Page 27 of Echoes of Fire

It wasn’t flirtation, not really. Rath wasn’t posturing—he was simply delivering an unfiltered truth. A fact, delivered the way one might observe a shift in the wind or the steady glow of a distant star. And yet, those three words sunk their claws into me with far more force than anything practiced or contrived evercould. They left me reeling, tangled in sensations I hadn’t quite found the nerve to name.

I swallowed hard, helpless against the flush that crept up my neck. My head dipped slightly, instinct pulling me away from the direct line of his gaze in a feeble attempt to collect myself. “It’s the candy,” I muttered, the excuse spilling out too quickly, too obviously, as if the absurdity of it could dissolve the gravity of what had just happened.

“The candy,” Rath repeated, his tone edged with faint amusement, but it wasn’t dismissive. If anything, his voice sounded lighter now, less hesitant. He watched me steadily, his head tilting slightly to the side. A faint curve played at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable—less a grin and more the shadow of something that might’ve been softness, had it belonged to anyone else.

“Yes, the candy,” I insisted like it mattered. “Artificial sugar, weird additives. Science, or … something.” My hands gestured vaguely, but even I didn’t believe the excuse as it left me.

His breath left him in a quiet huff—not an outright laugh, but close enough to trail warmth through the space between us. He took a step back, the movement so measured it felt less like retreat and more like careful consideration. His eyes didn’t stray from mine, still holding steady in that way that sent sparks tracing along my nerves, even as the distance afforded me some scrap of relief.

The return of the background noises—whispered murmurs from lingering Drakarn nearby—felt abrupt, like the outside world had forced itself back into focus before either of us was ready for it. I wasn’t sure what was worse: the crowd’s judgement-lined gazes or the lingering hum in the air from Rath’s proximity, charged despite the subtle distance now between us.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rath said, voice quiet but resolute. “The stares will only grow heavier.” His hand, still steady even as mine trembled faintly by comparison, extended forward—an invitation rather than an assumption. “Away from this.”

For all my hesitation, my fingers brushed against his without thinking, drawn forward more by the weight of his presence than any conscious decision on my part. His touch was steadying, a quiet guide away from the turmoil still echoing through the arena.

In a swift motion, Rath stepped closer, his arms and tail wrapping securely around me as his wings spread wide. The rush of movement that followed—the leap into the air—stole my breath as the ground disappeared below us. His strength, the sheer solidity of him beneath and around me, was grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.

As the city’s sprawling depths gave way to the open expanse of sky, a new kind of quiet settled around us—thicker, calmer, where the muted roar of the wind carried no judgment or expectation. I leaned into him, the warmth of his scales blocking out the cool bite of the wind, and my stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the flight.

It wasn’t until we began aiming for the soft, glowing light of a familiar space nestled high above the city that I understood where he was taking me.

“Your sanctuary,” I murmured, my voice tinged with something quieter than awe but no less full of wonder.

Rath tilted his head slightly, glancing back at me just as the sanctuary’s crystalline shimmer began to catch and reflect the light. “Yes,” he said softly, matter-of-fact as always, but with a deeper purpose stitched into the single word. “It is what you need.” His wings flexed once as we descended fully, slowing to land gracefully on the secluded cliffs below.

When my feet found solid ground again, he didn’t step away, not immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered, searching for something—I wasn’t sure what—but finding some answer all the same.

I didn’t look away.

The air in the sanctuary shifted the moment we landed inside. It looked the same as before—the light filtering delicately through the overhead openings, scattering soft reflections across the pools dotting the cavern floor. But there was something different about it now, some newfound weight in the silence, heavier and more profound than the first time I’d been there. I stood just past the entrance, my fingers skimming the rough stone, and let the space breathe around me. The tension in my chest eased.

Rath moved farther inside, his wings pulling tight against his back, steps uncharacteristically careful. He didn’t look back at me, at least not right away. Instead, he let out a breath, the sound carried away by the quiet.

Here, in this place, his usual sharpness seemed muted. Not absent—Rath was never truly at ease—but less rigid, his presence more thoughtful and drawn inward. He paused near one of the pools, his back to me, his head tilting slightly in the way it did when he was weighing something unspoken.

I hovered near the entrance, reluctant to disturb the fragile peace unfolding before me. My hand lingered on the stone for a moment longer before I forced myself to step forward, movements slower than his, less sure. The sanctuary’s beauty pressed softly into my awareness, an ache of something I couldn’t quite name settling beneath my ribs.

“Rath,” I murmured, his name slipping through the quiet.

At the sound, he turned to face me. He didn’t speak immediately, studying me with that unyielding intensity that seemed to see too much. His tail flicked slightly againstthe ground, a motion that betrayed whatever storm lingered beneath the surface. When the silence stretched just enough to become awkward, I forced myself to step closer, drawn forward as much by the heat of his gaze as by some need to fill the void.

I stopped a few paces away, my arms crossing over my chest as I tried to steady the unease knotting between my lungs. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” I admitted, the words emerging unpolished, trembling slightly on their way out. “Why you care so much.”

Rath’s posture shifted, but his expression didn’t falter. If anything, his gaze softened slightly, though it carried the same depth. He said nothing for a long moment, his head tilting faintly, weighing whether I was truly ready to understand the answer.

His claws flexed absently at his sides before his voice broke the stillness. “Your world,” he began, his words deliberate, unhurried. “Your people. You’ve lost much. I see it in you. The way you carry it.”

His honesty sliced through me, sharp and unavoidable. My breath hitched slightly, and I tightened my arms across myself. Rath had always been direct, but this felt different—less like an observation and more like a confession.

“I know what it means to lose,” he continued, his tone quieter, a faint roughness creeping into its edges. His gaze shifted, no longer fixed rigidly on me but staring somewhere past the pools that flickered faintly with light. “My sister … she was fierce. Brilliant. Everything I was not.” A pause lingered between his words, thick and heavy as memory pressed against them. “And then she was gone.”

My throat tightened. Rath was standing there, unraveling pieces of himself in a way that left me breathless. My voice was thready when I found it again. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted his gaze back to me then. “Sorry won’t bring anything back,” he said softly, though there was no anger in the words—only a quiet kind of resignation. “But I am sorry too, for what you carry.”

The rawness in his voice undid something in me. In the span of heartbeats, the carefully constructed barriers I’d built around my grief wavered, threatening to collapse entirely. I took a small step closer, unsure of what I was reaching for but needing to close the gap between us all the same.

“You don’t have to shoulder that alone,” I said, surprising even myself with the quiet conviction in my voice. The words felt foreign on my tongue, unfamiliar but true.

---