond absurd. Three was the universe making a deliberate joke at my expense because it found my tragedy too dull.

I looked at the one in my arms, then at the one asleep on my chest. Its tiny heartbeat was visible in the pulse of its silver throat. A feeling rose in my chest, something heavy and warm that I refused to name. I ignored it, focusing instead on the temperature.

They were ice-cold. Not the dead cold of the grave, but his cold. The particular, comforting chill of Soren’s skin. Even here, in this impossible place, he felt present in the temperature of their scales.

My chest ached. I missed him with a sudden, violent intensity that made the silver flowers around me shimmer. I missed the way he buried his face in exactly the spot where the smallest dragon was now napping.

“For a tyrant, you look very natural like this,” Pyronox said. His voice was dry, carrying a trace of genuine amusement.

I looked up at him, one dragon dangling from my hand, another on my shoulder, a third on my chest. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were implying.”

“They seem to like you,” he noted, his amber eyes warming. “Considerably.”

“Yes,” I said. “I noticed. My hair is half gone.”

“An improvement, perhaps.”

I gave him the look that usually ended council meetings in the capital. He quieted, but the amusement remained in his gaze. Then, his tone shifted. The air around him grew heavy, the playful god replaced by the ancient guide.

“Eris,” he said. “You cannot stay here much longer. The world you are needed in is not this one. The longer you remain, the further you drift from the return.”

I looked at the three dragons. The silver ones were bickering again, nipping at each other’s tails. “And these? What do I do with these?”

Pyronox paused. “That… I cannot answer. I do not know what they are, Eris. But I suspect you do.”

I took a breath. A thought, wrong, dangerous, and perfectly Eris, began to form. I stood up, brushing the grass off my tunic while the dragons scrambled to maintain their grip.

“Right,” I said, looking at the three of them with exaggerated seriousness. “You see that enormous creature?” I pointed at Pyronox. “That’s your kin. Go keep him company. Make sure he doesn’t get lonely. Be thorough about it.”

The dragons looked at me, then at the mountain-sized god of fire.

“Eris, ” Pyronox warned, realizing the betrayal.

“I’m going,” I said cheerfully, already backing away as the realm began to blur. “You said so yourself. I have a world to save.”

The decision was made. All three dragons launched themselves toward Pyronox with the absolute confidence of small things that did not know fear.

“This is not, ” Pyronox started, but he was interrupted by a silver dragon landing on his snout and investigating his nostril with a tiny, sharp claw. “This is not what I, ”

I turned once to look back. The smile on my face was small, real, and probably the first one I’d worn in years that didn’t have a sharp edge.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For keeping me company. Hold on to that hope.”

The silver flowers dissolved into light. The sky turned to stone. The last thing I saw was the great dragon god, looking entirely defeated, with a tiny silver dragon already asleep between his massive horns.

The return to the waking world didn’t happen all at once. It arrived in fragments of sensation.

First, there was the sound. Someone was humming, cheerfully off-key, the kind of sound made by a person who had long ago made peace with their lack of musical talent. Underneath the humming was a rhythmic grinding, the sound of stone on stone.

Then, the smell. Not the metallic tang of the palace, but the sharp, green scent of crushed herbs and woodsmoke.

Finally, the weight of my own body came back. It felt heavy, every muscle aching as if I had been crushed under a landslide. My shoulder throbbed; my ribs felt tight. I reoccupied the corners of my consciousness like a tenant returning to a flooded house.

“What the hell,” I muttered, my voice a dry rasp.

The humming stopped. The grinding stone gave one last rotation and went silent.

“Hm,” a voice said. It was a thoughtful, unhurried sound. “It seems the Queen of Fire is finally awake.”

I opened my eyes. I was in our bedchamber, the stone walls were familiar, but there were far too many candles burning, and the air was thick with the scent of wild valerian.

I turned my head. Sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed was an old man. He looked genuinely, profoundly ancient, dressed in patched, practical clothes that smelled of the wilderness. He was surrounded by bowls, dried plants, and vials of liquid. He looked less like a healer and more like a mountain that had decided to sit down and wait.

His eyes were the most striking thing about him, clear, knowing, and carrying a spark of mischief that suggested he knew exactly how absurd I felt.

I tried to push myself up, but my body revolted.

“I wouldn’t,” the old man said mildly. “Your body is under considerable strain. It will need time to remember how to carry you again.”

I stopped, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. I looked at him, my mind already assessing the lack of deference in his posture, the way he sat as if he owned the very air in the room.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The old man let out a small, real laugh. He leaned forward, the mischief in his eyes deepening into something interesting.

“I am,” he said, pausing for deliberate effect, “an old friend of your husband.”

I stared at him, taking in the worn clothes and the sharp intelligence behind his gaze. An old friend of Soren’s. Here. With a pestle and a bowl of weeds.

“What…” I began, but the exhaustion was already pulling at the edges of my vision. “What happened?”

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