Dragonborn Warmth

The news struck Theron Blackwood like a physical blow, delivered in a low, urgent whisper by Kain as the Commander emerged from a strategy meeting long after Vespers. "Cardinal Vance collapsed. During the Benediction. They carried him to his chambers." Kain's grey eyes held a gravity that mirrored the sudden, icy dread flooding Theron's veins.

The carefully constructed walls of enforced distance, the brutal warnings, the weeks of deliberate avoidance – they crumbled into dust in an instant. Theron didn't ask for details. He didn't hesitate. He turned on his heel, his stride lengthening into a near-run through the shadowed corridors of the Grand Cathedral. The polished marble halls, usually echoing with hushed reverence, felt suffocatingly silent. Every beat of his own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the chilling image forming in his mind: Elias, pale and still, fallen on the sacred stones.

He reached the Cardinal's private apartments, the heavy oak door guarded by a young, anxious-looking acolyte and Brother Anselm, who paced the antechamber wringing his hands. Both looked up, startled, as Theron approached like an avenging storm.

"Commander!" Anselm stepped forward, his face etched with worry. "His Eminence rests. He is stable, but deeply exhausted. He requires absolute—"

"Out." The single word, low and guttural, brooked no argument. It wasn't a request; it was a command laced with barely contained ferocity. Theron's amber eyes, burning with an intensity that made Anselm flinch, swept over them. "Both of you. Now. Wait outside. Admit no one."

Anselm opened his mouth, perhaps to protest the breach of protocol, the invasion of the Cardinal's sanctum, but the sheer, raw power radiating from Theron silenced him. The Commander looked less like a man and more like a force of nature barely contained. The acolyte practically fled. Anselm hesitated only a heartbeat, casting a worried glance towards the inner door, before bowing his head and scurrying after the youth, pulling the antechamber door shut behind him.

Theron didn't wait for the latch to click. He pushed open the inner door to Elias's bedchamber and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp on a bedside table, casting long, dancing shadows. The air held the faint, lingering scent of healing herbs – chamomile, lavender – and something sharper, metallic, like ozone after lightning. Fear.

His gaze instantly found the bed. Elias lay beneath a heavy woolen blanket, propped slightly on pillows. The sight stole Theron's breath. In the soft light, Elias looked terrifyingly fragile. His skin was translucent, pale as moonstone, devoid of any healthy flush. The vibrant silver-blonde hair fanned across the pillowcase seemed stark against the unnatural whiteness of his face, emphasizing the dark smudges like bruises beneath his closed eyes. His lips held a faint, alarming bluish tinge. He looked like a sculpture carved from ice, beautiful and utterly lifeless. Only the shallow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket confirmed he still drew breath.

Theron approached the bed as if walking through a dream, his boots silent on the thick rug. The fury that had propelled him here dissolved, replaced by a profound, gut-wrenching helplessness. He stood over Elias, his shadow falling across the still form. The air around the Cardinal felt unnaturally cold, a chill radiating from him that seemed to seep into Theron's own bones. He remembered the searing heat of his own touch, the furnace warmth of his dragon blood. The contrast was horrifying.

He remembered his own harsh words: 'Keep your distance. For your own cursed good.' Look where that cursed good had led. To this icy fragility. To collapse under the weight of Light he'd driven Elias to channel relentlessly, alone. Guilt, sharp and corrosive, joined the helplessness.

Theron hesitated. Every instinct screamed against touching him, against breaking the barrier he himself had erected with such violence. He clenched his fists at his sides, the knuckles white. He should turn around. He should leave. He should let Anselm tend to him with his poultices and prayers. His presence was poison, a danger Elias couldn't afford.

But the sight of Elias's icy fingers lying limp on the blanket, so pale they seemed carved from alabaster, broke his resolve. A low sound, almost a growl of frustration and anguish, escaped Theron's throat. He couldn't leave him like this. Not freezing. Not alone.

Slowly, stiffly, Theron lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress barely dipped under his weight. He stared at Elias's face, the lines of pain etched even in unconsciousness around his eyes and mouth. He saw the faint tremor that occasionally ran through the Cardinal's frame, a silent testament to the internal cold.

Hesitantly, his movements jerky with unfamiliar vulnerability, Theron reached out. His large, calloused hand hovered over Elias's slender, icy one for a long moment. The contrast was stark – warrior's hand versus scholar's, heat radiating from his own skin meeting the deathly chill emanating from Elias's. Theron's jaw tightened. This was madness. Reckless. A breach of every boundary he'd enforced.

He did it anyway.

Gently, with a care that belied his immense strength, Theron covered Elias's cold hand with his own. His palm settled fully over the back of Elias's hand, his fingers curling slightly around the icy fingers.

The effect was instantaneous, and profound.

Theron's natural, dragon-forged warmth was immense. It wasn't the gentle heat of a hearth; it was the deep, penetrating heat of embers banked in a forge, of sun-baked stone. It flowed from Theron's palm like a physical current, a river of pure, life-giving warmth.

Elias didn't wake. But Theron felt it. The terrible, unnatural coldness beneath his palm began to recede, like frost yielding to sunlight. He felt the icy rigidity in Elias's fingers soften infinitesimally. The faint, pained tremors running through the Cardinal's body lessened, then stilled.

Theron watched, transfixed, as the deep furrow between Elias's pale brows, etched with pain and exhaustion, began to smooth. The tense lines around his closed eyes relaxed. A sigh, so soft it was barely a breath, escaped Elias's lips. It wasn't a sound of waking, but of profound, unconscious relief. The terrifying bluish tinge around his lips seemed to fade, replaced by the faintest hint of returning color.

Theron held utterly still, barely daring to breathe himself. He focused on channeling his innate heat, willing it to flow steadily, gently, into the frozen form beside him. He felt the Resonant Light within Elias, usually a cool silver river, stir faintly in response – not resisting the warmth, but welcoming it, drawing it in like parched earth absorbing rain. It wasn't healing, not in the way Elias's Light healed. It was sustenance. It was grounding. It was the raw, vital heat of life itself pouring into a vessel drained to its very core.

He saw Elias's chest rise and fall in a deeper, more even rhythm. The terrifying pallor didn't vanish, but the stark, deathly quality receded, replaced by a fragile, living stillness. The ice was thawing, not by prayer or poultice, but by the forbidden warmth of the dragon's touch.

Theron remained seated on the edge of the bed, his large hand engulfing Elias's smaller, now slightly warmer one. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply poured his heat into the silent Cardinal, watching the subtle signs of easing suffering on the pale face. The warnings echoed in his mind – danger, scandal, distance – but they felt hollow, meaningless against the tangible proof of life returning under his touch. The covert pull hadn't been severed; it had been forged anew in the crucible of crisis, stronger and more perilous than ever, a silent covenant sealed in the transfer of forbidden warmth. The dragon had breached the ice, and the Light, even in its deepest slumber, had welcomed the fire.