Scene 1

  -Ryker-

  Obsidian lowers his shoulder for the harness, patient in a way I absolutely am not.

  The leather strap slips from my fingers again. I grab it sharper than necessary, jaw tightening.

  Too tired.

  Didn’t sleep.

  Didn’t stop thinking about the docks—about the way Elara folded in on herself like she was trying to disappear.

  I’d tried to talk to her. Not well, not gracefully, but… I tried.

  She wouldn’t look at me.

  And I don’t blame her. The man died in my arms. Her rune collapsed under her hand. Neither of us got out of that moment clean.

  Still, part of me expected—hoped—she’d let me stand beside her the way she stood beside me yesterday.

  I replay what happened, trying to understand it. She traced the rune perfectly. It started healing the way she intended, lines glowing just as they should, and then she paused—only a breath—and everything fell apart.

  That night we both pretended we were fine and slept in the same cavern with an ocean of silence between us.

  In beds given by the Council.

  I drag the strap tight again.

  It slips.

  My grip falters.

  Perfect.

  My fault for thinking sleep was an option.

  Obsidian exhales—not annoyed, just watching me with those deep blue eyes that see too much. His calm makes my agitation feel louder.

  “You’re fighting the tack, not fitting it,” Caleb says behind me.

  Of course he noticed.

  “I’m not fighting anything,” I mutter, harsher than intended. My hands are steadier than my thoughts, and that’s not saying much.

  Caleb steps forward, ever patient. “If you’re uneasy, I can adjust Obsidian’s harness. Happens to new riders all the ti—”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” I snap.

  Obsidian tilts his head as if to say, Really?

  Then he shifts—just a small adjustment of his stance, barely more than a muscle twitch—but sudden enough that I flinch.

  Damn it.

  He did that on purpose.

  The dragon huffs, smug and silent.

  Caleb nods slowly, voice level. “Didn’t say fear. Said uneasy. Trust works differently.”

  My shoulders lock.

  Sleep-deprived, emotionally off-balance, and now being read like an open journal. Wonderful.

  A few yards away, Elara pauses midturn. Her eyes flick up—gentle, searching—but I look away first.

  Trust works differently.

  Yeah. No kidding.

  As I watch Caleb adjust the harness—better than I ever could—I notice how precise he is. He tightens each strap with the same pressure, counting the holes in the leather to match both sides. Every movement deliberate.

  “How long have you made saddles for dragons?” I ask.

  “I’m an apprentice,” he says. “Past few years now. But I’ve always worked with my hands—creating things.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, interested despite myself. “What makes your work different than the older guys?”

  He smiles like he’s been waiting all day for someone to ask about his talents.

  “Let me show you,” he says, pulling out a small leather book filled with sketches. “If there’s anything you’d be interested in, I’d love to make it for you.”

  He flips to a new page, voice dropping into something half-confident, half-mischievous.

  “Honestly? I want to show the older guildsmen that we don’t have to cling to traditions just because they’re familiar. They forget that when something breaks, you don’t repeat the same pattern—you learn from it.”

  My stomach tightens—just a small, sharp pull—because he says it like it’s easy.

  Like breaking isn’t something you still feel days later. Years later.

  He taps a sketch of a redesigned harness, cleaner lines and stronger supports.

  “We study what went wrong, adjust the design, and build something that carries us better than before. That’s how good craft survives. That’s how people survive. You take what still matters… and reshape the rest.”

  I swallow, hard.

  Part of me wants to nod.

  Another part wants to close the book and walk away before he says anything else that sounds too much like truth.

  He glances up briefly, unaware of the weight settling in my chest.

  “Anyway,” he adds with a faint grin, “they never seem to understand that tying things together—ideas, materials, people—can produce something amazing.”

  It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

  Because bonds—tying things together—have never produced anything but loss for me.

  He flips through more pages, explaining how he uses runes in his leatherwork, his gear, his weapons. I force my attention down to the sketches and begin looking through his journal.

  Armor variations.

  Different dragon harnesses.

  Tool packs, bags, reinforced straps.

  Runes forged into metal, embedded in stones like small heating furnaces.

  I flip a few more pages and stop at a unique saddle. Mostly a flat platform with two dents where legs would go. In the margin he’s drawn two armored shin guards with a note: locking rune.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I ask, turning the page toward him.

  His brown eyes sparkle with excitement. “That is something I’ve been working on—a new type of saddle where you use those shin guards to lock yourself into the saddle using runes. The saddle’s mostly flat, except where your legs fit into those dents. It forces you to be forward and more in control when riding. Less wind hits you as you fly. The idea”—he taps a strap toward the front—“is that you’d be able to stand and fight better on a saddle like this. And mount more quickly.”

  I look at the saddle sketch for a while.

  Then I glance at Obsidian.

  He’s looking at it too. Somehow without me noticing.

  Then he looks at me and—almost with the slightest movement—nods.

  “Hey, Caleb,” I say, “would you be able to make that for me? I’d be willing to be a tester for it.”

  Caleb’s face goes slack, like he just won a hundred gold pieces.

  “Uh—yeah! I actually have one basically made at my shop. If you don’t mind, I’ll grab some measurements and send the saddle to you by tonight.”

  “That would be great,” I say—genuinely excited.

  The excitement settles fast, leaving something tighter beneath it. The saddle makes sense—clean, efficient, controllable. No guessing. No shared balance unless I choose it. I can lock myself in, stay forward, stay useful. It’s easier than trusting what I can’t see, what I can’t measure. Easier than admitting that some things don’t break because they’re poorly built—but because the weight was never meant to be carried alone.

  I catch Elara watching, a faint smile softening her face before she quickly looks away. Vitalis copies the motion, like they’re sharing the same breath.

  They’re glad I picked something—something that fits Obsidian and me. I can see it even if I pretend not to.

  I exhale through my nose.

  Fine. If it helps her steady after last night, I’ll take it. She looks… lighter. And she deserves that.

  “Okay, you guys are all set,” Caleb says as he eagerly scribbles measurements into his journal. “Is there anything else I could help you with?”

  I think for a minute. “Actually—do you think you could do something similar to your shin-guard locks?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “If you can fit a leather sleeve snug on a spear, with that same rune… could it lock the weapon onto the saddle?”

  He grins wide. “I’m going to like our relationship. I can just tell.”

  He nods once and heads out, practically skipping.

  I exhale, finally seeing the harness sit correctly on Obsidian.

  Then movement catches my eye.

  A familiar figure walking toward us—my brother—alongside a new dragon.

  Joren is bonded now. But something looks… off. His walk is slower. His head not held as high. His usual energy muted.

  The Terragon behind him is a brute—large greyish-brown scales, claws like dark crystal. He’s three to five feet wider than Obsidian, but not as tall. Built like stone given wings.

  As they get closer, I notice it: the same thing I was doing with Obsidian earlier.

  Distance.

  Joren walks ahead of his dragon, not beside him.

  My eyes soften when he finally sees us and breaks into a grin.

  There he is.

  The old Joren I know.

  But whatever’s going on with him and that dragon…

  I saw it before he hid it.

  And now I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

  Scene 2

  -Elara-

  I shouldn’t be watching them like this.

  Ryker’s hand comes down on Joren’s back, easy and familiar, and something tightens low in my chest. Not sharp enough to name. Not clean enough to admit. He laughs, soft and unguarded, and for a moment I hate how natural it looks.

  He hasn’t stood that close to me since the accident.

  After the rune burned his arm, something in him pulled inward. He stopped lingering. Stopped hovering near me, stopped matching his steps to mine without thinking, the few times we did talk. He said nothing about it. Ryker never does. But the distance settled all the same. he left me alone after.

  Yet here he is, steady at Joren’s side.

  I tell myself it shouldn’t matter. That Ryker has always carried loyalty easily, that some bonds don’t ask for permission or timing. But the thought doesn’t settle. It circles, slow and persistent, brushing against something bruised.

  It isn’t that he laughs with Joren. It’s that the warmth is still there for him—untouched. As if whatever closed between us never reached that far.

  I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how he could pull away from me and still stay there, still offer that warmth so freely. I only know what it feels like to be the one left standing.

  Anger flickers, small and shameful. I press it down and tell myself it’s unfair. That I don’t know the full story.

  But the feeling doesn’t leave.

  They’ve grown close in the year they’ve trained together, close in that quiet way that settles into bone. Big brother and little brother. The kind of bond that doesn’t need naming to be known.

  Beyond them, Obsidian and the Terragon stand face to face, heads angled together. Dragons speak to one another through the mind, thought passing clean and effortless between them. No words. No sound. Just knowing.

  Humans are not born with that ability. Riders only gain it when the bond fully takes hold, when ash gives way to burn. Mira once told me that the depth of the bond determines how clearly dragon and rider can communicate. For some, it is no more than a single word or emotion. For others, it becomes full conversations, shared as naturally as breath.

  I glance at Vitalis wondering what she would sound like to me if we could fully bond. She watches the other dragons, still and attentive, as if listening to something just beyond my reach.

  Ryker and Joren shift, and their dragons mirror them almost perfectly. Ryker stands tall, chest tight, chin lifted, but his eyes never stop tracking Joren as Joren recounts their first night in the nests. Obsidian’s chest rune catches the light, sharp and angular, drawn tight with purpose. It feels proud. As if the Rune Father himself placed it there and Obsidian remembers why.

  Joren is taller by a few inches, yet he stands looser, feet close together, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze wanders, skirting the edges of the yard, as if avoiding something only he can see. His dragon mirrors that unease, shifting its weight, a gentle sway betraying a lack of stillness.

  I turn back to Vitalis and finish adjusting her saddle. I chose a light brown, fire-treated leather, simple and flexible, made for movement. Dragons don’t care for ornament. They care for balance and freedom. Still, the color warms her scales, and I can’t help the small smile that rises.

  A soft echo answers it.

  Her contentment brushes against mine, brief and bright.

  Then a strap catches.

  Frustration tightens my hands, sharp and sudden, and with it comes the echo of last night. The weight of sleepless hours. The man who died. The moment my hands shook and I couldn’t do enough.

  Do I deserve a good day, when I couldn’t save him?

  I move to the front of Vitalis to adjust another strap, and my gaze catches on her chest rune.

  Remember.

  What if I don’t want to?

  What if remembering only sharpens the pain?

  The yard pulls me back as Ryker and Joren approach.

  “So,” Joren says, clapping Ryker on the back again, “you taking good care of my boy?”

  His grin widens as he looks between Ryker and me. “When I heard you were bonded together, I knew you’d be able to help him more than I ever could.”

  Ryker answers with a short laugh and a playful punch to Joren’s shoulder that clearly hurt.

  “But seriously,” Joren adds, quieter now, “I’ve heard the rumors. You were at the docks when the trade ship came in. That’s wild. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Yeah,” I say, because he doesn’t need the rest. “Me too.”

  “Here, let me help with that.” Joren steps closer, reaching for the strap that refused me.

  I step back to give him room beneath Vitalis’s neck.

  Ryker watches.

  His arms are crossed, tension threading through them, subtle enough to miss if you don’t know him. When his gaze flicks to me, his smile comes a heartbeat too late.

  A low growl rolls through the space behind him.

  Obsidian steps forward, the Terragon moving with him. Ryker spins, sharp and startled, almost snapping a reprimand. Obsidian narrows his eyes, then turns away, returning to the Terragon as if nothing happened at all.

  I exhale slowly.

  Perhaps Obsidian thought Joren crossed a line.

  Or perhaps dragons notice things we pretend not to feel.

  I glance around the yard, pretending nothing happened, though Obsidian’s behavior still pricks at the back of my thoughts. Dragons don’t react without reason. I just don’t know what his was.

  I search for Mira. She said she would meet us here and observe the training. She also planned to speak with Brannis about us, about how unusual our situation is, and whether we could be excluded from training for now. Mira believes strongly that newly bonded riders shouldn’t be thrown into combat so quickly. Bonds should be tended first. Strengthened. Learned.

  I agree with her, though part of me wonders if Ryker would. One of the reasons I was drawn to him in the first place was his devotion to the kingdom and to his role within it. He sees the whole, not just the fracture. Duty before comfort. Purpose before fear.

  Still, I can’t stop the question from rising. How can something this fragile be shaped under pressure meant for war?

  Thalos and the other guild leaders don’t seem to ask that question at all. So here we are, training on the second day after bonding, instead of spending weeks learning how to exist with our dragons before being asked to fight beside them.

  Last night, Mira told me the Council would be meeting again soon. Winter preparations. Food supplies. Rationing. And quietly, like a blade slid between ribs, forced bonding.

  That part caught my attention more than anything else.

  But I wasn’t ready to talk about it then. I don’t think I am now.

  I finally spot her seated near the edge of one of the training rings, perched on a low stone bench with her journal already open. Of course. She watches riders and dragons with the same intensity she gives old texts, recording everything. When she sees me, she lifts a hand in a small wave.

  Relief settles briefly in my chest.

  A sudden rush of wind tears overhead.

  A Terragon dragon dives from the sky and lands hard some distance away, claws biting into stone. Dust ripples outward with the impact.

  General Thalos.

  He dismounts smoothly and nods once to his dragon. It answers with a deep, chest-rattling roar that silences the yard. Thalos follows it by activating a fire rune, flame flaring briefly into the air, to draw the remaining stragglers toward the ring.

  He steps into the center, boots sinking slightly into loose gravel, hands clasped behind his back.

  The noise bleeds away.

  “You will note the absence of Captain Garran Valcoro,” Thalos says evenly. “Unexpected duties have called him away. He will return in due time.”

  A murmur ripples through the cadets.

  One boy leans just far enough toward another for the whisper to spread.

  “Duties? More like meetings with the High Table. Something about forced bonds, that’s what I heard.”

  The words slither across the yard.

  Forced bonds.

  Some scoff. Others stiffen. No one speaks loudly enough to be named.

  Thalos continues as if nothing was said.

  “Most of you have already heard of the attack on the Stonepeak trade ship,” he says. “Let me be clear. That vessel carried the last of the food, salt, and preservation supplies we needed to survive the winter and the Black Frost.”

  His expression doesn’t change. His voice doesn’t waver.

  “I warned the Council that an escort was necessary. They agreed, but sent only one rider and one dragon, despite my request for more.”

  A pause.

  “They, along with two ships and their crew, are dead.”

  A hush settles deeper than before.

  “We no longer have those supplies.”

  Riders exchange looks. Even a few dragons shift uneasily, sensing the weight of what’s been said. Whispers begin to crawl again, spreading faster now.

  “That being the case,” Thalos continues, “I have been granted approval to advance your training schedule.”

  His gaze sweeps across us.

  “We need riders and dragons capable of protecting this kingdom and its nests. Training will not be easy. Some of you may lose your bonds if you are careless.”

  The words land like cold iron.

  “But desperate times demand stronger riders.”

  He straightens.

  “You will train as often as possible. Hand-to-hand combat. Rune magic. Aerial and dragon-assisted assaults.”

  A beat.

  “We have reliable information that a group of Factionless intends to make one final attempt on our remaining food supplies before winter fully settles. You all understand what that means.”

  His eyes lock briefly on Ryker.

  There is no accusation in them. No anger.

  Only calculation.

  Ryker shifts back a single inch, instinctive, controlled.

  “I expect each of you to rely on your training,” Thalos says evenly, “and to trust your dragons.”

  The silence that follows feels intentional, like a line drawn in the dust. As if refusal is not an option, only a delay.

  “Now,” he concludes, “we will begin with hand-to-hand sparring combined with rune activation. I will call your names. One round each. This will tell us where to begin.”

  My stomach tightens.

  This isn’t preparation.

  It’s pressure.

  Pressure doesn’t strengthen what’s already cracked. It exposes it. I can feel it in the yard, in the way riders hold themselves too rigid and dragons shift without settling. Bonds aren’t meant to be tested like weapons straight from the forge. They’re meant to be learned, listened to—remembered. Whatever Thalos is building here, it isn’t trust.

  Scene 3

  -Ryker-

  Names are called. Rings fill. Dust rises. I try not to look for her, but i find myself watching Elara when her name is called.

  I tell myself it is curiosity. That I want to see how a scholar fares in the ring. But the moment she steps inside, something tightens in my chest.

  She is smaller. Six inches at least. Lighter by a lot. Her opponent, another girl, is from the Artisan Guild, broad through the shoulders, solid like someone used to lifting stone and metal. On paper, Elara should lose the physical exchange quickly.

  But she does not.

  She moves carefully. Too carefully. I do not know how I know it, but I see it. She pulls her strikes at the last instant. Adjusts her footing when she is about to be hit hard. Turns her body just enough to take the blow where it will hurt less.

  Controlled. Measured.

  Trained.

  My brow furrows.

  When and where would she have learned this? She is a scholar. She is supposed to be books and ink and runes. Not this.

  Then the other girl clips her hard across the mouth.

  Elara’s head snaps to the side. Red blooms on her lip.

  My breath locks. My hand twitches at my side before I can stop it.

  I look for Vitalis.

  The dragon is watching like a hawk, head low, eyes sharp. Not worried. Not panicked.

  That unsettles me more than if she were.

  I think of the nest. Of the flicker I caught there. The way Elara went still when memories brushed too close. She has trauma. I know that much.

  And now this.

  Elara resets her stance.

  I watch the angle of her feet, the way her shoulders settle instead of tensing. Curiosity burns, sharp and insistent. I want to see how she ends it.

  A voice cuts through the yard.

  “Stormridge. Kade.”

  My name snaps me back into my body. I force my feet to move. Staying would make things obvious—things I don’t have words for yet. And obvious is dangerous.

  I turn. Thalos is already looking at me.

  “You. Over here.”

  The ring waits.

  I step into the circle, and Brann Kade meets me without pause. Broad shoulders stretch dark gray military leathers. His knuckles are scarred white from old breaks. His jaw looks like it has never learned how to soften. He rolls his neck once, slow and loose, eyes never leaving mine.

  The grin he gives me says he has already measured the distance to the ground beneath my feet.

  Hunter versus soldier.

  This will be interesting, I think as I settle into my stance and let my weight sink.

  Thalos’ voice slices across the yard.

  “One round. You will begin with your bodies. No runes.”

  A beat.

  “Begin.”

  Brann comes at me like a collapsing wall.

  The first strike slams into my guard, the impact rattling bone. I am a fraction late on the second. His fist drives into my ribs and knocks the air from my lungs in a sharp, ugly burst.

  Way stronger.

  Of course.

  I try to slip inside his reach, but he crowds me. Tight. Trained. A hook crashes into my forearm. Pain shoots to my shoulder. Then his weight hits full force and carries us down.

  Stone rushes up.

  I hit hard. Dust explodes around us. Brann follows, forearm grinding into my throat, breath hot at my ear.

  “This ring isn’t the wild. Stay down.”

  I strain against him. Nothing gives. His weight is perfect and my throat burns.

  “Break,” Thalos snaps.

  Brann shoves off and rises, chest heaving, smirk already back in place. He does not offer a hand.

  I push myself up slower than I want. My ribs scream. I brush grit from my armor and keep my jaw locked.

  Thalos’ eyes flick between us.

  “Kade presses well,” he says to the cadets. “Good weight control. But he overcommits.”

  Brann scowls.

  “Stormridge,” Thalos continues evenly, “you absorb too much. You survive when you should redirect.” Try something different, or the same outcome will follow.

  His gaze sharpens.

  “Again.”

  We circle.

  I draw in slow breaths, forcing my pulse down, searching for cracks. And then calm settles over me, sudden and deep. My thoughts sharpen faster than they should.

  Then I feel it.

  Obsidian.

  Not sight. Not sound. Weight. Presence. A steady pressure like standing chest-deep in water that does not move no matter how hard the waves strike.

  My breathing steadies without my permission.

  I hate the relief so much it tastes like weakness.

  And still—I take it.

  Brann lunges. I move earlier this time, letting his momentum slide past instead of meeting it head-on. His elbow still clips my side, sending fire through my ribs, but it does not drop me.

  Something passes through the bond.

  Approval.

  It does not merge with me. It hovers close, steadying my hands, sharpening my focus. The yard fades. There is only distance. Timing. Breath.

  We clash again and again. My strikes land. His land harder. Every exchange costs me more breath than the last.

  Thalos raises a hand.

  “Enough.”

  We freeze.

  “Now,” he says, “you may use your runes. Control will matter more than power.”

  Brann does not hesitate. He drags his finger across his chest plate. Glyphs flare to life. Speed. Strength. Endurance. Broad and heavy. Power surges through him as he charges like a boulder breaking loose.

  I pivot. My heel brushes dirt. A move rune sparks along my leg and carries me faster and in the clear. His fist cuts air.

  “Stop running!” he snarls.

  Not running.

  Watching and waiting.

  I tap the seam of my shin guard. Strength answers. Heat floods muscle and bone. My counter-kick lands harder than either of us expects and drives him back several steps.

  His grin disappears.

  “Better,” Thalos calls. “Stormridge can adapt.”

  Brann comes again. Rune-lit blows hammer forward. I block high. Pain jolts through my arms even as a guard rune shimmers faintly along my sleeve, dulling what would have shattered bone.

  Then he shoves.

  The impact lifts me off my feet.

  I hit on my side. A sharp crack tears through my ribs. White flares behind my eyes. A sound rips out of me before I can stop it.

  Pain surges through the bond.

  My chest rune flares bright gold under my clothes. Somewhere behind the crowd, another glow answers.

  Obsidian’s calm fractures. Concern floods back, hot and sharp, echoing the ache like it is his chest that took the blow.

  For a heartbeat, it nearly splits me open.

  I stay down.

  Let him think I am broken.

  Brann laughs and charges.

  Different, Thalos said.

  Fine.

  My hand sweeps low. I embed fast despite the pain. The runes of Earth and Rise together.

  At the last heartbeat, I roll aside.

  Stone erupts beneath Brann and slams into his chest, throwing him flat onto his back.

  Gasps ripple through the yard. Mira’s stylus scratches furiously.

  I haul myself upright. My ribs burn. Obsidian is closer now. Pride rolls through the bond, deep and resonant.

  It steadies me.

  I do not like it.

  Not dominance.

  Alignment.

  I catch Elara at the edge of the ring. Blood shines on her lip. She stands rigid, eyes locked on me, worry naked and unguarded.

  My chest tightens.

  She is hurt and still watching like I matter.

  Brann staggers up with a snarl and carves another glyph. I flick my hand. Light erupts. White fire floods the ring.

  He curses and swings blind.

  I slip in close. Pain screams as I move. My palm brushes the dirt beneath his boot. Holding rune.

  His foot locks.

  “What?” he says, panicked. I sweep his free leg and send him crashing down again.

  He tears loose with brute strength, but his hands shake now. Sweat pours down his face. He tries to carve again. The mark smears crooked. His pupils blow wide.

  Rune fever.

  Thalos is already there. His boot stamps down and kills the glyph.

  “Enough!” His voice rings like iron. “Mark it. Tremor. Blurred sight. Short breath. Rune fever.”

  He points sharply. “One more surge and you would have ruined yourself.”

  Brann glares at the dirt, fury with nowhere to go.

  I stand. My runes fade. Every breath drags fire through my ribs. Obsidian’s presence settles again, quieter now, concern braided with pride.

  Stop it, I think, glancing his way like he might hear me.

  Thalos surveys the ring.

  “The body teaches survival,” he says. “The soul amplifies it. Unbalanced, either will kill you.”

  Silence stretches.

  “Learn control,” he finishes. “Or your next fight will be your last.”

  I step forward and extend a hand.

  “Better you walk out than crawl, Kade.”

  After a long moment, he takes it. His grip is hard. Honest.

  Not friends.

  Not enemies.

  Just two cadets who felt the edge and stepped back.

  The yard noise swells again. Obsidian’s pride brushes closer through the bond. I shake my head like it might clear the double feeling in my chest.

  I avoid him as I move toward the edge of the ring.

  Thalos intercepts me before Elara can.

  “Stormridge,” he says quietly. “You have a gift for rune magic. No sign of fever. You carried three more runes than Kade.”

  His gaze sweeps the yard.

  “You could protect this kingdom.”

  Then he looks at Obsidian who is dangerously watching him, eye narrowed and nostrils flaring.

  “If you do not control your dragon,” he says flatly, “you will be a waste.”

  He does not look at me when he finishes.

  “You will be useless. And the kingdom will fall. Fix it. Or I will.”

  He walks away.

  My breath comes back in shards. Pain doubles.

  Elara finally reaches me. Her eyes flick to my hand pressed against my ribs.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “What did Thalos say?”

  “I have been better,” I manage, wincing. “Nothing you haven’t already seen. Just… get better.”

  I stand there while she watches me breathe. After another fight passes, I lean toward her.

  “I think I need a healer.”

  She grabs my arm.

  “I think he bruised or broke a rib,” I add quietly.

  And the yard keeps moving like nothing just changed at all.

  Scene 4

  -Elara-

  Thalos dismisses the ring after the last training fight. The yard loosens at once, cadets spilling outward as dust settles and voices rise. Above the cliffs, the dragons lift from their perches and circle back toward the nests.

  I fall into step beside Ryker as the crowd carries us toward the castle.

  The dragons wheel overhead, dark silhouettes against the thinning light, their wings beating a slow, deliberate rhythm as they return to the nests carved high into the cliff. The sound follows us as we walk back toward the castle — not loud, but steady, like a pulse the stone itself remembers.

  I walk beside Ryker.

  He wears pain the way he wears everything else: quietly, rigidly, as if endurance were a kind of armor. His shoulders stay square. His gaze stays forward. But I see it anyway — the way his breath stutters just slightly when others pass too close, the brief flicker in his eyes each time his ribs protest.

  Each breath costs him something.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask softly.

  I already know the answer will change once we reach the nest, once the walls close around us and the watching eyes fade. But out here, among voices and stone and expectation, I understand his need to remain unremarked.

  He slows his steps just enough that I have to adjust my pace to hear him.

  “You know where the healers’ rooms are,” he says. Not a question. Almost not a request. “Would you mind taking me there?”

  The words sting more than they should.

  I could heal him. I know I could. The knowledge settles heavy in my chest, tangled with memories I do not fully trust yet. Is it the man from the docks? Or does he still doubt me — doubt what I can do?

  I lower my eyes, schooling my expression before it can betray me.

  “Yes,” I say. “They’re near the scholars’ hall. I can show you.”

  Footsteps approach behind us.

  “Elara. Ryker.” Mira catches up easily, her eyes sharp and searching. “Are you two alright?”

  “We’re fine,” Ryker says, breath clipped but controlled.

  “Yes,” I echo, smoothing the lie into place. “Just sore.”

  Mira’s gaze lingers on me a heartbeat longer than necessary. Understanding passes between us without words.

  “Alright,” she says at last. “Elara, come by our room when you can.”

  She already knows we are not returning to the nest first. She must have seen the way the match ended — the way Ryker moved afterward.

  “I will,” I promise.

  I watch her disappear into the thinning crowd.

  The sun slips behind the horizon, and the air sharpens with it. The cold creeps in faster each night now, seeping through stone and cloth alike. I rub my arms, surprised by the sudden chill.

  Winter should not be this close.

  Ryker notices the movement, though there is nothing he can offer me in return.

  “So,” he says after a moment, forcing a casual note into his voice. “How was your tussle?”

  His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Looks like you took a hit.”

  I touch my lip absently. “She caught me. I’m not much of a fighter.”

  A half-truth.

  “Maybe I’ll learn some techniques,” I add. “Training should help.”

  His brows draw together, just slightly — a look I’ve come to recognize. He’s weighing something. Measuring. As if he senses the gap between what I say and what I don’t.

  I need to redirect him before he starts asking the wrong questions.

  “Did you feel Obsidian while you were fighting?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer right away.

  We walk in silence through the narrow streets, past a shop window gleaming with worked leather — harness straps, bags, cloaks stitched with careful hands. The smell of cured hide and oil lingers in the air.

  Finally, he speaks.

  “I noticed Vitalis wasn’t nervous,” he says. “Not once.”

  My heart stumbles.

  “Oh?” I say lightly, though warmth blooms beneath my ribs. I wonder if he felt her the way I did — steady, calm, present.

  He shrugs. “Just thought it was interesting. And yes… I felt Obsidian.”

  He says it like an admission he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

  “I think she helped me,” I say quietly. “Vitalis. In ways I didn’t know were possible. Strength. Calm. I thought I heard her, too — just for a moment.”

  “But you didn’t let him,” I say gently.

  “No,” he answers at once. “I don’t need his help. And I don’t—”

  The sentence trails off, unfinished.

  “Ryker,” I say, stopping at last. “I think you should give Obsidian a chance.”

  He stills.

  “Bonding has helped me,” I continue. “Vitalis guides me when I need it. She lends me strength when I feel weak.”

  His step falters — just a fraction — like my words brushed against something tender and dangerous.

  “I know it’s different,” I add. “They’re mated. And we’re… stuck with each other, so I figure we’d better help one another when we can. But you aren’t shackled to him. If you keep resisting… you may lose the bond entirely.”

  I hesitate, then let the truth surface.

  “And the kingdom needs you. Obsidian needs you.”

  The infirmary doors rise before us as we begin walking again, light spilling out as healers move briskly inside. For a moment, memory flashes — my hands stained with glow and breath and hope, helping where I could. I used to come down and just watch. Something about healing and helping has always given me purpose — something I never felt back home.

  “I should be the one to help you,” I say. “Or at least stay. It won’t take long.”

  He turns to face me.

  “I’ll be alright,” he says. “Thank you. For bringing me here. And for what you said.”

  One hand stays pressed to his ribs. The other reaches for my arm. The touch is gentle, careful. Still, my thoughts lock the instant his fingers brush my skin. My body reacts before I can stop it.

  I can touch first. Being touched is different.

  And then I realize he is only returning what I did earlier. Offering reassurance the way he knows how.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my stillness. Or maybe he does. There is the faintest glint in his eye, gone almost before I can be sure it was there at all.

  I nod, even as something in my chest aches with the wanting to stay, to witness, to share the weight he refuses to set down.

  I turn away and make my way back toward my old room, the sound of wings echoing faintly above the stone.

  Winter is coming.

  And so, I think, is the part of the story where remembering becomes unavoidable.

  I walk alone, letting my feet carry me while I keep my head down. I know the way without thinking — the turns, the shallow steps worn smooth by generations, the place where the stone always dips just enough to catch the toe if you aren’t paying attention. The path is drawn into me so deeply I could follow it in my sleep.

  Maybe I already am.

  I open the door quietly.

  Mira sits on her bed with the oil lantern lit beside her, its glow warm and steady. Her journal rests open in her hands, ink still dark at the edges of the page. She looks up when I enter and smiles, the kind that asks questions without pressing for answers.

  “So,” she says gently, closing the journal just enough to mark her place. “Did you drop him at the infirmary?”

  She tilts her head, thoughtful. “He took a few hard hits. And when he landed that last time… I’m fairly sure I heard something crack.”

  “Yes,” I say, and the word comes out heavier than I expect.

  I catch myself too late.

  Mira’s eyes soften. “How are you doing?” she asks. Then, after a pause, “You two aren’t back together yet?”

  I roll my eyes, more reflex than truth. “It’s not like that.”

  But the words don’t quite convince me, and Mira knows it.

  I look away toward the small table by the wall and reach for the fixed rune lamp. The carved lines warm beneath my fingers as I ignite it, light blooming softly into the room. The glow steadies something inside me as well.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You’ve been busy.”

  My bed is a careful chaos — books stacked and half-stacked, scrolls unfurled and weighed down with stones, sketches of dragons and runes layered atop one another like overlapping memories. Ink stains the edge of my blanket where I must have forgotten to cap a vial.

  “It looks like you haven’t stopped all day,” I add.

  I sit beside her, gently nudging her feet aside so I can settle in. The familiar weight of the mattress dips beneath us, grounding.

  Mira follows my gaze, then exhales a quiet laugh. “Someone has to keep track of everything,” she says. “And right now, everything feels like it’s moving too fast.”

  She taps the journal against her palm. “There are patterns forming, Elara. Not just in the training. In the bonds. In the way the dragons are behaving.”

  I swallow. “That’s not comforting.”

  “It’s not meant to be,” she says softly. Then she looks at me again — really looks. “You tried to help him today.”

  “I did,” I admit. “And he refused. Politely. Carefully. Like he always does.”

  Mira nods, unsurprised. “He’s terrified.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re not?” she says.

  The truth of it settles between us. I think of Vitalis — the quiet hum in my chest, the way memory no longer feels like an enemy when she is near.

  “Maybe,” I say. “The rune shared between us… I’ve noticed it brings things I don’t want.”

  Mira reaches out, resting her hand over mine. “Then be patient and learn what that means. Winter is coming, and it makes everyone retreat inward. Even dragons.”

  Her fingers squeeze once, reassuring. “Just don’t disappear with the cold.”

  I lean back against the bedpost, the light from the rune lamp catching the edges of the scrolls, the ink, the symbols still waiting to be understood.

  “I won’t,” I say.

  But as the wind rises outside the cliffs, whispering through stone and memory alike, I wonder how much longer any of us can avoid what’s been written.