Chapter 67 The Gecko, the King and the Curse
Bella
When I step back into the room, still towelling my hair and wrapped in what can only generously be called a towel, I stop dead. Because the Dragon King has company. Gilfred, my traitorous little gecko, is perched on Damien’s shoulder like a smug emerald crown jewel, tail curled lazily around his neck. Damien looks… unnerved. Which is saying something, considering the man stared down an army of dragons yesterday without blinking. We lock eyes. His expression is halfway between disbelief and resignation.
“This creature,” he says slowly, “crawled under my door and has decided to take residence on my shoulder. I don’t understand it.”
Gilfred tilts his head, unbothered.
I bite back a grin. “He looks comfortable.”
“He’s heavy,” Damien mutters.
“You’re a dragon. You can carry me, but not a gecko?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “He hisses when I try to move him.”
“Then I’d say he’s claimed you,” I tease. “Congratulations, he’s your new familiar.”
Damien sighs like a man accepting his fate. Gilfred chirps approvingly, which only makes me laugh harder. The sound seems to catch Damien off-guard—his gaze flicks up and down, taking in the towel, the damp hair, the very distinct lack of clothing. His throat works as he swallows.
“I was going to get dressed,” I say, pretending not to notice the way his eyes linger.
“You’re not going anywhere like that,” he says immediately, voice rougher than usual. “The corridors are full of people.”
“Relax, I was going to my own room.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll bring you something.”
“Damien, I can walk twenty feet—”
“I said I’ll bring it.” He’s already halfway to the door before I can argue, muttering something about decency and assassins.
When he’s gone, I shake my head, still smiling, and wander over to the desk. The papers strewn across it weren’t there last night. Old maps, scrolls with curling edges, pages thick with inked sigils and runes. Curiosity wins. I lean over the desk, scanning the markings. Some of the pages are written in an unfamiliar script, but others I can make out. The Frost Decree. Consortium of Crowns. Glacial Sanctum. My stomach twists. By the time Damien returns with his arms full of neatly folded clothes and an expression somewhere between flustered and fond, I’m sitting in his chair, surrounded by history.
He stops short. “You went through my research.”
“You left it out,” I counter, tugging one map closer. “And you weren’t exactly going to tell me you’ve been studying my entire bloodline while I was in the bath.”
He hesitates, then sets the clothes down and joins me, his tone shifting from embarrassed to serious. “I was going to tell you. I just needed to understand it first.”
“Then start explaining.”
“There’s a connection,” he begins, resting a hand on the table. “Between all of this—the storms, the Sanctum, the Witch—and you. And I think I finally understand it.”
“Go on,” I say carefully.
“These records,” he continues, motioning to the scrolls, “are fragments of something older than the Frost Decree. Before it was a sentence, it was a covenant. A pact between my kind and yours.”
I blink. “A pact?”
He nods. “Long before the kingdoms turned on each other, dragons and Frostborn, or Ice elementals as we call them these days, kept the balance. Fire guarding ice. Ice tempering fire. It was how the seasons stayed steady—how the world stayed alive. The Glacial Sanctum wasn’t built to imprison; it was built to preserve that balance.”
He pauses, his fingers brushing the edge of the parchment like he can still feel the age in it. “But when the first Frostborn—the Witch—traded her heart for immortality, everything changed. The bond between flame and frost shattered. The dragons withdrew to the south, and fear spread through the kingdoms. What had been protection turned into punishment.”
My chest tightens. “The Frost Decree.”
He nods. “The kings rewrote the covenant into law. Anyone who couldn’t control their emotions—anyone too powerful—was exiled to the Sanctum. They thought if they buried the Frostborn far enough north, they could bury the storms with them.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “So that worked out well.”
His jaw flexes. “The Witch made sure it didn’t. She became the warden of that prison, binding every Frostborn heart to her own. The colder you are, the stronger she becomes. When you feel warmth, when you start to thaw, it weakens her hold—and she hunts you before you can prove the curse can be broken.”
I stare at the scrolls, at the looping script that looks too elegant for something so cruel. “So the storms, the cold that follows me—it’s not a punishment?”
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s inheritance. Her influence runs through your bloodline, but it’s not who you are. The Witch wants you to believe the cold defines you, because as long as you do, she stays in control.”
My throat works around a lump that won’t go down. “And you think that changed when we…”
“When we bonded,” he finishes. “Yes.”
His gaze drops briefly to the faint shimmer of his mark over my shoulder. “When fire met frost again, the balance shifted. The storm didn’t just break, it let go.”
Something inside me loosens—a click, soft and sure, like a lock coming undone. “Then we just have to make sure it stays that way.”
“Which means finding her first,” he says, scanning the spread of maps. “Every record I’ve found points to one location—the first altar of the Glacial Sanctum. The place where she severed her heart. If she still draws power from it…”
“That’s where we end her,” I finish.
He meets my gaze, molten gold meeting frost. “Together.”
Silence stretches for a long moment. The candlelight flickers over his face, over the faint blue mark glowing through his shirt. Gilfred shifts on the desk, chirping once, as if agreeing.
I let out a slow breath, a strange smile tugging at my lips. “Then I guess we have a road trip to plan.”
Damien’s mouth curves into something between a smile and a challenge. “You’re not ready for the mountains yet, Snowflake.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, tugging the towel a little tighter, “but give me a day—and clothes that actually fit—and we’ll see who’s ready.”
The dragon’s low chuckle hums in both our heads at once, warm and wicked. I like her fire.
I roll my eyes. “You would.”
Damien only smiles, quiet and certain. “So do I.”