Page 133 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“Home is…” He blew out a breath. “Expectations.”
“How so?” Alaire’s brows drew together.
“Being heir to House Aetheris is tied to expectations. My destiny is duty—to my crown, my territory, my family. It always comes first—before me, before anything else.” He tipped his chin further back. “My childhood was a slew of endless council meetings, all dull and formal, but necessary. I was lucky to have Dexter to guide me through it.”
Alaire didn’t bother to hide her dramatic eye roll.Barf.
“Home was a castle that barely felt lived in. It was rigid and stuffy. For the number of people always around, it still felt lonely. I already told you I didn’t grow up with my father around. My mother was busy with state matters, alliances, and her seat on the Consortium. I had Caius and later Beck.” His throat bobbed. “It wasn’t perfect, but I don’t have much to complain about.” His eyes lingered on the shadows stretching beyond the trees before returning to her.
The loneliness in his words struck her.
“What happened that day at the Crux when you were sparring?” he asked suddenly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, you mean the day you decided to play knight in shining armor.”
“More like prince in shining armor.” He gave her a lazy wink.
Alaire drummed her fingers on her lap, each tap filling the growing quiet between them. “Sickness spread through the orphanage swiftly and often. Without a soulwarden to ease the illnesses completely, children suffered far longer than they should have.”
Her fingers stilled as she focused on the ground, losing herself in blades of grass as if she could still see those sallow faces. “A fierce round of fever hit us hard. I developed a hacking cough that wouldn’t go away. Tightening in my lungs would always precede the coughing. Weeks passed, and once it finally began to subside, it returned whenever I ran or played.” She twisted her fingers in the grass, grounding herself. “Eventually, a healer diagnosed me with breathlock—an affliction of the lungs when the tubes in your airways tighten and close, triggered by allergens, sickness, panic, or anxiety.”
She hated the wordaffliction. It felt like a brand burned into her, a permanent reminder of weakness.
Dawson untangled his fingers and propped an elbow on his knee. “Is that why I’ve seen you take a deep breath into your palms sometimes?”
Alaire’s cheeks reddened. She pulled out the silver compact. “Yes. It’s called a breathbind reliquary. A soulwarden gave it to me, imbued with potent magic usually reserved for the fae. Inside is the essence of windroot, a rare herb that eases my airways when I’m on the verge of an attack.”
She tossed it to Dawson. “See for yourself.”
He examined the small device that had saved her countless times since arriving at Aeris Academy.
“It’s small things like this that, if willingly shared with humans, would greatly improve lives. Everyone deserves equal care—especially children.”
Dawson said nothing. His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing at his temple as he stared at the tool.
He stood and closed the gap between them in three strides. Holding his palm open, he carefully offered it back to her.
Gently, she took it and slipped it into her pocket. The metal was still warm from his touch. Her fingers tingled.
Dawson craned his neck, scanning the clearing. “Where did those two go off to? They should be back by now.”
“Solflara probably used Beck to find food and then ditched him.”
“Or they could be up to something else.” A sly smirk spread across his face as he settled back down.
“I do so enjoy that smirk. It’ll be a shame when Solflara melts it off your face.”
“Threatening me with your phoenix? I always prefer it when you handle me yourself.” Dawson flashed one of his patented half-smirks.
“Work smarter, not harder, Knox.” She gave him a genuine smile.
He answered with a full one this time, as if he were memorizing every detail of her face in the firelight.
Alaire nestled against her pack, curling onto her side to face him. She felt a world away from Aeris Academy, from responsibilities and the weight of court expectations. For tonight, they were just Dawson and Alaire. She shouldn’t have liked how that sounded. But, like everything else about the arrogant prince, she did.
“What does your tattoo mean?”
“Pardon?”
