The Dragon's Fragile Bride: His to Possess.

~ Nerrissa Ashvale ~ The broom handle was raw, frozen pine that bit straight through the skin of my palms. Every shove against the courtyard slush sent a dull shock up into my forearms. "Faster, Nerrissa! You’re barely moving!" Elspeth stood on the covered porch, wrapped in heavy gray wool, nursing a mug of spiced cider. Steam drifted off the rim, carrying the smell of boiled apples and cloves. My empty stomach turned over with an ache. "I’m clearing it as quick as I can," I said, though the wind took most of the sound. "Tell that to the stable hands when they track muck into the hall. Mother said your bread rations are gone if they have to clean their boots twice." I kept my head down and leaned into the wood. Arguing with Elspeth was pointless; it only raised her voice, and her voice always brought my stepmother out. Then my ribs locked. The cold in my throat turned sharp, like swallowing ground glass. I dropped the broom—it hit the flagstones with a wet thud—and doubled over, clutching my ribs as my chest caved in on itself. "Look at her," Elspeth called back through the open doorway. "Mother, come out! She’s doing it again!" I hit the slush on my knees. The dirty water soaked through my skirts instantly, numbing my shins. I dragged a gray rag from my apron pocket and clamped it over my mouth just as the first fit tore through me. My vision went gray at the edges; my lungs heaved twice, hard enough to leave spots dancing in front of my eyes. When I pulled the cloth back, the center was soaked with dark, hot blood. "Filthy," Lady Verna said. She stood beside Elspeth at the top of the porch steps, gathering her skirts high above the wet planks. She looked down at me the way she looked at dead mice caught under the floorboards. "Bleeding on the stones like a slaughtered hen," Verna said flatly. "You eat our grain, you burn our peat, and you ruin the yard. Your mother left behind nothing but a bill I have to pay." "I'll scrub the flagstones," I rasped, wiping the copper taste off my teeth. "Just give me a minute." "You've had twenty years of minutes," Elspeth said. She hopped down the steps, her oiled boots crunching over the frost, and stopped near the low retaining wall. Right beside her heel sat the snow-lily I’d spent two hours prying out of the frozen dirt that morning. Its white head was small, but the bitter root underneath was the only thing that kept my lungs clear enough to sleep through the night. "What's this rubbish?" she asked. "Leave it, Elspeth," I managed, reaching an arm toward her. "It's for the tea. For the cough." She looked down at the plant, then straight at me, her mouth twitching into a grin. She planted her heel on the stem and twisted. The pale petals tore into black pulp against the stone. "Slipped," she said without blinking. I looked at the mashed green pulp in the mud. My hands shook, but I kept my chin level, swallowed the spit in my mouth, and let my shoulders drop. "Doesn't matter," I said, voice flat and steady. "It was just a weed." The smirk dropped from her face. She hated that. She wanted tears, or a scream, or anything she could carry inside to show Verna how fragile and wild I was. Giving her silence was the only spite I could afford. "Finish the yard," Verna snapped, turning back toward the warmth of the hall. "No supper until the stones are clear." The heavy oak door slammed shut. I stayed in the mud until the cold stopped hurting and just felt numb. The estate was dead quiet. No crows in the bare oaks, no wind chimes from the gatehouse, just the sentries on the wall squinting up at a sky that looked bruised and low. Something felt off in the pressure of the air, thick enough to make your ears pop. I dragged the remaining slush to the drain, then climbed the narrow service stairs to the garret under the roof. My room was barely wide enough for a cot and a stool, with bare rafters that let the draft whistle straight through the slate tiles. I slid the iron bolt into place, stripped off my soaked skirts, and pulled a moth-eaten wool blanket over my shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I loosened the three bone buttons at my collar. High on my chest, right between the collarbones, sat the birthmark. It was the size of a hand, dark as an old bruise, shaped like a creature with splayed wings and a spiked tail. Verna called it the devil’s brand; the village elder had merely spat when he saw it. I worked loose an oak floorboard near the wall and reached into the dust, pulling out a rolled leather cylinder. Inside was the scrap of calfskin I’d stolen from the manor archive three winters back. The script was archaic, half-worn away by damp: *The vessel takes the ember. The flesh rots while the fire sleeps.* "What did you leave me?" I muttered. I pressed my thumb against the ink-black mark on my skin. Heat punched through my chest so hard I choked. It wasn't the dull burn of the sickness; it was white-hot, like a smith's iron dropped straight into cold water. My blood roared in my ears, and the mark flared bright scarlet beneath my flesh. A horn blasted outside. It wasn't the thin horn of the watchmen. It was a brass roar that shook the slate tiles above my head and set the washbasin rattling against the stool. I lunged for the casement window and shoved the frosted glass open. Over the western ridge, the gray dusk had vanished. The clouds were torn wide open, glowing the color of raw coals, and sweeping out of the red gap came a shadow wider than the whole valley—wings churning the smoke, heading straight for the manor. Beneath my collar, the mark burned like an open flame.