The Sanctuary

A crack of thunder woke Lysander from sleep. He bolted upright as he took in his empty room and cursed.

Of course the room was empty.

He rolled out of bed and hurried to the window, already knowing what he'd see. Heavy sheets of rain didn't completely conceal the aerial battle that was unfolding above the city. Bright flashes of lightning backlit the dragons as they flew through the clouds.

But they weren't alone up there. They never were on nights like this.

Dark, twisted shapes darted across the sky. Every move they made caused hail to batter the houses below, and the wind howled with their cries.

Lysander shook his head and turned away from the window. There was nothing he could do about that. He had other things to prepare.

He pulled on his tunic, trousers, and boots, then belted his long robe at the waist, already rolling up his sleeves as he exited the room.

He swept down the main hallway of the residential wing of the Sanctuary, and one of his senior healers fell into step beside him.

"There's more of them than usual," Marcellus said. "At least twice as many as last time."

Lysander grimaced. He hadn't needed Marcellus to say as much; he'd already known. "Wake everyone."

Marcellus nodded and turned down a side corridor. He'd make sure the healers were ready by the time they were needed. There were procedures in place. Each of Lysander's healers knew their role. The Sanctuary now operated with the smooth precision of a dragon squadron in flight—so much so Lysander had to wonder if it required him there to manage it anymore. But that was not a question for the present moment.

He ran through the checklist in his head and assigned people as needed. The cots were ready, the linens and bandages were laid out, the water was heating, and the medical supplies were well stocked. His healers kept the draughts and salves, the herbs and sedatives close at hand, even on fair-weather days. They'd likely need it all and more that night.

With everything prepared, they could only wait. Wait and listen to the thunder rolling above them as lightning flickered constantly outside the windows. Wait for the battle to end. For silence to fall.

The storm abated slowly. The drumming of the rain on the roof eased to a soft murmur that faded to nothing, a final few drops punctuating its departure.

Now a different storm would hit. One that would reveal the destruction left by the first.

The rhythmic thud of wings overhead had Lysander's heart stuttering, each beat as heavy as the landings of the dragons in the Sanctuary's courtyard. He stepped toward the door, but it opened before he could reach it.

Alaric Hawthorne strode in as if he commanded the Sanctuary in addition to the dragons assembling in the courtyard behind him. His eyes found Lysander immediately, his expression pinched, a tight twist to his mouth. The cape of his uniform draped over one shoulder, covering his left arm. He was intimidating no matter his form, his icy aura so at odds with the fiery being he could transform into.

Lysander let out a breath and cast his gaze beyond the Commander. Some dragons returned to the ground with none of their usual grace; their transformations back to their human forms were stilted and shuddering, painful to watch. Others were supported by their squadmates, unable to fly or walk on their own. At least two were unconscious. Lysander motioned for the retrieval teams to bring them inside.

"Commander Hawthorne," Lysander greeted. "How many injured?"

"Thirty-one. Twelve serious, three critical."

Lysander suppressed a wince. That was three-quarters of the unit under Hawthorne's personal command. He didn't have time to ask more. To ask if that was the extent of it. If the remaining nine were uninjured or beyond saving. He was too busy directing his healers as the dragons poured in.

There was a familiar chaos to this. Quick triage assessments had become second nature. His senior healers were assigned to the worst cases—the punctured lung, the shattered wings, the nearly pierced heart. Everyone else was allotted according to skill. Broken bones and severe burns went to his adepts, while singed scales and claw lacerations were given to his novices. Their wide eyes gave away how unaccustomed they were to the aftermath of battles, but it wouldn't take long for them to conceal their feelings behind a professional mask. They'd need it for times like this. When the dragons' return wasn't all triumph and jubilation. When the blood that spattered their uniforms was as much their own as the wild creatures that inhabited the storms.

He counted each dragon and reconciled them with the list in his head he'd memorized what felt like ages ago. A list that had changed far too often since he'd become First Healer.

He allowed himself a small sigh when he reached forty. Each member accounted for, even if many were worse for wear. They'd made it back; that was all he could ask for. His healers would do the rest.

"I'm fine," a new recruit claimed as Lysander pointed him toward the room he'd been sending those with minor injuries.

Lysander snorted. "You have cracked ribs."

The kid looked surprised, but one of his squadmates shook her head. "That shit never works on him. He always knows." She grinned at Lysander. "Dislocated shoulder and a few bumps and bruises. Otherwise, I'm good. I'll make sure he stays put until it's our turn for treatment. You've got more important cases to take care of." She slung her uninjured arm around the kid's shoulders and steered him in the direction Lysander had indicated.

Good. It was nice when they sorted themselves.

Lysander gave the final nine dragons a once-over. None were injured. He nodded, giving his approval for them to leave.

"Dismissed," Commander Hawthorne said as they turned to him.

They bowed and left. Those without mates were no doubt heading for the bathhouse next door, with its large natural hot spring and steamy air. There, the attendants could help them wash off the grime of battle and see to their other needs.

That left only him and the Commander.

Lysander assessed him, once again taking in the twist of his mouth and that fucking cape over his arm.

"I'll treat you now," Lysander said.

"It's nothing. My soldiers get treatment first."

"They're taken care of."

"You should—"

"I do not tell you how to command your squadron. Do not tell me who I need to heal. If there's something my senior healers can't handle, they know where to find me. So. I'll treat you now."

The Commander scowled, but followed him as he walked through the corridors of the now-empty residential wing.

Lysander held the door to his room open for him, then shut and locked it behind them.

As soon as he did, the Commander sagged, his next step turning into a stumble, and Lysander caught him, steadying the heavy weight of him to keep him on his feet.

"You stubborn fucking dragon," he said, the words full of exasperation and a hundred other emotions that never felt safe to name. "Why do you always do this, Alaric?"

Alaric slumped further into his arms.

He let Lysander support him to the door that led to his private bathroom. The one Lysander kept nearly as stocked as he did the Sanctuary.

Lysander propped Alaric up on a stool in the washing area next to the bath and unfastened his cape, wincing at what was concealed beneath. Alaric's left arm had been scorched, the skin blackened and cracked. A deep laceration ran across his shoulder. Even with accelerated dragon healing and Lysander's best salves, it'd take a week to heal.

"Thirty-two," Lysander corrected. Alaric never counted himself. He never wanted his dragons to know he wasn't the invincible commander they followed unquestioningly.

Lysander began to work. He carefully stripped away Alaric's uniform, revealing dozens of scars, each as fresh in his mind as the day he'd treated the wound that had caused it. The spidery silver ghost of a lightning strike down his right arm from three years ago; the jagged gash that had come dangerously close to ripping his stomach open eighteen months before that. With each layer he removed, it felt like he was exposing more than just skin.

He cut away the fabric that clung to the burned flesh and assessed Alaric fully. The burn looked bad, but wasn't as deep as he'd feared, and while the claw wound would require stitches, Alaric retained most of the motion in his shoulder.

Alaric was quiet as he worked, but Lysander was used to that. He was always the quietest after the worst battles, after the margins had been uncomfortably close, and it'd been over a year since they'd had as many injured as they'd had that night. Lysander knew he analyzed every move, trying to find the places he'd failed his dragons, places he could improve. And Lysander could give him that, could let him sit in silence as he cleaned away the blood and debris from the battle. They were both lost in their own thoughts of how close they'd come to losing people, and how next time it might not merely be close.

He gently washed the burn and flushed the laceration before spreading a cooling salve over the former and stitching up the latter. He used his healing to help the process along, infusing each stitch with as much magic and care as he could. When he was finished, he covered both wounds with medicinal dressings and secured them with fresh bandages. Alaric barely flinched throughout the procedure—just a subtle tightening of his jaw and the involuntary twitch of a muscle in his shoulder—but those small tells spoke volumes.

Lysander would have offered a draught to numb the pain, but Alaric would refuse. He didn't like how the herbs dimmed his mind, even momentarily.

Once his wounds were protected and the bath was filling, Lysander washed the rest of him, removing the last traces of blood and grime and treating the other minor injuries he found along the way. He ran his fingers through Alaric's long hair, once jet black but now streaked with silver, and felt Alaric lean into the touch as he massaged his scalp.

He added healing herbs and salts to the water, then helped Alaric into the basin, letting him soak with his injured arm resting on the edge. Exhaustion was taking its toll, though he'd never admit it to anyone outside this room. It was etched on his face as he gazed up at Lysander, catching hold of his hand and tugging.

Lysander nodded, knowing exactly what he was asking for. He stripped off his own clothes and washed himself before slipping into the bath.

Alaric gathered him into his arms, and Lysander huffed. "You're getting the bandages wet."

"Don't care." Alaric released an exhale that would only be considered unsteady for him.

"I'll fix it later," Lysander said, as if either of them had doubted that, and let himself melt into Alaric's embrace.

Alaric pressed their foreheads together and inhaled. "We almost lost Torin. I don't think he's ever going to fly again."

Lysander grimaced. There was a decent chance he was right about that. At the very least, if Torin did fly again, it wouldn't be with the squadron. "You didn't though. You're all home."

"I'll always come home to you. No matter what happens. I'll always return to you."

Lysander wished that was something he could promise, but there were thirty-two reasons under his roof that said otherwise, and Alaric was at the top of that list.

That didn't mean he wouldn't make the most of every time Alaric did return. Or occasionally let himself dream of a day when he didn't have the Sanctuary to run and Alaric didn't have a squadron of dragons to lead.

They exchanged a slow kiss, nothing heated or hurried about it, just a reaffirmation of everything they'd shared over the years, a welcome home.

The last of Alaric's warrior persona slipped away.

It was only in these moments that he got to have this version of Alaric. Not Commander Hawthorne. Not the dragon charged with protecting the city. No. Just the dragon who grieved every casualty, who blamed himself for every mistake. The side of him that no one else saw, the side that Lysander wanted to protect as fiercely as Alaric protected everyone else.

He pressed against the warmth of Alaric's body, his touch even more soothing than the hot water.

When he finally had to admit it was time for them to get out, he dried them both and redid the bandages on Alaric's arm. Alaric gave him a tiny, unrepentant smile as he did. Lysander could only shake his head fondly.

He led Alaric back into their room, into their bed. Alaric pulled him closer, and Lysander settled in next to him, letting out a sigh and savoring the contact.

It wasn't everything he could ever want, but his room was no longer empty, and that was more than enough for now.

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