Chapter 74 The Dream In Frost
Bella
By the time the sun dips behind the hills, I’ve decided that travelling with a dragon king, a loudmouthed best friend, and a smug reptile should count as an extreme endurance test. Ashlyn hasn’t stopped talking since we left the castle. Gilfred has taken up permanent residence in my lap, his little tail thumping whenever the wagon jolts. And Damien—well, Damien drives the lead wagon in brooding silence, reins steady, eyes fixed ahead like a man who’s spent his entire life planning for every possible disaster. We follow the thawing road north. The air smells of wet earth and pine sap. Snowmelt runs in silver streams beside us, and the world that once felt frozen beyond saving now looks alive again with bits of green poking through the slush and the wind carrying birdsong instead of howling frost.
Ashlyn leans over the wagon’s edge to call out, “So, how far to this ice-haunted death pit we’re chasing?”
Damien glances back just long enough to reply, “Two days.”
“Two days?” she echoes. “Lovely. I’ll just knit a scarf for my impending doom.”
Gilfred flicks his tongue approvingly.
The dragon hums faintly in my head, deep and fond. The loud one has courage. Keep her close.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “He likes you,” I tell her.
Ashlyn snorts. “Tell your lizard thanks, but I’m taken. Seven times over.”
Damien’s sigh from the front sounds dangerously close to laughter.
We travel until the sky bleeds orange. The road curls through a narrow pass before opening into a small hollow where a lodge waits with it's timber walls patched and a thin curl of smoke rising from its chimney.
Ashlyn blinks. “A house? Out here?”
Damien climbs down from the wagon, checking the locks. “A hunting lodge. I sent word ahead for it to be stocked.”
“Of course you did,” she mutters. “He probably alphabetised the firewood too.”
Inside, the fire in the hearth burns strongly, snapping with pine resin. The main room is wide and open, its walls hung with old hunting spears, polished horns, and dusty paintings of stags mid-leap. A long table runs down the centre, its surface scarred from years of use but freshly scrubbed. Heavy beams crisscross the ceiling, each carved with runes so faint they look like scratches in the wood.
“Wards,” Damien says quietly. “Old ones. They keep the storms out.”
Ashlyn drops her pack beside the hearth and groans dramatically. “They could’ve kept a couch in, too.”
I laugh, because she’s right—the seating is all hard benches and sturdy stools. But the warmth makes up for it. The firelight dances over stone floors strewn with animal pelts, and the sound of dripping water outside tells me the thaw is still reaching this far north. Beyond the windows, the lake glimmers under twilight, only a thin crust of ice clinging to its edges. The reflection of the lodge lights ripples across its surface like liquid gold.
Dinner is comfortable in a way I never expected. Ashlyn tells stories about her dwarves—how one swears he can mine gemstones by smell, another insists on composing drinking songs for every task—and Damien listens with quiet amusement. He even smiles once, a real one that softens his whole face, and I nearly forget to breathe. Gilfred steals crumbs from my plate, and the dragon chuckles every few minutes, usually when Ashlyn’s sarcasm sharpens enough to make Damien’s jaw twitch. It’s strange, this peace.
When Ashlyn finally yawns and declares herself off to “snore like a blessed miner,” she disappears into a side room down the hall, leaving us in the fading glow of the hearth. I stretch beneath the fire's warmth, my body still humming from the day’s travel. Damien moves through the room with easy purpose, checking the windows and bolting the doors before setting his sword within reach. He’s meticulous in everything—even rest.
“You should sleep,” he says quietly.
“So should you.”
He tilts his head, that faint half-smile playing at his lips. “I will. After I check the perimeter.”
Of course he will. The man probably triple-checks the stars before closing his eyes.
When he finally returns, I’m half-curled under a thick fur blanket on the wide bed in the main room. There are smaller chambers, but the warmth here is better, and the bond thrums louder when he’s near.
He stops in the doorway. “You’re taking the bed?”
“It’s big enough for two,” I say, voice soft but steady. “Unless you’d rather I make you a spot on the floor?”
His mouth opens, then shuts again. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Good.” I lift the corner of the blanket in invitation.
He hesitates for a heartbeat before crossing the room, every motion careful—as if one wrong step might wake a sleeping god. When he finally lies beside me, the mattress dips under his weight, and the warmth of him seeps through the space between us. It isn’t awkward. It’s… steady. Comforting. The silence between us feels full.
I roll onto my side, studying his face. In the dim light, his features look more relaxed. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”
He hums, eyes half-lidded. “Not usually. Dragons don’t need much rest.”
“You’re not just a dragon,” I murmur.
He laughs. “You’re learning.”
I smile faintly, nestling closer until my head rests against his shoulder. The mark on his chest pulses faintly against my cheek, steady as a heartbeat.
“Goodnight, Damien.”
“Goodnight, Snowflake.”
For a long moment, I hover on the edge of sleep. His arm shifts, curling around me with protective ease. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls me further until thought blurs into dream.
Snow. Endless, whispering snow. I stand in a corridor carved from ice, walls smooth as glass, light bending in cold colours. My reflection stares back at me—dozens of them—each one a little different. Some shimmer with frost in their hair. Others burn with gold behind their eyes. Then one reflection steps forward. She’s me, but older—ancient—and her presence makes the air splinter with cold... The witch. The first Frostborn. Her gown trails rime across the floor, and every breath she exhales freezes mid-air.
“You thawed the world,” she says, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “But you cannot thaw what you are.”
“I’m nothing like you,” I whisper.
Her lips curve. “We both loved something warm. And warmth always dies.”
The mirrors crack, and ice spreads beneath my feet. I feel it crawl up my legs, numbing, devouring—
“Bella.”
Damien’s voice cuts through the dream. I gasp, sitting upright. Frost blooms across the blanket, melting the instant his hand touches mine. Heat floods through his skin, chasing away the cold.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs, gathering me close.
My breath shudders. “I saw her.”
“The witch?”
I nod, the memory already fading. “She said… warmth always dies.”
The dragon’s growl rumbles faintly in both our minds. Then we will prove her wrong.
Damien’s golden eyes meet mine. “We’ll make sure of it.”