Scene 1

  -Elara-

  The snow is packed beneath my boots as I walk beside Vitalis toward the next training field. Each step presses its weight into me, deliberate and slow, as if the ground itself is asking to be acknowledged. When I look around, the absence is unmistakable. Gaps where riders should be. Silence where wings once stirred the air. We have lost them. Riders. Dragons. Bonds that never finished becoming. The caverns remember even when the people try not to.

  Last night, as I lay awake in my narrow bed, a cry echoed through the tunnels. It was not pain. Not fully. It sounded like something breaking halfway through becoming whole.

  Vitalis slows, then stops, and I stop with her. She tilts her head, eyes searching my face with a quiet intensity. Worry hums through the bond, steady and soft, like a hand held out in the dark. I know why. It has only been a little more than a week since the memory took me, since I folded inward and frightened us both. She watches me now as if I might splinter without warning.

  But I am more afraid for her.

  She has changed since that night. The warmth that once flowed easily between us feels muted, as though wrapped in layers I cannot see. I cannot tell whether she has drawn away or if this distance is only my fear taking shape. I am terrified of losing the closeness we barely had time to name. So we walk on.

  The obstacle course rises from the snow ahead, stone half buried, familiar and unforgiving. I pull my jacket tighter, though the cold slips through anyway. Winter is early. Three weeks, maybe four. The kind of early that does not ask permission. A shiver moves through me, and it has nothing to do with the air.

  This is the last week of ground drills. Mounting without hesitation. Controlled fire breathing. Rune casting from dragonback. Weapon handling while the dragon shifts beneath you. Balance before trust. Discipline before flight. If all goes well, we leave the ground next week. The thought settles on my shoulders like a quiet grief.

  There are fewer riders now. Fewer dragons. And two days ago, the warning came. A half souled Hydrith roaming near the outer cliffs, driven by hunger and the closing season. Blackfrost is coming. The kind of cold that makes wings hesitate. The kind where mistakes fall all the way down.

  I try not to imagine what waits beyond the training fields. Food running thin. The factionless pressing closer. A kingdom already stretched now bracing for winter and something worse.

  Breathe, I tell myself.

  What would Mira say. That things unfold as they must. That the Rune Father provides. I believe that. I simply do not know how.

  Something catches my eye near the edge of the path, a flicker of color against the white. I stop and kneel, brushing snow aside with my glove. A pansy. Its petals are pale violet, almost unreal against the frost. Still alive. I free it gently and roll the stem between my fingers, and the motion tugs at something old and tender in my chest.

  I am running through gardens again. Small. Barefoot. Laughing. My hands full of flowers I cannot carry. The memory arrives softly, like a door left ajar. Warm air. Green beneath my feet. I close my eyes and let myself step into it.

  The world thickens. Sound dulls. The cold loosens its grip. My boots are no longer touching snow. Color deepens until it almost hurts to look at it. Green so rich it feels alive. Purple glowing brighter than it should. The sky an impossible blue. Sunlight presses warm and real against my chest.

  This is not remembering.

  I am standing there.

  My shoes are white. My dress is blue. I am laughing as I move through rows of pansies, my arms overflowing, joy filling me so completely it borders on pain.

  “Elara.”

  I turn. My mother stands behind me. Her face is clear. Her smile unmistakably real.

  “Look,” I say, breathless. “I picked these for you. I know they’re your favorite.”

  Something twists sharply inside my chest. This is wrong.

  I blink once. Then again.

  Cold crashes back into me. Snow. Stone. Breath tearing from my lungs in uneven gasps. My heart stumbles as I look down and see my rune blazing on my arm, brighter than it should ever be, before it dims.

  I turn to Vitalis, anger rising before I can stop it. “Was that you?”

  She tilts her head, then slowly nods.

  “Don’t,” I say, the word cutting sharper than I intend. “Don’t do that again.”

  Her rune dims instantly, light folding inward. Hurt ripples through her, raw and immediate, and guilt strikes me just as hard. I misstepped.

  “I didn’t mean,” I begin, then stop. I wait until she faces me fully. “I know you are trying to help. I did not even know you could do that. But please do not force me to remember. Not without warning. Not without my choosing.”

  She lowers her head. When she lifts it again, she presses her brow gently against my shoulder. The meaning moves through the bond, quiet and firm.

  You agreed to this. To the bond. This will happen.

  The thought frightens me more than the memory did. Then the feeling comes, softer, as if to say do not push me away again.

  We take our place in line.

  Ahead of us, Ryker moves through the course with Obsidian, his movements steady, controlled. He adjusts as the dragon shifts beneath him, correcting without panic, without rush. Since that night, he has not drawn closer, but he has not pulled away either. He treats me with care, not distance. He does not look at me as if I am broken. I am grateful for that.

  When the memory took me, he knew what to do. He did not touch me. He waited. The first time it happened, Mira tried first, hands firm on my shoulders, fear sharpening her voice. She meant well, but it only made the world close in harder. Ryker understood without explanation. He stayed until I returned.

  Mira thinks I should tell him everything. Who I was. Where I came from. What my name carries. If I do, he will know about the other kingdom. About my family. About the blood that runs in me. About the truth.

  That my name was part of what killed his father.

  I do not know if I could survive seeing that realization in his eyes.

  So I watch him run. I breathe in the cold. And I keep my memories where I can see them.

  Ryker dismounts from Obsidian, and something goes wrong. His footing slips as he lands, the impact harder than it should be. Snow scatters. He turns his face away at once, already standing, brushing white from his side as if nothing happened. As if pain is a thing he can simply refuse.

  This man acts like pain does not exist, I think. Physical or otherwise. The effort of that must be exhausting. To carry it all and never let it show.

  Obsidian lowers a wing claw for him. Ryker grips it and pulls himself back into the saddle without pause, movement sharp and efficient. That is when I notice General Valcoro approaching. The air shifts with his presence.

  Valcoro stops near Obsidian’s shoulder and looks up at Ryker, his expression unreadable. He does not raise his voice. “You act before you connect,” he says. “I have seen the strain between you and your dragon since training began.”

  Ryker stiffens. Obsidian does not move.

  “You have a choice,” Valcoro continues. “Make one. A dragon will not always wait.”

  Then he steps away, leaving the words behind like a blade set on stone.

  Since Valcoro returned, the riders have not stopped whispering. Rumors coil through the caverns. That he works too closely with certain riders. That he has studied forced bonding. That he supports it. Last night, I heard one of the girls he trained lost her bond entirely. Not broken. Gone.

  And yet it does not fit.

  From what I have seen in the training fields, from what I have heard in quiet moments, Valcoro honors dragons. His own Lumira stands with him willingly, their bond steady and unforced. There is reverence there. Respect.

  Which makes the rumors more dangerous, not less.

  Mira has gathered more information. Quietly. Carefully. The council is curious, she says. Curious enough to consider learning how forced bonding works. Curious enough to ask whether trials might be permitted, if an elder dragon were to approve them.

  The thought chills me deeper than the snow.

  What would that mean for the riders. For the dragons.

  Pressure already weighs on every bond. Numbers are thinning. Fear presses in from all sides. But is survival worth turning consent into command.

  Riders and dragons know what a bond costs. We carry the weight together. To force it would not strengthen the kingdom.

  It would unwrite it.

  I look back to Ryker, to the way he sits rigid in the saddle, holding himself together through sheer will, and I wonder how many choices this kingdom has left.

  And how many of them still belong to us.

  Scene 2

  -Ryker-

  We walk over to Elara and Vitalis after the run.

  My shoulder is sore, a dull, low pain that should have hurt more than it did. For some reason, it didn’t, and that bothers me more than the ache itself.

  As we get close, I let the runes under my shins fade so I can dismount. The strength drains away in a familiar pull. Then something tugs at me through the bond.

  Obsidian.

  Not words. Pressure. A reminder.

  You just heard Valcoro. Let me know what you are doing so I can adjust.

  “I’m getting off now,” I say, sarcasm slipping into my voice as I straighten.

  That was a mistake.

  He growls, anger slamming through the bond, sudden and sharp. He sidesteps fast, forcing my footing to shift. I lose my balance and fall against his back. Then he tilts and slides me down his wing, letting gravity finish the lesson.

  I hit the snow hard and roll.

  That one hurts.

  Obsidian walks toward Vitalis like nothing happened and stops beside her, tall and unbothered. Elara runs over, already reaching for me.

  “I’m fine,” I say before she can help me up.

  She stops anyway. “Are you okay?”

  I glance over and meet Valcoro’s eyes. He saw the whole thing. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

  Rune Father. I probably should have at least tried. Why do I keep doing stupid things like that.

  “What did you do?” Elara asks.

  Anger flares again, doubled now as Obsidian’s irritation bleeds straight through the bond.

  “I clearly pissed him off,” I say, shooting Obsidian a look. “Probably didn’t help.”

  When Elara’s hand finds my arm, I feel a shift I didn’t expect. There’s a steadiness in her touch, a quiet calm I’m not used to leaning on. I breathe out, and the tension knotted in my chest begins to loosen. It’s subtle, but it’s the same ease I feel when Obsidian stands beside Vitalis. Maybe, just maybe, this bond isn’t only about dragons. The realization is small, but it settles slowly, like a truth I’m only beginning to understand.

  She steps closer. “Yeah. I think I upset Vitalis too.”

  We both watch them. Our dragons stand close, heads angled toward one another, clearly in conversation.

  And it is definitely about us.

  I look at Elara, confused. Of the two of us, she has been bonding far better with Vitalis than I have with Obsidian. She notices.

  “It’s been different since my incident,” she says, then hesitates. “And… yeah. I don’t really know.”

  She doesn’t share the rest.

  We wait as the other riders finish the course. Evening slips in. The sky darkens. Snow starts falling again, light and quiet. My gaze drifts to the tree line.

  The woods pull at me. Hunting. The patience of waiting for the right moment. Killing clean. Bringing back what is needed.

  The cold came fast this year. With the supplies lost, I can’t stop thinking about what that means for everyone. We usually have enough through trade with Stonepeak, Verdant Vale, and Iron Hold.

  Now we don’t.

  The weight of what we haven’t done presses harder than the cold. I should be out there, helping in the way I know how.

  My father slips into my thoughts. Our hunts together. Coming back with multiple deer, hands numb, breath smoking. He was my example. He taught me how to hunt, yes, but also why it mattered. Every role in the kingdom mattered. Without hunters, families would starve. Dragons would starve. Stories would end early.

  I never understood his faith, or why that faith led him to leave the Military Guild. He told me it was for us. He told me he saw a skill in me that wasn’t meant for that guild, at least not yet. He said I would make a good hunter.

  What does that even mean.

  How could he know that when I was so young.

  A shadow moves across the ground. I look up.

  A large gray dragon approaches from the kingdom.

  Captain Thalos.

  This should be interesting.

  Valcoro calls us closer as Thalos lands. Thalos pulls Valcoro aside, out of earshot, though it doesn’t matter. I’m certain the dragons hear everything. Both of their dragons are watching, waiting.

  Valcoro turns toward us, his voice rising. “They aren’t ready for that.” Something about bonds. Sharper now. “Are you trying to push until everything breaks?”

  Thalos stands steady, like stone, muttering something under his breath. Valcoro straightens, eyes narrowing as he steps back. His Lumira moves closer, and they begin communicating, quiet but intense.

  Thalos turns toward us, and now he has everyone’s attention.

  “We have received orders,” he says. “Another dragon and rider were attacked along our borders. The rider is in critical condition. The dragon did not survive.”

  Unease ripples through the group.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “The Council has permitted limited patrols during these final weeks before Blackfrost,” he continues. “Survival begins now.”

  No one speaks.

  He starts calling names. “Joren and Kade. You will report to me. Southern tower.”

  Then he looks at me.

  “Ryker. You will go with Lyra and report to Drexen at the northern tower tonight. The rest of you will continue training and guild duties.”

  Concern floods the bond instantly. Obsidian feels it too.

  Something is wrong.

  Elara steps to my side and touches my shoulder, the contact jolting me. “Ryker,” she says quietly. “Bonded mates aren’t supposed to be separated. Not this early.”

  Confusion tightens into stress as a low rumble builds in Obsidian’s chest. Vitalis steps forward in front of him, calm but firm. The bond shifts. Not rage. Resolve.

  Thalos starts toward his dragon, but Valcoro steps in front of him, fury barely contained. Lumira growls as Thalos’s Terragon shifts its weight.

  The dragons are talking now. Not quietly.

  Obsidian and Vitalis move away from our sides and join them. The Terragon steadies its stance as they approach, eyes locking on our mated pair. Obsidian’s teeth flash now and then. Vitalis’s eyes narrow, her posture unwavering.

  I glance at Elara, unsure what to do except stand still and endure the flood of nerves, anger, and heat pouring through the bond.

  The Terragon turns toward Thalos and communicates something. Thalos hesitates, then waves a hand, conceding.

  Relief washes through the bond as our dragons return. Valcoro follows, Lumira at his side. He approaches us.

  “Elara,” he says. “You and your Lumira, Vitalis, will accompany Ryker and his Umbrix, Obsidian.”

  He lowers his voice. “Be careful. Of the dangers, yes. But also of the strain between your dragons’ bonds. I believe Thalos is pushing where he should not.”

  He glances at the dragons, still watchful. “Get the supplies you need. It will be a long week. And a cold one.”

  Then he turns and walks away, Lumira following.

  Snow falls thicker now. Obsidian shifts beside me.

  This time, I warn him before I move.

  Scene 3

  -Elara-

  As we walk through the inner city streets, my thoughts refuse to slow. I knew bonding a dragon carried responsibility, but being tasked with protecting the city is something I never believed I would face so soon, or ever.

  One thing I have always respected about the Cliffside Kingdom is its willingness to endure, to protect what it has and survive anyway. Now I understand how that is possible. The kingdom survives because of the dragons. The guilds may have their own roles, but everything they do is tied to dragon aid—food, trade, protection. Even the land itself depends on them. Without dragons, this place could not exist. Perhaps that is why the dragons chose this region so long ago, before the Sundering.

  Now I am being asked to become part of that balance, to protect a kingdom and people that are not my own.

  As we pass the buildings, I notice the smell of burning coal, dark smoke coiling from most of the chimneys. These are the homes without magic, the ones that rely on the miners’ work, on fuel hauled from deep stone and burned down to embers just to survive the cold. Then the scent shifts, warmer and cleaner, harder to name. Magic at work.

  Houses heated by runes carry a different smell, as if metal or stone remembers being forged and releases that memory back into the air. Each structure produces its own variation, shaped by the material used. Iron is sharp and dry. Stone is heavier, almost mineral-sweet. The purer and stronger the material, the better it conducts heat, the warmth lingering longer and spreading farther. Those with magic use it for as long as they can, turning to coal only when their bodies begin to strain, saving what strength remains for when it is truly needed. Rune fever waits for those who push too hard, who forget that flesh is not stone and cannot burn forever without cost.

  Winter makes all of us bargain. Some trade muscle for fuel. Others trade years for warmth.

  I walk beside Ryker in silence. We pass a small shop selling wine, bottles lined neatly in the window. With my nerves stretched thin, I would not mind a drink, or a bottle. Ryker does not glance toward it. His expression is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. We spent the week studying dragon lore and the responsibilities of riders, and I know he is thinking about that now—about what is expected of us.

  “Elara,” he says, slowing his pace and tilting his head toward me. “Are you ready for this?”

  The question catches me off guard. This does not sound like the Ryker I have known for the past month. He rarely asks questions like that. “I am not sure,” I admit. “We have not even flown yet. Our bonds are not fully formed. And now they are sending us on patrols. Patrols where only days ago we lost an experienced rider and dragon.”

  I hesitate, the truth settling heavily. “They are asking us to protect the kingdom. And if it comes to it…” I trail off. To kill. Or be killed.

  “Yeah,” Ryker says quietly. He always carries more words than he lets out. “Come with me. I know a place where we can get thicker coats and supplies.”

  We turn toward the far northeast end of the city. The shop we enter is small, its windows crowded with leather, tools, and weapons. Ryker steps inside with ease. I follow, and the scent hits me immediately—tanning oils, leather, metal, and a faint trace of burned air. He has clearly been here before. The space feels less like a shop and more like a home slowly transformed into one, an artisan’s life turned outward.

  “Is that Stormridge?”

  The voice is deep and booming. From the corner of the shop, one of the largest men I have ever seen rises and strides toward us. He is massive, broad-shouldered, wearing a thick fur cloak with a sword at his hip. Dark hair and beard make him seem even larger. He must be nearly seven feet tall. Ryker is not small by any means, but beside this man, he looks almost diminished.

  “Ryker,” the man says again. “It has been almost a year. How have you been, my friend? I heard you were chosen by a dragon. Nearly died when I heard.”

  Ryker stiffens slightly, then smiles, a real one. “I am doing well,” he says. “How about you?”

  “Oh, you know. Physical labor since leaving the military guild a few years back.” The man bows his head briefly, then grips Ryker’s shoulder. “So what can I do for you?” His gaze shifts to me. “And who is this beautiful lady?”

  Ryker tries to step away, but the man’s grip tightens. I move forward and offer my hand. “My name is Elara Emberlyn,” I say, bowing my head politely.

  Something flickers across the man’s face—fear—but it vanishes almost instantly. “Well, it is nice to meet you,” he says, releasing Ryker. “Espen Whitecliff.” He turns toward the back room without pause. “If I am right, you are here for supplies. Your father said you would come to me if you were ever transferred.”

  My stomach drops.

  The back room is filled with meticulously crafted items—cloaks, weapons, packs, tools—everything arranged with care. “You are welcome to anything back here,” Espen says. “If you are here, then you and your dragons are being tasked for patrols. War, and being asked to kill, is not an easy thing.”

  His gaze settles on me. “Elara. Do you carry a sword?”

  The question lands wrong. Not do you have a weapon, but a sword, as if the choice has already been made. I glance down at my empty hands, then back up at him. I have not worn one in years. I have not mentioned it, and yet he asks with certainty. Ryker says nothing, only raises an eyebrow as he looks between us.

  Espen turns away without waiting for an answer. “Ryker, find yourself and Elara a cloak. I am going to get this woman a weapon.”

  Ryker hesitates, then nods and moves away, leaving me standing there with a question I do not know how to voice.

  How does he know?

  Espen returns with several swords of varying lengths, blocking the doorway as he does. I feel small beside him. “So,” he says, “does Ryker remember?”

  My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

  He turns, his tone stripped of warmth. “You know exactly what I mean.” He places a sword near my leg, measuring its length. “I watched Ryker for months after the incident. When someone is not used to death—especially the violent death of someone they love—it reshapes memory. You remember what hurts the most. Or you forget what you cannot carry.”

  He presses another sword into my hand. “Ryker does both. How does this feel?”

  My thoughts scatter. This is too much. “No,” I say quietly. “He does not remember me, if that is what you are asking.”

  Espen studies me. “I did not know you were still here in the kingdom. Are you a rider now?”

  I nod. “Then you must be careful. If you have not gone home, then your father—”

  “The king is not my father,” I say sharply.

  Espen’s eyes narrow briefly before he nods. “The king has reached out to the council asking for dragon riders to assist after winter. With you bonded now, I suspect this is an effort to get dragons there to keep. Do what you will with that information.”

  His tone softens. “If I remember correctly, you were quite skilled with a short sword.”

  He hands me another blade. It feels right. Balanced. Familiar. I rotate it in my wrist without thinking. It has been years since I held a weapon, before I was taken, before Serenya, when I trained with my brother. I look up at Espen. Beneath his beard, he is smiling.

  “That is the one,” he says.

  He guides me back toward the front room, lowering his voice as we pass. “You have both been through much. The Rune Father writes long stories. When the time comes, tell Ryker the truth. He does not forgive lies. But he does forgive pain, if given time.”

  We step into the front room where Ryker stands, cloaks lined across his arms. I say nothing, but the sword rests steady at my side.

  Ryker notices it immediately, raises an eyebrow, then turns to Espen. “Thank you for your help. How much do we owe you?”

  “It is on the house,” Espen begins, but Ryker is already pulling coins from his satchel. “No,” he says. “We cannot take all of your work. That is too much.”

  Espen sighs. “To be honest, Ryker, I would not be where I am without your father. Let us call it even.”

  Ryker glares. “Ten percent. My father always said a man needs to earn his keep.”

  Espen rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

  Before we leave, Espen raises his arm to his chest. “May the Rune Father guide.”

  Ryker mirrors the gesture. “May the Rune Father guide.”

  Outside, Ryker hands me a beautifully crafted cloak. It is cut close to the body, shaped more like armor than fabric—dark brown leather, worn smooth at the seams, heavy enough to resist the wind but supple where it needs to bend. Fur lines the inside, shorn close and layered thin for warmth without weight. The hood is deep and structured, shielding the face without narrowing vision, and the coat falls to the knees, split subtly at the back so it moves with the body instead of against it. In flight, it does not flap. It follows.

  It smells faintly of oil and smoke. Of something made to endure.

  “This is not a ceremonial garment,” I realize. “It is something given to someone expected to survive.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “You did not have to buy this for me.”

  He meets my eyes. “You will need it.”

  I hesitate. “You did not have to—”

  “Do not overthink it.”

  Concern is clear there, unguarded. “I want you warm up there.”

  Scene 4

  -Ryker-

  By the time we pass through the last gate at the base of the castle, the path stretches long and exposed before us, leading straight toward the main cavern and the dragon dens beyond. Since we cannot fly yet, we take the ground route, boots crunching against packed snow. The entrance is massive—it always has been—but walking into it as a bonded rider for the first time still sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

  The wind cuts harder here, loose snow lifting and skimming across the stone. Blackfrost is close. A week, maybe two. From what we have been told, I do not think the kingdom has enough stored to last it. As we walk, I feel the familiar pull of Obsidian, a steady warmth settling through my chest and down my arm. He is close to Vitalis. I can feel it clearly now. They are never truly apart.

  A dragon’s bond is a strange thing—shared space without distance, shared presence without touch. Which makes Thalos’s choices harder to understand. He has mated dragons, one of the few, and only recently did I learn that the Hydrith in the Nursery is his Terragon’s mate. He knows what separation does. He knows what closeness means. So why would he ever try to push us apart?

  My sleeve brushes Elara’s arm as we walk. The contact is light, accidental, but it pulls my attention all the same. I glance at her and notice she is wearing the coat we were given. The leather fits her perfectly, shaped at the waist, clean lines against the cold. The hood is folded back, her hair spilling over the collar.

  She looks beautiful.

  The thought lands harder than I expect, my breath shortening for a few steps before I force it steady. Then she moves closer—not abruptly, not enough to draw notice. Just a half step, then another, until our shoulders touch and do not separate as we continue down the hall. Our strides match without either of us saying a word. The scent of her hair reaches me, clean and warm, carrying a faint floral note I cannot name.

  My focus slips.

  I do not realize how close we are until she stops, and I stop with her. “I’m sorry, Ryker,” she says quietly, stepping back. The space between us returns all at once, cold air rushing in where warmth had been. My thoughts finally begin to untangle, control returning in sharp pieces.

  Why did I not see it sooner?

  Our dragons are closer now than before, their presence bleeding through the bond. “I think Vitalis and Obsidian are sharing a moment,” Elara says, uncertainty threading her voice. “I didn’t realize it was spilling into me.” She looks up at me, brown eyes wide and searching.

  I do not trust my voice, so I say nothing. My gaze drops to her mouth and then back to her eyes before I can stop it. Her pupils widen—not rune fever, something worse, something human. The realization hits me like a strike to the chest.

  I want her.

  The feeling surges fast and unfiltered, too fast, too much. Then we both step back at the same time.

  “Elara calls down the tunnel, “Vitalis, we are almost there.”

  The effect is immediate. The pressure eases. The heat fades. My breathing slows. When I look at her again, the sharpness is gone from her expression. We stand in silence for a moment, letting the bond settle before turning the corner into the cavern.

  The dragons are curled tightly together at the far end of the den, bodies aligned, warmth rising between them in slow, steady breaths. The cave itself is noticeably warmer than the air outside, stone holding heat like a living thing.

  I understand now. They were never the ones pulling us together. They were simply reminding us what closeness feels like.

  And that scares me.

  Because the truth is not new.

  I have noticed her for a long time—longer than I have admitted, longer than I have allowed myself to think about without shutting it down the moment it surfaced. I see the way she moves through the world, careful but not weak, thoughtful without hesitation. She listens before she acts. She notices what others miss. She carries responsibility like a quiet weight, not something she asks to be seen for. She is strong in ways I am not. I have always known that.

  What I have never allowed myself to accept is that wanting her is not the same as endangering her. That closeness does not automatically mean destruction. That the feeling in my chest when she is near is not a warning or a failure of control. It is simply wanting.

  And that terrifies me more than fire ever did.

  Because I do not want this. I want distance. Safety. The space to keep my hands clean of consequence. And yet I want her anyway. The contradiction sits heavy and unresolved, pressing against everything I have built to keep myself contained. I know what happens when I let myself care. I know what history teaches. I know the cost of misjudging a moment, of trusting the wrong warmth.

  Elara is hiding something. I know that too. There is a place inside her she guards carefully, one she told me not to step into. Not yet. And I listened. I told myself it was respect, and part of it was. But part of it was fear—fear that if I knew, I would want to stay, or worse, that I would not know how to leave.

  So I keep my distance, even now. Not because I do not feel this, but because I do.

  Behind us, our dragons breathe together, slow and steady, untroubled by doubt. They do not question closeness. They do not wonder if wanting is dangerous. They simply exist in it.

  I am not there yet.

  But for the first time, I can no longer pretend I do not see the truth standing right in front of me.

  I like her.

  I always have.

  And no amount of fear is going to unwrite that.

  Scene 5

  -Elara-

  As I finish tightening the strap on Vitalis’s harness, I feel her at the edge of my mind. She is not prying or pushing, just present, letting me know she is there. I glance toward Ryker, and my heart quickens before I can stop it. I do not like that it does. I am not even sure what I am supposed to feel right now.

  I feel foolish for letting myself drift that close to him, foolish for letting Vitalis’s emotions for Obsidian press so strongly into my own. I know I am drawn to Ryker. I have known that longer than I want to admit. But the way it surfaced felt unguarded, like a schoolgirl who let her emotions slip without permission. And I do not even think he feels the same.

  He helped me through my episode. He gave me tools that will matter. He stayed when he could have walked away. But ever since the incident with his arm, he pulled back so quickly it felt like whatever might have been there never had time to exist at all. I shake my head, frustration tightening in my chest. I cannot believe I stood there wanting him while he was probably just looking at me with concern, or worse, with pity. Like I was fragile. Like I was letting the bond speak louder than I should have allowed.

  I force myself to breathe and step away. The last thing I need is to unravel further.

  I cross the room and lift my sword from the bed. The short blade rests solid in my hands, its craftsmanship evident in every line. The leaf-shaped steel is finely tempered, the edge sharp enough that I draw my thumb along it with care, feeling its promise without pressing into danger. It is smooth and cool, balanced so precisely it responds to the smallest shift of my grip. The hilt is wrapped in dark purple leather, dyed deep and even, worn just enough to soften beneath my palm. The color holds my attention longer than it should. Royal. Intentional. I wonder if Espen chose it to remind me of who I was, or who I still am, whether I want to be or not.

  My thoughts settle as the weight of what comes next sinks in.

  We are going into the wild, beyond the protections of the kingdom, beyond walls and routines and certainty. We are not just facing the cold, but the factionless, half-souled dragons, and whatever else waits where shelter thins. Vitalis presses gently against my mind, not words or explanation, just understanding.

  I realize then why her presence had drawn so close to Obsidian earlier. It was not farewell or fear, just recognition. A quiet moment between them that said be careful. We go together. A shared knowing of what waits beyond the sky. And in that, I understand why my emotions surged when they did.

  I am not ready to accept what I feel for Ryker. I am not ready to let him see it, or even to examine it too closely myself. But for now, that understanding is enough.

  I finish gathering my healing supplies and pack them carefully into my satchel. Burn creams and ointments. Herbs to dull pain. A thick, paintlike compound for runes if I need to mark skin in the field. I check everything out of habit more than doubt. My journal is there as well, along with the tools I use to record what I learn for Mira.

  As I shift the last pouch aside, I find the small vial of rosemary. I pause. He could have told me to find something to ground myself. He could have offered examples. Instead, he gave me his. I turn the vial once between my fingers, then tuck it into my pocket before I can reconsider.

  When everything is ready, I slip my arm through the strap at the base of Vitalis’s wing claw. She lowers it instinctively, steady and patient, and hoists me toward her back. It took many tries to learn the timing of that movement, trial and error, trust built slowly. And now we are about to take the next step.

  Flying.

  My stomach knots with excitement and nerves, and I know she feels it. I settle into the saddle and look across the ledge as Ryker finishes securing his gear. He lifts his father’s spear and activates the rune that anchors it in place. His movements are careful, measured. He still keeps space between himself and Obsidian.

  How can someone who has endured so much still choose to serve?

  I understand why he hesitates. I cannot imagine surviving what he did. But the question lingers anyway. Will he ever be able to accept Obsidian fully, or will the bond strain beneath the weight of what he carries? Unease settles in my chest as he walks past with his eyes averted, while Obsidian watches him with quiet patience—a dragon whose purpose is to carry the Rune Father’s story forward, waiting without demand for someone still unsure of the mark they were given.

  Vitalis shifts beneath me, a subtle reminder. The feeling that follows is gentle but unmistakable.

  The same could be said of you.

  I watch as Ryker grips Obsidian’s wing claw and pulls himself into the saddle. Physically, he looks as though he was born for this—military leathers, steady posture, instinctive balance. And despite everything, he still wants to protect people who whisper cursed when they think he cannot hear.

  Vitalis moves closer to Obsidian until they stand shoulder to shoulder. They pause there, meeting each other’s gaze. Emotion moves through the bond, layered and familiar, ours braided with theirs. Mated pairs, aligned and ready.

  Ryker looks over at me. “Are you ready?” he asks, nerves slipping through his voice despite the calm.

  I nod. “Are you?”

  He smiles faintly and shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  As we approach the edge, I bow my head briefly. Rune Father, guide us. Protect us. Let us remember why we fly.

  Obsidian leaps first. His wings snap wide, cutting the air as the wind rushes upward to fill the space he leaves behind. Vitalis opens her wings a breath later and surges forward. I cannot stop the flip in my stomach as cold air bites my cheeks and tears at my hair. The updraft catches us immediately, lifting us higher as the saddle jolts beneath me. I am grateful for the horse-style seat as I adjust and steady myself.

  Then we are airborne.

  Obsidian and Vitalis circle the castle together, wide and deliberate. A sense of freedom spreads through me, braided with purpose. This is why we do this. From above, the city stretches wider than I ever realized, white stone glowing softly in the fading light. Below, people gather and cheer, voices echoing upward as they recognize the tradition.

  Mira once told me the first flight is not just about patrol. It is about remembering. Dragons protect their nest, and the kingdom is part of that nest. We must see it from above to understand what we are guarding.

  The flight is breathtaking. I glance toward the pale blue windows of the scholar wing and imagine Mira inside, studying as she always is. Then Vitalis dives, smooth and controlled, toward the entrance of the dragon nests before climbing again. Warmth fills me. Home. Future. Belonging.

  We turn north, the distant lookout tower dark against the horizon. The sun dips lower, but I know the distance will pass quickly. What would take days by foot will take less than an hour in the air. I tighten my grip, pull my coat close, and settle into the rhythm of her wings.

  Whatever waits ahead, we are already moving toward it.