Page 11 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)
Adon, the husband of her lonely heart. A fantasy that kept her sane as the years crawled by, leaving her behind.
She was aware that it wasn’t healthy. Adon was a real person out there in the world, most likely with a partner and a family and a life that had no intersection with her own, save for when he wore her work. But she was also aware that there was no harm in it. Not really.
He would never know. She would never have her fantasy burst. If she started to include extras, like more spellwork that wasn’t paid for or tiny gifts of pressed flowers and embroidery, then it could be easily explained away by good customer service.
No one would know that she wove in ancient spells reserved for loved ones, for spouses in particular, or that the hungry needles she used were always first given a drop of her blood, in the oldest tradition of her people.
It’d taken a long time to get to that point, but in the end, she couldn’t resist the temptation.
There was virtually no chance she’d ever do the same work for a real husband or children, so it felt like her only shot.
And if she sometimes felt guilty for it when the occasional intrusive thought of a partner snuck through her armor of fantasy, then she soothed herself with the reminder that he was simply extra protected and nothing more.
Any meaning, any emotional connection to that special work, was all on her end.
The world fell away as she sewed in the light of her old lamp. She didn’t notice the roar of the rain on the roof, nor the first bump against the kitchen door. She didn’t hear the second, either.
The third, however, caught her attention. It would’ve been impossible not to notice it, seeing as the door was ripped off its hinges.
Alashiya jolted. Her fingers slipped, resulting in a nasty prick with the end of her needle.
Cursing, she quickly pulled her hand away from her embroidery stand.
She didn’t worry about the single drop of blood drawn by the needle staining the fabric.
As soon as it escaped her, it was sucked up by the hungry gold with a low, sizzling sort of hiss.
The tiny wound sealed as quickly as it appeared.
She pushed away from the cluttered work table and hurried across the room. There hadn’t been enough time to consider the danger, nor the possibilities of what might’ve caused the crash. Perhaps in the back of her mind, she assumed it was the howling wind that had blown it open.
Even after everything, Alashiya wouldn’t have guessed the cause to be a dragon.
She skidded to a stop in the center of the large kitchen and gaped at the massive, reptilian head that had invaded her home. The dragon was far too large to make it through her kitchen door — or any door, really — but he’d managed to fit his head and neck through.
She watched him survey her kitchen with a slow swivel of his head, shocked into utter stillness.
Those massive eyes scanned the racks of dried herbs, garlic, onion, and corn hanging from the ceiling.
They blinked at the ancient, wrought iron stove and the rows and rows of jars on the counters before settling back on her.
Neither of them made a sound. The dragon’s gaze was intense but completely inscrutable. Alashiya had not the slightest idea what to do. She could hardly process the fact that the dragon was there at all. Surely he didn’t think he could fit inside the house. Surely.
After several silent seconds, the dragon’s nostrils expanded with a deep breath. His neck extended, allowing him to peer over her shoulder and through the doorway that led to her living space.
She briefly wondered what he could see from that angle. Her bedding on the floor by the fire? Her workstation strewn with fabric, thread, and hoops? A feeling of hideous exposure overcame her.
Alashiya felt no shame for how she lived, but she disliked being gawked at by an intruder.
Shaking off her surprise, she reached for the first thing she could find — a sturdy wooden spoon. Waving it at the dragon’s head, she demanded, “What on Burden’s Earth do you think you’re doing? You won’t fit in my house! Get out!”
The dragon let out a deep scoff. Not a huff, not a sigh, not a sound that could be interpreted as anything other than pure derision. One great eye flicked in her direction. This time, Alashiya had no trouble figuring out what he was trying to say to her.
You live here?
She had no idea what was wrong with what he saw.
Her home was warm and well lit. Her kitchen was stocked and so was the larder.
Her bed was plush with enough blankets and pillows to dress several beds.
Her hearth was hot. It wasn’t the palaces her ancestors had once lived in, no, but it was more than many people had, and she was grateful for every single inch of it.
She was utterly mystified as to what he could find fault with, besides the fact that he couldn’t fit inside. Waving her spoon in front of his nose, she bit out, “I don’t know what your problem is and I don’t care. Leave.”
The dragon gave her a long look. For just a moment, she thought he intended to listen to her, but she was quickly disabused of that notion when, to her utter disbelief, the dragon began to wedge himself into the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
She backed up slowly until her hip hit the kitchen counter. Dozens of jars and glass bottles rattled, and the racks over their heads began to sway as the dragon thrust one foreleg through the narrow doorway, followed by a shoulder, then, impossibly, a quivering wing.
It didn’t look comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, particularly when spots of blood appeared on several of the dragon’s rain-soaked bandages, but he met her gaze with a steely look and forged ahead.
Alashiya stared at the spectacle in horror. She’d once heard that a cat could fit through any hole the width of its head. Watching the dragon force its massive body through her kitchen doorway was a bit like that, except a thousand times more astonishing.
The walls creaked with alarm, and pieces of the doorway’s frame sheared off as the dragon pushed his great bulk through, one limb at a time. Alashiya gripped the edge of the counter and leaned as far back as she could, making an infinitesimal amount of space for the beast.
“Please don’t break my house,” she begged, almost certainly too late.
The dragon clicked at her absently. His focus was on fitting his other wing inside. He seemed to struggle with it the most. A visible jolt of pain ran through him when he flexed it forward, then back, and a terrifying hiss escaped his long throat.
Worry pinched her, but only for a second, seeing as he’d pushed through the rest of the way.
His hips were quite narrow, which made everything much easier.
The dragon, looking exhausted but pleased with himself, had wriggled his way into the kitchen.
He made his way to the center of the floor, dripping water and mud onto the tile, and panted with exertion.
“What…” Alashiya trailed off, speechless at the sight of her kitchen nearly swallowed up by a dragon.
He’d knocked her table out of the way, allowing him just enough room to collapse onto the floor. His tail slithered inside after him much more slowly. It looped around his great bulk to rest over his snout, which he’d dropped onto his forelegs in apparent exhaustion.
If it weren’t for his heavy breathing and bloody bandages, she would’ve said he looked entirely content.
Alashiya was, for the third time in twenty-four hours, entirely at a loss. She watched as his eyelids drooped.
No one will ever believe me, she thought numbly as she set the spoon aside and, for want of anything better to do, squeezed around the dragon to shove the door back into place.