I had planned to spend exactly one night in the Starveil room Mira had assigned me, mostly because the egg had been throwing little lightning tantrums all day and Kiernan had started using the tone that meant he was two bad decisions away from physically carrying me somewhere with a bed. The room was too nice, which made it suspicious. Starveil did not seem to understand normal guest accommodations. It had given me a bed wider than my old apartment kitchen, a worktable that looked like it had grown out of dark wood and moonlit stone, shelves that had somehow rearranged themselves around my books without asking permission, and a balcony door that opened onto a stretch of silver-leaf trees I was not entirely convinced obeyed geography. I had put the egg on the worktable in its copper cradle, lined the grounding stones myself, checked the warming charm four times, and announced to the room that I was not impressed by pretty walls with opinions. The walls glimmered at me. Starveil was smug. I hated that in a building.
Kiernan sat cross-legged on the rug near the worktable, silver-white hair falling into his face while he repaired the tiny burned section of copper wire the egg had fried earlier. One green eye and one gold eye narrowed in concentration, and the glow from the cradle made the fine bones of his hands look almost translucent around the tools. He had healer hands, which was unfair because he also had apothecary hands, ward-builder hands, and apparently now baby-dragon-delivery hands, though I had not told him that last part because it sounded like the kind of phrase that would make him smile too softly and ruin my entire personality for several minutes. I was sprawled sideways across the foot of the bed in tight black pants, boots still on because I respected no palace furniture, magenta hair mostly loose around my shoulders, and my left arm tingling from wrist to elbow every time the egg pulsed. The lightning-strike tattoo down that arm had been faintly glowing for an hour.
“You know,” Kiernan said without looking up, “most people who claim they are resting do not continue watching the thing they are resting from like it has personally insulted them.”
“The egg did personally insult me.” I rolled onto my stomach and propped my chin on one hand. “It shocked my favorite nail.”
“It greeted your favorite nail.”
“It chose violence.”
“It chose communication.”
“Communication can be violent.”
“That is the foundation of most conversations with you, yes.”
I threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, which was rude, and set it beside him without looking up from the copper wire. I narrowed my eyes at the back of his head because his reflexes did not need to be attractive. They only were because the universe hated me. “You are lucky I’m emotionally fragile tonight.”
“You are emotionally fragile every time someone asks you to sleep.”
“Sleep is a trap invented by cowards and people with reasonable nervous systems.”
“Ferox.”
I groaned and pressed my face into the blanket. “Do not use the full name tone in my own room.”
“It is Mira’s room.”
“She gave it to me.”
“She assigned it to you temporarily.”
“I have socks in a drawer. That is legal possession.”
Kiernan’s mouth curved. “I did not realize Starveil property law depended on socks.”
“Most laws would improve if they did.”
The egg answered with a sharp crackle that lifted every hair on my arms. Blue-white lightning skittered across the violet-black shell, crawling through the pale veins beneath the surface in a pattern that looked less like random discharge and more like something inside had stretched. My humor vanished so quickly it left skid marks. I pushed off the bed and crossed the room before Kiernan even finished setting down the wire.
The egg sat in the copper cradle like a storm had decided to become an heirloom. It was larger than my head, deep violet under the translucent outer shell, with darker patches where old scarring had never fully smoothed. No one knew how long it had been dormant. No one knew who had laid it, who had hidden it, who had failed to come back, or whether it had been waiting for a Drakenblood hand, the Conclave breaking open, or pure spite. Lireal had said there were no verified dragon hatchings in Dominveil for roughly five thousand years, which meant everyone was being very calm about this in the specific way people were calm when they were one factual statement away from screaming into a jar.
Another pulse moved through the shell. This time, it was not smooth. I froze. Kiernan rose beside me, the pillow forgotten. “Roxy?”
“Don’t talk,” I said. He went silent immediately, because he was annoying like that. Useful. Trustworthy. The kind of person who made silence feel like help instead of absence. I leaned closer. The egg pulsed again, and the sound came a heartbeat later. Not a discharge. Not the usual snap of lightning against copper. A small, hard crack from somewhere under the shell. My mouth went dry.
Kiernan inhaled softly. “That was...”
“I said don’t talk.”
“You did.”
“You are talking.”
“I am stopping.”
The egg cracked again.
This time the line showed. A thin jagged split opened near the top, bright violet-white light shining through it. My chest did something humiliating and painful. My lightning rose so fast it nearly punched through my skin, and I had to grip the edge of the worktable hard enough that the wood complained. Not because I was afraid of the egg. Because I was afraid of me. Too much feeling in my body had always meant risk. Too much rage. Too much fear. Too much want. I knew what it was to lose control and leave a scar on someone I loved. I knew what it was to be called dangerous until danger felt like the only language my blood understood. And now something impossibly old and impossibly alive was breaking open in front of me, answering the same lightning that had made people look at me like I should be handled with gloves.
Kiernan’s hand hovered near my back. He did not touch me. “Name five real things,” he said quietly.
I swallowed. “Table. Copper. Egg. You. Me.”
“Good.”
“I hate that you know how to do that.”
“I know.”
The shell split wider. A piece flaked free and hit the copper cradle with a tiny crystalline ping. Lightning spilled out, not outward toward us but inward, curling around the crack like the storm was trying to protect the body pushing through it. Something moved inside. A claw, maybe. Too small. Too dark. Then another piece broke loose, and a sound came from the egg that made every nerve in my body sit up and pay attention.
It was not a roar. It was a furious little squeak. I stared. Kiernan made a sound suspiciously close to delight. “Do not laugh,” I warned, even though my own mouth had started doing something dangerous.
“I am not laughing.”
“You are emotionally laughing.”
“That may be true.”
The creature inside shoved again, and the top of the egg cracked open in a ragged starburst. A tiny head forced its way through, slick with pearly fluid and fragments of violet shell clinging to two small, backward-swept horns. The dragon blinked. Once. Twice. Its eyes were a bright electric blue, too large for its narrow face, and its scales were the deepest purple I had ever seen, darker at the spine and lighter toward the muzzle where tiny veins of lightning shimmered beneath the skin. Its wings were folded tight and wet against its back. Its tail lashed inside the shell, and a spark jumped from one horn to the copper cradle with a snap.
“Oh,” I whispered. The dragon turned toward my voice. Kiernan went perfectly still beside me. The little creature shoved both front feet through the broken shell, slipped, caught itself with a hiss, and fixed its enormous blue eyes on me like I had just committed a personal betrayal by not already having food, answers, and a better exit route prepared. It opened its mouth and made the squeak again, angrier this time. My throat closed.
“Hi,” I said, which was stupid but apparently all I had.
The dragon stared harder. Then it lunged. Not far. It was still half inside the egg and mostly made of wet wings and outrage. But it lunged toward me with total confidence, slipped on a piece of shell, and tumbled forward into the cradle with a tiny crackle of lightning that made my left arm spark in response. I reached in before thinking. Kiernan made a noise like he wanted to warn me and had decided living was better if he did not. My hands slid under the dragon’s slick little body, warm and buzzing, and I lifted it out of the broken shell.
The moment its chest touched my palms, my lightning answered. Not violently. Not the way it did when rage took me by the bones and shook. This was lower, older, a deep hum that rolled from my ribs through my arms and into the dragon’s body. The baby went rigid. Its wings twitched. Its claws pricked my skin but did not dig in. Then it pressed its forehead against the center of my palm and made a sound like thunder trying to purr. Something inside me broke in the least useful way. “Oh, hell,” I said.
Kiernan’s voice was soft. “Ferox.”
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said my name like I was having a feeling.”
“You are holding the first dragon hatched in Dominveil in five thousand years.”
“That is not helping.”
The dragon lifted its head and blinked at me, a sliver of eggshell stuck over one eye like a terrible little hat. I used my thumb to brush it away, and it snapped at me with the world’s smallest teeth. The bite did not hurt. It did, however, offend me deeply.
“Excuse you,” I said. The dragon chirped. “You came out of an egg ten seconds ago. You do not get attitude yet.” It chirped louder.
Kiernan, traitor that he was, smiled. “I think attitude may be instinctive.”
“You are enjoying this too much.”
“I have never seen you lose an argument to someone the size of a bread loaf.”
“I am not losing. I am establishing hierarchy.”
The baby dragon crawled up my forearm with shocking determination, claws catching on my sleeve. Lightning flickered over my tattoo as it climbed, and every spark it gave off made my own magic answer in little sympathetic pulses. It reached my shoulder, slipped once, flapped wet wings in a panic, and dug its claws into my shirt with a furious peep.
I went very still. “Kiernan.”
“Yes?”
“It is on me.”
“I can see that.”
“It has knives for feet.”
“They are claws.”
“Pedantic in a crisis. Very attractive. Terrible timing.”
Kiernan’s eyes flicked to mine, warm and amused and too pleased with the word attractive for my mental health. Then the dragon turned its head toward him.
Everything changed. The baby’s body lowered against my shoulder. Its little wings lifted, not enough to fly, just enough to make itself look approximately eight percent larger. Sparks gathered along its spine. It narrowed its eyes at Kiernan with the grave suspicion of an ancient guardian evaluating a tax collector.
Kiernan blinked. “Hello.”
The dragon hissed. I stared at it. “Rude.” It hissed again.
Kiernan’s mouth twitched. “I believe I have been judged.”
“You built the cradle keeping it alive.”
“Clearly not enough.”
The dragon pressed its side against my neck and let out a low, crackling grumble. It was warm. Too warm. Its tiny heart hammered against my skin, fast and wild. One wing stuck awkwardly to my collarbone. It smelled like storm rain, hot stone, and the sharp clean bite of lightning after it hit close enough to make your teeth ache.
Kiernan lifted one hand slowly. “May I?”
The dragon’s head snapped toward him. I caught Kiernan’s wrist before he came closer. The movement was instinctive, fast, protective. We both looked at my hand around his wrist. My skin sparked. Kiernan did not pull away. He never did that, which was sometimes kind and sometimes infuriating. “It’s all right,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.” I loosened my grip. “Sorry.”
“You did not hurt me.”
“I still grabbed.”
“You are holding a newborn lightning dragon who has apparently decided I am competition. I am willing to allow some irregularities.”
The dragon chirped sharply, as if agreeing with the competition part. I looked at it. “You met him thirty seconds ago.” It chirped again. “He is not stealing me.” Kiernan’s brows rose. I felt heat crawl up my neck. “Attention. He is not stealing my attention.”
“Of course.”
“Do not of course me.”
“I would never.”
The dragon made a pleased little clicking sound and rubbed its cheek against my jaw. I closed my eyes. “This is manipulative.”
Kiernan laughed then, quiet and helpless, and the dragon immediately lifted its head and hissed at him again. “No,” I said, trying to peel one tiny claw out of my shirt without tearing the fabric or its toe off. “We are not hissing at Kiernan.” The dragon hissed softer. “That was still hissing.”
Kiernan lowered himself back onto the rug, deliberately making himself less tall. “Perhaps it needs a moment.”
“It needs manners.”
“It is a dragon.”
“So am I, genetically adjacent and spiritually exhausted, and I have manners.”
Kiernan looked at the broken shell, the scorch marks on the copper cradle, the pillow I had thrown earlier, and the tiny dragon currently claiming my shoulder like a mountain peak. “Yes. Many.”
I pointed at him with my free hand. “Careful.”
The dragon followed my gesture, then opened its mouth. A tiny arc of purple lightning snapped toward Kiernan’s boot. It hit the grounding stone beside him instead and vanished with a hiss.
Kiernan looked down at the smoking stone. I looked at the dragon. The dragon looked intensely innocent. “Oh, absolutely not,” I said. “We are not doing attempted boot murder.”
Kiernan’s lips pressed together.
“Do not laugh. This is a discipline moment.”
“I am witnessing.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I am deeply moved by your maternal authority.”
The word maternal should have bounced off me. It should have been a joke, an easy target, a thing I could swat away with something crude about eggs and poor life choices. Instead, it went straight under my ribs and hit something unarmored. The dragon pressed closer at the same moment, tiny claws flexing in my shirt, its body still damp and shaking from the effort of existing. I looked down at it. It looked back at me with those impossible blue eyes, and the room went quieter than it had any right to.
“No,” I said, but it came out wrong.
Kiernan heard the wrongness. Of course he did. “No?”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The dragon yawned, showing a pink mouth and little needle teeth.
Kiernan’s face softened. “No one does.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is true.”
“People have raised dragons before.”
“Not here. Not for five thousand years.”
“Again, not comforting.”
“No one knows how long the egg waited,” Kiernan said. “No one knows what woke it. No one knows what it needs yet. But it looked at you first.”
“I was closest.”
“Yes.”
“That is not destiny. That is room layout.”
“Perhaps.”
“Kiernan.”
His smile was barely there now. “It still chose where to climb.” The dragon tucked its head under my chin as if that settled the argument.
I wanted to be cynical. I wanted to be Ferox about it, which meant loud and difficult and allergic to anything shaped like fate. I wanted to say I was not anyone’s mother, that I had not asked to become guardian of a species that had apparently decided to restart itself in my bedroom, that I was still the girl who had scarred her sister because too much lightning lived too close to her skin. I wanted to say all of that, but the dragon’s body was warm against mine, fragile and electric and trusting in a way that felt frankly irresponsible, and if Kiernan had reached for it too quickly, I probably would have bitten him.
So. That was information. The baby dragon sneezed. A puff of violet sparks burst out and singed the end of my hair. I stared at the smoking strand. Kiernan covered his mouth with one hand. “Do not,” I said.
“I am not.”
“I can hear your face.”
“My face is silent.”
“My hair is wounded.”
The dragon blinked at the singed bit, then leaned forward and licked it.
“No. No eating hair.” I pulled the strand away. “Gods. You are five minutes old and already a disaster.”
“It imprinted well, then.”
I turned slowly toward Kiernan. He looked delighted with himself. The dragon hissed at him again. “See?” I said. “Even the baby knows that was rude.”
“The baby tried to murder my boot.”
“The boot had suspicious energy.”
“My boots are innocent.”
“No boots are innocent.”
The dragon stretched one wing, then the other. They were longer than I expected, thin membranes of deep purple fading to electric blue at the edges. The wings trembled with effort, and one stuck to itself. Kiernan noticed at the same time I did and reached toward his bag, moving slowly so the tiny menace on my shoulder would not decide to declare war.
“I have soft cloth,” he said. “Warm water. No salves unless we know what its skin tolerates.”
“Good.”
He pulled out a folded cloth and a small flask, then paused several feet away. “May I hand it to you?”
I looked at the dragon. The dragon looked at Kiernan with obvious suspicion, deep judgment, and possibly several plans already forming behind those bright blue eyes. “Try,” I said.
Kiernan extended the cloth. The dragon’s eyes narrowed. “Kess would be so proud of this level of distrust,” I muttered.
“Kess would encourage it.”
“Kess would name him something obscene.”
The dragon snapped its little jaws near the cloth, not touching Kiernan but making a point. Kiernan, showing the kind of survival instinct that explained why we were still friends after twenty years, held perfectly still.
“Him?” he asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“You said him.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the dragon again. It sneezed purple sparks into my collar.
“Apparently,” I said. “Unless he objects.”
The dragon chirped.
“There. Gender confirmed by squeak.”
Kiernan handed me the cloth without losing any fingers, which felt like a promising diplomatic start. I dampened it and began wiping eggshell fluid from the dragon’s wings. He tolerated it for approximately three seconds before deciding the cloth was an enemy. He bit it, shook it, got one foot tangled, and then yelled at me like I had engineered the betrayal personally.
“You are very dramatic,” I told him.
Kiernan sat back on his heels. “Have you considered that he may be hungry?”
The dragon stopped fighting the cloth and turned toward him. I did too. “Hungry for what?”
“I do not know. Dragons have not exactly been common household pets in living memory.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“Because he is chewing on the cloth.”
“He could be exploring texture.”
“He could be hungry.”
“He could be plotting.”
“He is an infant.”
“You did not see the boot lightning.”
The dragon climbed down from my shoulder to my forearm, then onto the worktable, wobbling as if dignity were a concept he intended to invent later. He sniffed the broken shell. Bit it. Crunched. Froze. Then crunched again, eyes widening.
“Oh,” Kiernan said. “Shell.”
“Is that normal?”
“I have no idea.”
We watched the first dragon hatched in Dominveil in five thousand years eat a piece of his own egg with the intense focus of a scholar decoding a lost language. I pressed a hand to my mouth while Kiernan’s shoulders shook. The dragon looked up sharply, a fragment of violet shell sticking out of his mouth. “I’m not laughing at you,” I said.
The dragon chewed louder. “Terrifying,” Kiernan murmured.
“Shut up.”
The baby finished the piece of shell, licked the cradle, sneezed sparks, and then started nosing through the fragments like a drunk little stormbird. Every time Kiernan shifted, the dragon paused to glare at him, then moved closer to my arm. I rested my hand on the table, palm up, and he immediately crawled into it with the bold entitlement of someone who had been alive for less than ten minutes and already owned property.
My property, apparently.
“What are we calling him?” Kiernan asked.
I looked down at the tiny purple body curled in my hand. Lightning flickered along his spine in soft pulses now, no longer frantic. His eyes were half-lidded, but he kept one suspicious slit aimed at Kiernan.
“I don’t know.”
“You had several terrible egg names.”
“Ferdinand was ahead of its time.”
“No.”
“Egginald had charm.”
“No.”
The dragon made a small crackling sound.
I stroked one careful finger along the ridge between his horns. “Blixt,” I said before I knew I was going to say it.
Kiernan’s gaze lifted to my face. “Lightning.”
“Yeah.”
The dragon’s eyes opened. I smiled despite myself. “Blixt.” He chirped. The sound hit the room, and Starveil answered. Not loudly. Not with banners or trumpets or whatever nonsense courts preferred when trying to turn private moments into property. The walls brightened. The silver leaves beyond the balcony shifted though there was no wind. Somewhere deep in the palace, something old hummed once, low enough that I felt it through the floor and up my legs. Blixt lifted his head, listening. My tattoo flared bright blue-white. The broken Drakenblood hilt in my pack rattled against the chair.
Kiernan went still. I did too. Blixt stood in my palm and spread his tiny wet wings. A thread of purple lightning rose from him, jumped to my tattoo, and then vanished into the room like Starveil had swallowed the spark whole. “What was that?” I asked.
Kiernan’s face had gone pale under the cradle light. “I do not know.”
“I hate that answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
Blixt chirped again, apparently unconcerned by ancient court magic, Drakenblood inheritance, or the fact that his birth had just made an entire palace hum like a tuning fork. He turned in my hand, climbed up my wrist, and tried to wedge himself into the crook of my elbow.
Kiernan exhaled slowly. “We need to tell Mira.”
“No.”
“Ferox.”
“She is pregnant. She has court nonsense. Cassie will turn this into a security incident.”
“It is a security incident.”
“It is a baby.”
“It is a dragon.”
“It is a baby dragon.”
“It is the first dragon hatched in Dominveil in five thousand years.”
“Do not say that like a court report.”
“That is exactly what it is.”
I looked at him over Blixt’s tiny horns. “You are not helping.”
“I am trying to determine whether we are in awe, danger, or bureaucracy.”
“All three. Obviously.”
Blixt yawned. Kiernan’s expression softened all over again, and I pointed at him. “Stop looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you like him.”
“I do like him.”
Blixt hissed.
Kiernan sighed. “I am trying.”
“He is not ready for your face.”
“My face is harmless.”
“Your face has been taking my attention for twenty years. He has a point.” The words left my mouth before I thought through the consequences. Kiernan looked at me. I looked at Blixt. Blixt, useless infant that he was, looked between us and then bit my sleeve. “Rude,” I whispered to him.
Kiernan’s voice went quieter. “Roxy.”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was.”
“Don’t.”
“Because of the dragon?”
“Because of my dignity.”
“Ah.”
“And the dragon.”
Blixt chirped approvingly. Kiernan leaned back against the side of the bed, watching us with an expression that made my chest hurt in several locations. “All right.”
“All right?”
“I will not say the thing.”
“Good.”
“For now.”
“Less good.”
He smiled, and Blixt made another suspicious little noise. I shifted the dragon closer to my chest, partly to soothe him and partly because his body had started trembling again. The hatching had taken more out of him than he wanted us to know, which was stupid because he was the size of a loaf of bread and had no reputation to maintain. I wrapped the soft cloth loosely around his lower body, leaving his wings free, and he tucked his head against me with a grumble.
“There,” I murmured. “You broke out of a five-thousand-year nap, tried to kill a boot, ate your house, named yourself, and made Starveil hum. Productive evening.”
Kiernan laughed softly. “He did not name himself.”
“He answered.”
“He chirped.”
“That is dragon legal consent.”
“I see.”
“You are very uninformed for someone present at history.”
“I will work on that.”
Blixt’s eyes closed. His lightning dimmed to a faint violet glow under his scales, soft and steady. The room smelled like rain, hot copper, citrus from my skin, and the faint vanilla of the lotion I had used after washing ruin dust off my arms earlier. Kiernan’s scent threaded under it, herbs and clean linen and something warm I had never found a name for because naming things made them harder to ignore.
I sat on the floor beside the worktable with my back against the bed, Blixt bundled against my chest. Kiernan sat a careful distance away, close enough to be there, far enough that the dragon did not feel crowded. That was Kiernan. Always finding the distance that let me breathe. Always close enough that I noticed when he wasn’t.
After a while, he said, “He trusts you.”
“He is a baby. His judgment is undeveloped.”
“Ferox.”
I looked down at Blixt because it was easier than looking at him. “What if I mess it up?”
Kiernan did not answer quickly, which meant he was taking the question seriously. I hated that and needed it in equal measure.
“What part?” he asked.
“All of it. Feeding. Magic. Not electrocuting everyone. Not letting some court idiot decide he belongs in a glass box because he is historic. Not becoming the exact kind of person who holds too tight because she is scared of losing something.” My hand tightened on the cloth, and Blixt grumbled in his sleep. I forced my fingers to loosen. “That part especially.”
Kiernan’s eyes softened. “You noticed your hand.”
“That does not make me safe.”
“No. It means you are paying attention.”
“I pay attention and still break things.”
“Yes.”
I looked up sharply. He held my gaze, steady and infuriatingly gentle. “You do. And then you learn where your hands were too hard. You learn what happened before the break. You learn what needs support next time. That is not nothing.”
My throat tightened. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is not simple. It is work.”
“I hate work.”
“You love work. You hate being perceived while doing it.”
“That is unfortunately accurate.”
Blixt sneezed in his sleep, and a tiny violet spark popped against my shirt. I looked down at him. The spark had left a small scorch mark.
“Little menace,” I whispered.
He made a sleepy clicking sound.
Kiernan shifted slightly. Blixt’s eyes slit open at once, his head lifting just enough to glare.
“I am not moving toward your mother,” Kiernan said solemnly.
My entire body went hot. Blixt relaxed. Kiernan looked far too pleased with himself. “Do not call me that,” I said.
“Mother?”
“Kiernan.”
“What should I call you?”
“Ferox. Roxy. Supreme Egg Witness. Anything else.”
“Supreme Egg Witness is tempting.”
“It should be.”
Blixt crawled higher on my chest and hooked his claws into the edge of my top, as if worried Kiernan might win whatever argument he thought was happening.
Kiernan’s mouth softened. “He disagrees.”
“He is biased.”
“He is bonded.” The word landed heavier than I expected.
I brushed one finger along Blixt’s spine. Purple light followed the path. “Do you think so?”
“I think something happened when he saw you.”
“Imprinting.”
“Maybe.”
“That sounds clinical.”
“It is safer than saying fate.”
“Do not say fate.”
“I did not.”
“You implied fate.”
“I implied attachment.”
“Still dangerous.”
Kiernan’s gaze dropped to Blixt, then returned to me. “Most living things are.”
That was too true for the hour. I leaned my head back against the bed and let out a long breath. My room in Starveil no longer felt temporary in the same way. The socks in the drawer had been one thing. The dragon curled against my chest was another. Somewhere in this palace, Mira was going to find out and make an unholy noise. Chula would probably cry quietly and pretend she had not. Tera would say something practical that meant he was afraid. Lireal would look like every ancient warning she had ever read had just stood up and bitten the room. Naomi would ask about containment, because Naomi had the burden of being correct. Cassie would threaten any person who looked at Blixt too greedily, partly because Mira would want to adopt him immediately and partly because Cassie enjoyed being terrifying when morally justified.
And me?
I had no idea what I was going to do.
Blixt slept, warm and electric and impossible, his little claws hooked in my shirt like I was the only stable thing in a world he had entered screaming. I was not stable. I was a storm with painted nails and a history of breaking what I loved. But his breathing settled against me anyway, tiny and trusting, and my lightning curled low under my skin as if it had finally found something it did not want to fight.
Kiernan shifted again, slower this time. Blixt opened one suspicious eye.
“I am staying here,” Kiernan told him. “You may have Ferox’s left side. I claim the floor and whatever dignity remains.”
Blixt made a soft grumbling chirp.
“He accepts your surrender,” I said.
“How generous.”
“He is a noble creature.”
“He tried to eat his shell off your sleeve.”
“Growth mindset.”
Kiernan laughed, and this time Blixt did not hiss. He only watched him, dubious but tired, before closing his eye again. I counted that as progress. Historic progress, possibly. First dragon diplomacy in five thousand years, conducted through surrender, sleeve chewing, and emotional jealousy.
Kiernan leaned his head back against the bed, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched mine. He left the last inch for me. I stared at that inch for several seconds, annoyed by it on principle, then shifted until my shoulder rested against his. Kiernan did not comment. Smart man. Blixt grumbled in his sleep, but he did not wake.
I looked down at the tiny purple dragon on my chest and then at Kiernan’s hand resting loose on the rug beside me, careful, patient, waiting without pretending not to wait. My room smelled like lightning and herbs. Starveil’s walls glowed softly around us. The broken eggshells glittered in the cradle, proof that some histories did not stay buried forever and some things waited thousands of years to become inconvenient at exactly the right time.
“We are not telling Mira until morning,” I said.
Kiernan turned his head slightly. “She will be furious.”
“She is pregnant. She needs sleep.”
“She will say that is not your decision.”
“She says many things.”
“She is your employer.”
“She is a menace.”
“She is also the queen whose palace just reacted to a dragon hatching.”
I closed my eyes. “Fine. We tell her at breakfast.”
“And the healers?”
“After breakfast.”
“Lireal?”
“Absolutely not before coffee.”
“Naomi?”
“After I hide anything she can use to build a containment plan.”
“Chula?”
I opened one eye. “Chula can know.”
Kiernan smiled. “Because she will be gentle?”
“Because she will bring snacks and not paperwork.”
“Reasonable.”
Blixt’s tail twitched, wrapping clumsily around my wrist, and my heart did that stupid too-many-feelings thing again.
Kiernan’s voice softened. “He is beautiful.”
I looked at the dragon, at the tiny horns, the deep purple scales, the faint lightning under his skin, the absurdly dramatic wing draped over my sleeve. “Yeah,” I said, because pretending otherwise would have been insulting to both of us. “He is.”
“And terrifying.”
“Also yes.”
“And yours.”
I should have argued. I did not. Blixt slept against my chest, and for once my lightning did not feel like a warning. It felt like an answer I had not learned how to translate yet. I rested my cheek lightly against the top of his head, careful of the horns, and let myself sit in the impossible quiet between Kiernan’s warmth and the first dragon breath Dominveil had known in five thousand years. “Mine,” I whispered.
Blixt chirped in his sleep, smug little bastard that he was. Kiernan did not say the thing. But his shoulder pressed gently back against mine, and for tonight, that was enough.