Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Another year. Another culling. Another crop of fragile humans scrambling for relevance. I’ve long since stopped counting. 

The parapet is a filter. A fine blade honed by the deaths of the foolish and unworthy–one I’ve watched slice through generations of desperate dreamers. Most of them are too loud. Too arrogant. Too soft.

Sgaeyl is perched high on the eastern tower, smug and relentless, her eyes locked on the flood of candidates crossing the parapet. I borrow her vision more out of boredom than interest. Sgaeyl finds it amusing. 

I find it predictable. 

And then…

I see her before she sees me.

Or more accurately, I see her through Sgaeyl’s eyes–a temporary courtesy, not a habit.

This one is small. Perhaps abnormally so. Not just short–like someone forgot to finish drawing her. At first, I think she’s injured. Or too young. Or both. She’s limping slightly—no, not limping. She moves like her joints are protesting every step, but she's controlling the movement, channeling her body like a weapon still functioning after war. 

Odd.

The girl’s steps are deliberate, light. She’s not storming across like some would-be-hero with something to prove. She’s conserving energy. Reading the wind. Calculating. She knows this is not a place for bravado—it’s a battlefield. 

And she’s treating it like one. 

Uncommon.  

“That one,” Sgaeyl mutters, her thoughts a familiar low snarl, “is going to die.”

I do not answer.

She wears black. Good. She’s one of ours. Or wants to be anyway.

Her arms tremble as she balances along the thin stone spine connecting the parapet to the keep. Wind claws at her and rain lashes at her tiny form, as it does to every other candidate every other year. Her braid has come undone. She blinks against the gust, body braced low, knees bent–not out of fear, but instinct. 

She knows how to fall. And how not to. 

Curious.

A tall, hulking man barrels down the narrow stones. He’s quick enough to toss the one in front of him off the parapet and to death. Swift. Precise. Brutal. Just in time for the girl to turn her head and watch.

The other falls. Screams swallowing her horrified gasp. 

Then silence. 

And the little one…She keeps walking. Her footfalls come faster as she turns forward and away from the man who chases after her with a malicious, cruel glint in his eyes. 

Sgaeyl laughs. A dry guttural sound that doesn’t reach her throat. “Well, maybe she won’t die today.”

No, I think, maybe she won’t.

There’s something there–not power, not yet. But intention. Will. She walks like every step defies a thousand people who told her she wouldn’t.

And I’ve seen enough wars to know: It’s not always the strongest who survive. It’s the ones who refuse to.

“She won’t make it through threshing.” Sgaeyl says, dismissive again.

“We’ll see.” I say, trying to sound casual.

But I'm no longer listening to Sgaeyl. 

Because the girl just looked up. Hazel eyes scanning the sky. Right through Sgaeyl’s crowd of winged shadows, through the rain battering on scales. She squints into the clouds—almost as if she senses us watching. 

“She can’t possibly see us.”  Sgaeyl says, shifting her wings. “Too far. Too bright.”

Lightning flashes followed by booming thunder, as if in welcome of the little one. Inexplicably, her tense shoulders relax with the sound. Her breaths come in deep and calming. And she soldiers ahead with steely determination, eyes on her destination. 

And in that moment–just a blink–it feels as though she sees me. 

Not through borrowed eyes.

Not through bond. 

Just…sees.

Hmph.

Interesting. 

“You're all cadets now.” Riorson’s voice carries out over the younger ones, stronger than anyone’s. Sgaeyl’s chest expands slightly and I can feel her pride as if it were my own. He’s her rider after all. “Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by the Codex not to kill you. But just because they can’t end your life doesn’t mean others won’t. You want a dragon? Earn one.”

Cheers ring through the courtyard at the end of his little speech. I shake my head in disgust even though not one of the humans can see me. Foolish. The real test is yet to come.

Curiously enough the little silver one does not join them cheering for their survival and the others’ death. Her eyes are downcast and she stares at her feet. 

“And I bet you feel pretty badass right now, don’t you, first years?” Riorson continues, voice climbing higher. More cheers. “You feel invincible after the Parapet, don’t you?” He shouts. “You think you’re untouchable! You’re on the way to becoming the elite! The few! The chosen!”

I roll my eyes. For someone who is considered ruthless enough to bond with Sgaeyl, this one’s flair for dramatics cannot be denied. 

The muscles of Sgaeyl’s legs tense before she takes off to the skies. The other dragons fall into formation behind her as she leads them towards the courtyard. The approaching wingbeats alert the first years and they turn as one to face the approaching riot of dragons.

My focus sharpens as Sgaeyl lands directly in front of the little Silver One. The wing-made gusts of wind from her nearly send the little one tumbling before she plants her feet and stands her ground. Unmoving even when portions of masonry crumble underneath the weight of my mate’s powerful claws. 

A scream renders the air as an un-intelligent cadet bolts from the formation and towards the doors. Satisfaction whips through me as Deigh opens his jaws and shoots a curl of flame at him. Nothing but a pile of ash remains

There are two more gusts of heat as another of the unworthy, fleeing cadets are incinerated while the others hold their breaths in anticipation. 

I do not pay attention to them.

Sgaeyl’s—and by extension, my eyes—are locked onto the little Silver One. 

I can see her face clearly now. Tired. Pale. Determined. Her eyes quickly skim over my bonded’s massive form, her elegant, deadly horns, her enormous wings flaring momentarily before tucking against her body. The girl doesn’t make eye contact, chin low in deference. 

She is windblown and pale. She is favoring her right foot, barely noticeable unless one looked for it. A minor sprain. She’d overcorrected a jump, perhaps. Her nails are torn and bloody and her uniform clings to her like second skin, damp with effort and rain. Her breathing is ragged, mouth parted, yet her hands don’t tremble—not now. She has clenched them into fists at her sides, holding herself together through sheer force of will.

She should have fallen.

Every calculation, every instinct, had said she would.

But she hasn’t.

Sgaeyl’s eyes narrow. Her nostrils flare and she lets out a blast of steam over the girl. The girl’s eyes close as the scalding air washes over her. And yet, she does not move. Instead, she turns toward the dragons with the kind of controlled determination that does not belong to the weak.

Her chin lifts and she meets the golden eyes boring into hers squarely, standing tall. Alert. 

She looks at them as equals, not gods.

I feel something shift. Not warmth—I am not so sentimental. But... interest. Possibility. The flame of something yet unproven, flickering at the edge of certainty.

"She doesn’t have the body of a rider." Sgaeyl says flatly.

"Perhaps not." I murmur. "But she has the instincts of one."

She isn’t the strongest. She isn’t the fastest. But she is calculating. Strategic. Every move she’d made on that parapet had been measured, efficient, precise. No wasted motion. No panic.

And perhaps most telling of all—she hadn’t looked away when the first body fell. She had watched. Catalogued. Learned.

"She adapts." I say.

"She bleeds." Sgaeyl counters.

"So do we all."

“You are considering.” Sgaeyl says sharply. 

“No. I am merely observing.” 

And yet, I watch as she finally moves, limping toward the center of the courtyard, eyes scanning the dragons, searching—not for safety, but for alignment. She is looking for the right dragon. Not just any bond.

She wants purpose. Power. And something more dangerous: understanding.

I feel the echo of something ancient stir inside me — not affection, but recognition. The way a storm recognizes the mountain that does not yield. She is not a match for me now. But she could be. Given time. Given fire.

I end the connection.

Sgaeyl’s thoughts fade like mist on the wind. But the girl remains. Etched in memory, as clear as claw against stone.

Chapter Text

The field is crawling with human fear.

It stains the wind, clogs the air. Even from the ridge above, I can taste the sour tang of adrenaline and doubt, like rotting fruit crushed beneath claws. These cadets wear arrogance like armor, but most of them will scream before the hour is over.

The skies on the other hand are full of dragon kind.

Wingbeats thunder like war drums overhead as leathery sails cut through wind and clouds. Some dip low to survey the cadets. Others are perched on crags or coiled in the fields with smoke curling from their nostrils, observing with the disinterest of predators too full to bother with the kill.

I circle above, lost in cloud and shadow, my wings spread wide enough to darken the cliff face beneath me. My ancient, golden eyes scan the field through the senses of others—borrowed sight, shared instinct. Invisible. Silent. Watching.

“Are you going to land?”  Sgaeyl’s voice slides into my mind like a drawn blade.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I see more from up here. And I do not enjoy being crowded.”

Sgaeyl snorts mentally. Her tail curls around a rock as she watches with idle interest, eyes narrowed at the writhing chaos below. She moves with purpose, each step a calculation. Precision, not power. Her beautiful, navy-blue scales ripple in the light as she shifts in the open field, tail flicking once to test the wind. 

Below, the air stinks of fear and desperation.

Dozens of cadets move across the field in staggered lines, each stopping before dragons to present themselves—bowing, offering weapons, kneeling with swollen egos and scraped pride. Some tremble. Some scream. A few already limp back to the healer tents, burned or broken for their ignorance.

“Pathetic,” I mutter, voice like thunder grinding across stone. “They preen like roosters in heat. As if a flashy bow or loud boast proves worth.”

“They are young,” Sgaeyl replies from the ridge, “And stupid.”

Her eyes stray from the screaming boy who has just tripped in the mud trying to impress a copper-scaled female, catching onto something—no, someone. I shift into her awareness like slipping into a colder current.

There. The small one. The Little Silver One. 

Violet Sorrengail.

Daughter of the general. Sister to the one who fell. The fragile girl who should’ve died on the parapet but didn’t. The one who survived the Gauntlet, though the odds bled against her like an open wound.

She stands with the other cadets, tucked near the end of the line, as if hoping not to be noticed. But I do. I see her. From above, I study her stance—balanced, knees slightly bent, her weight distributed evenly. Not soldier posture. Not parade stance. Combat readiness. Subtle. Natural. A creature who expects pain and adapts to endure it.

Her uniform doesn’t sit quite right—too large, or perhaps her body is too delicate beneath it. Her braid is tight, severe. Her shoulders tense but not hunched. There is strength in her bones, though they seem likely to snap in the next strong wind. She stands apart from the others—not by distance, but by bearing. She doesn’t puff up her chest or shout for attention like the rest. She stands still, every breath measured, every twitch calculated.

I reach for Andarna. Young and still learning, she sits curled low in the grass, small enough to be mistaken for a particularly dangerous deer from a distance. Her golden scales shimmer, head tilted like a curious hatchling, golden eyes fixed on the girl. I see her more clearly through the hatchling’s eyes—the sharpness of Violet’s gaze, the subtle tension in her bloody hands, the fire hidden beneath the restraint. 

“Andarna?” I call gently.

The young golden dragon perks up at my voice. “I see her!”

‘Tell me what you see.”

“She’s... tired,” Andarna says thoughtfully, “But sharp. Like a blade that’s been drawn too often. She’s scanning the dragons, not the cadets.”

Good.

“She’s learning. Not performing,” I say, approval I didn’t know existed leaking into my voice. 

“She’s not here to impress,” Andarna whispered. “She’s here to survive.”

“She’s here to earn,” I correct.

Below, a large red dagger tail growls low at a male cadet who dares approach it without bowing. The boy yelps and falls backward, scrambling to escape a tail that thuds into the dirt inches from his chest. Laughter ripples among the younger dragons.

But Violet doesn’t laugh.

“She doesn’t look afraid,” Andarna adds, then pauses. "No, wait. She is afraid. Just not of us.”

I dip lower, wings still silent, my massive body concealed by the cloud layer. Lightning sparks across my ridged back. A string tugs at my mind, faint and steady, like a heartbeat I hadn’t realized I’d synced with.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Sgaeyl says, not unkindly. “That body isn’t made for war.”

“Neither are most leaders,” I say. “Until war remakes them.”

And Violet, though she doesn’t know it yet—has already begun to change.

I see it in the way she stands, spine straight despite the bruises she carries beneath that black uniform. I feel it in the stubborn fire that flickers behind her eyes when the other cadets whisper about her mother, her size, her supposed fragility.

And now—I sense it.

“They’re looking at her now.” Andarna says, sharp with excitement.

“Which dragons?”

“Two greens. Midsized. Neither of them is an elder.”

A growl escapes my throat involuntarily, dissolving into the wind. “They smell power. But they don’t understand it.” 

Violet steps forward slowly, as one of them nudges his snout against her chest. One foot, then the next. The mud clings to her boots. Her shoulders are square. Her fingers curled once at her side—nervous, yes, but she does not fidget.

Sgaeyl stiffens. “They’re testing her.”

I focus. Through Sgaeyl’s eyes, I see Violet meet their gaze without flinching. She does not kneel. She does not reach. She simply looks. And talks, voice nervous yet unwavering, showing them her roughly bandaged hands.

“She listens when others talk,” Andarna adds.

“She watches the dragons while the others watch themselves,” I growl. “She has always known the difference between looking and seeing.”

The greens blink, then growl…and turn away.

A beat.

Then Violet lets out a breath and moves on.

She lifts her head. Looks briefly at Sgaeyl, then straight at Andarna in the grass—perhaps sensing the young dragon’s presence. But she never looks toward me. She does not know I am here.

Good.

I do not wish to be seen. Not yet.

She bows to them. Formal. Controlled. Not desperate. Not pleading.

Sgaeyl exhales a thin stream of smoke and turns away.

“Too weak,” she mutters. But she doesn’t believe it. Not entirely. I see the crack in her certainty.

Andarna lingers, unwilling to look away. The golden hatchling shifts closer to the edge of the field, the weight of instinct pulling her toward the girl.

I place a thought between them.

Not yet.

Andarna stills. Obeys, though reluctantly. "She’s not submitting,” Her voice is hushed. “She knows we don’t want obedience. We want... truth.”

My chest rumbles with quiet pride. “Yes,” I say. “And she is the truest thing on that field.”

I drop a few meters lower, my wings brushing mist from the higher clouds. I have seen many cadets in my years. Arrogant ones. Brave ones. Foolish ones.

But none like her. None like Violet Sorrengail.

“She’s hiding pain,” Andarna says, a touch of sadness in her voice.

“She’s hiding power,” I add. “Even from herself.”

And there it is again.

That tug.

Like a thread of storm light spooling between us.

Unseen. Untouched. Unbreakable.

“They will never understand her,” I say in a low voice.

“But you do?” Sgaeyl says, challenging.

I do not answer. Not aloud.

Instead, I watch as Violet moves again—stepping carefully between cadets, positioning herself away from the center of the field, out of the direct line of most dragons. A tactical position. She is not hiding. She is waiting.

“She’s not the strongest,” Andarna says quietly.

“No,” I agree. “She is the most dangerous.”

The clouds rumble.

The wind changes.

And for the briefest moment, lightning kisses the air around her, thin and silver like a thread pulling across the sky.

Violet doesn’t notice.

But I do.

Chapter Text

The valley is thick with blood and smoke. I stand atop the ridge, a black shadow cut against the clouds, scanning the thinning numbers of humans below. My wings are still and tucked close. I wait.

I dip into Sgaeyl's mind—the task as easy as defying gravity with my wings—as she snarls at a line of cadets, sending two running for the trees.

“Are you enjoying the theatrics?” I murmur, our minds linked.

"Only if by ‘enjoying’ you mean trying not to immolate them out of boredom." She huffs, then veers off, already annoyed.

Most of the cadets are not worth the time it would take to kill them.

But her…

There you are.

Violet Sorrengail. 

Daughter of General Lilith. Far too delicate to be among them—too small, too brittle, too slow. But she’s still standing, when so many others have fallen. Even after the arboreal one rejected her. Even after the cliff nearly killed her.

So breakable.

So… relentless.

I had not expected her to protect another.

Andarna is still an egg in many ways. Hatchling curiosity, untrained magic coiling around her like a sleeping serpent. She is unbonded, unchosen, and vulnerable, as all young dragons are during their childhood years.

And that group of cadets?

They have smelled it. The weakness. And Violet? She has seen it too.

“This is going to be unpleasant,’’ Sgaeyl murmurs, her voice sharp in my mind. “Kill one of them for sport, will you? Preferably the tall one with the bad grip.”

“Later,” I growl.

“I strongly advise you to rethink your actions.” I hear someone say below.

Xaden Riorson.

He stands not far from the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, eyes dark. His dragon, my mate, is perched nearby, coiled like a serpent waiting to strike. He watches with the stillness of a man who sees too much, knows too much.

But he doesn’t move.

Because he knows the rules.

They all do.

The other cadets have gone feral. Fear has stripped them of reason. They want to kill the young one. The unbonded dragonling. Andarna. A crime punishable by immediate death, but in their desperation, they no longer care. 

They close in on Andarna—three of them, blades drawn, eyes wild with the arrogance of youth and the desperation to survive. It would have been an easy choice to walk away. One human whelp watching another dragon whelp die. Nothing lost. No shame in it.

And yet…Violet does not run. 

She steps between them.

I narrow my eyes. Curious. Idiotic, perhaps—but brave in a way I haven't seen in decades. She didn’t posture like the others, didn’t roar threats she couldn’t back. No, her stance is all defiance and shaky breath, shoulders squared in front of a creature three times her size. 

“I won’t let you hurt her!” Violet said, voice barely steady, "You want her, you get through me." she shouts, dagger drawn.

A foolish declaration. A death sentence. Madness. She is no warrior. Her muscles tremble with the weight of her blade, and her balance is off. She should fall. She should run.

Instead, she chooses to fight.

The lightning stirs.

It curls around her aura—wild, barely born, seeking something more. A storm not yet summoned. My instincts growl low and deep.

Andarna tenses behind her, wings tucked tight to her sides, eyes wide and gold.

One of the cadets lunges. 

I shift forward on the cliff edge, ready to end it, to snatch her out of the air as a dragon might a sparrow, if only to end her foolish suffering quickly.

But she moves. 

Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But enough.

The blade she carries meets the other cadet’s shoulder in a lethal strike. He howls with pain as the sword clatters out of his arm. “Kill her.” He orders his companions, then turns tail and runs.  I shake my head. Coward.

“She protects the youngling,” I say silently to Sgaeyl. “At the cost of her own life.”

“Idiocy,” she replies, but there’s a pause. “Or valor.”

Violet’s arms shake. She slides back, boot heels dragging through the dirt. The second one comes in from the side. She twists but his sword swipes over her midsection. Miraculously, there is no wound as she staggers back to her feet. The boy is confused enough that he does not see her drawing back her blade until it is too late and plunged into his side. 

She does not, however, see the third one coming for her. Raising his sword above his head to her neck. “Behind you!” Xaden shouts.

The third cadet hesitates. Just long enough. Andarna snaps her teeth in his direction, and he jumps back in fright, as if just now remembering that he’s in the presence of another dragon. Violet takes her chance, delivering a blow with the hilt of her dagger so hard, that his eyes vibrate in their sockets and he crumples to unconsciousness. 

The second boy with a dripping side rises sword gripped in his hand. I see enough of Violet to see her eyes. And in them, I see it: not fear, but fury. 

And purpose.

This is not a girl trying to prove herself to her mother. This is not the weakling they’d dismissed in the early light. This is something else. Something rare. The kind of strength that cannot be taught—only forged.

She ducks, not fast enough—and the sword grazes her arm.

Blood. Sharp. Fresh.

My wings unfurl, the instinct to protect flaring against all reason. She is not yours, I warn myself. She is not worthy.

That’s when I feel it.

The shift.

The power.

Her.

I move.

A leap from the cliff, wings slicing the air, and I land behind them with the force of a small quake. Violet turns toward me, panting, bloody hands still reaching for her weapon. Her silver hair whips around her face.

Eyes pooling with hazel depths meet my own golden ones. 

There’s no fear in them. Just exhaustion. Determination. And rage.

The choice is no longer mine.

The bond flares.

Pain lances down my spine. My magic surges forward, tangled with hers. A burning heat that cracks through my soul like a hammer to obsidian. Lightning surges from the sky—not natural but called. Drawn to her. The clouds churn. The storm answers. She is the storm. 

Violet screams. Her knees hit the ground. Her breaths are gasping; hand braced on the ground. I roar, the air vibrating with power, the bond anchoring itself in our souls like molten steel. Her aura floods mine. Defiant. Unyielding. Alive.

“By the skies,” Sgaeyl breathes. “You actually bonded her.”

Andarna creeps forward, pressing her head to Violet’s side.

A hum echoes in the ether. A second bond.

I blink, stunned.

The hatchling… too? Andarna has chosen her too?

One human. Two dragons.

This is not supposed to happen.

“It isn’t,” Sgaeyl says, sounding displeased. “And yet…”

I step forward, the ground shaking beneath my claws, leaning down until one eye is level with her.

So tiny. So frail. But now, impossibly… mine.

“Step aside, Silver One.”

I can feel Violet’s shock and confusion, fusing into my bones as if it were my own. “Is he–Is he talking to me?” I hear her mind for the first time. 

“Yes. You. Move.” I say impatiently. To her credit, she does not question me further, but limps aside, shoulders dropping with fatigue. 

The cadet backs away, stumbling over himself in terror. Good. They are not meant for the skies. Flames curl in my throat, flicking the sides of my tongue before erupting in a fiery storm, incinerating everything in their path. Including the boy.

I can feel Xaden’s shock even from here. His expression doesn’t change, but the air around him tightens, like a bowstring drawn taut. He knew she had something. But not this.

Not two dragons. Not me.

“I thought dragons didn’t bond to weak riders,” Violet says in a hoarse whisper. A tear leaks out of her eyes and tracks down her dirt-splattered cheek.

“Then it is fortunate,” I reply, almost amused. “That you are not weak.”

She shouldn't have made it.

She did.

She’s too weak. Too breakable.

She fought anyway.

The storm breaks open above us.

The war has changed.

Chapter Text

The moment the bond clicks into place, it is a rush of fire and clarity and something ancient settling inside me that has been too long denied. The crackling tether between us—Tairnanache and Violet Sorrengail—tightens with a ferocity I haven’t felt in over a century.

Power thrums through my scales. My wings snap out with instinctive command as I rear my head to the sky and roar.

She is mine. My rider.

Fragile. Soft. Far too small.

Mine.

I can feel her heartbeat like it is my own—rapid, terrified, awe-struck. The heat of the bond flares inside her, inside me, weaving our minds and senses tighter than thread in a weaver’s loom.

She stands in the clearing where she has just won her battle. Where I have chosen mine, her. She is my battle, and I’d fight for her for anything, anytime, anywhere. Her brown-silver hair is messy and prying out from her tight braid, strands flicking across her face in a gentle caress. I feel it as if it’s my hair and my cheeks. Her hazel eyes are wide. Blood streaks her clothes. Her attackers’ blood. Her blood. 

But she is alive.

I lower my head, massive and deliberate. She doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me like I am both salvation and doom. Smart girl.

“Let’s go, Violet Sorrengail,” I say, my breath rustling the branches of the trees surrounding us, “Get on.”

“I don’t—how?” she mutters, glancing down at the blood oozing out of her arm and her throbbing leg, then scanning my back like it is a puzzle she has half the pieces to. Awkwardly, she places one hand on the scales of my front leg. 

I sigh. Then stretch forward and extend my leg like a ramp, a moderate incline for her. “Climb, Silver One.” My voice does not leave any room for arguments. 

She doesn't need to be told again.

Her limbs move with precision—fueled by fear, yes, but also determination. She climbs up my leg, carefully navigates the sharp spikes on the back of my neck before I sense her settling into place. Her hands grip my pommel tightly. But even though she uses all her strength to grip my spine with the muscles in her thigh, her hold is weak. I growl low.

“You need to tighten those. You’re not a stone. You’ll fall.”

“I’ve never done this,” she snaps. 

“Neither have I. Recently.”  I rumble. “We’ll manage.”

“No–No, wait–”

I crouch momentarily before pushing off the ground, wings thundering downward, and we are airborne.

The world falls away beneath us in a glorious rush. The trees blur, the wind screams past, and Violet—Violet screams too. Shrill and loud. 

Her hands clutch at the pommel. I bank to the left and her body rocks dangerously in the same direction. She wasn't ready for the sheer velocity of it. And then—

“FUCK!” 

She slips.

And falls.

She hasn’t even fallen a few hundred meters below me before I swoop down and catch her midair in my claws with a growl. Protectiveness and worry take birth in my mind. I shake my head to clear it, then toss Violet upwards and over me. My heart immediately matches the pace of hers, thundering loudly enough to burst out of my chest. When gravity takes hold of her again, I take my place below her and catch her on my back. 

“Get in the seat and hold on. Grip harder with your knees.”

Her breaths come in sharp, panicked bursts. “I—I’m sorry—I thought it was tight enough—”

“You are small,”  I say, slowing down a little and leveling out, decreasing wind resistance. I close my eyes and concentrate on drawing a little of my magic. Invisible strands of energy wrap around her ankles and wrists, holding her in place. 

The air snaps cold as I turn into a hard roll, just to test her. She holds.

Good.

“You’ll learn,”  I tell her, sensing her dejection and guilt. I bank a little softer this time, my angle not as steep as earlier as we turn in an arc and towards Basgiath. “And I’ll make sure you survive long enough to.”

“I thought dragons didn’t care if their riders fell.”

“We don’t.”  I beat my wings harder, rising above the tree line. “But you’re not just any rider. You’re my rider. Also, we’re going to have to put on a show.”

“Awesome.”

“You will not fall. I will not allow it.” I tighten the bands of magic around her. “You will trust me.”

I hold her in place as we climb into the clouds in a steep vertical incline, then drop back down at the same angle. I hold her as we complete twists and turns and complex spirals. I can sense Violet calming down, really settling into the air as she gets used to the sky. 

A hush falls as we clear the forest, the flight field looming in the distance. Other dragons circle or wait below, most watching in disbelief. 

I land with thunder in my wings and claws that strike the ground with purpose. Violet shakes in the seat, sweat and blood mixing along her brow.

A roar of celebration goes through the dragons, chorus of voices filling the air, some of disbelief, some of wary respect, some contempt. But none dare challenge, as they move out of my way and place for me. 

I am Tairnanache. General of the Last War. Elder of the Fifth Flight. And now bonded once more.

Let them question. Let them stare.

All around us, cadets stop. And stare.

Lilith’s daughter. Mira and Brennan’s sister. The Sorrengail weakling. On Tairn.

A murmur ripples through the lines of riders and dragons. Sgaeyl lands nearby, her massive wings furling tight. Xaden stands beside her, unreadable. But his jaw is clenched.

I lower my shoulder and extend my leg again so Violet can dismount. She doesn’t, not immediately. Her hands are still gripping the pommel like it is her last lifeline.

I reach for her mind, gentler this time.

“You did well.”

She blinks, and finally—finally—lets herself scoot forward, leaning her head against the curve of my neck. She whispers, so low only I can hear it, “That was… terrifying.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I really hope not.”

A laugh—not mine. Smaller. Softer.

A new presence blinks into our minds like a sunrise peeking over the horizon. Young, and impossibly golden. Curious. Hopeful.

“Is it my turn now?”

Violet’s head snaps up.

“What was that?” she whispers aloud.

I turn my head slightly, gaze catching the shadows just beyond the landing field. A much smaller figure pads into the light—sleek gold scales, bright eyes, cautious steps.

Andarna.

She pads forward, more cat than dragon, but her wings flare with pride.

“Violet,” she says aloud, surprising both of us. Her voice is like bells, high and musical. “I chose you too.”

Violet blinks. “You—you what?”

I watch the moment settle in her eyes. Understanding. Disbelief.

“Two bonds?” she breaths.

I had known, of course. The moment the girl chose to defend Andarna. The moment her magic aligned with mercy rather than destruction. Dragons value power—but they respect choice. Andarna had chosen long before.

Violet steps down at last, nearly stumbling as her legs give out beneath her. I steady her gently, brushing her side with my snout.

“What does this mean?” she asks, eyes wide.

“It means you carry more weight than most,” I reply. “And you’ll need to grow stronger to bear it.”

Andarna nuzzles Violet’s arm. “You saved me. That matters.”

A roar shakes the skies.

The Empyrean.

Ancient dragons with scales like starlight and eyes like burning suns begin their descent from the high cliffs.

They have seen the bonds.

They have questions.

As their collective presence surges toward us, I step between Violet and their approach, wings half-furled in warning, encasing her between my legs.

“They will not take her from me,”  I say to Sgaeyl.

“They won’t try, but they will demand answers.” She replies, eyeing them.

I turn to Violet once more. “Stay with the Wingleader. I will handle this.”

“Wait—you’re just leaving?” she asks, heart hammering.

“I will return. You are my rider.”

I nuzzle her once—gently, a pressure of scales against skin—and nudge her towards Xaden before stepping  away, toward the waiting circle of elders.

Their minds press into mine with all the weight of history and fire and judgment.

I stand alone before them.

Not as a supplicant.

As an equal.

They doubt her. Again.

It’s not fear this time—it’s tradition. Doctrine wrapped in dust and age, choking progress like ivy on stone.

The air above the Empyrean vibrates with tension, heavy with the weight of ancient minds and heavier egos. Storm clouds swirl where there should be sun, a reflection of my own simmering fury. My wings beat once—loud, deliberate—echoing through the valley like a warning bell. I growl low, a sound that makes the younglings in the far peaks flinch. Good. Let them remember that Tairn does not suffer fools, even scaled ones.

“No rider has ever bonded two dragons in the history of dragon kind,” booms Vyrnax, the scarred bronze whose ego outweighs even his wingspan. “It breaks the Balance.”

“The Balance broke the moment we needed riders to fight our own wars,” I snarl back. “We are not preserving tradition. We are surviving it.”

Andarna shifts beside me, tail coiling tighter with each fleeting look of incredulity sent her way. Her scales shimmer gold in the dimming light, power thrumming beneath her skin. She is no longer the hatchling who clung to shadows. She is becoming–and they all feel it.

“She is mine,” Andarna says, her voice sharp and rising. “I chose her before I even understood the cost. And still, I would choose her again.” Her voice softens. “I may not know everything, but I know Violet is good. She saw me. She protected me. That is worth everything.”

A ripple of silence followed her words. I felt her power crackle faintly through the bond — still sleeping, mostly, but there. Dormant for now.

Dangerous when awakened.

The Empyrean turn their attention to her then, and I place myself subtly between them, protective even now. They do not strike, but their thoughts shift. Calculating. Curious.

“You are a child,” another voice hisses. Aelyra of the icebound peaks. “Infant bonds are accidents of emotion, not strategic pairings. They unravel. They die. This... anomaly cannot hold.”

“And yet it has,” I cut in. “Violet’s mind remains intact. Her power grows. She commands lightning and time—because we share her. Not just as dragons, but as equals. She is strong enough to hold us both.”

"Bold words, Tairn," rumbles Codagh. "But equality does not win wars."

"No," I agree. "But it wins dragons."

That silences them for a moment.

Some shift uncomfortably. Others scoff. I lean forward over the cliff’s edge, eyes burning gold.

They don't want to admit it, but they know: Violet has not fractured. She has adapted.

The oldest among us, Skirath—the silver-winged matriarch whose breath carved mountain ranges—finally speaks. Her voice is not loud, but it lands.

“One bond is a thread. Two are tethers. You risk splitting her soul.”

“She was born split,” I answer, softer this time. “Torn between duty and defiance. Between ink and iron. And still, she endures.”

I lean forward, fixing my gaze on every dragon present. “She doesn't serve us. She chooses us. That is the rarest bond of all.”

Andarna steps up beside me, golden wings flaring wide. “We are no longer bound by rules written before I hatched. The world has changed. And Violet is the only one changing fast enough to save it.”

Around us, the Empyrean murmurs its ancient accord—uncertainty, old pride eroding beneath undeniable truth. Not agreement, not yet. But not rejection either. 

Skirath turns her great head toward us.

“If we allow this... she becomes a precedent.”

“She becomes a legend,” I correct. “And legends are what we need.”

Silence stretches, taut and expectant. Then, finally, Skirath nods—slow, reluctant, but final.

“So be it. The Empyrean will permit the dual bond... for as long as her mind remains whole. But know this: if she falls, both of you fall with her.”

I meet the ancient gaze without flinching.

Understood.

I feel Andarna’s relief like a warm tide through the bond. I do not show mine. I simply bow my head, once.

“They will remember this day,” I say. “The day we chose not what was easy—but what was right.”

The wind shifts again. The storm passes.

Violet will remain ours.

And the world will burn or rise with her—but never without her.

Chapter Text

By the time I return to the field, Violet sits on the hard, dusty field, fingers tenderly uprooting tufts of grass. Her eyes flick up the moment Andarna and I approach before landing in front of her. Relief wars with tension on her face.

“You’re back.”

“Of course I’m back.”

She stands slowly, brushing dirt and grass off her now-healed legs. “Did they yell at you?”

“They debated. I did not let them yell.”

Her mouth quirks in a small smile. “Of course you didn’t.”

And then it fades. Her eyes narrow, searching mine. “You knew, didn’t you? About Andarna?”

I hesitate.

She presses. “You knew she was going to bond me.”

“I suspected,"  I admit. 

“My thoughts changed after you defended me,” Andarna says, “It was no longer just admiration. It became... loyalty.”

“She’s young, Tairn. She shouldn’t have bonded anyone yet.”

“Yet she did. And the bond accepted it. And you. That is not nothing, Silver One.”

She looks away for a long moment, staring at the sky. Dragons wheel overhead. Whispers still travel from cadet to cadet. The girl who bonded two dragons. The girl who survived Tairn.

“They’re going to come after us for this,” she says quietly. “The others. The riders. The leadership. I’m already a target, and now...”

“Now,”  I say, stepping closer, lowering my head until she meets my gaze again, “you are under my protection. And under Andarna’s. Anyone who tries to take you will answer to us.”

“I’m not going to hide behind you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She breathes out slowly. “Andarna. Are you... okay with all this?”

Andarna blinks her golden eyes, bright and unafraid. “I’ve never been more certain.”

Violet smiles faintly. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t,”  I grumble. “Emotional instability makes flying harder.”

That earns me a half-laugh, half-sob. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks up at me.

“What now?”

“Now,”  I say, “we start training. You have two minds to carry. And power that hasn’t even woken yet.”

I turn slightly, eyeing the waiting dragons still in the field. The Empyrean has returned to their cliff nests, but their eyes will never be far. Not now. “We will fly again at dawn.”

“I’ll need better muscles,” she mutters.

“You’ll need better everything.”

She groans. “Perfect.” Then she looks at Andarna. “You coming?”

Andarna tilts her head. “Where you go, I go.”

And something inside Violet shifts. The weight of it all — the bond, the expectation, the sheer impossibility — it doesn’t seem quite as heavy now.

She squares her shoulders and nods.

I am proud.

The sun has barely dipped behind the mountains when Sgaeyl lands on the outcropping with enough force to shatter stone.

The wind snaps her navy-blue wings. Her claws scrape across the cliffside as she stalks towards me, slow and silent, coils of heat simmering beneath her beautiful scales. She doesn’t speak, just paces forward until she stands beside me, her golden eyes looking out over the valley.

I don’t move.

I stand tall on the edge of the ridge, my massive black form outlined by the oncoming grey clouds above Basgiath. Smoke curls from my nostrils, my eyes glowing with the remnants of the waning daylight. I don’t look at her. I don’t need to.

When she finally breaks the silence, her voice slides through our link like ice over steel. “She’s going to get you killed.”

I still don’t look at her, but my eyes narrow. 

“You could have chosen any of them,”  She continues, a low snarl coiling in her throat, sharp and serrated. 

“I chose the one who mattered.”

“You bonded a child!”

“I bonded a force of nature.”

Sgaeyl’s dagger tail lashes behind her. "She will not last a week."  

"She will," I answer, voice like thunder. "Because I’ll make damn sure she lasts much longer than that."

“This is reckless!”  She huffs, the sound more growl than breath. 

“It is right.”

“She can’t even hold a blade properly in her left hand.”

“Then she’ll learn to kill with her right.”

She makes a frustrated sound. “She’ll change everything.”

“Then it is time something did.”

“Not a rider like her, it won’t.” A puff of steam billows from her nostrils as she bares her teeth. I do not flinch.. “She’s frail. Utterly weak. She can’t hold your power, not truly. I felt her tremble when you flew in with her on the field.”

My voice is flat. “And yet she rides anyway.”

She snaps her head toward me. “And you think that is bravery? It is not, Tairn. It is stupidity.”

Now I turn to face her, slow and deliberate, my golden eyes burning. “No. That’s courage. And don’t mistake the two again, Sgaeyl.” The cliff vibrates faintly under the rumble in my chest.

Sgaeyl bristles, but doesn't back down. “You’re the most dominant of us! The deadliest! You could have chosen anyone! Any rider with experience, with strength. But instead you picked a girl whose bones snap in the slightest of a strong wind! You—of all dragons—bonded that!”

I step forward, my towering form casting a long shadow over her. “You think I chose blindly?”

“I think you chose emotionally.”

My wings flare just slightly, the edges trailing sparks in the dying air.

“You think I don’t remember what happened to Naolin?”

Sgaeyl stills, the name hanging between us like smoke after fire. Her posture shifts—almost imperceptibly, but I see it. Feel it.

“I almost followed him,” I say, voice low with grief that hasn’t receded even after five years. “When he died, I felt my very soul begin to tear. The Bond—” I exhale hard, nostrils flaring. “It almost took me.”

Her voice is quiet. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

The wind picks up, rushing across the cliffside. My eyes never leave hers. “Do you think I would risk that again for someone unworthy?” I ask. “You think I would bond again if I wasn’t damn sure she was worth it?”

She doesn’t respond.

I step closer to her, our snouts almost touching. “Violet Sorrengail is not weak. Her body may break—but her will does not.”

I lower my head slightly, locking eyes with her. “She has endured more in her short life than most riders twice her age. She strategizes like a general. She fights like someone who knows she’s already lost once and refuses to lose again.”

She snorts. “She clings to life like it’s a shield. That is not strength.”

“No,” I say. “It’s hope. And it terrifies you.”

Sgaeyl recoils slightly. “I protect myself. As you should.” Her voice is brittle. 

“I’m not hiding behind walls. I’m not afraid to feel again. I chose Violet—not because she is safe, but because she is worth the danger.” I pause, letting the truth settle like stone. “You want to know why I really chose her?”

She doesn't answer.

I turn my head back to the horizon, eyes softening.

“Because she fears losing Andarna and I—the only ones she can currently count on—more than she fears dying. She doesn’t say it yet, but I felt it in every breath she took in the air. She cares. And I would rather die for a rider like that than survive a century bonded to someone who views me as a weapon.”

The wind howls between us, pulling at our scales like invisible teeth.

Sgaeyl finally looks away. “Her strength is not everlasting. She will still break.”

My tone is resolute. “Then I will help her heal.”

A long silence passes between us. Finally, she murmurs, almost to herself, “You love her.” Not with scorn. With quiet, dawning recognition.

I don’t answer right away.

When I do, it is with quiet certainty. “I believe in her.”

And in that, there is no difference.

Something shifts in Sgaeyl. Not surrender — she would never bow — but a grudging respect. The kind that only dragons of war can share.

She turns her head toward the horizon. “Then let us hope the girl learns to fly,” she says softly. “Because if she falls—”

I read the undercurrent of worry beneath the doubt. The fear—not for the loss of her own life—but for mine. “She won’t.” I say, gentle and reassuring. Then look at the rising moon.

“She was born falling. All she’s ever done is rise.”

Chapter Text

The green flight field stretches under a cheerful blue sky, the sun—high in the sky—warming my obsidian scales with its fiery waves. A pleasant, cool breeze makes the smoke and steam huffed by dozens of dragons swirl around in light patterns before it dissolves into the air. 

The younger dragons fidget—wings twitching, claws scraping against dirt—restless and unsure. Their scales are too bright, too soft, and unweathered. They would never dare show it to their humans, but I’ve been there. Done it many times. 

Their bonded-riders are worse. Smaller, weak little things with nervous eyes and stiff postures, lined up in front of them. Some openly shuffle about—hands shaking, legs bouncing. A boy retches in the corner of the field, no doubt falling prey to his nerves. Others project a delusion of confidence, strutting around with heavy egos that is sure to bring them down. 

It is the First Flight Day. And if these riders thought the Gauntlet was their worst day? Oh, they are about to learn.

The instructor stands beside his own dragon Smachd, giving flight formation instructions and safety reminders with his voice projecting over the gathered riders. As if any of them are going to remember a thing he’s saying the moment they are airborne. 

I shake my head from where I stand, watching the chaos unfold. The sky is its own teacher. It is ruthless, impartial and indifferent. It does not care about how much you’ve learned or how brave you think you are. 

Andarna chuffs through the mental link in my mind. “They’re trying.” she says. 

“Tried is what they’ll be if they don’t learn fast.” I reply, snorting smoke. 

My eyes land and then focus on my own rider standing in front of me. 

Violet’s fists are clenched, her spine too straight for someone so obviously terrified. The bond still crackles like a live wire between us as I reach for her mind and feel the tight coil of anxiety before seeing it—like a storm humming beneath her skin. Her hands tremble slightly fiddling with her flight leathers. Her jaw is locked, eyes scanning the sky as if memorizing every gust of wind. 

Terror, I note. Good. Only fools fly without it. 

She hasn’t yet processed what I am—what it means to be bonded to me—and already, her thoughts are as loud as thunder. Worry, panic, awe. Mostly panic. 

“Don’t fall off. Don’t panic. Stay calm. You’ve bonded Tairn. The Tairn. Holy shit, I’ll embarrass us both.”

I resist the urge to shake my head. Humans always put their faith in stories. Titles. Reputation. They forget that titles are earned—and kept—through fire, blood, and decades of war. "You are vibrating," I rumble, tilting my head slightly to regard her. "You must cease."

She rolls her eyes and adjusts her gloves. Again. “Sorry if your precious scales are sensitive to human anxiety.” Her voice is barely steady. 

I huff smoke at that. "They are not sensitive. They are simply accustomed to warriors, not quivering squirrels."

At last, the instructor rolls up his lecture with a simple ‘Don’t fall off and die’. He runs towards Smachd, climbing the vertical climb up his leg in a quick practiced sprint. All around us, other first years do the same far less gracefully.

 Violet doesn’t move, her gaze swinging from my leg to my back, hesitating. Of course. “I’ll die,” she mumbles, eyeing the climb. “I don’t even know how I can—”

Without a word, I stretch and extend my leg, lowering my shoulder to the ground. “Get on,” I say into her mind. Hot shame and defeat trickles into the mental space that is Violet. But she doesn’t voice it, gritting her teeth before moving up my leg. Clumsy. Awkward. Too slow.

“Well, this should be entertaining.” Sgaeyl snorts through our connected minds, “She’ll fall before she flies.”

“So did Xaden. The first time.”  That shuts her up.

“Please don’t let me fall. Please don’t let me fall—” Violet chants, stuttering the words as she reaches my neck and moves carefully around my spikes. 

“I won’t,” I say simply. “Unless you scream in my ears. Then we may have a problem.” She lets out something between a laugh and a squeak. 

The second she settles onto my back, I know she won’t last. Not for long. 

Her legs are trembling, muscles unfit to strongly hold onto the seat, arms too thin to grip the pommel properly. Her posture is all wrong — crouched forward like she’s preparing to leap rather than ride. She’s shaking — not from fear of anything else, but from what she knows comes next. The sky.

I keep still for a moment, letting her gather herself. Letting her think she has more control than she does. Then I close my eyes and let a few strands of my magic flow so that they wrap around her ankles and wrists in invisible straps. 

Violet notices. “You can’t hold me in the air every time, Tairn! That’s cheating!” she huffs, cheeks flushed. 

I snort. “It’s survival. I’d prefer not to be a riderless dragon before solstice.”

“You’re using your energy! How are you going to channel?! What happens if we’re in combat and I can’t keep the damned seat, let alone fight!”

“It is a sliver. I’ve expelled more flame sneezing.”

She glares. I hum. “I’m going to have to learn to do it!” she insists.

“And I’m ensuring you live long enough to.”

“Keep coddling me and I won’t live to see even five seconds of a battle.”

I chuff and steam billows out of my nostrils. Stubborn child. “Fine. Have it your way.” The straps of energy disappear. If possible, Violet stiffens even more. 

“I am going to fall off a damn legend.” The thought comes through the bond, sharp and loud and completely unaware of how ridiculous it sounds.

“Yes,” I say dryly. “You are.”

She flinches. “Don’t say that!”

“I’m just managing expectations.”

I feel her take a deep breath. Two, actually. Her anxiety hums like a string pulled too tight — but underneath it? That same burning flicker I felt when I chose her. Tenacity, buried in panic. That’s what will keep her alive.

I hope.

"Good luck." Andarna—who has been suspiciously silent until now—chirps.

Smachd leaps into the air before us and my claws dig into the stone, muscles bunching beneath my scales as I crouch. “Lift off in five,” I say.

“Wait, not yet—I’m not ready—”

I launch. My wings snap wide, the sheer force of their spread catching the currents, lifting us like a war cry into the air. We surge upward, wind beating against my scales, other dragons wheeling and scrambling to follow. The ground disappears in an instant, a blur of wind and speed as my wings thrust downward, lifting us into the open air.

Her scream is immediate, high-pitched, and very human.

And exactly three seconds later—

“SHIIIT!”

—she starts to slide.

I tilt mid-air, adjusting my angle to keep her center of gravity aligned, but her grip is weak, hands slippery from sweat. She’s already slipping sideways. “Squeeze with your knees!”

“I AM!”

“Then your knees are useless!”

She’s half off my back now — one leg already flailing against my side in the open air, arm scrabbling at my bony seat, her mind screaming pure panic through the bond.

I shift slightly, subtly, adjusting my angle of ascent. I roll my left shoulder up just a fraction — not enough to seem like I’m compensating, just enough to nudge her weight back where it should be.

It works.

Barely.

She slides back into place with a thud and lets out a sob of relief. Invisible bands of my energy wrap around her again and she doesn’t even realize. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die—”

“You are not,” I say. “If you were, I wouldn’t be wasting my energy catching you and keeping you seated. ”

“Oh my gods, you’re adjusting for me and holding me in place, again, aren’t you?! I’m pathetic—”

“You’re alive,” I cut in. “Which is more than most who fall from my back. Take the win.”

She’s trembling, but her breathing starts to even out a little. Her legs tighten—not much effective. She's learning. She’s trying. 

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t assist a rider. Not this much. Not this early.

But she’s… different.

Not just weak. Not just clever. Resilient. Broken bones and torn ligaments don’t scare her as much as failing does. That’s why she’s here.

“Stop refusing my help,” I start. “We can try the almost-dying later—”

“No.” Her voice is small, but fierce. “I can do this. Just... a few more times. Please.”

I sigh and slow slightly, giving her more control. The wind isn’t as sharp at this altitude, but her body is still too weak for the turbulence. I adjust again — more obvious this time.

She notices. “…you’re helping me again.”

“Temporarily. Don’t get used to it.”

“Why?”

Why?

Because I’ve seen dragons lose their riders mid-air. I’ve seen them tumble from the sky like stones, screaming until the end. Because I know what it is to carry someone not yet ready and watch them fall before they get the chance to rise.

Because I chose you.

“Because I don’t want to explain your unnecessary death to everyone.”

That shuts her up. Good.

We soar over the edge of the cliffs, the world a blur of green and gold below. She adjusts her posture again, tentative but better. She leans forward slightly, aligning with my rhythm.

She’s still a mess. But a moving one.

“I’m doing it.”

“You are.”

“I’m actually flying.”

“You’re staying on. That’s not quite the same.”

“Shut up, Tairn.”

I huff, amused. Then examine her emotions through the bond. Her heartbeat races like a war drum. Her fingers clutch the pommel with white-knuckled desperation, thighs burning with the effort to hold on despite me using my magic to keep her from falling off.. Her breath is shallow, but her mind—

—is singing.

There it is again. Beneath the panic. Beneath the fear.

Wonder.

The same wonder I felt my first time taking flight, when I was still small and younf, still unsure if I would survive this world. She doesn’t even realize it, but her awe fuels the bond, deepens it.

She is falling in love with the sky.

We bank right, and she leans too far, instinctively trying to balance. I adjust my wing subtly, correcting for her mistake before she makes it fatal.

“Sorry. I’ll do better.”

“You’re learning. Slowly.”

“Still your rider though.”

“Debatable.” 

But secretly, I’m impressed. She’s absorbing everything — the wind, the shift of my shoulders, the change in altitude. Her body may be weak, but her mind is sharp, and it adapts faster than most I’ve carried.

Certainly faster than most who survive Threshing.

We rise above the low-hanging clouds, and for the first time, I feel her thoughts still. Just for a heartbeat.

Peace.

That’s the real test.

Not whether she can stay on. Not whether she can survive the wind or fear or pain. It’s whether she can hear the call of the sky... and answer it.

And she does.

“I never thought I’d fly,” she thinks, soft. Barely a whisper in the bond.

“Now you never have to stop.”

She leans forward, just slightly. Not to hide. Not out of fear. But in trust. I could drop her. End her in an instant. She knows it. I know it. And still, she trusts me.

Bold, foolish, rare little thing.

“We should return,” I say eventually. “You’ve proven enough today.”

“I want to try a few more times,” she says quietly.

And I allow it.

Not because she’s earned it — not yet. But because I remember what it felt like, the first time I touched the wind and the wind touched back.

Violet falls several dozen times. I catch her every time. 

She will be many things, this rider of mine.

A storm.

A blade.

A lightning strike waiting to fall.

But today, she is simply free.

And I am the one who gave her the sky.

Chapter Text

She’s going to die.

That’s my first thought the moment I lay my eyes mentally on Violet in the sparring ring.

Thin arms wrapped in leather too stiff. Bruises are already spreading under her skin. Her opponent — a brute twice her size — circles like he’s already picturing her splattered on the mat.

And she just keeps standing there. Chin high. Jaw clenched. Refusing to give up. Again.

“This is fine,” she thinks. “I’ll find a way. I always do.”

It’s not fine. It’s suicide.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I growl into her mind.

She doesn’t flinch. “Not helping, Tairn.”

“I’ve seen corpses with more upper body strength than you.”

“Motivational as always.”

I exhale hard enough to stir dust across the cliffside. Sgaeyl, coiled beside me on the overlook, snorts in amusement. 

“Your rider is about to be mulched by a child with muscles for brains. You must be so proud.”

“She’s learning. Slowly.”

“She won’t survive at this pace. She’d better learn or she’ll get us both killed.”

The unspoken truth hums under her words—dragons do not survive long without their bonded.

And I did not wait decades for a second chance at war just to be grounded again. “I know.”

It burns me. Because I can feel Violet’s pain through the bond, sharp and unrelenting. I feel every strike against her ribs, every jarring blow to her shoulder. Her heart pounds like war drums, steady and stubborn, even as her vision dims. I can feel it through the bond — the heat of her frustration, the ache in her bones, the fierce refusal to quit.

I watch her fall. Again.

That makes it seven times today, by my count—and I do not miss counts.

She collapses onto the sparring mat with a dull thud, her limbs folding like wet parchment. The boy across from her—twice her size and half her brain — stands victorious, chest heaving, blade still raised.

He doesn’t gloat. None of them do anymore. They’ve all seen what she’s willing to endure. It unsettles them. It unsettles me.

“I’m fine,” she thinks. “I’m fine. I can get up.”

She can’t. Not yet. Her muscles are jelly, her body screaming in rebellion. But her mind?

Still burning. Still trying. She rises anyway. 

“You are not fine,” I say. “You are currently leaking from three different places and bleeding internally from a fourth.”

“Nothing’s broken.”

“That’s debatable.”

For days now, I’ve watched her drag herself across the training mat, her muscles torn and her bones protesting every step. She trains longer than the others. Not because she’s committed — because she has to. Because everyone else started years ahead of her. Yet she doesn’t cry out. She doesn’t beg. She just endures.

The crowd around her shifts — some with respect, some with disbelief, some with unease.

She doesn’t see it, but I do. They’re watching her now. Not because she’s the General’s daughter. Because she’s still doing her best to remain standing.

She fights like someone who’s never had permission to quit.

And it’s not enough.

She needs more.

So I step in.

“You’re too slow. And you lead with your dominant foot — predictable. Fix it.”

She rolls her eyes mid-swing. “You’re not a weapons master, Tairn.”

“I’ve survived wars. I’m more than qualified.”

“You’re a dragon.”

“Exactly.”

Her opponent lunges, and she barely dodges in time. Her footwork is clumsy. She’s telegraphing every movement.

“Drop your left shoulder when you pivot.”

She hesitates — but follows the command. Her blade grazes her opponent’s ribs. A clean strike. Not enough to stop him, but enough to draw breath. She smiles.

“See?” I say. “Progress.”

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Your pain? Yes.”

“Sadist.”

“Survivor.”

She doesn't respond to that. Just squares up again.

“Switch feet. You’re leading with your dominant side. You’ll never survive a cross-blade if you keep giving it away.”

She obeys. Her form still falters, but not as much. The next strike lands—not clean, but deliberate. She’s learning. I hate how much I care that she is.

“Lower your center of gravity,” I growl. “You’re not a feather. You’re a fighter. Act like it.”

“You’re the size of a mountain and still this critical?”

“I’m alive. Take notes.”

She strikes again — harder this time — and nearly knocks the boy off balance. Her grip slips from the sweat pooling on her palm, and the dagger falls from her hand, clattering against the stone.

But she doesn’t look defeated. She looks pissed.

“Good,” I say.

“I dropped the weapon.”

“And still made him flinch.”

She wipes the blood from her brow with the back of her arm and squares up again, fists raised now.

“No blade?”

“I still have knuckles.”

I let out a short, low laugh that vibrates through the ground. 

“I can’t feel my legs.” She says when the class is over and she’s sat on the ground to catch her breath, others emptying out around her. Her friends give her concerned looks, the three of them trying to navigate the crowd of riders to get to her. She just waves them off.

“That’s normal.”

“For who?”

“For someone weak.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Yes. And yet I’m still the only reason you’re not dead.”

She sits there, gasping, chest heaving. Blood on her knuckles. Blood in her teeth.

But not broken. Not yet.

“I’m not quitting.”

“Then you’ll get stronger."

Later that night, Violet returns to the mat, long after the others have eaten and left. She’s alone on the training mat.

She can barely stand. Every breath comes with a wince, and her right ankle is swollen beyond usefulness. But she’s moving. Practicing footwork. Shadow-fighting. Striking at the ghosts of her defeats.

“Tairn, are you there?”

“Obviously.”

“Just… thought you might’ve gone to sleep.”

“Dragons don’t sleep when their riders look like they’re preparing to collapse.”

“I thought I’d run drills. Try to get better.”

“Or die slower. Your spine is curved like a question mark. Fix your posture.”

She obeys—again—with a soft grunt of pain. Her whole body radiates it, the bond thrumming with dull agony, but she keeps moving.

Sgaeyl meets my eyes from beside me. “She’ll break soon.”

“Or rise,” I reply.

“That’s the thing about fragile things,” she says, stretching. “They snap.”

“And sometimes they cut.”

By the time Violet finishes and limps back toward the barracks, her thoughts are ragged and quiet. Not defeated.

Just… hollowed out. She’s spent every ounce of herself tonight.

Yet, her final thought before sleep settles in?

“I’ll be better tomorrow.”

She will.

Because she has no other choice.

And neither do I.

Chapter Text

The storm is brewing long before the clouds roll in.

The cliffs are quiet, but not in the way of peace. It is the kind of quiet that comes before a storm, the kind that makes the wind feel like a warning.

I stand at the edge of the southern precipice, where the earth fractures into jagged shelves high above the valley floor. From here, the Poromiel land stretches out in all directions—ashen plains, skeletal trees and ghostly buildings, recently drained by Venin magic. The sun has already fled west, casting the landscape into bruise-colored dusk, and the sky is a painted battlefield of gold and deep violet clouds.

Below, the shimmer of the Navarrian wards pulses like a dying heartbeat.

They are fraying. Cracks—hairline but growing—spiderweb across the invisible net of protective magic that had once kept the kingdom sane. I can feel it in his bones. The slow, terrible unraveling of the boundary between this land and the one beyond where corrupted magic has gnawed at it. 

And in the silence, the war creeps closer.

Beside me, Andarna exhales a plume of silvery smoke that catches the dying sunlight, her smaller frame tense with an unease I share. Her golden scales glint like the first stars overhead, but there is nothing serene about her posture.

“She needs to know,” she says quietly. No hesitation. No waver. Just the truth.

I nod once, “She does.”

Our bond with Violet is no casual thread; it is a lifeline, an anchor, a heartbeat shared across minds and skies. A fortnight later and it strengthens with each passing day. Yet, the secret between us weighs heavier than my wings in battle.

Behind us, the sound of claws on stone echoes, sharp and deliberate. Sgaeyl emerges from the shadows near the cliffside, her navy-blue scales gleaming like night water, her presence radiating barely-restrained tension, eyes sharp slits of cold golden flame.

“You would endanger everything by telling her now,” she says flatly, not bothering with a greeting.

Andarna bristles, golden wings flaring ever so slightly. “She’s our rider. She has a right to know what’s coming.”

I chuff, the air around me trembling with the sound. “Not coming,” I correct. “Already here. You’ve seen the same breaches we have. The Venin have started moving under cover of fog, and the wyvern grow bolder. The wards won’t last the year at this rate.”

“She’s not ready,” comes a new voice, grim and all too familiar.

Xaden Riorson steps into view from behind Sgaeyl, his coat snapping in the wind, shadows at his back waiting to strike. His jaw is set, eyes as sharp as the blades at his hips.

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for,” Andarna snaps, her tail lashing once against the rock. “Or is it easier for you to lie to the woman you so clearly like?”

I don’t stop her. She isn’t wrong.

Looking at the way Xaden’s face darkens, I know Sgaeyl has relayed the message, but he doesn't rise to the bait. “The Empyrean has agreed—this stays between bonded dragons who choose to help and their trusted marked riders. Until we can act.” He says coolly.

“And while we wait?” I say. “The Venin chip away at the wards. The wyvern fly closer to our borders. The Command pretends it’s all raiders and storms. You really think we can hold out?”

Xaden's eyes are hard. “We don’t have a choice.”

I turn slightly, massive wings folding behind me as I gaze toward the west. “No, we do have a choice. It just happens to be a miserable one.”

The Empyrean had finally—finally—acknowledged the threat, though not publicly. The eldest dragons had convened, their voices echoing across the sky, and their decision had been maddeningly diplomatic: act subtly, supply the rebellion through back channels, and rely on the Marked Ones to distribute resources to their trusted ones. No open war. Not yet.

Navarre’s leadership, on the other hand, has doubled down on their farce. General Melgren has issued another false report just this morning—‘increased raider activity near the border’—when in truth, two riders, four flyers and two dragons had been killed by a horde of wyvern on patrol. Their bodies were never found, but the screams… the screams had reached even the peaks.

Beneath the grounds of Basgiath, the so-called “archives” have been purged of any remaining references to the Venin and Wyvern. Burned. Buried. Forgotten on purpose.

Meanwhile, the Marked Ones bleed and toil in the shadows, smuggling alloy-imbued weapons—the only metal that can harm Venin or wyvern—out of the Rider’s Quadrant under cover of night. Axes, knives, short swords—all etched with wards designed by secret sympathizers among the scribes. Weapons meant for hands that haven’t yet been told why they would need them.

And still, Violet remains in the dark.

“I’m not underestimating her. I’m only trying to protect her, as her mother has asked of me.” Xaden says, a touch defensively. 

I growl low in my throat, the sound reverberating like thunder. “You protect someone by preparing them, not by blinding them. Every moment we wait, the risk grows.”

“She’s not just your rider,” Sgaeyl says, voice sharp as glass. “She’s the only link we have to General Sorrengail and the Command. If she starts asking the wrong questions, if they start watching her more closely, we lose the chance to act when it matters. You think the leadership wouldn’t notice if Sorrengail’s daughter starts sniffing around the truth?”

I snort. “If you think she won’t do that anyway, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.”

“She nearly died fighting three cadets to defend Andarna during Threshing,” Xaden says, tone low but resolute. “You think she’s ready to face the reality of what we’re truly up against? The scale of it?”

I shift, the rock beneath my massive forelegs crumbling slightly. “She survived because she rose to do what was right, not because it was kept from her.”

Andarna’s tail flicked toward mine—agreement. “You haven't seen her after. We have. She doesn’t fall apart. She trains harder. She asks the right questions. You may think you’re shielding her, Xaden, but you're just delaying the inevitable.”

Sgaeyl tilts her head and Xaden’s hands curl into fists at his sides. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the beat of the wind between the cliffs.

“I don’t disagree,” he says finally, eyes flicking from Andarna's to mine. “But if she pushes too hard now, if she takes this to the Command before we’re ready, we’ll lose everything. Including her.”

I narrow my eyes, molten gold gleaming with a fire just beneath the surface. “So, what’s your plan? Wait until she’s walking into an ambush? Let her stumble into danger while you clutch your secrets like coins in a gambler’s purse?”

“I’m asking for time,” Xaden says. “Just a little longer. We’re gathering proof. Riders. Survivors. We’ll bring her in as soon as we have enough to move. I swear it.”

Smoke curls from my nostrils with a hiss, but there is no amusement in the sound. “You’ll excuse me if your oaths feel... insufficient. Especially when they’re forged from fear.”

Xaden steps forward, his voice a steel thread. “And what happens if she dies because she knows too much too soon? Would you still call that protection?”

A silence follows that question, heavy as stone.

I hate the logic. Hate that there is a logic to it. Violet is clever, yes—but headstrong. Brave to the point of recklessness. Her curiosity burns as brightly as her will, and if she had even a sliver of the truth, she’d dig until it swallowed her whole.

But still.

“She will hate you for it,” I say quietly now. Not a threat. Just a certainty laid bare.

Xaden’s throat bobs as he swallows. “She might. But she’ll be alive.”

Andarna gives a frustrated rumble beside him, a deep draconic sigh. “It’s not just about survival. It’s about trust.”

“Trust,” Sgaeyl echoes, “is a luxury we can’t afford when the world is cracking open beneath our claws.”

I turn to her, eyes gleaming. “Then I suppose it’s time we ask ourselves what kind of world we’re fighting for. One built on secrets and silence? Or one where our riders stand beside us with eyes wide open?”

No one answers.

The wind howls between the stones, carrying with it the scent of distant ash. Somewhere far beyond the cliffs, a wyvern screeches—too faint but undeniable.

Too close.

The line between our world and the Venin’s is thinning, like skin stretched over bone.

I will not allow Violet to be devoured by it. Not while I still draw breath. Not while flame still dances in my chest.

I take a step forward, wings folding at my sides, and dip my massive head low until I am eye-level with Xaden.

“If you ask me to wait,” I rumble slowly, each word like the strike of a hammer, “then I will wait. But you will give me your word.”

His jaw tenses, but he nods once. “Name it.”

“You will tell her. Not someday. Not if you feel like it. When the time is right—but not a moment later. No more delays. No more excuses.”

His brows draw together, but he says, “Agreed.”

My golden gaze locks onto his own onyx one. “You will do everything in your power to keep her safe. Not just in battle. Not just from the Venin. From the consequences of your choices.”

That one hits deeper, and Xaden flinches, just slightly.

But he doesn’t argue. “I swear it,” he says, voice like a blade unsheathed. “On my life.”

I rumble in satisfaction. “Good. Because if you fail, Xaden Riorson, if she falls because of you—”

I don’t finish the threat.

I don’t need to.

The cliff shakes with the promise of it.

We stare at one another for a long moment—rider and dragon, bonded to the same woman in different ways. There is an understanding in the look we share. Not peace. But understanding.

Sgaeyl steps between us, a quiet warning in the way her wings flare, but there is no aggression. Only an old knowing between dragons who have seen too many riders burn for secrets kept too long.

“We all want her alive, Tairn,” she says softly. “Even if we don’t always agree on how.”

I exhale smoke again. “Then we’re in accord. But if this goes wrong, I will tell her. Consequences be damned.”

“Good enough.” Xaden says, Sgaeyl giving a tense nod beside him.

“Let us pray that nothing goes wrong.”

Later, as night settles fully over the mountains and the moon rises high, the humans having returned to their halls of stone and steel, I stand on the cliff’s edge once more, my massive frame a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. The stars wheel above in their cold indifference, and beneath me, the world breathes quietly.

Far below, the lights of Basgiath flicker like the last embers of a dying fire. The wards pulse faintly—barely there to keep us safe.

I can feel Violet’s heartbeat in the back of my mind, steady but strained. Dreaming. Restless. 

Andarna comes to stand beside me, golden eyes glowing in the dark. “You don’t really believe he can keep her safe, do you?” she asks.

I am silent for a long time.

“No,” I say at last. “But I believe he’ll try.”

She makes a soft noise—part sigh, part growl. “Is that enough?”

“No,” I repeat. “But that's all we have.”

And in the silence that follows, the wind whispers of battles yet to come.