Page 20 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

My stomach plummeted as I jolted from the dream—from the memory. I sat up suddenly, insides lurching as I sucked in a wheezy breath. Where was I? My hands curled against a soft quilt as I took in the shadow of furniture around me, slowly coming back to my senses.

Bramble Cottage. The infirmary. Migration season.

I swiped at the sweat that dampened my forehead. There was no reason for my racing heart. I was safe in my bed in Ember Ridge. The world outside was quiet, and nothing was burning.

Not now, anyhow.

Curse these wretched memories. I flopped back onto my pillow, wincing at how hard my heart still crashed against my ribs. Figments of the dream resurfaced as I stared at the dark ceiling. I blinked the flashes away and the ridiculous, delusional hope that always lingered after said dreams. There’d been no surviving that horror. I’d known it then, as a child, and I knew it now.

And yet, some small part of me wondered if one day these dreams would end differently. Maybe one day I’d watch my father fly out of the swirling inferno that had claimed his life. Only in a dream could I wish for that possibility. And maybe that’s why I still dreamed of the event. Some part of me wished that, however brief, I could see him smile from atop his enormous dragon one last time.

But I knew wishes were not reality. My father had been swallowed by a storm of fire, and the dream would never end differently.

I closed my eyes, trying to put the thoughts from my mind as I felt the pull of exhaustion tug on my limbs. I needed to sleep. I wanted to sleep. It had been a long night of bandaging burns, and by the time I’d dragged myself back to my cottage, I’d collapsed in an exhausted heap on top of the covers. But after a dream like that, my body was always flushed with adrenaline, and I knew sleep would evade me despite how hard I tried to return to the land of dreams.

If I were lucky, perhaps it would only be for an hour or so.

I was never that lucky, though.

It had been weeks since I’d been woken in the middle of the night. I thought the move to Ember Ridge and the fresh mountain air had silenced the nightmares, but I suspected the run-in with the dragon at the pub had reawakened the memories.

No, not just the dragon itself, but the dragon fire.

Now that I was awake again, I could smell the remnants of black smoke, charred wood, and bitter ale that lingered on my skin. I’d changed my clothing upon returning to the cottage, but what I really needed was a hot bath to scrub the filth away.

That would require hauling in wood for the stove and heating pots of water to fill the bathing tub, and that was more energy than I had at this time of night. So a cold scrub would have to do. I filled a basin with a portion of my fresh drinking water, stripped out of my nightgown, and picked up a rag, washing the night from my skin.

When I was rubbed raw, I shivered and scrambled back into a fresh nightgown. Then I carried the singed skirt and smoky blouse I’d abandoned earlier out to the porch. I’d deal with those later, mending the skirt and giving them both a good wash. I closed the door to the chill of night and tugged the braid from my hair, untangling the waves and scratching at the spots that ached against the back of my skull.

Finally feeling more like myself, I wrapped the quilt my mother had knitted many, many moons ago around my shoulders. I’d refused to part with it no matter how many times the moths ate holes into the material or how the edges frayed. I knew it was probably my imagination, but I swore it still smelled of the lavender soap my mother used to use in the laundry, and I closed my eyes, thinking briefly of long summers spent collecting the purple flowers by her side.

After the flowers had dried, she’d tie the petals into bags and tuck them beneath pillows when the dragon riders in camp had trouble sleeping. She’d always told me lavender brought calm to anxious thoughts. I chose to believe that now, holding the quilt tighter, letting sweet memories engulf me and happier thoughts chase away the dark ones.

With relief thrumming in my veins, I walked over to the small writing desk by the window and lit a candle. The moon was full, but it wasn’t nearly enough light to work by. I tried not to stare at the flickering flame and risk being dragged back into my dark thoughts, choosing instead to focus my attention on the sketches I’d hidden away from Nisse earlier.

I flipped the book open, studying the charcoal outlines of bodies clad in armor. As I sifted through the sketches, the armor took on more detail—a high collar to protect the neck from stray embers, soft leather, bone fastenings. And the scales.

I was always adding more dragon scales.

I’d been drawing rider armor since shortly after my father’s accident. It had been my way of coping with the loss—trying to create a suit that would have saved him. After all these years, I still hadn’t perfected it. But I thought of my father now, caught in that funnel of fire, and imagined him clad in the protective gear. My thoughts shifted, and suddenly it wasn’t my father laden in armor, but Vaela.

Why Vaela?

The memories twisted, returning to last night. I replayed the moment she’d darted across the courtyard of the pub and pulled me into her arms. The way she’d turned her back to put herself between me and the brunt of the dragon’s fire. The fire had never come, but my heart leapt into my throat as the memory flashed, and something swirled in my chest. Because despite that threat of fire, I’d felt safe in her embrace. With my nose pressed to her neck, I’d been consumed by the smell of fresh straw and leather. It had been comforting and so easy to close my eyes, so easy to get lost in the way she’d cupped the back of my head.

Now it left me feeling dizzy.

Wranglers never hesitated to put themselves between people and flames. That was the definition of their job. And Vaela had done hers. That was all. But didn’t a wrangler deserve better protection for all that sacrifice? Shouldn’t a dragon rider’s armor be resistant to flame?

I swallowed hard as old frustrations surfaced.

There wasn’t nearly enough funding and research put into developing rider armor. I’d realized that after my father had passed. And though I’d been sketching for a long time, only since starting at the academy had I actually attempted to build it. Watching all those young men and women be carried in on stretchers, skin raw and red and blistering, had finally spurred me into action.

I knew there had to be more we could do. More than slapping salves on burns. With almost unlimited access to old dragon scales at the academy, I’d finally had the materials I needed to start crafting my designs. And despite knowing it was forbidden to remove those scales, I’d made it my mission to collect as many as I could.

It was well-known that dragons, wild or domesticated, were considered the property of the kingdom, and as such, the private property of the Dragon King himself. Zander was the first son of the late Dragon Queen, Sianna II. She’d been named the longest reigning queen of Cai’amar, and the crown had only passed to Zander three years ago, shortly after his fiftieth birthday. Sianna had been a wise and fair ruler, often venturing out during the migration to celebrate with her subjects, and her loss had been felt across the land for months, with mourning activities held in her honor and jeweled dragon pins worn above the heart in remembrance.

King Zander had large shoes to fill, and by all accounts, he was struggling. He cared for the luxuries of the palace more than venturing out to meet his people, and was thus far known for the lavish parties he curated in the capital gardens for his councilors. One such luxury he insisted on was parading around in his tailored garments, laden with dragon scales.