Chapter 5

Lina's POV

Augustus stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity. Then, without a word, he stepped forward into the chamber.

I kept my head bowed as he passed, not daring to move or breathe too loudly, and only when I heard him move deeper into the room did I risk a glance up through my lashes. He'd stopped beside the bed with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Who made this bed?" His voice cut through the silence like a blade of ice.

I stepped forward immediately, keeping my eyes lowered, and turned my head to catch his words with my good right ear. "I did, Your Majesty," I said quietly. "Freya, Aria, you may leave now."

The two younger thralls fled toward the doors, and I heard them swing shut with finality. Now I was alone with him, and the weight of his presence pressed down on me as he turned his attention back to the bed.

"There," he said, pointing at a section of the ice-silk coverlet where I could barely make out the faintest wrinkle. "This is unacceptable. Redo it."

I knew this game—this ritual of manufactured fault-finding that gave him an excuse to torment me. "Yes, Your Majesty," I murmured, moving to the bedside and beginning to strip away the coverlet.

He didn't move from his position, and I could feel his eyes on me like a physical weight as I worked. The silence stretched between us until I thought I might scream. When I stepped back, having smoothed every imperfection, I saw no satisfaction in his face.

I bent to adjust the corners that were already perfect, acutely aware of him standing behind me, close enough that I could smell the sharp scent of smoke and winter that clung to his skin. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard.

Then I felt it—his fingers, ice-cold and deliberate, brushing against the exposed skin of my nape. The touch sent a jolt of terror through my body, every muscle going rigid, and before I could stop myself I jerked away, my hand knocking his fingers aside.

The moment I did it, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake.

His golden eyes narrowed to slits, pupils contracting to thin lines of rage. Killing intent rolled off him in waves as I stumbled backward until my back hit the wall. He advanced with deliberate steps and caged me in, palms flat against the stone on either side of my head.

My mind flashed to memories—the succession war ten years ago when four dragon princes fought for the throne. Two were slain by Augustus himself, while Crown Prince Serandil was dragged to the Glacial Abyss. And I, the half-blood bastard of a family that backed the wrong side, had been handed over by my own father as a living sacrifice.

"Your Majesty!" Selas's voice rang out urgently. "Lady Lydia has collapsed outside the Storm Gate! She's been waiting in the snow for hours!"

Augustus went utterly still, complex emotion flickering across his face—rage and longing and something that might have been grief. Then he pushed away from the wall and strode out without a word.

My legs gave out and I slid down the wall, gasping. Lydia had saved me—my pure-blood sister who'd married Serandil, whom Augustus had loved and lost. She must have come to plead for her imprisoned husband.

I dragged myself upright. A young servant appeared, telling me Augustus would be occupied with Lydia's situation and I should rest.

I made my way back to my quarters, remembering that Kira, the other Dragonfire Keeper, was still in the infirmary with lung fever. That meant I was alone maintaining the chamber with no one to spell me.

Despite knowing I should rest, I found myself drawn to the infirmary. The sky had turned gray with the promise of snow as I walked through progressively colder corridors to the isolated ward.

The room was cramped and thick with the smell of illness, punctuated by wet coughing. Kira had lost so much weight I barely recognized her, her cheekbones sharp as blades and eyes sunken in dark hollows.

"You shouldn't keep coming," she said, her voice hoarse. "You've only got three days left. If you get sick now..."

"I won't," I said, settling beside her pallet.

"How wonderful," Kira whispered. "You'll be out of the castle soon, free at last. You can finally live your own life."

We talked in hushed voices about the life waiting beyond these walls. I painted pictures with words—my mother's cottage, the warmth of her embrace I'd been denied for so long. Finding work in some distant town.

"We'll have a little house with a garden," I said, my voice catching. "And in summer, we'll sit outside and watch the sunset and laugh about how we survived this place."

Kira's eyes glistened. "You'll invite me to visit?"

"Every year. And next year, when you get out, we'll—" My throat tightened and I had to blink back tears. "We'll both be free, Kira. We'll make it."

"We'll make it," she whispered.

I stayed until the light began to fade, reluctant to leave the warmth of our shared dreams, however fragile.

"Don't come back until you're leaving," Kira said as I stood. "Just... on your last day. Let me see you walk out of here one more time. That'll be enough."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and stepped back into the gathering dusk. The first snowflakes were beginning to fall.

I hurried back to the Dragonfire Chamber, checking the frost arrays and laying out fresh Flamequell incense.

I'd barely finished when I heard his boots in the corridor. He dismissed the guards, leaving us alone, and I kept my eyes lowered as he crossed to the bed and sat heavily on its edge.

He looked exhausted, shoulders tight with tension and jaw still clenched. In the flickering light he seemed almost vulnerable, though I knew better. Whatever had happened with Lydia had clearly not gone well.

He sat in silence for a long moment, golden eyes fixed on some distant point, then raised his head and looked directly at me. His voice was low and rough with fatigue.

"Come here," he said and gestured to the elaborate clasps of his formal robes. "Undress me for the night."