Aiona did believe me—I could see the acceptance in her eyes, the way her posture relaxed fractionally when I made my declaration. But despite that belief, her eyes still filled with some type of lingering uncertainty, a wariness that spoke of old wounds and betrayals that had taught her never to trust completely, even when every instinct told her she should. She moved closer to me this time, settling herself nearer than she had ever willingly positioned herself next to me before. The gesture was significant, a wordless statement of trust that meant more than any verbal declaration could have.
We spent considerable time like that, sitting together in companionable silence, simply existing in each other's presence while letting the gentle breeze pass through us. The wind carried the scent of those impossible red-leafed trees and something sweet I couldn't quite identify. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost sacred, as though we had found a pocket of tranquility outside the normal flow of time.
"Rhia, you know," Aiona finally began, breaking the comfortable silence with a voice that emerged low and hesitant, carrying undertones of vulnerability I rarely heard from her. "I don't know about other dragons, how they experience their bonds or what weaknesses those connections might create. But you... you might actually be able to kill me and break the curse, if you truly wanted to. If circumstances drove you to make that choice."
She spoke slowly, carefully, as though weighing each word before releasing it into the air between us. And beneath her measured statement, there were layers of meaning that went unspoken but were no less clear for their silence.
What she was really telling me was that she had placed her complete trust in me, had opened herself in ways that made her fundamentally vulnerable. The bond between us had grown so powerful, so all-encompassing, that she wouldn't be able to resist me at all if I turned against her. She had essentially handed me the weapon that could destroy her and was now trusting that I would never use it. The admission represented a level of faith that was almost terrifying in its completeness.
I smiled at her confession, understanding the magnitude of what she was revealing and wanting to reassure her that her trust wasn't misplaced.
"I give you my word, Aiona," I said softly but with absolute conviction threading through every syllable. "I will never take that path. Even if every circumstance conspires to make it seem like breaking the curse is the only viable option, even if I'm told that failure to do so will result in catastrophe, I will not choose to kill you. That option is permanently closed. It doesn't exist as far as I'm concerned."
I turned to look directly into her eyes, holding her gaze so that my words could travel the full distance between us, so she could see the truth written in my expression and feel the certainty radiating from my very core.
"We have so many years ahead of us together," I continued, deliberately injecting warmth and optimism into my tone, trying to lift the heavy atmosphere that had settled over our conversation. "And we'll share those years with our mate as well! Think about it—aren't we perhaps the luckiest of all dragons to ever exist? We have each other, we have Arvid, we have time and possibility stretching before us. That's more than most beings ever receive."
But my attempt to brighten the increasingly gloomy mood had precisely the opposite effect than I'd intended.
Aiona's expression grew even more somber, her eyes taking on a distant quality as though she were looking at something far beyond the beautiful landscape of her domain.
"Dragons typically carry around one thousand years in their natural lifespan," she said quietly, her voice heavy with a grief that spanned centuries. "But the average human—even with the best care, the finest healers, and the most favorable circumstances—lives only around one hundred years at most. We're going to have to spend nine-tenths of our existence grieving for him, Rhia. We'll love him, cherish him, build a life with him for what will feel like barely an eyeblink in our long existence. And then we'll lose him to age and time, and we'll be left with nine hundred years or more of memories and absence."
Her words hit me with the force of a physical blow. The full weight of what I was choosing—what we were both choosing by loving a mortal—suddenly became devastatingly clear. The graveness of the matter settled over me like a heavy cloak. I would indeed have to face the profound loneliness that would inevitably follow after Arvid said his final goodbye to us. I would mourn him for the rest of my extraordinarily long life, carrying that grief like a stone in my chest for centuries upon centuries.
But strangely, instead of filling me with despair or making me want to reconsider, that realization actually made me smile. Perhaps that reaction should have alarmed me, should have suggested something broken in my thinking. But it felt right somehow.
That was the fate I was consciously choosing, the path I was deliberately walking. And if the pain of eventually losing Arvid was the price for the joy of having him now, then I would pay that price without hesitation or regret. The solution seemed clear enough, at least in theory: I would simply have to surrender myself to the great circle of reincarnation when my time finally came, whenever that distant day arrived. Souls were eternal, after all. They moved through different incarnations, different lives, wearing new faces and living in new circumstances. Surely that meant we would meet again someday. Different circumstances, yes. Different physical appearances, certainly. Different names and histories and contexts. But the same essential connection, the same fundamental love that bound us together.
That thought brought me comfort, strange as it might seem. Even if this life together was limited, even if our time with Arvid was measured in decades rather than centuries, perhaps that wasn't truly the end. Perhaps it was just one chapter in a much longer story.
Right there, sitting in Aiona's transformed domain with the weight of the future pressing down on my shoulders, I found myself offering up a prayer to whatever forces might be listening. To the gods, to the cosmic law that governed existence, to fate itself, to anything and everything that had the power to influence such matters: *Please let us meet again. Even if it takes eons, even if it's in a completely different timeline or an entirely different universe. Please allow our souls to find each other once more. Let this love transcend the boundaries of single lifetimes.*
The prayer felt inadequate to express the depth of what I was asking for, but I sent it out into the universe anyway, hoping it would be heard.
---
When I eventually woke from the deep sleep that had claimed me after my emotional conversation with Aiona, I found that considerable time had passed. Arvid had at some point snuggled up close to me in the bed and was sleeping peacefully, his body curled protectively around mine. His breathing was steady and even, following the deep, regular rhythm of genuine rest rather than the fitful, anxious sleep of someone worried and stressed. Most remarkably, he had a small smile on his face—the first truly peaceful expression I had seen him wear since waking. Whatever nightmares and anxieties had been plaguing him during my long unconsciousness seemed to have finally released their grip, at least temporarily.
I took the opportunity to simply look at him, to study his features in the dim light filtering through the windows. I gently caressed his face with one hand, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone, the slight furrow between his brows that remained even in sleep. I found myself admiring this man I had fallen so completely in love with, memorizing the details of his face as though I might forget them if I didn't pay close enough attention.
My touch, gentle as I tried to make it, was enough to wake him. His eyes fluttered open, taking a moment to focus properly. As soon as he fully registered that it was me touching him, that I was awake and alert and caressing his face, he immediately leaned into my touch like a desperately touch-starved kitten seeking affection. The vulnerability of the gesture made my heart clench. He turned his head to press his lips against my palm, planting a soft kiss there that carried more tenderness than passion.
"What time is it?" he asked groggily, his voice rough with sleep and still heavy with exhaustion despite the rest he'd gotten.
To provide him with an answer, I turned my attention toward the windows. The sun had completely disappeared beyond the horizon. The moon had risen to take its place in the sky, and by the silvery moonlight streaming through the open balcony doors, everything outside had been painted in shades of silver and shadow. The gentle breeze that had been present when I'd fallen asleep was still moving through the space, causing the white curtains to sway in a hypnotic, rhythmic dance. Good heavens, just how many hours had we been sleeping? It must have been most of the day at minimum.
"It appears to be nighttime," I answered, stating the obvious but unable to provide a more specific assessment without access to a timepiece.
Arvid sat up slowly, moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose body was still protesting after weeks of inadequate rest and high stress. He looked out toward the balcony, taking in the moonlit scene beyond, and let out a weak, contemplative sound—"Hm"—that suggested he was processing the passage of time and perhaps feeling slightly guilty about sleeping so long.
Then he turned his attention back to me, and his expression brightened considerably.
"Have you seen the view from the balcony yet?" he asked, pointing toward those open doors through which moonlight and breeze were flowing. "The nighttime vista from this room is quite spectacular."
"No, not yet," I admitted. "I only just woke up myself."
He extended his arm toward me in a silent invitation, offering to help me experience this view he clearly valued. I accepted his hand gratefully, slowly rising from the extremely comfortable bed that I had occupied for far too long. My body protested the movement after four months of disuse, muscles weak and unaccustomed to bearing my weight.
Arvid helped me carefully descend from the tall bed, supporting most of my weight as my long-unused limbs gradually remembered how to function properly. I had to concentrate on the simple act of standing, on convincing my legs to bear my weight without collapsing. The sensation of the ground beneath my feet felt strange, foreign, as though I had forgotten what solid surfaces felt like. The floor, I realized as my feet sank slightly into its surface, was completely carpeted with thick, plush material that created an almost ticklish sensation against my bare soles.
With his patient assistance and considerable physical support, I finally managed to make my way out onto the balcony. The transition from the enclosed bedroom to the open air was dramatic—the temperature dropped slightly, the breeze became more pronounced, and suddenly I could see the full expanse of the world beyond our room.
What spread before us in the moonlight was something truly extraordinary, a scene unlike anything I had ever witnessed before in all my travels. The building we were occupying was clearly quite tall—I estimated we must be on the fifth floor at minimum, possibly higher. From this elevated vantage point, I could see that the structure possessed a massive garden spreading out below us. Even in the darkness, illuminated only by moonlight, the garden's scope and beauty were evident. Carefully manicured pathways wound between what appeared to be elaborate plantings, and I could make out the shapes of fountains and decorative structures scattered throughout.
Beyond the high walls that marked the end of this property's boundaries, the city of Auga spread out in all directions as far as I could see. Houses were packed together with varying degrees of density—some areas showing structures practically touching their neighbors, other sections allowing for more space between buildings. The streets threading through this urban landscape were lit with oil lamps positioned at regular intervals, creating ribbons of warm golden light that contrasted beautifully with the cool silver of moonlight. Individual houses also displayed their own lamps, small points of illumination glowing from windows and doorways, each one representing a family, a life, a story unfolding within those walls.
This entire scene—the interplay of lamplight and moonlight, the geometric patterns created by streets and buildings, the sense of life continuing even in the depth of night—painted an absolutely beautiful picture against the backdrop of the starry, moonlit sky. The stars themselves were remarkable, visible in far greater numbers than I was accustomed to seeing in Draga. They spread across the heavens like diamonds scattered on dark velvet, so numerous they almost seemed to merge into rivers of light in some places.
"It's beautiful," I whispered, barely breathing the words, afraid that speaking too loudly might somehow shatter the perfection of the moment. I found myself trying to take in every detail simultaneously, wanting to memorize this view.
Arvid nodded in agreement, his own gaze sweeping across the moonlit cityscape with obvious appreciation. "Tomorrow, we should visit the Temple of Auga," he suggested, his voice carrying a note of enthusiasm. "It's even more beautiful than this view, though in a completely different way. The architecture alone is worth seeing—it's considered one of the great wonders of the southern kingdoms."
"Alright," I agreed readily, genuinely curious to see this temple he spoke of with such admiration.
"And I want you to meet someone as well," Arvid added, his tone shifting to something warmer, more personal. "A childhood friend of mine. Someone who's been important to my life for many years now."
*A friend?* Aiona's voice suddenly chimed in my mind, appearing without warning and carrying a note of suspicion that made me want to roll my eyes at her protectiveness.
*It's just a friend,* I told her firmly through our mental connection. *He's allowed to have friends. Stop being paranoid.*
"Who is this friend?" I asked Arvid aloud, unable to suppress my curiosity about someone who had remained important enough to him to merit this introduction.
"The high priest of Kima," Arvid answered, and I could hear the genuine affection in his voice as he spoke. "His name is Elian. He and I spent two formative years together here in Auga when we were young. I was only eleven years old when I first arrived in this kingdom—sent here by my master as part of my education and training. I spent two full years in Kima, and that's how Elian and I met. We were both young, both somewhat lost in our own ways, and we formed a bond that's endured despite the very different paths our lives have taken."
He paused, a small smile playing at his lips as he clearly recalled fond memories.
"Elian wrote to me regularly over the years that followed," Arvid continued. "While he was climbing the ecclesiastical ladder here in Kima, working his way through the various ranks of the priesthood, I was traveling with my master, training in combat and strategy and leadership. We kept each other informed about our respective journeys. He became high priest just one year before I claimed the imperial throne—we celebrated each other's achievements from a distance. He's helped me considerably over the years, providing counsel and assistance in ways that proved invaluable to my success. He's admittedly a bit cunning and quite skilled at scheming when the situation requires it, but he's not a bad person at heart. His machinations are generally aimed at positive outcomes, at protecting people and advancing worthy causes."
The affection and respect in Arvid's voice were unmistakable. This Elian was clearly someone he valued highly.
"I assume he's older than you?" I asked, trying to piece together a picture of this person from the information Arvid was providing.
Arvid nodded in confirmation. "By three years, yes. He was fourteen when I was eleven—old enough to seem impossibly sophisticated and worldly to my younger self, but young enough that we could still relate to each other as peers rather than as adult and child."
That made this high priest remarkably young for such an elevated position. Most religious hierarchies I was familiar with placed considerable emphasis on age and accumulated wisdom, typically reserving their highest positions for elderly individuals who had spent decades working their way through the ranks.
Arvid apparently sensed my confusion, because he immediately launched into an explanation without me having to voice my question.
"In Kima, the priesthood doesn't require age or seniority to climb the ladder of ecclesiastical authority," he clarified. "Their system is quite different from what you might be accustomed to in Draga or other kingdoms. Here, positions are determined primarily by how much divine power an individual priest can demonstrate and channel. It's a meritocracy based on spiritual strength rather than years of service."
He gestured broadly, as though trying to illustrate the system he was describing.
"Every year on one specific day in the height of summer, the Kima Kingdom opens its gates wide to outsiders—to anyone who needs healing, regardless of their origin or ability to pay. People flood into Auga from all surrounding territories like moths drawn to flame, seeking cures for ailments that have plagued them, hoping for miracles. And on that same day, the competition for the position of high priest officially opens. It's both a day of service and a day of testing."
"How does the competition work?" I asked, fascinated despite myself by this unusual system.
"Every healing performed by every priest in the kingdom is carefully recorded by observers," Arvid explained. "They track not just the number of people healed, but also the severity of the conditions addressed and the completeness of the cures. At midnight, when the day of healing officially ends, all the records are compiled and assessed. Whoever has healed the most patients, demonstrated the greatest spiritual power, and achieved the most remarkable results becomes the high priest for the following year. It's an extraordinarily demanding test—maintaining that level of healing power for an entire day, from sunrise to midnight, requires immense spiritual reserves and incredible stamina."
He paused, his expression showing clear pride in his friend's achievements.
"Elian has held that seat for four consecutive years now," Arvid said with obvious admiration. "Four years in a row of outperforming every other priest in the kingdom. That level of sustained divine power is virtually unprecedented in Kima's history. Most high priests hold the position for a year or perhaps two before someone with greater ability surpasses them. But Elian just keeps winning, year after year."
Which meant this Elian possessed an absolutely remarkable amount of divine power—power that apparently far exceeded that of any other priest in the kingdom. Suddenly I found myself intensely curious to meet this person, to see for myself what kind of individual could command such extraordinary spiritual authority at such a young age. I wanted to meet him, to observe him, to figure out what made him exceptional enough to have earned not just the high priest position but also Arvid's enduring friendship and respect.
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.