Chapter Text
The heat of Mythal’s body always sent a shiver down Solas’s spine. She had always run hot, but since she had taken a draconic form, she was searing. Her very skin seemed to radiate fire, and the closer she pressed to him, the more it blistered through his restraint. She burned Solas without meaning to—or perhaps there was intention in it after all. She always smiled when he hissed through his teeth, when instinct drove him to move faster into her as though speed might shield him from the blaze.
She leaned closer, hair damp where it clung to her temples, and he breathed in the sharp scent of her: smoke, metal, the faint sweetness of crushed herbs she had brushed through her hair before bed. The mix was intoxicating, a perfume of war and queen both.
Her lips brushed his ear, her breath molten. “Does it hurt, ma’fen?” The endearment plucked at the inner threads holding him together. Her hand traced along his jaw, nails sharp enough to prick. She wanted to draw blood, he knew it as surely as he knew the rhythm of his own heart.
“It burns,” he admitted, his voice low, roughened by the fire creeping through his veins. He did not confess the rest: that the pain tethered him, that it forced him to remember she was more than his oldest friend, more than a lover. She was a dragon, ancient and relentless, and she consumed him.
She laughed softly, a sound like sparks snapping from kindling. “Good. You are too cold when left to yourself.” Her hips shifted, drawing a low groan from his lips.
Solas’s fingers dug into her waist, trying and failing to ground himself through the sudden flash of pain erupting along his back. He had long since stopped believing this heat was accidental. She wielded her body as deftly as her magic, binding him in fire until resistance melted.
Mythal gave everything in hunger and in possession, but rarely in surrender. She offered herself only to claim. And so, even as he gasped against the heat, even as she smiled and pressed harder still, he wondered when this had changed between them. He could remember some nights when it was tender, when there had been something less volatile between them. Now, with her magic running over him, he wondered if this was her gift, or her cage.
He forced his eyes to meet hers. The gold in her irises flickered like embers. “Why do you do that?” he asked, his voice tight as she rolled into him again.
Her smile softened, though it was no less dangerous for it. “Why not?” she whispered, and kissed him as though she meant to burn him down to them.
The world dispersed as he plunged once, twice, three times before the end. He felt her walls clamping down around him and gasped at the swell of pleasure.
The Fade vibrated in the aftermath, magic brightening into a heated crescendo. The air thickened with it, shimmering waves of heat rolling off her skin, crawling over his in a rush that left gooseflesh and sweat in equal measure. It was not gentle, nor was it meant to be; her power always came like fire tearing through dry brush, merciless in its hunger, radiant in its beauty.
Solas flinched despite himself.
The Fade lit in reply, colors sharp as glass, threads of magic weaving through every breath he drew. The sting that had already sunk into him burned hotter, until it seemed every nerve was aflame. He closed his eyes, but the light still seared the inside of his lids, gold and white and red.
It was like the flare of heat when a dragon breathed fire, a moment of hesitation on the inhale, then heat on the exhale. Mythal’s power poured over him, through him, until it seemed his very bones might splinter beneath it.
He collapsed to the side, breathing hard. He threw his arm over his eyes, hiding away from the sight of her. The sting came then, in that moment of disconnected bliss. For a moment there was nothing but the echo of his own heartbeat and the fading roar of her magic
His own power had always been a cool, glacial blue that sang through his blood like lightning straining to be free. But with Mythal, it never sang. Her fire smothered it, grounded it deep into the earth, as though her flames demanded the silence of all other storms. The sparks curled inward and dimmed, and though he bore it, there was always the hollow ache of something stolen.
He had no notion of why, but his mind fled from her heat. His body still burned, but his thoughts escaped elsewhere, into memory.
It took him to that moment beside the fountain. The soft rush of water, the stone beneath his hand still warm from the sun, the quiet of a garden that lived and breathed all around him. And her laughter, bright as a bell, alive in a way Mythal’s was not.
It took him to the battle in the palace halls. He hadn’t expected to feel as he had when he saw her. Contempt had changed quickly into begrudging respect. And then it had folded into something else entirely.
In the garden, her fingers had brushed his momentarily as she gave him a lily the same shade as her eyes. Even in that simple gesture, the Fade had stirred, quickening in answer. When she touched him, it was not with a fire that consumed, but with a current that leapt eagerly between them, thrilling, endless, free.
Free. That word she’d whispered with tremulous lips.
Months ago, when they had first met, he had been convinced she was a viper in the nest. A danger hidden behind a disarming smile. He had seen only the threat: to Mythal, to the order of the palace, to the fragile balance he sought to maintain. He had lashed out at her, cut with words as sharp as any blade, determined to root her out before she could sink her fangs.
And yet, she had fought beside him fiercer than any sentinel.
He had once hissed that she enjoyed killing, but her actions that night proved otherwise. She had not flinched when the enemy closed in, nor faltered when the tide turned bloody. There was a precision in her strikes, a lethal grace like a whirlwind made flesh. He had once hissed that she enjoyed killing, that she reveled in it like a predator in the hunt. But that night had taught him otherwise.
That night, he had seen her as she truly was. She’d spent time rescuing servants when others would have prioritized nobles. She’d killed efficiently, to ensure the cleanest deaths, even though they threatened her and her people.
And then, most notable in his mind, had been just after the last enemy fell and the noise of battle gave way to the ringing void it always left behind. She had slid down the blood-smeared wall in a slow, graceless collapse. Her daggers had slipped from her hands and clattering to the floor. Her fingers, just moments ago so sure and deadly, trembled as they lay open in her lap. She stared down at them as though they no longer belonged to her, as though the blood had transformed them into something monstrous.
Solas had seen that look before. He had seen it in the eyes of soldiers who had fought too long, who had endured too much. He had seen it in the aftermath of war, in those who had taken lives not for pleasure, but for survival. The haunted stare fixed on bloodied hands. The involuntary tremor that no training could prevent. The quiet horror that settled inside as soldiers realized the war was far from over.
And that realization dug away at him.
Because something had put that trauma there. Something had forced her to cross that threshold where violence became necessity, where killing was not chosen but demanded. She had the reflexes of someone long accustomed to blood, the focus of someone who had been forged in conflict rather than trained by a gentle hand.
Solas swallowed past the stone lodged in his throat, as he remembered the way she’d moved.
She had been fierce and precise, true, but never overpowering. He had fought beside countless warriors who rivaled him in skill and power, but none felt like that. She had fallen into perfect step, matching him at every stage. Her power had not drowned his out as Mythal’s often did, nor had it splintered the finer details like Elgar’nan’s.
Her magic… danced with his.
It had been twin to his own: like lightning forking through the sky, electric currents running along parallel pathways.
With her, the Fade did not roar. It sang.
The contrast pierced him, his eyes stinging. He felt it even now, lying in the aftermath of Mythal’s fire, his skin still raw, his breath shallow. He thought of Ellana’s hands brushing the water’s surface, droplets scattering like stars. He thought of her voice, teasing and warm, the way her presence stirred something deep inside.
Mythal was his heart, and yet even when he had everything he wanted resting against his chest, it was Ellana he thought of.
He turned, his lips finding Mythal’s with a sudden urgency, the taste of smoke and iron filling his mouth. His hands tightened at her waist, pulling her closer, as though drowning her fire in his own need might banish the ghost that clung to him. Need fought with want, desperation tangled with hunger. Every kiss was a plea, every touch an attempt to silence the memory of cool water and bright laughter.
But it did not fade.
Even as Mythal responded, her heat flaring again, the Fade quivered with the echo of another name. Ellana. It rang in him like a struck chord, vibrating along every nerve, refusing to be buried. His body moved with Mythal, but his mind rebelled, drawn back to that sun-lit fountain, to the brush of fingers that sparked with lightning instead of fire.
He broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead falling against Mythal’s shoulder. She was molten beneath his touch, her magic still curling and snapping like embers in a hearth. Yet he felt cold, hollow, as if all her heat could not reach the place inside him that ached.
He growled, low and feral, and in one violent motion he pushed her beneath him. His body moved before thought could intervene, driven by instinct, by fury, by desperation to prove he was still here, still Mythal’s, still more than the shadows that haunted him.
He was not gentle. His teeth grazed her skin hard enough to taste iron, his hands digging into her hips as though he could anchor himself by breaking her. He bit and thrust with mindless abandon, the rhythm harsh, punishing, as though force alone could drive out the memory of Ellana crouched beside a lily.
Mythal’s smile was sharp even in the chaos of it, her golden eyes half-lidded as though she had expected this storm all along. She arched into him, answering fire with fire, her nails raking down his back to draw blood. Her magic flared in bright bursts, matching the violence of his movements, and the Fade sang with a discordant pitch, half ecstasy, half agony.
“Good,” she hissed, her voice both a taunt and a benediction. “Show me your teeth, Wolf. Show me what you are when you stop pretending.”
Her words only fed the frenzy.
He drove harder, his breath ragged, his vision narrowing to the blaze of her eyes and the roar of her power. Yet beneath it, there was the echo of another name, another touch, another voice. No matter how fiercely he tried to bury it in Mythal’s fire, lightning stirred in his blood, restless and alive, until at last he felt himself nearing that peak.
And there, at the edge, a single word ripped through him.
Vhenan.
He found release as soon as the word materialized, his body shaking, the sound torn from his throat more a broken cry than anything remotely joyful. His body sagged against hers, damp with sweat, his heart hammering as though it meant to tear free from his chest. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the lingering sting of her heat, it was still there, humming in the air.
His heart, his home.
And it was not Mythal.
The truth of it sickened him. He had broken upon Mythal’s body with another’s name ready upon his lips, another’s memory igniting the core of him.
Mythal’s hand slid up his spine, nails light now, almost tender. She tilted her head to catch his gaze, and he felt the weight of her knowing settle upon him. Her golden eyes gleamed, not with surprise, but with satisfaction. “Ahh, I see.”
He stiffened.
“So that is where you went,” she murmured, her voice low, silken, dangerous. “Even when I am in your arms, it is someone else’s shadow that lingers.”
“Mythal—”
“Hush.” Her smile deepened, serpentine and cruel. She cupped his cheek, the heat of her palm branding him anew. “Do not think I mind, Solas. Shadows are useful. And so is the wolf who chases them.”
She kissed him, her teeth dragging along his lip.
“Be a good lad now,” she murmured into his ear, “clean yourself up in the bath, I’ll find you there shortly.”
Solas sighed, nodding briefly before heading into the other room. A bath would do him good.
He’d closed the door already when Mythal rose, and summoned a servant.
He didn’t hear the growl of her words, as she told a young woman to retrieve Ellana at once.
***
Standing before Mythal always left her nerves in shambles, but especially so now.
She’d woken to a soft knock at her door. She had half expected to find a servant waiting, perhaps another messenger with some errand or word of her duties. Instead, she found one of Mythal’s handmaidens, cloaked in shadowed silks, her face unreadable.
“The Queen requests your presence. Without delay.”
The words alone had been enough to send her stomach twisting. She looked down at herself, wearing only a shift meant for sleep. Her heart pounded loud enough that she feared the woman at her door might hear it. There was no refusing such a summons. No one refused Mythal. So, she stepped into the hall wearing only the gown.
Now, standing in the threshold of the queen’s chambers, Ellana felt that truth burn in her bones. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and perfume. Light from the braziers painted the stone walls in restless gold, like the shimmering scaled of a dragon lurked in the walls themselves.
She could see small hints of Solas here too, murals painted of skies she didn’t recognize. A fresco depicting a piano where a duet might have once been drafted and performed. A painting of magic that looked like fire and lightning combined.
It was odd, so different from the murals in the halls outside where spirits danced freely or major battles or events were depicted. This felt intensely personal. They felt drawn from memory and longing, from dreams he had not spoken aloud. They were not the queen’s prideful tributes to herself, but something else entirely. Something Solas had left behind.
Ellana rubbed at her hands absently, waiting for the queen to make an appearance.
When the moment stretched on, she shifted uncomfortably.
Then, Mythal stepped from the drapes at the back of the room. Her form was cloaked in an elaborate black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was wet, braided into a severe bun at the top of her head. The golden glow of her eyes caught the light, and her smile was slow, deliberate. “Ellana, dear.”
Mythal gestured to one of the cushioned seats that stood near a low table of carved onyx, its surface inlaid with patterns of serpents devouring their tails. Ellana sat, her posture straight but her body coiled, choosing the very edge of the seat as though ready to rise at a moment’s notice.
Mythal lowered herself onto the seat opposite, her movements fluid and regal. She leaned back, folding one leg over the other, and studied Ellana with the languid intensity of a serpent watching prey draw itself nearer. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft crackle of braziers and the faint rush of water somewhere beyond the chamber.
“You look uneasy,” Mythal said at last, her voice warm, almost indulgent. “Do not be.”
Ellana’s fingers curled against her knees. “You summoned me, your grace?”
“I did.” Mythal’s smile deepened, though her eyes did not soften.
The queen reached for the decanter on the table, pouring a clear liquid into two cups. The scent of herbs rose sharp and heady, filling the air between them. She pushed one across the table toward Ellana with the faintest flick of her wrist.
“Drink.” She said. “You have earned it, after the chaos in the palace. Few fought with such elegance.”
Ellana hesitated, glancing down at the liquid before lifting her gaze back to the queen. Mythal was watching her, expectant, the curve of her lips daring her to refuse.
The cup was cool against Ellana’s palm when she finally took it. The weight of it grounded her, though the unease in her chest only grew.
She took a sip, and nearly gagged.
It tasted of raw embers, bitter and smoky, as though she had pressed her mouth to a firepit and swallowed the remnants of a hearth gone cold. Ash clung to the back of her throat, mingled with the sharp, almost medicinal bite of clove. Though the liquid was cool against her lips, it burned as it passed her tongue, searing a trail down her throat until her eyes watered.
She lowered the cup quickly, fingers tightening around it to keep from trembling, her lips pressing together to smother the cough that clawed to escape.
Across from her, Mythal watched with languid amusement, her golden eyes catching the firelight. “An acquired taste,” she murmured, her voice as smooth as the smoke that curled above the braziers. “It is brewed from roots that grow only in places where the earth itself remembers the flame of a dragon. A drink for the strong. Or for those I wish to see endure.”
Ellana set the cup back onto the table with deliberate care, though her throat still burned, her stomach unsettled. She supposed it was good that Mythal seemed to want her to endure, but somehow that wasn’t the comfort it should have been.
“What would you ask of me, your Grace?” Ellana spoke softly, her voice steady despite the bitter taste still coating her mouth.
Mythal leaned forward, resting her chin on the curve of her hand, her smile sharpening into something oddly draconic. “Solas tells me that you fought against Anaris’s warriors with gusto. You were silent and precise, and managed to spare my servants the trouble of losing their heads while you were at it.”
Ellana nodded her head, a bit dizzy at the acknowledgment.
“As my Second, such things are expected,” Mythal continued, “but the way Solas tells it, you went beyond that. Such fine work deserves a greater display of trust.”
“Trust, your Grace?”
Mythal took a long sip of the tea, leaning back in her chair. “There is a matter that requires discretion,” she said at last, her tone deceptively light. “Anaris has grown bold. Restless. Such restlessness too often breeds foolishness.”
Mythal glanced at the mural painted on the nearest wall, one that depicted two spirits side by side, one blue, one red. “I wish to know what he does, whom he speaks with, and what loyalties he courts in the shadows. He does not own his own territory. He takes up residence within my own, and this attack bodes poorly for our future.”
Ellana straightened slightly, the cool weight of responsibility pressing down her spine. “You want me to spy on him?”
“Not alone.” Mythal’s lips curved, the expression more cutting than kind. “You will go with my other wolf. He knows the paths, and Anaris knows him. Together you will find what I seek.”
Ellana’s breath caught, though she fought to keep her expression composed. Her other wolf.
Solas.
“You wonder why I send you,” she continued smoothly. “Because you are quick, and clever, and unassuming enough to go where even my sentinels cannot. Anaris will not expect you, and he will underestimate you. That makes you valuable to me.”
Her words slithered close, brushing the edges of flattery and threat alike.
The dragon glanced at her cup, where some of the tea still swirled. “He likes pretty things. He will no doubt find you… fascinating.”
Ellana’s mind went suddenly blank. She pressed her palms together, ceasing the tremble that had taken residence there. She forced her voice steady. “And what would you have me do?”
Mythal leaned forward, her golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Bring me the truth. Nothing less. You are to watch him, listen to him, learn where his heart wanders. Do not strike unless I command it. I want knowledge, not corpses. For now.”
She lifted her goblet and sipped, slow and deliberate, before adding, “And remember, da’len—Anaris is a spider in his web. You must not let him snare you. If you do, not even I will be able to save you.”
Ellana nodded, though her pulse thundered in her ears. In her mind, she heard her Master’s words slipping beneath her skin. So similar, these quests. But, perhaps they were one in the same. Finding more information about the Dread Wolf may come from unlikely sources, even Anaris himself. It was an opportunity, no more or less.
Mythal’s gaze slid toward the curtained arch again, the sound of water whispering faintly from beyond.
“You will find Solas waiting there,” she murmured, her voice curling with satisfaction. “Go to him. My wolf will guide you.”
The possessive weight of those words settled heavy in Ellana’s chest, though she could not tell if it was dread, anticipation, or something that swung perilously between them both. “If I may ask…Why Solas?” she murmured. “He is a king in his own right, is he not? Why would he accept such a mission?”
“Solas is, and always has been, loyal.” She tilted her head, her smile deepening into something both intimate and cruel. “He has already accepted this task. He listens when I whisper. He obeys, even when he questions my tactics.”
“As for why I would send him, it is because Anaris worked alongside him for centuries in the war, and will not kill him on sight.” Mythal laughed softly, the sound like gravel crunching underfoot. “And, perhaps most importantly, because my husband returns tomorrow, and he’ll not appreciate a dog in the bed.”
Ellana flinched. Her chest tightened with an emotion she didn’t have a name for. The possessiveness in every word, every movement, pressed heavy against her. Those words echoed, the whispers in the hall at last confirmed by the queen herself. A dog in her bed.
Mythal moved closer, the scent of perfume and smoke rising with her. She brushed a hand almost idly across Ellana’s cheek, the touch light. “Do not look so stricken, dear. We are immortal, we find amusement where we can.”
She shifted then, rising and staring down at Ellana with pitiless golden eyes. “You will find him waiting in the next room. Be gone by morning.”
“I will not fail you, my queen,” Ellana murmured, rising and wandering closer to the archway.
“See that you don’t,” Mythal purred.
Ellana bowed her head only to stop as the queen cleared her throat.
“Oh, and Ellana?” She turned to look at her. Mythal smiled. “Do have some fun while you’re at it.”
With that, the queen left and Ellana moved through the archway toward the sound of water.