Ashes and Silver: Reborn to Save My Dragon Mate

Giana POV:

"Giana, if you still want to recall that memory, then drink the calming draught. Otherwise, we'll stop here."

Madame Eva's voice cut through the heavy silence of the stone therapy room, yet I barely heard a word she said.

My mind was filled entirely with the man who had died for me.

"I don't need a sedative. Bring the basin."

Eva did not move at once, only stared at me.

"You have relived that afternoon eleven times," Eva said softly, her dark wand resting loosely between her fingers.

"The Pensieve is not a tool for self-flagellation, Mrs. Kowalski. If your mind rejects the final sequence again, the psychic backlash will tear your sleep cycles apart permanently."

"His name is Emmett," I snapped. "I'm going back in. Bring it."

Eva sighed, worn out by weeks of my stubbornness.

She flicked her polished wand.

From the shadows of the stone alcove, a dark granite basin carved with runes drifted across the room and settled on the pedestal between us.

Inside swirled a pool of mercury-bright mist.

"Clear your lungs," Eva instructed.

She raised her wand to my right temple.

The tip was icy cold, a sharp chill sliding down my neck.

With a slow, skilled tug, she drew a shimmering silver thread of gossamer from my skin.

It clung to the wood like liquid cobweb before falling into the basin with a faint, melodic chime.

As the memory unfolded across the stone, an uninvited face flashed through my mind-Colin Reynolds.

The radiant Avian boy with golden hair and broad wings, the star chaser of the skyball pitch whom I had chased blindly like a fool all through my youth.

The phantom of my foolish past devotion turned my stomach, and I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to look at him.

"Open your eyes, Giana," Eva whispered. "Do not fight the descent."

I leaned forward and dipped my face into the swirling mist.

The scent of old parchment, damp soil and bitter wolfsbane flooded my nostrils, and gravity vanished.

When my boots touched solid ground, the blinding gray fog dispersed, revealing the parlor of our small stone cottage on the outskirts of Wanling Keep.

I once again returned to my memories.

I stood watching my younger self.

I wore a brand-new crimson travelling cloak lined with gold-the proud colors of Blaze Spirit House.

The kitchen latch clicked.

Emmett walked into the parlor.

My heart clenched sharply.

He held a steaming ceramic mug of star-mist brew, his knuckles red and rough from scrubbing cauldrons.

His Abyssal House robe was faded from constant washing, with frayed threads hanging from the seams he had mended himself.

He looked haggard and fragile, his tall, lean frame hunched with exhaustion.

Then he lifted his head.

Those silver vertical pupils-the ancient, unyielding mark of Dragonkin blood-locked onto mine.

There was nothing but endless, bottomless stillness.

"Emmett," my past self said, her voice cold as biting frost. "We need to end this now."

I watched my younger self reach into her cloak and pull out a rolled sheet of thick vellum.

Beneath the red wax seal stamped with the Magic Council's crest lay a Binding Severance Contract.

I stepped forward and slammed the parchment onto the wooden table between us.

"Sign it," past-me ordered. "Before the Triad Tournament begins tomorrow. Once you step into that arena as Wanling's champion, our arrangement ends. We are even."

Emmett did not glance at the parchment.

His silver gaze remained fixed firmly on my face.

He suppressed every faint tremor, forcing himself to stay steady.

"Why?" he asked.

His voice was barely louder than the hearth's crackle, yet it pierced straight through my bones.

"I never wanted any of this," past-me said, every word sharp and surgically cruel. "I never wanted to be bound to a penniless Dragonkin, whose family owes blood debts to every dark alley in this realm. There is no place for you in my future."

I wanted to scream.

I lunged toward the phantom scene, grabbing at my younger self's shoulders, desperate to tear those cruel words from her throat.

But the past could never be changed.

"Emmett, look at me! Don't listen to her! Don't let her finish!" I begged, yet nothing could alter what was happening.

Emmett stared at the paper in agonized silence for a full minute.

Without a single word of protest, he slowly stretched out his ink-stained hand, picked up the eagle quill, and pressed his mark to the bottom of the vellum.

"All right," he whispered.

The memory accelerated violently.

The parlor blurred into streaks of gray.

The roar of cheering crowds drowned out the howling wind.

In an instant, I stood in the stands of the grand arena, the banners of Blaze Spirit fluttering above my head.

Below, the pit churned with sulfur and shattered stone.

A deafening roar split the sky.

The enormous Hungarian Horntail, driven mad by a rogue binding curse, shattered its steel restraints.

A wall of blazing dragonfire swept across the lower student stands-straight toward my frozen, terrified younger self.

Amid the raging inferno, a dark figure abandoned the golden egg.

Emmett did not draw his wand to defend himself.

He simply ran.

He leaped over the stone barrier, throwing his frail body over my past self and locking his arms around my head like iron hoops.

The stench of burning skin filled my senses.

The searing heat tore through the memory, scorching my soul as an onlooker.

"Giana..." he gasped against my ear, his hot, thick blood splattering across my cheek. "Run."

Then came utter darkness.

The memory shattered into jagged shards of glass.

I was wrenched back into the void, gasping for breath, until I collapsed against the arm of the velvet chair.

Cold sweat soaked the collar of my dress, my hair sticking to my temples.

"You lost him again," Eva said softly, kneeling beside me with a glass of water. "Trauma severs the connection the moment impact occurs. You cannot force your mind to overcome the shock of death."

"I have to know," I sobbed, pressing my trembling palms to my eyes. "He died saving a woman who discarded him like trash. I have to know how he died, Eva. I have to hear the sound of his last breath."

"Go home, Giana," Eva murmured, her warm hand resting on my trembling shoulder. "Rest. Grief is not a trial you can win."

I did not reply.

I dragged myself out of the chair, left the clinic, and walked through the cold, drizzling streets until I reached my silent house.

I collapsed onto my bed and pulled Emmett's worn, faded emerald school robe to my chest.

It held faint traces of crushed sage, dry ink, and a bitter hint of burnt ozone.

"Take me back," I whispered into the coarse wool, my tears soaking through the fabric. "Please, whatever ancient magic still listens... take me back."