Chapter 2

Clotilda Robbins POV:

The morning light filtering through the grime on the lower ward's single barred window was gray and lifeless.

The folded parchment against my ribs, the stiff edges digging into my skin through the thin cotton of my tunic.

Beside my cot, in the wooden trough, Nora let out a weak cough, her tiny chest hitching under my old shawl.

I leaned forward, my abdominal muscles burning as if sewn together with hot twine, and reached out to tuck the rough wool tighter around her shoulders.

The brass latch of the door gave a measured, metallic click.

It was not the violent kick of Nurse Elara, nor the careless shove of Declan Foster.

The door opened smoothly on oiled hinges, and a tall figure stepped over the threshold into the damp gloom of the cell.

I stiffened instantly, my spine locking, my arms sweeping across the wooden trough to shield Nora and Leo behind my back.

The man paused three paces inside the room, his head tilted slightly downward to avoid striking the low lintel of the door.

He was draped in the pristine, snow-white wool of a Royal Dragon Healer.

Embroidered along the cuffs and sweeping down his broad lapels were intricate threads of pure gold, catching the faint gray light and casting a soft, shimmering reflection against the moldy limestone walls.

Pinned over his left breast was a radiant crest—a golden dragon soaring through an unyielding ring of fire.

The sigil of the Stephens family of Dawncrest.

"Peace, child," the man said softly, his hands rising slightly in an open, placating gesture. "I am Eben Stephens. I am a healer. I mean you and your little ones no harm."

His voice was deep, resonant, and carried an undercurrent of soothing power that vibrated against my eardrums.

With his movement, a faint draft swept through the stagnant air of the ward, carrying the rich, sharp scent of ozone, aged cedar, and ancient, banked dragonfire.

My lungs seized, my racing pulse stuttering at the overwhelming presence radiating from him.

A high-ranking noble.

A master healer who served only the Great Houses of the realm.

What was an elder of the sacred Stephens lineage doing down here, in the filth of the Dragonless gutters?

"I have no coin for royal medicine, Sir," I forced out, my voice cracking, my chin lifting in a desperate attempt to look dangerous despite my shaking limbs. "Lord Harris gave fifty silvers to clear my bed fee. Take what the clerk demands and leave us."

Eben Stephens did not answer immediately.

His deep amethyst eyes, ringed with faint rings of pale gold, locked onto my face.

For a fraction of a second, the man's breath caught audibly in his throat.

His gaze moved slowly over my hollowed cheekbones, the straight line of my nose, the curve of my jaw, and finally fixed upon my eyes.

Pure, unyielding gold, the color of ancient molten ore, staring back at him through matted, dark hair.

His tall frame shuddered, a barely perceptible twitch rippling through his broad shoulders.

He stepped closer, completely unbothered by the soiled straw on the stones or the rusted iron of the bedstead.

As he tilted his head to examine me, his eyes drifted toward the hollow behind my left ear.

I knew what he was looking at. There, half-hidden beneath my hair, lay a faint, pale birthmark the shape of a jagged lightning spark.

Then I discovered that Eben's throat worked violently.

His hand, adorned with an antique ring of heavy gold, trembled as he reached down and unclasped a polished black-wood satchel from his hip, resting it upon the wobbly iron table.

It made my blood run cold. A royal Dragon Healer should not look at a Dragonless stray like that. He recognized something. And that recognition felt more dangerous than any blade.

"There is no fee today, My Lady," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register so thick with restrained emotion that the hair on my arms stood on end. "I am simply conducting the morning rounds of the newborn wards."

"My Lady?"

I let out a dry, bitter scoff.

"Do not mock me. I am a Dragonless cast-off in a charity trough. Call me what your masters call me."

Eben did not rise to the bait.

Instead, he moved with agonizing slowness toward the trough, giving me ample time to see every motion of his hands.

He reached down, his long fingers glowing with a soft, peach-colored warmth—a low-tier therapeutic dragonfire that radiated the soothing heat of a hearth fire on a winter night.

He lightly brushed the backs of his fingers against Nora's forehead, then Leo's chest.

At the touch of that gentle heat, my daughter stopped her shivering, her tiny hands uncurling, letting out a soft sigh as the warmth soaked into her cold bones.

Leo's breathing steadied instantly, his little mouth working as if nursing in his sleep.

I stared at the healer's glowing hands, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I had begged Nurse Elara for three hours just for a bowl of warmed broth, and she had laughed in my face.

Yet this royal lord was using his sacred inner fire to comfort two nameless babes in a ditch.

"They are strong," Eben murmured, his eyes suspiciously bright as he withdrew his hands and turned fully toward me. "Very strong. But their mother is running on fumes. You have bled heavily, child."

"I am fine," I lied, my knuckles turning white against the coarse blanket.

"Humor an old physician," he said softly, lifting a small velvet roll from his satchel.

He unrolled it to reveal three pristine crystal vials and a single, slender needle crafted from a dark, blood-red metal that looked heavier than lead.

Dragonslayer Gold.

The metal born of the First Dragon's death, the ancient bane and absolute truth-teller of all dragonkind.

My instincts screamed at me to pull back.

Commoners were forbidden from touching Dragonslayer Gold under pain of public execution.

"What is that?" I demanded, shrinking back against the headboard.

"A simple diagnostic pin," Eben said smoothly, though his voice wavered slightly at the edges. "I need a single drop of your blood to ensure no childbed fever has poisoned your core. It will sting for a second. Nothing more."

I looked from the dark red needle to the peaceful faces of my children in the trough.

If I died of fever in this cell, Nora and Leo would die with me.

Slowly, reluctantly, I extended my right arm, bruised and pale, toward the healer.

"Quickly," I whispered.

Eben took my wrist.

His touch was reverent, his fingers holding my arm as though it were carved of fragile spun glass.

He brought the Dragonslayer Gold needle down, the tip pricking the pad of my index finger.

A sharp, searing heat, unlike any iron cut I had ever known, flared through my fingertip.

A thick bead of dark red blood welled up from the tiny puncture.

Eben moved with lightning speed.

He caught the droplet on a strip of thick, ceremonial parchment he pulled from his breast pocket.

Then, his fingers shaking so violently the crystal vials rattled in his kit, he withdrew a small, dull red ingot of Dragonslayer Gold from his pouch and pressed it directly against the wet crimson stain on the paper.

The moment the dark metal touched my blood, the air in the cell grew scorching hot.

A violent hiss, like water dumped into a smelting furnace, echoed off the stone walls.

The dark red blood began to boil furiously, bubbling and spitting on the surface of the parchment.

Right before my widening eyes, the dark crimson color stripped away, peeling back like dead leaves in an autumn gale, revealing a luminous, blinding, liquid pure gold underneath.

The pure golden light surged upward, casting a brilliant, warm halo across Eben's face, illuminating the tears streaming down his lined cheeks.

Eben staggered back half a step, hitting the iron table and sending the water basin sloshing to the floor.

He clamped his hand over his mouth, a choked, ragged sob tearing from his chest.

"By the First Dragon..." he whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. "Twenty-two years in the dark..."

I pulled my hand back against my ribs, staring at the glowing, golden stain on the parchment in sheer terror.

"What is that?" I cried, my voice trembling. "What is wrong with my blood? Tell me!"

Eben dropped to his knees right there in the damp straw, his pristine white robes dragging through the filth of the lower ward.

He bowed his head until his forehead nearly touched the edge of my cot, his hands carefully holding the glowing parchment aloft.

"Nothing is wrong with your blood, My Lady," the Royal Healer wept, looking up at me with an awe that bordered on holy terror. "Your blood is the purest fire this kingdom has ever known. You are home, Princess. You are finally home."