***

  Tritetia shivered as she stood in the empty guest room, playing with the edges of her sleeves as she waited. Her mother had sent some of her warmer dresses, but they did little to confront the chill the magic caused. Tritetia knew that her mother was worried, had begged her to wait until she was older to start the transition, but Tritetia refused. She knew in her heart it had to be now.

  Later would be too late.

  She reached to play with the crystal in her pocket, remembering how Cyran’s voice had sounded through it; sharp, clipped, like every syllable had been carved out of stone and flung at her with purpose. She thought he would be relieved; Cyldri had said he should be fine once he finally woke up, even if the dragon had never told her why Cyran passed out again. Tritetia had worried that his temperature spiked, but Cyldri reassured her that Cyran’s magic was finally stabilizing.

  Tritetia curled her fingers tighter around the edge of her sleeve, chewing the inside of her lip as she shifted from foot to foot. What if he knew? The thought kept pushing through her skull, threading panic through her veins. What if he had figured it out, had been able to tell she was not the girl she presented as, that her body had betrayed both her magic and soul? Triteita felt her hands tremble and forced them still, pressing her palms against her skirt to quiet the quake in her bones.

  No, he wouldn't have found out. He couldn't have. Cyran never looked at her long enough to notice the things most people did. He didn’t care about her past, only her vision, her magic, her utility. And even if he did, his only concern was his mother, he didn’t care enough too–

  The door slammed open and Tritetia flinched violently, jerking her head up as Cyran stepped into the room like a knife drawn across glass. There was no hesitation in his stride, no breath of uncertainty. His gold eyes burned too bright in the dim light of the room—both of them gold, but she noticed instantly that the left one had changed. It was darker now, deeper than sunlight or firelight. Tritetia’s instincts told her to move, to flee the predator coming, but Cyran was faster.

  His hand slammed into the wall next to her and she was pressed back before she could even gasp, the breath caught between her ribs like a caught bird. His other arm snapped up beside her, caging her in with the sharp force of his presence alone. The space between them disappeared in an instant, and for one heart-shattering moment, Tritetia saw her own reflection in his eyes. She quickly dropped her gaze, not giving her magic a chance to make her see his future.

  “Look at me,” Cyran growled, the words dragging over her skin like claws. His voice was razor-thin, just barely holding itself together. Not loud, not furious but there was something colder than fury in it. If he had come in shouting, she might’ve cried. If he’d come in begging, she would’ve forgiven him before the words even came. But this… this was worse. “Now, Tritetia.”

  “I… can’t.”

  “Look at me and tell me what you see!” Cyran’s hand slammed into the all, making Tritetia jump, but all she did was close her eyes incase he tried to force her. A part of her insisted Cyran would never do such a thing, but another told her not to trust that. When people are angry, when people are scared, they will do whatever it takes to claw their way back to a place they understand. Her shoulders trembled as she pressed herself tighter against the wall, her fists curled so tightly around the fabric of her dress that her knuckles ached.

  “Cyran, please, stop.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me I was going to die?” She heard as his hands changed, claws ripping through paper and embedding themselves deep into the wall next to her head. But it was his words that gave her pause; what did he mean, he was going to die? He couldn’t die, not after everything she had done to keep him alive; she still needed his help.

  “I’ve never seen you die,” Tritetia spoke, praying softly that Cyran would calm down. “If I had, I would have told you. You can’t help me if you die.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  At that, she felt the air between them shift and Tritetia finally opened her eyes to see that Cyran was almost close enough to touch her. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or what he was expecting her to say but the fury that had crept so violently into his form had stalled. His jaw was clenched, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he hadn’t realized until now how badly he was shaking. His claws didn’t retract, but he didn’t move closer either.

  “Look at me,” Cyran repeated, his voice marginally calmer, but still far too cold. Tritetia shook her head, keeping her gaze on the rug beneath them. “Tell me what you see.”

  “That’s not how it works, Cyran. I can’t choose what to see,” Tritetia repeated, her voice fragile and paper-thin now, like she was trying to fold herself smaller with every word. “I see the moment that matters most in your life. For you, it is always her death.”

  Her hands had gone numb from the tension she held in her arms, her wrists aching from where her hands curled into her dress like a lifeline. Even though she still felt frozen, in the presence of his heat it was almost unnoticeable, the static-slick edge of his magic crawling through the air between them like a too-thick fog. She flinched as his claws seemed to dig further into the wall behind her, the wood splintering and giving way under the force of his anger.

  “Then why?” Cyran’s voice choked, and to Tritetia’s surprise, it was not anger she heard. It was sadness. “Why didn’t I transform immediately last time? Why did I have to wait five years to try and avenge her murder?”

  The silence that followed was different and Tritetia finally found the strength to look up,

  His expression was not what she expected. Cyran looked like he was both on the verge of tears and ripping Tritetia apart, with a hint of surprise in his blazing golden eyes. She quickly dropped her gaze to his throat, still not wanting to risk seeing a vision as Cyran shifted, his breathing shallow and uneven. His hands hadn’t moved from the wall, but something in his stance cracked, no longer poised to strike, but suspended. That question, the one he had snarled at her like a curse, hadn’t been something he’d planned to say.

  “Cyran,” Tritetia whispered, so soft she wasn’t even sure he heard her. “What… what are you talking about?”

  He stepped back before she could finish. Just a few steps, just enough space that she could breathe again, but not enough to feel safe. Not because he was dangerous, but because she suddenly felt like she was the one standing at the edge of something she couldn’t see the bottom of. Cyran looked at her like he was deciding whether to run or tell her the truth.

  “Why was I able to tell you that?”

  “What?”

  “Why,” Cyran repeated, either ignoring her question or not hearing it, his claws shifting back to hands as he kept his gaze on her face, forcing Tritetia to keep her gaze on his chest. “Why could I tell you, when I couldn’t tell Caspian or Cyldri?”

  Tritetia felt her breath catch. What did Cyran mean, there were things he couldn’t say to others? Tritetia knew her dreams were something that she could only talk about with him, but she always assumed that was because they were of her own future. Seers weren’t supposed to be able to see their own futures, and that was the logic she always stood by. Maybe it was because Cyran also had inherent magic she could tell him. Maybe it was because he was a dragon. Maybe–

  “Why can I tell you about what happened before I died?” Cyran came close again, and Tritetia groaned softly, feeling as if her arms might fall off if she gripped her dress any tighter. Died? Death? Just like–

  “I-I-I don’t kn-know what y-y-you–” Tritetia whimpered as her voice stuttered more than usual, unable to voice the rising fear in her chest.

  “I died, and apparently when I did, I reset time by wishing to see my mother again,” Cyran whispered quietly and Tritetia felt as if her world was tilting. Death wishes; she remembered her mother telling her that some magical creatures, those that were more spirit than beast were able to make such a wish. That in those last moments, they could use their magic to make one final plea to the world. But that was… “And when I tried to tell Caspian that he was wrong, that I had turned into a dragon before, I couldn’t. But I can tell you.”

  “I-I-I-” Tritetia felt her voice get stuck, like a wire pulled tight across her throat. Her legs gave out before she even realized they were moving, and she sank to the floor like someone had cut the strings that held her upright. The cold from the floor seeped into her skin, but it couldn’t touch the deeper cold that bloomed inside her chest—raw, vast, impossible.

  The sad boy-girl who hated her reflection.

  The pain and fear of Amalia’s awful laughter.

  The water flooding her lungs as she bled out into the sea.

  They weren’t dreams of a future and Tritetia collapsed forward, not able to answer Cyran’s questions as he knelt down beside her. Not could-be’s. Not maybes.

  Memories.

  ***