Page 18

Ice claims everything up here. The path—if it can be called that—winds between sheer walls of black rock, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Each step must be placed with careful precision; one wrong move means a fall into the endless white below. Wind howls through the pass like a living thing, driving snow and ice sideways with enough force to draw blood.

Calliope stumbles again, catching herself against the cliff face. Her breathing comes in sharp gasps that crystallize instantly in the bitter air. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion like a physical weight, though she tries to hide it. Always trying to hide her weakness from me, even now.

We’ve been moving for days. She refuses to stop, and I can hardly blame her, though I try to fight it. She knows what is at stake.

"We should rest," I say anyway, touching her arm. Steam rises where my heated skin meets her frozen sleeve. "There's an overhang ahead—"

"I can keep going." My wife’s voice is rough, determined. But I feel her trembling beneath my hand, see the way she sways slightly with each gust of wind.

The urge to simply pick her up, to carry her to safety whether she likes it or not, burns in my blood. But I remember too well how that ended last time—my need to protect becoming possession, driving her away. Still, when she takes another step and her knee buckles…

I catch her before she can fall, pulling her against my chest. "Enough."

She starts to protest, but I cut her off: "You can barely stand. Let me help you. Please."

That last word seems to surprise her. She looks up at me, snowflakes caught in her dark lashes, and for a moment I see a flash of the trust we once shared. Before I ruined everything with chains and guards and my desperate need to keep her close.

"Just until the next bend," she finally concedes. "I don't want to slow us down."

I want to tell her that nothing matters except getting her somewhere safe. That my kingdom could burn if it meant protecting her. But the words stick in my throat, tangled with all my fears of losing her again. Instead, I sweep her into my arms as gently as I can, cradling her against my chest.

Calliope is too light, I realize with a fresh surge of fury. Whatever happened in that cursed fortress has left her thinner, more fragile. Something has changed in her magic, in her very essence, though I can't quite grasp what.

Once, when I was a child, my mother was bed-bound for a month after receiving news that her own mother from the human territories—my grandmother, who I never met—had died. She refused to see anyone but her husband and children, retreating from courtly duties, sleeping for hours each day, weak as a fawn. I recall my father feeding her soup late one evening, hands so gentle on her thin, delicate skin, stroking her hair when she was done.

Sometimes, when you’re very, very sad, it can make you unwell, my dearheart, and it can be hard to get better again, she told me when I asked. She must have seen my face fall, because she said: but when people love you very much, and they care for you, you’ll always be alright in the end.

I wonder whether I broke some part of her, of Calliope. I wonder whether my enduring and fearsome love is the cure or the source of the sickness itself.

We continue up the treacherous path, my dragon's blood keeping us both warm as the storm intensifies. Calliope burrows closer, seeking heat, and my heart clenches at the simple trust of the gesture. How long has it been since she willingly pressed herself against me like this? Since she sought comfort in my arms rather than fearing my grip would turn to iron?

"I've got you," I murmur, though the wind probably steals the words. "I won't let you fall."

She makes a soft sound that might be acknowledgment, might be protest. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion warring with something else—fear? Hope? The connection between us has grown stronger since I found her, but also stranger. Sometimes I catch fragments of emotions that don't feel quite like hers, echoes of something I can't identify.

The path grows narrower, ice coating every surface. Each step must be tested before I put my full weight down, and even my enhanced vision can barely pierce the curtain of white ahead. But I don't dare stop, don't dare set her down in this killing cold. Her body temperature drops steadily despite my efforts to warm her, and that strange pulse of magic within her seems to draw more strength with each passing hour.

"Stay with me," I growl when her head lolls against my shoulder. "Just a little further."

She stirs slightly. "Always so certain…you know where you're going…."

Isn’t that always the way, I think with grim, tired irony. I’m always so certain.

"I'll find us shelter." I tighten my grip as another gust of wind tries to tear her from my arms. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not again."

The words carry more weight than I intend. Through our bond, I feel her register the promise—and the possessiveness beneath it. Her fingers clench in my cloak, though whether in acceptance or resistance, I can't tell.

How do I make her understand? That every protective instinct, every surge of possessive fury, comes from the terror of losing her again? That I would give her all the freedom in the world if I could just trust she would choose to stay?

But I can't force that trust, any more than she can force herself to believe in me again. All I can do is hold her close, shielding her from the storm with my body, and pray that somehow it will be enough.

The wind howls fiercer, and somewhere in the endless white ahead, shelter waits. If we can reach it. If she can hold on. If I can keep from driving her away with the very love that burns like dragon-fire in my blood.

The cave mouth appears through the storm like a wound in the mountainside, barely visible beneath a thick crust of ice. It's deep enough to offer real shelter, the tunnel curving away from the bitter wind. Some ancient creature probably carved it ages ago—the walls bear scratch marks from claws larger than mine, worn smooth by centuries of wind and weather.

Calliope stirs as I carry her inside. "Where…?"

"Safe." I set her down carefully, keeping one arm around her waist when she sways. "At least for now."

The space is larger than it first appeared, the ceiling high enough that I could transform if needed. More importantly, the curve of the tunnel blocks the worst of the wind, though ice still coats every surface. A good defensible position, with only one entrance to guard.

Not that it matters. In her current state, we couldn't fight our way out of a burlap sack.

"You're doing it again," Calliope murmurs, and I realize I've been scanning the cave like a soldier, categorizing threats and escape routes. Old habits.

"Doing what?"

"Planning for war." She shivers despite my dragon-warmth pressed against her side. "Always ready for the next battle."

Because the next battle is always coming. Because everything I love eventually becomes a target, a weakness to be exploited. But I can't say that without sounding exactly like the paranoid tyrant she fled from.

Instead, I focus on practical matters. There's enough debris scattered around—old branches, dried vegetation blown in from outside—to build a small fire. It takes more effort than usual to summon a flame; the altitude and bitter cold sap even my enhanced strength. But soon a cheerful blaze casts dancing shadows on the ice-slick walls.

"Sit." I guide her closer to the fire. "Before you fall."

She doesn't argue, which tells me more about her condition than any words could. As she settles, I notice fresh blood soaking through her sleeve—the spirit guardian's burn has reopened, probably from the endless jostling of our climb. Without asking permission, I kneel beside her and begin unwrapping the makeshift bandage.

The wound looks worse than before, the flesh around it blackened as if touched by deep frost. This close, I can smell the lingering corruption of whatever poison Ulric used, mingled with something else—a sharp sweetness that seems to radiate from her very skin. When my fingers brush the injury, she flinches.

"Sorry." I try to be gentler, though gentleness has never come easily to me. Through our bond, I feel her pain as if it were my own. Feel something else, too, that strange pulse of warmth deep inside her growing stronger. "I don't have any proper medicines. But maybe…"

I let my dragon nature rise closer to the surface, just enough that my palm grows fever-hot, and press it carefully over the wound, hoping my fire can burn away whatever lingering magic taints her blood. She gasps—in pain or relief, I can't tell—and her free hand comes up to grip my wrist.

"Trust me," I murmur, though I have no right to ask that of her. Not after everything. "Please."

She says nothing, but she doesn't pull away either. We stay like that for long moments, my fire seeping into her frozen flesh as shadows lengthen around us. Outside, the storm rages fiercer, as if angry at having lost its prey.

Finally, I lift my hand. The blackness has receded slightly, though the wound still looks angry and raw. It's the best I can do without proper healing supplies. I start to move away, to give her space, but her fingers tighten on my wrist.

"Stay?" Calliope’s voice is barely a whisper. "Just…I'm so cold."

The words twist something in my chest. Perhaps it is my heart. Perhaps it is failing, after all this time. I settle beside her, pulling her close against my side. She burrows into my warmth like she used to, back before chains and crowns came between us. Her head fits perfectly beneath my chin, as if she was made to rest there.

"Sleep," I tell her. "I'll keep watch."

She makes a soft sound of protest, but exhaustion is already pulling her under. Through our bond, I feel her consciousness fading, feel that strange warmth inside her pulse stronger as she drifts off. Her fingers stay tangled in my cloak, as if afraid I'll disappear.

I press my lips to her hair. Even now, after everything, the urge to possess burns in my blood. To lock her away somewhere safe, where nothing can ever hurt her again. To burn anyone who tries to take her from me.

But I remember too well how that ended last time. Remember the look in her eyes when she realized the pretty cage was still a cage. Remember waking to find her gone, taking half my soul with her.

So instead, I hold her gently. Let her choose to stay close, to trust me with her vulnerability. Try to believe that maybe, this time, it can be different.

The fire burns low, and somewhere in the endless dark beyond our shelter, enemies gather. But for now, I have her in my arms. For now, she's choosing to stay.

It will have to be enough for me.