Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(61)

I sighed. “I wrote a coded letter to Thuri, Isveig’s sister.”

“I thought you said she was on that ship with you.”

“She was, but she’s a strong swimmer. If I could make it out of the Elding alive, maybe she could, too. I sent her a note to find out if she somehow made it back to Fafnir.” And I could discover if Gregor had been telling the truth. “Don’t worry. Even if Isveig intercepts it, he’d never understand what it means.”

Rivelin looked at me for a good long while. The dying embers from the hearth warmed my back, but there was a chill in the air that made strands of steam curl from my skin. Even in the dead of summer, the night’s cool kiss awakened the fire in me.

He finally said, “I want to trust you, I really do.”

“And I want to trust you. Where were you tonight? When I got up to write my letter, you were gone.”

“I was in the Archives, searching for a way to melt that damn ice shard stuck in your hip. Turns out, we need fire. That’s what you’ve needed all this time. And to think it never occurred to me until tonight.”

Hastily, I stood. “What?”

There was a roaring in my head as unadulterated hope rushed through my bloodstream like flaming oil. Rivelin, despite his wound, looked so certain, so confident. I’d accepted my fate a long time ago. Hoping for a different future had hurt more than the quiet acceptance of the truth: I would never rid myself of the shard, and one day it would take my life. The only way out was Isveig’s offered freedom, and deep down I’d doubted I would truly gain that.

To even consider there might be a different path ahead made me feel as if I’d been running across a battlefield for miles.

“It’s fire, Daella,” he said. “I think we use it to melt the ice.”

“But the ice is inside me. To burn it away, you’d have to burn me, too,” I said, barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re immune to fire, I’m certain of it.”

I shook my head and backed away, heading toward the kitchen. I needed a moment to think. Tonight’s series of events felt as peculiar as a dream. Could there truly be a way out of this? Was this why Isveig had kept me away from flames? I’d always assumed it was because he was fearful of them—and he likely was—but this was so much more.

How could I have been such a fool?

After filling a glass with water, I returned to the living space. Rivelin had abandoned all attempts at recovery and was now poking at the embers in the hearth. Then he took a bellow to the sparks. Brilliant orange light flashed across his stern face as the flames roared to life. I pressed a hand to my heart, hating the deep-seated fear that slashed at my hope. What if Rivelin was wrong? How could we be certain this wouldn’t boil my skin? My parents had faced the flames once. And they had not survived.

But that had been the flames of dragon magic.

Rivelin caught the look on my face, crossed the room, and gently took my hands in his. “It won’t burn you. Can you trust me on that?”

Could I trust him? I wanted to. Deep down, I knew his idea was a good one. I’d touched some hot tongs in his forge, and they hadn’t burned me. And yet, I could feel the weight of my fear in my bones. My palms were sweaty, my chest tightened, and my head felt as if I were the one who’d been hit by a hammer.

But I knew what my mother would say if she were here: Ris upp fyrir ofan, Daella.

Rise above, Daella.

A tremor went through my heart, but I lifted the bottom hem of my nightdress and exposed my scar. Rivelin’s eyes sharpened on the puckered skin and the faint blue glow. The skin around his jaw tightened. “Every time I see what he did, I want to forsake my quiet island life and feed the emperor my sharpest blade.”

“What kind of wine would you pair it with?” I asked.

A vicious glint lit his sun-gold eyes. “Whatever the dreck is that comes from his veins.”

“Are you just talking like this to distract me from the fact you’re about to put a torch against my bare skin?”

“Only partially,” he said with a smile that was far closer to an orc warrior’s feral grin than an expression I would have expected from a village blacksmith. “Did it work?”

“Only partially.”

Rivelin turned back to the flames and stuck the end of a torch in the hearth. Sparks scattered into the air above our heads, and the roar intensified. Skoll chose that moment to exit the building. I didn’t much blame the wolf for that.

When Rivelin pulled the torch out of the hearth, the end blazed like an inferno. Fire licked the air, the dancing forks bleeding into a deep, terrifying red. I swallowed around the painful lump in my throat.

“Trust me.” He inched closer, his brow raised in question.

I nodded and reached for something to steady me. He passed the torch to one hand and held out the other for me to take. When I slid my fingers into his palm, he squeezed tight, as if he truly understood how difficult this was for me to face.

And then, without warning, he pressed the edge of the torch against my skin.

I braced myself for pain, but instead, a soothing heat curled through me. The fire lapped at my skin, its greedy tongues searching for purchase. But my body seemed to reflect the fire on itself, as if my hip was coated in a protective material. Similar to oilcloth, but for flames. Rivelin had been right all those days ago. Fire didn’t burn me.