Page 21 of Tempest Blazing (The Dragonne Library #3)

Tess

The obsidian dragon's wings beat beneath us, each stroke pulling us away from the collapsing arena.

I slumped against Draven's chest, my body one giant bruise.

The collar was gone, but everything still hurt.

Wind cut through my hair, cold against skin that felt too hot, too raw.

I shivered despite the warmth radiating from Draven and the dragon carrying us.

"Where are we going?" The thought came out broken, my mental voice barely a whisper.

"Somewhere safe," Thalon replied, steady as always in my mind. "Rest, little one. You've been through enough."

Below us, the city bled into forest. Lights scattered, then disappeared entirely. I caught glimpses of the library's towers, but we weren't heading there. The obsidian dragon banked toward what looked like empty wilderness—trees stretching forever in all directions.

Then something shifted. A strange tingling as we passed through invisible barriers. The dragon's flight didn't change, but the darkness around us thickened, turned protective. Wards. Powerful ones that made my skin crawl with recognition.

"Someone's watching," Thalon's voice carried an edge. "I can sense magical surveillance—they might have tracked our flight path."

My heart dropped. After everything, were we still being hunted?

"I'll lead them away," he decided, mental voice going hard with resolve. "The obsidian one will get you to safety."

"Thalon, no—" The words barely made it past my throat.

"Trust me, little one. I'll find you again soon."

I felt him pull away—not severing our connection but muffling it, like curtains drawn across bright windows. Then his golden form wheeled into the night, flying in the opposite direction, flames flickering like bait designed to draw hunters.

The obsidian dragon continued toward a house nestled in a forest clearing. Not large—two stories, warm light spilling from windows—but something about it felt ancient. Protected. The wards we'd passed through were centered here, creating a bubble of safety in the wilderness.

We landed with surprising gentleness, the dragon's claws barely disturbing the soft earth. Draven's arms tightened around me as we touched down, his magic pulsing—checking for injuries, scanning for damage he might have missed.

"Easy," he murmured against my hair. "We're safe now."

The obsidian dragon lowered itself, and Draven slid down first before reaching up to help me.

My legs nearly gave out the moment my feet touched ground.

Adrenaline finally fading. Everything hurt—my throat where the collar had been, my ribs where they'd kicked me, my head from whatever drug they'd used to keep me compliant.

But then something extraordinary happened.

The obsidian dragon's form began to shimmer, scales rippling like water. Shadow and substance blurred, the massive shape condensing, reshaping until—

Ciaran stood before us, silver eyes gleaming, tousled black-and-white hair falling across his forehead. He was breathing hard, as if the transformation had cost him, pale skin glowing faintly in the moonlight.

"Ciaran?" I stared, my exhausted brain struggling to catch up. "You're... you can..."

"A dragon shifter," he said simply, voice carrying that familiar intensity. "Among other things."

Any other time, this would have blown my mind. A Shadow Fae who could shift into dragon form? The implications were staggering. But right now, with my body screaming and my magic still raw, I could barely muster surprise.

Ciaran stepped forward and scooped me up before I could protest, lifting me with careful strength. "Let's get you inside, a rúnsearc. You need healing."

The house's front door opened before we reached it, responding to some signal I couldn't detect. The interior was warm and welcoming—comfortable furniture around a stone fireplace, bookshelves lining the walls. It felt lived-in but not cluttered, like a sanctuary that had been waiting for us.

Ciaran carried me down a short hallway to a bedroom with a large bed covered in soft quilts. He set me down gently on the edge, and I had to grip the bedframe to keep from swaying.

Kane appeared in the doorway, white hair disheveled, his usually pristine appearance showing signs of battle. His blue-violet eyes swept over me with clinical assessment, and I saw his jaw tighten at whatever he observed.

"I can do some preliminary healing until we can get you proper medical attention," Kane said, settling beside me on the bed. His eyes were dark with concern as he studied my face.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The reality was starting to sink in—the kidnapping, the collar, the arena. I'd been completely helpless. The thought made my stomach churn with something deeper than nausea.

Kane stepped closer, his expression shifting to controlled anger as he approached. "The collar did more damage than just blocking your magic. There's residual dark energy in your system, and several injuries are deeper than they appear."

His hands already beginning to glow with elemental power. "This won't be comfortable, but it should stabilize you until we can do more comprehensive healing."

I lay back against the pillows, closing my eyes as Kane's magic washed over me.

It felt like cool water and warm sunlight combined, his elemental affinities working together to knit damaged tissue and purge lingering traces of dark magic.

But even his considerable power could only do so much—this was battlefield medicine, not a cure.

The healing magic pulled at something deep inside me, and exhaustion crashed over me like a wave. My consciousness started to fray, darkness creeping in from all sides.

"Rest," Kane's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Your body needs time to recover."

I tried to respond, to thank him, but sleep claimed me first.

???

I woke to moonlight filtering through unfamiliar windows and knew immediately—while I felt better than before, I was nowhere close to healed. My throat burned raw, my ribs screamed with every breath, and there was this bone-deep exhaustion that Kane's emergency healing couldn't touch.

The physical pain was nothing compared to what settled in my chest as everything came flooding back.

I'd been taken. Completely, utterly helpless. Without my magic, without my bonds, I'd been nothing more than a victim waiting for rescue. All my training, all my supposed growth as a Dragon Rider—none of it mattered when it counted.

The bedroom door opened softly, and Draven entered carrying a small vial filled with swirling silver liquid. Ciaran followed behind him, his silver eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath.

"How are you feeling?" Draven asked, his steps careful as he approached the bed.

"Like I got hit by a truck," I said, my voice hoarse. "But alive, so there's that."

Ciaran moved to the foot of the bed, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. "This is a healing potion," he said, nodding toward the vial in Draven's hands. "It will help with the deeper injuries Kane couldn't fully address."

I looked at the potion, then at both of them, and something ugly twisted in my stomach. They were trying to take care of me, to heal me, to make everything better. But they couldn't fix the fundamental problem.

"I don't want it," I said, turning my face away.

Draven frowned. "Tess, you're still seriously injured. This will—"

"I said I don't want it." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but I couldn't stop them. "I'm fine. I'll heal on my own."

Ciaran's silver eyes narrowed slightly. "You're being stubborn for no reason, a rúnsearc. There's no shame in accepting help."

Wasn't there? I'd needed help for everything last night. Rescue, healing, even basic transportation. I was supposed to be a Dragon Rider, the first human to bond with a dragon, and I'd been as helpless as a child the moment someone put a collar around my neck.

"Just... leave it on the table," I said, pulling the quilts up to my chin. "I'll take it later."

They exchanged a look I pretended not to see. Even the fact that Ciaran could shift into dragon form—something that should have been earth-shattering news—felt distant and unimportant compared to the crushing weight of my own inadequacy.

"We'll be nearby if you need anything," Draven said finally, setting the vial on the nightstand. His voice was gentle, understanding in a way that made my chest tighten with guilt.

They left me alone with my thoughts and the untouched healing potion, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded like disappointment.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what churned inside me.

Shame, yes, but deeper than that. Terror.

Not of Dominick or the Harbingers or even death—but of my own uselessness.

Without my magic, without my bonds, I was nothing special.

Just a human woman who'd gotten in over her head.

What if this happened again? What if next time, there was no dramatic rescue? What if I was just... forgotten?

The thought hit so hard I pressed my hands against my chest, like I could physically hold my heart together. I'd spent my whole life feeling invisible, unimportant, easily discarded. Becoming a Dragon Rider was supposed to change that. But last night proved it was all just an illusion.

Take away my magic, and I was still just Tess Whittaker—the girl nobody noticed, nobody chose, nobody came back for.

Exhaustion pulled at me again, my body demanding rest even as my mind spiraled. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me, hoping unconsciousness might provide some escape from the weight of my own thoughts.

My dreams offered no mercy.

I was back in the arena, the collar heavy around my throat, my magic locked away beyond reach. The crowd roared around me, but their faces were blurred, indistinct. I stood in the center of the ring, waiting for something, someone—but the minutes stretched on and no one came.

No golden dragon burst through the ceiling. No rescue party fought through enemy lines. No bonds flared to life in my mind.

Just me, alone and powerless, while the crowd grew bored and began to leave.

"Please," I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the empty arena. "I'm here. I'm still here."

No answer. No one was coming. No one had ever been coming.

I was exactly as forgettable as I'd always feared.

The dream shifted, and I was in my childhood bedroom, waiting for parents who never came home from work early, never remembered school events, never noticed when I stopped trying to get their attention altogether.

Then I was in college, watching friends make plans without including me, their conversations flowing around me like I wasn't even there.

And finally, I was here, in this safe house, watching through the window as dragons flew away into the distance, their riders never looking back.

I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs and cold sweat coating my skin. The room was darker now—evening, maybe, or early night. The healing potion still sat untouched on the nightstand, its silver contents swirling gently in the dim light.

My throat felt raw, and I realized I might have been crying in my sleep. The dream clung to me like cobwebs, the feeling of abandonment so real I had to press my hand against my chest to feel my own heartbeat, to remind myself that I was alive, that I was here.

But the fear remained, sharp and cutting. What if they did leave? What if I became too much trouble, too much of a liability? What if they realized what I was beginning to understand—that I wasn't special at all, just lucky enough to stumble into something bigger than myself?

I pulled the quilts over my head and tried to disappear into the darkness, but even there, the weight of my own inadequacy followed me. I'd been rescued this time, but rescue wasn't the same as belonging. And belonging wasn't the same as being worth keeping.