Chapter 4

Eileen's POV

His grip on my wrist wasn't strong—his fingers trembled slightly, betraying his body's weakness—but it was enough to freeze me in place. I'd expected rage, expected him to demand in a voice that would shake the cave walls, "Why did you take my Dragonheart?" Instead, he just sat there, staring at me with those ice-blue eyes, his face filled with confusion.

"Who... are you?" he asked again, his voice low and strangely flat, like he was speaking a language he'd only just learned.

I swallowed hard. "You... don't remember what happened?"

He was silent for a long time, his gaze never leaving mine. Then his free hand moved to his temple, as if he could physically force the memories to surface. His jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath his pale skin.

"No," he said simply. "I don't remember."

I forced myself to breathe, to think past the panic clawing at my throat. He doesn't remember. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

This changed everything.

My mind raced through the implications even as my heart hammered in my chest. If he doesn't remember, then maybe—maybe I don't have to die today. Maybe I can—

But then another thought crashed through the brief relief: What if the Dragonheart can restore his memory?

I looked down at the hidden pocket in my dress where the crystal lay, its weight suddenly unbearable. If I gave it back now, if he touched it and everything came flooding back—the image of dragon fire consuming me on the execution platform flashed through my mind, vivid and terrible. I could still feel the phantom heat of those flames, still hear Vespera's screams mixing with my own.

No. Not again. I can't—I won't—

I had to make a choice. Right now. Right here in this cave, with his hand still wrapped around my wrist and those inhuman eyes watching my every breath.

Hide the truth.

But hiding it was just delaying the inevitable, wasn't it? Eventually, he'd remember. Eventually, he'd find out what I'd done, and the punishment for deceiving him would be far worse than simple execution.

My fingers trembled against the fabric of my dress, feeling the outline of the crystal beneath. There had to be another way. There had to be—

And then I remembered something from Vespera's memories, a fragment of knowledge she'd gleaned from the dusty tomes in the Thorne family library. In ancient times, dragons would bond with chosen companions, sharing their very life force. It was a connection that transcended all vows, absolute and unbreakable. Even if the dragon recovered all its memories and power, it could not harm its bonded mate.

The thought was insane. Dangerous. Desperate.

But if I became his companion, if I could make him bond with me before his memory returned, then even when he remembered everything, the bond would protect me. He wouldn't be able to kill me.

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. This is self-deception. What makes you think a dragon's bond could actually restrain his rage when he discovers you've been lying to him this entire time?

But when I looked at his face again—so pale, so vulnerable, with blood still staining his robes—another voice whispered in the back of my mind: He needs help right now. If you save him, if you make yourself indispensable, if you plant the seed of "she matters to me" in his heart before he remembers who he really is... maybe you really do have a chance.

It wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about making him need me. Making him care enough that when the truth finally came out, he'd hesitate. Question. Maybe even choose mercy.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and made my decision. The Dragonheart would stay hidden. At least for now.

"My name is Ei... Vespera Thorne. I found you while gathering herbs," I said, keeping my voice cool and controlled—pure Vespera, even as my pulse raced. I let my gaze drop to the wounds visible through his torn clothing, and what I saw made my stomach turn.

The gash across his chest wasn't just a simple laceration. Black mist seemed alive, eating away at the healthy flesh with a soft, sickening hiss.

He followed my gaze downward, his brow furrowing as he took in the state of his injuries. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—concern, maybe, or recognition—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. When he looked back up at me, his face had returned to that unsettling mask of calm.

I bit my lower lip, a gesture Vespera would never make but one I couldn't quite suppress. "You need treatment. If you don't deal with this soon, the wound will get worse."

The silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring. Then he released my hand.

"Why help me?"

The question was so direct, so simple, that I almost couldn't answer it. Because the real reason—Because I stole from you, and I need you to owe me, so you won't kill me when you remember—would get me killed right here and now.

I forced myself to meet his gaze, channeling not Vespera's cruelty but something deeper, something from my own past as Eileen. When I spoke, my voice came out softer than I'd intended, almost genuine.

"Because you need help," I said quietly. I paused, then added, "And I don't want to watch someone die here."

It was the truth. Or at least, part of it. Even now, trapped in Vespera's body with a stolen Dragonheart in my pocket, I couldn't quite kill that instinct to help.

He studied me for another long moment, then released my wrist. The sudden absence of his touch felt like a loss, though I couldn't say why. He leaned back against the cave wall, his expression unreadable.

"I won't come with you."

"What?" The word escaped before I could stop it. "That's not an ordinary wound. You need a healer—"

"No." His voice cut through my protest like a blade.

I stared at him, frustration and fear warring in my chest. "Why not? If you don't get treatment, the corruption will spread to your heart—"

"I can recover on my own."

His tone was so certain, as if this were merely a trivial injury.

"Fine," I didn't push further. "Stay here. But I'm bringing medicine anyway. Whether you use it or not is up to you."

I pushed through the vines and ran.

---

When I reached the manor's back gate, the afternoon sun was at its peak, casting harsh shadows across the manicured gardens. I slipped through the door as quietly as I could, but two maids in the hallway spotted me immediately.

"Miss Vespera," they said in unison, dropping into perfect curtsies.

I nodded stiffly.

Now I had to walk past them with my chin high and my shoulders back, had to pretend I belonged in this skin, in this role, in this life I'd never asked for.

When I finally reached Vespera's room—my room now, I had to keep reminding myself—I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart pounding.

I need supplies. Potions. Bandages. Food.

I moved to the vanity first, pulling open the drawer where the Dragonheart had been hidden. It was empty now, the crystal tucked safely in my dress pocket, but there were other things inside. Journals, jewelry, and—

A small wooden box, ornately carved and locked with a silver clasp.

I found the hidden catch, and the lid popped open with a soft click.

Inside were vials. A dozen or so, arranged in neat rows, each one filled with liquid that glowed with different colors. Emerald green. Pale gold.

I picked up one of the golden vials, squinting at the runes etched into the glass. High-grade healing potion. My eyes widened. These weren't the cheap remedies sold in market stalls. These were expensive, powerful, the kind of medicine only wealthy nobles could afford.

I grabbed two healing potions and one pain suppressant, shoving them into my dress pocket. Then I moved to the wardrobe.

There were no men's clothes. I thought of Vespera's father, who had disappeared years ago. No one knew where he'd gone, and most assumed he was dead. But his room was still preserved—there might be something I could use.

The late Lord Thorne's chambers were at the end of the corridor, the door emanating the smell of mildew and neglect. I slipped inside, moving quickly to the wardrobe. Most of his formal wear was too ornate, but in the back I found what I was looking for: simple traveling clothes, nothing that would attract attention.

I folded the clothes carefully and tucked them into a cloth bag.

Next came the kitchen.

The kitchen storage room was dimly lit. I grabbed what I could: a small loaf of bread, some dried meat, and a thick woolen blanket from the linen closet.

I was almost to the door when I heard footsteps. Mother's voice echoed from somewhere nearby, sharp and imperious as she berated some unlucky servant. I pressed myself into the shadows of the storage room, barely breathing, until the footsteps faded away.

Only then did I allow myself to move again, running like a ghost toward the back mountain.