Chapter 4 - THE EXTRACTION AND THE OATH
Inside the cabin, Dileia moved with mechanical precision born of exhaustion. She scrubbed the dried blood from her raw, blistered hands in a basin of warm water, hissing softly as the soap bit into the torn skin. She strapped tight leather wraps around her palms, tied back her tangled dark hair, and loaded a wooden tray with clean linen bandages, jars of antiseptic pine salve, a steaming kettle of sterile water, and her father’s heavy steel surgical tongs.
When she stepped back outside into the crisp morning air, the sun had finally broken clear of the jagged peaks, casting a brilliant, blinding wash of gold across the snow-covered valley.
Bram was kneeling beside Kestrel’s massive shoulder, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his powerful forearms corded with muscle. The dragon’s eyes were tightly shut, his massive body rigid as a carved monument of black granite, every scale locked in place to suppress the agony.
“Dileia,” Bram said without looking up. “Hold the basin of boiling water steady. When I pull, the wound will vent dark poison. You must wash it instantly before it touches his healthy scales, or the rot will spread through his entire wing.”
Dileia stepped forward, kneeling directly beside the emperor’s massive front leg. The heat radiating from Kestrel’s body was immense, melting the snow within a foot of his hide into a warm, swirling mist.
“Are you ready?” Bram asked, his hand wrapping securely around the shaft of the embedded crossbow bolt.
Kestrel’s golden eyes snapped open. They burned with a cold, fierce light. “Proceed.”
With a sudden, violent wrench, Bram twisted and pulled.
The sound of tearing muscle and grinding bone echoed off the canyon walls. A thick, violently hissing spray of black, smoking fluid erupted from the wound, smelling of sulfur and frozen corruption. Kestrel’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together with a sound like shattering stone, but not a single sound escaped his throat—only a violent tremor that shook the very foundation of the cabin.
Dileia didn't hesitate. The moment the black fluid hit the air, she dashed the boiling water across the wound, scrubbing furiously with a linen cloth to strip away the venom before it could take root in his flesh.
Hiss!
Steam billowed into the cold air. Kestrel let out a long, shuddering exhale, his massive wings relaxing against the snow for the first time since the ambush.
Bram held up the bloody, barbed iron bolt in his calloused hand, tossing it contemptuously into the snow. “There. The iron is out. The poison is flushed. Now nature and a few days of heavy feeding will have to do the rest.”
Kestrel slowly lowered his head, resting his massive snout inches from Dileia’s lap. The emperor’s breathing was deep, steady, and infinitely stronger than it had been on the mountain road.
“You saved my life twice within the span of a single night, human,” Kestrel rumbled, his voice carrying a strange, resonant vibration that seemed to echo in the marrow of Dileia’s bones. “In the laws of the dragon dynasties, an imperial life saved can only be repaid with an imperial life pledged.”
Dileia wiped a smudge of soot and blood from her cheek, looking down at the magnificent creature resting before her. “I didn't save you for a reward, Your Majesty. I saved you because my father taught me that the road doesn't care who you are—it only cares that you need help.”
Bram chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She’s a hard-headed one, sire. Good luck trying to pay her off with gold or titles. She’d probably try to trade your crown for a new firewood sled.”
Kestrel’s golden eyes flickered with a sudden, intense warmth. He raised his head slightly, opening his massive jaws just enough to reveal a tongue of living fire that flickered harmlessly against the frosty air.
“Not a crown,” Kestrel whispered, a strange, ancient symbol beginning to glow with a faint golden light beneath the scales of his forehead. “An oath.”
Before Bram or Dileia could react, a blinding flash of golden light erupted from the emperor’s brow, shooting forward like a falling star to sink directly into the center of Dileia’s right palm.
Dileia gasped, stumbling backward. She held up her hand. Etched neatly into her skin, right across her scarred and blistered palm, was a tiny, intricate scale-mark that pulsed with a soft, warm golden glow before fading into invisibility beneath her skin.
“What did you just do?” Bram demanded, stepping protectively in front of his daughter, his hands balling into fists.
“I marked her,” Kestrel replied calmly, slowly rising to his feet with a powerful, fluid motion that sent snow flying in all directions. His massive wings unfolded, catching the morning sunlight and blazing with the brilliance of a thousand polished mirrors. “She carries the Imperial Sigil of the Dragon Throne now. Wherever she goes in my realm, no soldier, no lord, and no assassin can ever harm her. And if this village is ever threatened, she has only to call my name into the wind, and the skies will answer.”
Kestrel turned his majestic head toward the eastern peaks, where the distant towers of the imperial capital rose above the clouds.
“The traitors who ambushed me believe I am dead,” Kestrel said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, menacing growl that shook the frost from the pine trees. “It is time to return to my court. And teach them what happens when you wake a sleeping dragon.”
With a thunderous beat of his colossal wings that created a gale-force wind across the clearing, Kestrel launched himself vertically into the sky, climbing higher and higher into the blinding blue vault of heaven until he was nothing more than a golden speck disappearing toward the sun.
Dileia stood frozen on the porch, staring down at her right hand where the invisible seal still thrummed with a warm, steady heartbeat.
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Bram let out a long whistle, shaking his head slowly. “Well,” the blacksmith muttered, turning back toward the cabin door. “That certainly beats trading grain down in the lower valley.”
Dileia smiled, the cold mountain wind suddenly feeling remarkably warm against her face. “Come on, Dad,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “We have a broken sled to fix. Because something tells me this won't be the last traveler we find on the road.”
