The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 128: When the World Feels Unfair

Levan tilted his head slightly, thinking with a look she had learned to recognize, the one he wore when he was deciding how much damage honesty would do.

"There’s a clean answer," he said. "And there’s the honest one. Which one do you want?"

"Honest." Ilaria did not hesitate, not even a second. And because apparently she had chosen violence tonight, she added, "Because last time you told me you didn’t know and I don’t believe that for a moment."

His brow lifted. "You don’t?"

She shook her head, dead serious. "You do this thing where you pretend ignorance when the truth is just inconvenient or heavy, or you think it’ll scare me."

She cleared her throat, "I still remember you said ’They changed, twisted, maybe. Don’t know how or why’—" she mimicked his voice while trying to look stern. "—when I know for a fact you’re more knowledgeable than that."

"That’s a very specific accusation," he remarked.

"Is it wrong?"

He exhaled through his nose, smiling coyly. "No."

She looked smug for exactly half a second before softening. "I just want to understand," she said. "Not so I can fix it, just so I’m not walking blind." She met his gaze steadily. "And if you like me at all, you’ll tell me the truth."

His gaze dropped to where her hand rested over his heart, then lifted again to her eyes. At this point, she would only bait him into telling her everything anyway. "Alright, then listen carefully." He slid one hand up her shoulders, making sure she stayed while he spoke.

"First of all, The Blithe doesn’t necessarily turn people into beasts," he explained carefully. "At least not in the way stories like to tell it. There’s no moment where someone wakes up wrong and suddenly you’re not yourself when you look in the mirror."

She nodded eagerly, clearly wanting to know more, mentally jotting down invisible notes in her head.

"It happens slowly and quietly after it has managed to seek your attention. The body changes first. Your reactions become dull. The pain will gradually soften and fear will loses its edge," he continued. "Most people think that sounds merciful."

"It’s not?" she asked.

"No," he said. "It’s seductive."

She gasped.

"The Blithe feeds on fear and surrender, not weakness alone, you already know this," he went on. "When someone is tired enough, frightened enough, or lonely enough... it offers relief. And if a person accepts that relief too deeply, something essential loosens."

"What?" she whispered.

"The part of them that resists becoming something else."

She was quiet now. Completely still.

"And when they lose that, memory is the last thing The Blithe takes. By the time it’s gone, the body no longer knows it ever had one."

Ilaria swallowed. "So... anyone could turn."

"Yes."

That landed hard.

"The difference," he added, "is attachment. People who hold on to someone, to a purpose, or to the idea of themselves tend to last longer. Sometimes long enough to be saved."

"And the ones who don’t?" she asked.

His eyes did not leave hers. "They become very efficient monsters, like the ones you see in the Expanse."

Silence settled between them, thick but not suffocating.

Ilaria’s thoughts scattered backward without asking her permission. The first time she had heard the whisper and thought it was her own fear talking. The way the air had felt wrong around her, heavy and intimate, like something leaning close. And the answer she had given so willingly.

Suddenly, she sat up straight. She did not pull away from him, did not retreat or flinch. It was simply that the question had finally caught up to her, sharp and unavoidable. "Then what about me?"

Levan’s adjusted his head on the pillow and looked at her.

"I already ’answered’ The Blithe before, so where does that leave me?"

He did not look surprised. Just when he was about to open his mouth and respond though, Ilaria shushed him quickly by pressing a finger to his lips. "Don’t get angry, I’m only asking."

Levan looked at her finger, then back to her. "I wouldn’t," he replied at once. "I’m not angry."

She slowly retreat her finger. "You were before."

"Before," he repeated. "Anger had its moment. It’s finished now."

That eased something in her chest she had not realized she was still holding. "So?" she pressed.

He studied her for a beat. "Not all who hear The Blithe become monsters, but all who lose themselves become liabilities. Some never even reach that point because they either break or die before anything else can take them."

His voice lowered, serious now. "When you answered its call, you did something dangerous, but not irreversible. The Blithe noticed you as someone who could hear it and respond without breaking. That’s the part I didn’t like."

"But isn’t that a good thing?"

"It’s rare, not good," he shook his head in disapproval. "You didn’t surrender. You questioned and resisted it, that’s why I watched you so closely afterward. But looking at you now..." he gave her a once-over, checking to make sure, "—you’re still you. That’s what matters."

She let out a small breath, crossing her arms with a frown on her face. "Why didn’t it take root?" She glanced at him. "Does it not like me?" Another pause. "Am I a terrible vessel or something?"

Levan looked at her as if she were a rare, distant constellation, speechless for a beat before he finally asked, "...Why would you want it to like you?"

"I don’t. I just—"

"No," he cut in fast, like stopping someone from stepping off a ledge. "You do not measure your worth by whether an abomination finds you suitable."

"I wasn’t—"

"And if it did like you," he went on, incredulous now, "that would not be a compliment, that would be a warning."

She stared back, chastened and faintly amused. "Okay, when you put it like that—"

"Saints," he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "It didn’t take root because it couldn’t, not because you were lacking. You resisted it actively."

Ilaria went on anyway.

"But if I could resist it, then others should be able to as well, right?" She insisted, already thinking three steps ahead, eyes bright with conviction. "Think about it, husband. If it’s about not surrendering, then it means it’s possible. We just need to cover our ears, will the whispers away, and we’ll be free."

Levan regarded her for a moment, something thoughtful and restrained settling over his expression. He had read too many records, dissected too many failed cases, to indulge that hope without caution. "It doesn’t work like that."

Her shoulders tensed. "Why not?"

"Because resistance isn’t equal across bodies, and it isn’t learned in the moment," he clarified, pointing at her with his gaze. "Also, your blood doesn’t respond to it the way others do. That’s the difference."

She went still.

"The White Dragon line was never meant to be empty. There’s a density to it. A presence of something ancient enough that intrusion doesn’t go unnoticed. Your blood recognizes what doesn’t belong and refuses to make room for it." His gaze lingered on her, watching as the confusion on her face slowly eased.

"It isn’t just you," he added before she could draw the wrong conclusion. "Dragon-descended bloodlines tend to resist intrusion longer than ordinary bodies do. While that doesn’t make any of us untouchable, it does mean it can’t hollow us out the way it does most people. That’s why it tried to speak to you instead."

Understanding finally flickered across Ilaria’s face. So he went on, quieter but no less certain. "My family shows similar resistance. So did the old Noctharis kings before the records grew thin and the crown learned what it cost to keep testing that limit."

"Have you seen this elsewhere?" She pressed on.

"Yes," he admitted. "Father has negotiated with the other kingdoms for years about this matter. He signed the treaties, and I was the one sent to make sure they held. So far, the Azure descendants show the most consistent resistance. They have longer onset and better recovery when intervention happens early."

He sighed, eyes softening as they met hers. "And now, you too."

Ilaria stared at him, mulling over the bunch of information he laid out so plainly. "So you meant to say... it tried to persuade me?"

"Mm, exactly." His mouth curved without humour. "You don’t force a locked door when you can convince it to open."

She shivered a little at the thought. "And I’m still okay?" she asked, small despite herself.

"You’re stable and protected, and very much yourself, but not invisible."

She nodded slowly. "So I didn’t imagine the pull."

"No."

"And I’m not turning into anything."

"No," he said again, firmer this time.

She breathed out, long and shaky, the words caught in the weight of everything he had just said. The silence stretched, and then the realization that he had technically studied her finally sank in, sharp and undeniable.

"...You know a lot about this," she said suddenly, eyes wide, voice tinged with surprise and awe.

He offered a small smile. "I didn’t do much, just enough research to know all the things I need to keep you alive." He said fondly, lifting his hand to pinch her cheek. "You’re my wife, Aria. I don’t leave things that close to me to a chance."

Her ears warmed instantly. She huffed, half flustered, half touched. "Creepy."

"You meant prepared," he said smugly.

She laughed, the tension finally easing from her shoulders. But the sound did not linger. It faded almost as soon as it left her like breath against glass. Because soon her gaze drifted away, unfocused now, her fingers tracing an absent pattern into the bedding as something quieter settled behind her eyes.

Levan noticed immediately. "What is it," he asked, tilting her face toward him so their eyes met. "You went somewhere."

She hesitated, long enough that it was clear she was not trying to hide it, only deciding how much truth would hurt less.

"It’s just..." she began, then stopped. Her brows drew together, looking down at her hands as she bend her knees close to her chest. "...It feels unfair."

He waited.

"If bloodlines makes that much of a difference, then what about everyone else? The ones who don’t get warnings or resistance, or a choice..." She trailed off. "They don’t even get to be noticed until it’s too late."

The room felt heavier for it. Levan exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze dropping for a moment before returning to her. He did not dismiss her feelings — he could not. She was right, and he had seen enough loss, enough inequity, to know it deeply.

"You’re right, it’s unfair." That alone made her look at him. "Most people lose because no one tells them what they’re facing until it’s already inside their ribs."

She hugged her knees slightly closer, watching him. A sudden, unexplained sting in her nose made her blink quickly, just enough to hide the salt she did not want him to see.

"That’s why I don’t like pretending this is fate," he said. "That’s why I study it. That’s why I catalogue patterns, failures, and survivors." His touch dropped down to her arm. "If resistance exists in any form, then it can be understood. And if it can be understood, it can be taught or at least supported."

She searched his face, sniffling despite herself. "...You really believe that."

"I wouldn’t waste my life on it if I didn’t." There was a quiet resolve there, though not heroic or loud, just unmistakably stubborn. "I’ve seen what it does to those who have no chance... my mother didn’t. I won’t let anyone else go unprepared if I can help it."

Ilaria hummed, caught between awe and the weight of what he had just said. She smiled gently at him, though her mind was thinking of everyone who did not get a chance; who fell because no one warned them, and how unfair it all was. Her chest felt tight, and before she even realized it, a few tears had slipped free.

Levan’s eyes warmed. He let out a hushed, almost exasperated sigh, then dabbed gently at her eyes. "Hm... what is this now?" he asked, trying to coax her. "Did all of a sudden the world get too unfair, or are you just showing off that soft heart of yours?"

Ilaria blinked, flustered, wiping at her nose lightly. "I... I wasn’t—"

"It’s alright," he interrupted lightly, pressing his thumb to her lips before she could protest. "I’ll protect you, Aria. Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m breathing. You know that, right?"

"It’s not that..." Her fingers curled against his hand, small and uncertain as she shook her head. "...Aren’t you tired?" she asked almost inaudibly, her chest hurt. "...You lost your mother because of this, and you still..."

Her words hung in the air, fragile and raw that for a moment, Levan could not respond. Then it hit him that she was not crying for herself, she was crying for him. For all he had endured, for what he had lost. His heart stuttered at the thought that she cares enough to cry for him.

He pulled her down, hugging her tightly, breathing her in if only to reassure her. "I’m never tired of keeping people safe," he said steadily, though the faint edge of grief was there. "Especially you."