Page 20 of Fire’s Resonance (Hearts on Fire #1)

She nods, but makes no move to extract herself from my embrace. For three heartbeats, we remain frozen in that position, bodies aligned, breath syncing, pulses racing in perfect time. The bond between us hums with shared awareness, with building need.

Then Varen clears his throat ahead of us, the sound breaking the spell. Reluctantly, I loosen my grip, allowing Spark to stand on her own. But I keep one hand at her hip, unwilling to break contact completely.

“These passages can be treacherous for the uninitiated,” Varen remarks, his knowing smile making my skin crawl. “The female will need to watch her step.”

I bristle at his tone, at the subtle dismissal in his words. “She has a name,” I growl before I can stop myself. “Spark.”

Varen’s eyebrows rise slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “Indeed.” He studies me with renewed interest. “The bond progresses faster than I anticipated.”

He turns and continues down the passage, leaving us to follow. Spark glances up at me, surprise and something warmer in her amber eyes.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The simple act of defending her name shouldn’t feel so significant, yet the appreciation in her eyes makes something in my chest expand painfully.

Varen moves with unnatural grace for one so apparently frail, leading us deeper into the mountain’s heart. I keep Spark slightly behind me, one hand always touching her—hip, arm, small of her back—maintaining constant contact.

The touch grounds me, focuses my senses. If Varen makes one wrong move, shows one hint of threat toward Spark, I’ll tear the elder’s throat out, council position be damned.

Protect mate.

The dragon’s instinct drowns out all other concerns, even clan loyalty. As we pass into Varen’s shadowy domain, I feel the crimson flames stirring beneath my skin again, ready to erupt at the first sign of danger.

The passages narrow, the ceiling dropping lower until even Spark must duck her head in places.

My shoulders brush the walls on either side, a claustrophobic tightness that sets my teeth on edge.

The stone walls here bear ancient carvings—dragons in flight, battles with forgotten enemies, flame patterns that resonate with something deep in my blood.

“The old ways,” Varen remarks, noticing my attention on the carvings. “Before we forgot what we truly are.”

The cryptic statement raises more questions than it answers, but I focus on watching for threats rather than puzzling over the elder’s words. My free hand stays loose at my side, ready to extend claws, to summon flame at the slightest provocation.

We reach a massive stone door engraved with spiraling flame patterns. Varen presses his palm against the center, and crimson fire traces the patterns briefly before the door swings open, revealing a vast chamber beyond.

“Enter,” he invites, stepping aside.

I hesitate, instinct warring with protocol. Varen’s private chambers are unknown territory. Once inside, we’re at his mercy—and something tells me mercy isn’t a quality the elder possesses in abundance.

Spark’s hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with my own. The simple gesture steadies me, the contact between us reinforcing the growing bond.

Together, her touch seems to say. We face this together.

The dragon rumbles with approval inside me. Her palm against mine sends waves of heat up my arm, our joined hands actually glowing with a faint light where skin meets skin. The sensation is simultaneously comforting and arousing—a physical manifestation of what we’re becoming to each other.

Brave female. Strong mate.

I step forward, keeping Spark partially shielded by my body as we cross the threshold into Varen’s domain. Whatever we’re walking into, one thing is certain—I will get Spark out alive, even if it means burning Emberhold to the ground.

Varen’s chambers expand before us, far larger than seems possible given the constraints of the mountain. The ceiling soars upward, lost in shadow despite the flickering light from hundreds of candles placed throughout the space.

The air smells of ancient parchment, dragon fire, and something darker—a corruption that makes my nose wrinkle in distaste. The scent coats my tongue like oil, slick and wrong.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Varen says, his thin lips twisting in what might be intended as a smile. “Few are invited here these days.”

The chamber’s walls are lined with shelves containing ancient texts, scrolls, and artifacts that pulse with dormant power. At the center stands a massive stone table carved from what appears to be a single piece of obsidian, its surface etched with a map of Emberhold and the surrounding territory.

Varen moves to the table, gesturing for us to approach. “You’ve created quite the stir, Silverclaw. You and your... human.”

I feel Spark bristle beside me at the dismissive tone, her spine stiffening with indignation. Her scent spikes with anger—hot cinnamon overlaying the sweeter notes of her natural perfume. But she remains silent, observing, learning.

Smart female.

“The Guardian Bond hasn’t manifested in generations,” Varen continues, tracing patterns on the obsidian surface. Wherever his fingers touch, the stone glows briefly with suppressed fire. “Many thought it lost to us forever after The Sundering.”

“What exactly was The Sundering?” Spark asks, her voice steady despite the tension I can sense through our growing connection.

Varen’s eyes snap to her, narrowing slightly at her directness. “Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He studies her for a long moment before answering. “The greatest tragedy in our history. Many died, including my mate, Serena.”

Something flickers across his face—grief, perhaps, or something darker. The black veins at his temples pulse more prominently for a moment, then fade. It’s gone too quickly to interpret.

“The clan’s power has been declining ever since,” he continues, returning his attention to the map. “Our flames grow weaker with each generation. Our connection to the ancient magics fades. Soon, there will be nothing left of what we once were.”

His voice carries a bitterness that feels too personal, too raw to be simply concern for the clan’s future. There’s history here—painful history that he wears like a second skin.

“And you think we can help with that?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral despite the suspicion coursing through me. My hand remains in contact with Spark, drawing strength from the connection.

Varen’s smile returns, cold and calculating. “The Guardian Bond is the first of four elemental bonds described in the ancient texts. Together, they form the Ancestral Flame Protocol—a system designed to restore dragon magic in times of great need.”

Spark shifts closer to me, her interest clearly piqued despite her wariness.

The movement brings her breast against my arm, the soft curve pressing into my muscle.

My body responds instantly, cock hardening further, skin flushing with heat.

The dragon growls with approval at her unconscious seeking of my protection.

“What are the other bonds?” she asks, seemingly unaware of the effect her proximity has on me.

“The Tempest Bond, the Memory Bond, and the Sovereign Bond,” Varen replies, his fingers tracing symbols on the map that begin to glow with inner fire. “Each serves a specific purpose in the restoration process.”

I’ve heard whispers of these bonds, of course—every dragon child knows the legends.

But they’ve always been just that—legends, stories told around the communal fire.

The idea that they might be real, that Spark and I might be part of something so ancient and powerful, sends an unexpected thrill through me.

“And what exactly is the Guardian Bond supposed to do?” Spark asks, her analytical mind cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Varen’s amber eyes lock with hers, something hungry lurking in their depths. “It protects. It shields. It awakens dormant defenses.” He gestures toward me. “Have you noticed changes in his flame, human? The shift from gray to crimson? That’s just the beginning.”

I feel Spark’s curiosity, her natural inquisitiveness warring with caution. My own instincts remain on high alert, searching for the trap I’m certain lies beneath Varen’s apparent cooperation.

“Why tell us this?” I ask bluntly. “You’ve never shown interest in my... condition before.”

Varen chuckles, the sound devoid of humor.

“Your ‘condition,’ as you call it, was never a defect, Silverclaw. The Ashen flame is rare, yes, but not without purpose.” He moves closer, his scent carrying that underlying wrongness that makes my scales itch beneath my skin.

“Gray flame. Ash flame. The color of protection, of guardian magic.”

My hand tightens around Spark’s as the implications sink in. All my life, I’ve been mocked, marginalized for my “defective” flames. To learn now that they might have been a sign of something special, something rare and valued in the old days...

The revelation hits me like a physical blow, shaking the foundation of who I’ve believed myself to be.

The constant shame of producing gray flame instead of the pure crimson of my lineage.

The isolation. The whispers. The assignments that kept me away from the clan proper, dealing with human threats rather than serving proudly among my own kind.

All of it based on a lie?

“You’re saying Raak was always meant to be a Guardian?” Spark asks, her quick mind connecting the dots. “That his flame color wasn’t a defect but a signal of his true purpose?”

“Precisely,” Varen nods, seeming pleased with her understanding. “The gray flame appears only in potential Guardians—those capable of forming the bond that protects the clan in times of greatest need.”