Flash looks up sharply and pulls a little too hard on a stitch as we sit in this dragon-wing made tent. "Sorry... that was her mate? That giant good-for-nothing donkey's—"

I hold up a hand to stop his tirade. “Flash, don’t. She knows.”

He looks to her dark brown eye that swim in a pool of sadness. “I’m sorry, Miss Dragon. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s fine. She understands. She wants to thank you for coming to her aid and distracting him while we were preparing,” I say, putting her emotions into words.

He snips off the last stitch; I breathe out lightly in relief.

“It was my honor.” He slathers a generous amount of a sharp and tangy blend of herbs that makes me sneeze.

“Ow.”

“As your healer, I would recommend no sneezing, laughing, nor battling dragons or Were or Jingoists or Shifters or Elves or Mages or whatever else you can think of for roughly a year. It will hurt if you decide to go against my orders,” he says, giving me a mock glare, waggling a finger at me.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, doc,” I respond sarcastically. He helps me sit up and wraps my shoulder and ribs. I look down after he gets done. “I feel like a mummy.”

He snorts a laugh. “You look like one if it’s any consolation. But most of the scars are still visible.”

“What is it with you Were and scars?”

“They are an honor.” He settles me back against the dragon. “Every scar borne of battle is one that is worth itself in gold. It tells a tale of bravery, accomplishment, and survival.”

“What if they are not borne of battle? What if they are not worth the remembrance?” My soft voice scarcely makes itself to his ears.

He pauses while placing bandages back in his sack. “Then what are they from?” he asks, studiously nonchalant.

I close my eyes against the memories, but this only makes them more vivid. I open them to gaze at a jagged knife scar on the back of my hand. “This one is from battle, and one of the few I am proud of. Most are signs of failure.”

“Failure?” he asks, flinching slightly. I wonder just what that reminds him of.

“The assassin guild seems to believe a lesson learned in pain is a more memorable lesson. They dealt harshly and swiftly with any perceived failing.” His eyes say I can trust him. Yet he doesn’t ask, nor does he push me to share. And for that reason alone, perhaps, I continue. Something about the words Healer Morgana said before I left—I’m not alone, not anymore. It may come back to bite me... but I think I need to share, otherwise it’s going to eat me up from the inside out.

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“This,” I touch the puckering scar tissue left from being burnt that covers a portion of my left shoulder, “came from allowing a small child to escape. I could kill grown men, but a babe?” I shake my head. “No. And the Masters knew.”

“They... they tortured you? As discipline.” His voice is low and rough. The closest to a growl I have heard from this lighthearted cat.

I laugh without a hint of mirth. “They call it purging. Purging the light from within to make you one with the darkness. And they succeeded mostly. I have done things I'm not proud of. I am not a good person. My reputation was not earned with charitable deeds,” I say quietly, picking at a scar from many years past.

He’s silent for a moment. I’m half afraid he’ll up and leave to get his father to kick me out. I wouldn’t blame him.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” I say after the silence becomes pressing.

My statement seems to draw him from his thoughts. “What?” he asks, as if startled from his thoughts.

“I will understand if I am not who you thought. I should not be leading into battle, much less a nation to peace.”

“Roland.” He pauses to grasp my shoulder, squeezing much as his father did a while back when telling me I was Alpha Vistrue Imperium. “I would be honored to call you friend. It will be an even greater honor to follow you into battle,” he says, gaze meeting mine with stark honesty.

“Son, he’s right.” The Imperial pats the dragon. “Thank you, Mighty One.” She blows sweet-smelling smoke in his face, then settles her head and puts her wing back to where it was blocking everyone out. He looks back at me. I start to rise, but he motions me to stay where I am. I can’t say I’m displeased. I'm not even sure if my legs will hold at this point.

“Son, you look like something that came out of the hind end of a Berserk,” he says, eyebrows climbing his forehead.

I choke out a laugh, but grab my ribs with a slight wince I can’t fully hide. “Flash was telling me the same thing. I feel like something pounded me into the ground then chewed me up and spit me out.”

“Sounds as if you feel as bad as you look,” the Imperial comments, stroking his beard.

“Something like that. How much did you hear?” I ask.

“Cat ears, remember?” He points to his ears and wiggles them with a grin, showing white teeth through his beard.

I shake my head. “You are less… stressed than I remember,” I say, scrutinizing him. His eyes are alight with a joy that was missing when first we met.

He sits down beside me with a groan before handing me the cup he has in his hands. “I just found most of the ones I sent to kill the dragons were saved by Big Missie here.” He pats her nose where she’s resting it inside her wing with us. “All the friends and family I had thought lost, by some miracle—still alive and kicking. I get more time with them here on this world. I am happy, son. Very happy, indeed.”

Even if the smile seems too exhausting to give, my lips twitch. “So all are safe?” I drain the water in my cup with a few gulps.

“All that she could save are safe. They are here. Seventy of my pride alive and well of the ninety I sent.”

“What of the wounded?” I ask.

He gives me a searching look. “I would say you are the most grievously wounded. None of the others are in danger of kicking the bucket. I was worried I’d find you passed out, or worse, considering you took the brunt of that dragon's ire.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

His full-blown belly laugh makes me jump. My narrowed eyes watch both him and Flash laugh deeply at my expense.

“You are the least fine I have ever seen you, and that’s saying something considering you were about on death's door the first time I laid eyes on you. But I suppose taking on a dragon will do that to a Shifter." A grin turns his lips under the bushy beard.

“What do the other wounded need? Did Bridget find her family?” I ask at last, hoping to turn the attention anywhere else.

“Many questions from such a wounded wolf,” he says, bypassing the question. There’s a sadness in his eyes that warns me. My heart pounds in my chest.

“Imperial. What happened to Bridget?” I space my words evenly.

“Son, now is not the time.” His eyes convey a sorrow that cannot be ignored. So I don't.