Chapter 138 My Favourite Adventure Yet
Bella
Damien's dragon lowers one enormous claw, talons curling with impossible care, and waits. I step into it without hesitation. The moment his grip closes, I’m lifted and pressed gently against the warm shield of his chest—one massive forelimb curves around me, protecting me from the world. Heat seeps through my clothes, like a living hearth, and I tuck my arms instinctively, fingers catching in the ridges of his scales, and then the ground is gone. Then we rise into the sky. The mountains peel away beneath us in slow layers, snow giving way to dark stone, then forests stitched together with moonlight. Wind rushes past my ears, pulling breath from my lungs and laughter from somewhere deep in my chest. His wings beat in long, powerful strokes that I feel through my ribs more than I hear, the air bending around us like it knows better than to argue. I tilt my head back and look up. The stars are everywhere. They are scattered, layered and endless. We climb through them until the world below softens into something unreal, lights threading through valleys like constellations turned upside down. The village sits tucked against the mountainside, warm and alive, tiny fires glowing like embers caught in a cupped hand. I spot movement even from here, a few late wanderers, a dragon shifting position, a flurry of frost dancing where children absolutely should be sleeping. The dragon rumbles, a sound that is between pride and joy, and banks east. The kingdom comes into view, sprawling and familiar and suddenly small in a way it never felt when I first arrived. Towers gleam softly, courtyards rest, the river curves like a ribbon of ink through silvered land. I see the gardens, the halls, the windows where light still burns because someone is always awake, always working, always caring. I press my cheek to his chest and let myself feel it. This is mine too. We descend slowly, circling once, twice, and then he lands with deliberate grace in the vast space before our home. Snow puffs outward from my joy, and stone hums faintly beneath his weight. He lowers me carefully until my boots meet solid ground, then withdraws his claw as if I might break if he’s not careful. The heat leaves me immediately, and I shiver slightly.
“Show-off,” I mutter fondly, patting his foreleg.
He snorts, amused. Then magic ripples as heat folds inward, scales giving way to skin and bone and breath, and Damien stands where the dragon was. I pull a cloak from a nearby bench and settle it around his shoulders. He looks flushed from the shift, eyes bright, smile already waiting for me.
“Did you enjoy the view?” he asks.
“I think my soul left my body somewhere over the northern ridge,” I say. “I’ll collect it later.”
He laughs and offers his hand. I take it, fingers lacing together with familiar ease, and he leads me inside without explanation. We move through corridors I know by heart now, past doors and staircases and quiet spaces that hold history. Staff nod as we pass, smiling, offering greetings, clearly in on something I am not. Damien doesn’t slow down, and he doesn’t speak. His thumb presses into my knuckles once, reassuring me as we stop at a door I don’t recognise.
“Before you open it,” he says, turning to face me, “I should warn you that Marius has been working on it for… a concerning amount of time.”
“That explains the energy in this place,” I reply solemnly.
He opens the door, and light pours out. A wide window dominates the far wall, framed in pale wood, moonlight spilling across the floor in a soft wash. Plants line the sill and shelves beneath it, leaves glossy and alive, some trailing, some upright, all carefully arranged. Candles rest in clusters on side tables and along the mantle, unlit for now. There’s a desk there too, worn smooth and wide, and a typewriter sits centred on it. The keys gleam faintly, and a fresh ribbon is threaded and ready. In front of it is the comfiest-looking chair known to man. It's fluffy and white, and I can't help but squeal as I skip over to it, sit and spin once. My eyes then land on the bookshelves that line one wall, empty but expectant. Then at my feet sits a deep blue rug that warms the floor. I scan the room once more, then look back at the door where Marius and Damien stand, waiting. Marius has his hands clasped behind his back, trying very hard to look casual and failing spectacularly. His hair is rumpled, and there’s ink on his fingers. He watches me like a man awaiting judgment.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Damien stays quiet.
“This is…” I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in, every detail, every thoughtful choice. “This is perfect.”
Marius exhales so hard his shoulders drop an inch.
“Damien said you wanted plants,” he blurts. “Plants and candles, light, oh and he said you didn’t want the desk facing the wall because you said it felt like being punished, and—”
I cross the room in three strides and hug him. He freezes. Then, carefully, he pats my shoulder like someone who has never hugged a king's mate before and is unsure of the rules.
“Thank you,” I say fiercely. “You did an incredible job.”
He beams, bows and leaves. Damien watches with a soft smile, pride warming his gaze. Then he steps closer and gestures to the desk.
“Now,” he says, voice low and certain, “you can write a story.”
I glance back at him, brow arching.
“Oh?”
“About us,” he adds, unapologetic. “If you want... Or about anything. I just wanted you to have a place that’s yours.”
I trail my fingers over the desk, over the keys of the typewriter, imagining words spilling out, lives unfolding, stories shaped by choice instead of survival. I turn back to him with my heart full.
“I think,” I say softly, “this might be my favourite adventure yet.”
He steps in and presses a kiss to my temple, lingering there with his arms around my waist.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”