Page 10 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)

Chapter Six

Embarrassment was searing. It’d been a long time since she felt it so acutely, and Alashiya didn’t enjoy it at all.

Flushed to the roots of her hair, she fled the barn as fast as she could without sprinting.

The dragon made noises behind her, great chuffing sounds and growls from deep within his chest, but she didn’t pay them any attention.

An unwanted guest was bad enough. She couldn’t let go of the feeling of exposure, the sense that at any moment he might turn his massive jaws on her, but what she really couldn’t stand was the pang of hurt she experienced when he turned down her hospitality.

For one shining moment, she’d almost enjoyed herself in his company.

It didn’t matter to her that he couldn’t speak.

It was probably better that he couldn’t.

It allowed her to feel somewhat in control of the interaction, despite their obvious power disparity.

If he hadn’t been so rude about the damn broth, she might have asked a dozen more questions.

Which was, she realized with another jolt, probably why he’d shooed her off in the first place.

It wasn’t every day that she met someone new. In fact, it wasn’t every decade. She’d almost forgotten how much she liked to talk.

But he’d spoiled it. Perhaps he had good reason to — maybe dragons couldn’t eat in their beastly form, or perhaps he just hated broth. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to Alashiya as she limped back to the house.

It was fitting that the sky chose that moment to unleash the full fury of another summer storm.

She gnashed her teeth as she was soaked to the bone. At least a little bit of water was an easy problem to solve. Her dress would dry quickly, and rain did wonders for her garden. The dragon was a far bigger issue.

He’d be gone very soon. That was all she needed to think about. She’d done the kind thing — given him shelter and patched up his wounds. She didn’t need to do any more for him at all. It was for the best, really, since she didn’t want him to get too comfortable and think he could stick around.

Nymphs had their generous hospitality taken advantage of many, many times throughout history, and Alashiya knew the dangers of that better than most. Her grove had welcomed hungry strangers one too many times. Now they were dead.

Inside her home, Alashiya shoved that thought away as she yanked off her boots and placed them on the rack by the kitchen’s door. She never came through the proper entryway, as she preferred the more direct route to the living room through the spacious kitchen.

The house was a sprawling warren of add-ons and attachments, meant to house the many families her grove once believed they’d have, but all she used were the living room, the kitchen, and one of the bathrooms. Everything else had been carefully sealed off — left to return to the earth in the same way the barn was.

She might’ve maintained it, but the expense of keeping up with repairs and the amount of wood it would’ve taken to heat the whole thing made it impossible.

Her grandfather’s room was the last one to be closed off.

After his passing, she’d moved everything she needed into the living room and never entered that side of the house again.

The great metal belly of the cast iron stove in the center of the living room was cold and dark.

The house was as old as the barn and if it wasn’t for the layers of quilts she’d hung up on the walls, the fire wouldn’t have stood a chance against the cold in the winter.

They served a purpose in the summer, too, alongside the thick layers of moss and vines that had grown over the walls.

Both helped insulate the house, keeping the temperature comfortable in all seasons.

If the dragon needed blankets, she’d planned to take them down for him, so she was immensely glad he didn’t.

Grabbing a towel from a shelf, Alashiya sank into the dense cushions of her couch with a heavy sigh and began to dry herself off.

She supposed that on the scale of unwanted guests, the dragon could’ve been a lot worse.

Perhaps he was a little rude, but he didn’t appear intent on clearing out her larder or causing her harm.

She reminded herself that he was in pain, seemed confused at the best of times, and unable to communicate. In his place, she’d be cranky, too.

She was. Her temper was frayed by more than just having her home invaded.

Her wounds, far less serious than his own, still smarted.

And he hadn’t done her a damn favor by keeping her pressed to his chest all night, unable to move or ease the cramping that came with being in one position for several hours.

The sting of her embarrassment died down, leaving her deeply exhausted.

She’d spent the entire day, from sun-up to sundown, looking after the dragon.

After the sleepless, uncomfortable night spent in his claws, her body protested doing anything other than collapsing into her bed.

It took a lot of effort to shove some bread and cheese into her mouth, change into a robe and nightgown, and take up her needle and thread.

But that reluctance to work was short-lived. As soon as her needle passed through the lush, wine-red velvet, all was well again. Her mind went quiet to all but the hum of her grove’s spirits, their quiet satisfaction and pride as she made something beautiful for a man she would never meet.

Work meant spending time with Adon, and that soothed even the worst of her discomfort. She imagined him there as she bent over the embroidery hoop clamped to the edge of her desk, a small smile curling her lips.

Hello, darling. It’s been a long day. I’ve missed you. How was work?

This commission wasn’t magical in nature.

Most of his most sophisticated, luxury pieces weren’t.

The order slip she received from Stalton’s Atelier always specified exactly what had been requested, but over the years, this particular client — labeled only as ITA — had nearly ceased asking for things altogether.

He ordered so much that she supposed he’d probably run out of ideas.

For the most part, she was asked to do whatever suited her fancy, with a suggestion here or there, and given free rein to fulfill her creative whims.

It was the highlight of her days. No expense was spared for his clothing, so she got to work with the finest silks, the richest velvets, and at least every six months, she was sent another goldwork commission.

The finest pieces didn’t require any magic.

That cost extra, and she noticed ITA tended to ask for it on simpler foundation garments — trousers, crisp shirts, the occasional coat or vest. Those garments had slits for wings, and the spellwork he asked for was all about making the clothing functionally indestructible.

She wasn’t entirely certain what he was, but she tended to picture him as a gargoyle or a harpy, depending on the day.

Clearly he was someone who was very active and needed to protect his clothing on a day to day basis.

Both beings were known for their athleticism, and so it made sense to her that he’d need his clothing infused with spellwork, lest he go through them at an unsustainable rate.

Her speculation was, of course, fueled by her aunt’s collection of romance novels and her own rampant imagination.

During her life, Imilce was fond of the fantasy of an adoring sept of gargoyles, as well as being swept off her feet by a fearsome harpy.

After seeing the width of the shoulders on the ITA’s shirts, Alashiya thought she understood the appeal.

Over the years, she’d quietly added more and more sophisticated spellwork to his clothing.

Stalton never appeared to notice that she’d included unpaid for additions to the garments, and since the orders kept coming, she saw no harm in adding sigils for protection, warding, and just about anything else she could manage.

Wild magic, sourced from the very essence of life all around her, whispered its song to her as she stitched. She mouthed the words to a language long forgotten as the gold-wrapped thread heated under her fingers, pulling the energy from her, from her line, into the coils.

Be safe, she willed. Be healthy. Be happy.

Spellwork had its limits, but intention, blessings, the meager protection her blood could offer — those she could give in abundance to a man she would never meet, but who was nonetheless someone she’d come to care for deeply.

My Adon.

After spending hundreds upon hundreds of hours working on his clothing, she thought she could be forgiven for creating a rich fantasy around the man she’d never meet.

It started with the name, as most things do.

ITA was silly, impractical. Adon was a name for a man who wore the grand clothing she stitched.

Over ten years, the name had led to other imaginings: what he looked like when he wore the clothes, what his job was, where he lived.

She knew nothing beyond the scant details on every order slip, and when she’d dared to ask for some details in her correspondence with the atelier, she’d been soundly reminded that it wasn’t her place.

“He’s an extremely important client,” the letter crisply informed her. “His private details are on a need to know basis only.”

She hadn’t been asking for his home address or anything, but she supposed it really wasn’t for her to know more than what was requested of her, no matter how curious she was. And of course, in the absence of knowledge, imagination took root.

In many ways, Adon was her sole companion.

She’d had long conversations with him as she worked, and often went to sleep imagining soft, domestic scenes in which he starred.

At some point, she’d jokingly referred to him as her husband — only ever in her mind, of course — and since then, the title had simply… stuck.