Scene 1

  -Ryker-

  Waking hits like a punch to the ribs.

  Not the usual stiffness or the lower-back ache from sleeping on stone. This is deeper. A hollow, sick weight in the center of my chest, like something important didn't wake with me. The same emptiness I carried after my father died. Old. Echoing.

  My eyes snap open.

  I sit up too fast and the blanket slides off my legs. My hands reach for anything solid—wall, floor, the world itself—something to ground me. The cave is wrong in every direction. Too big. Too bright. Too new. A few breaths pass before the shapes settle, before the panic loosens its grip.

  And then I understand why I froze.

  My legs—my hip—are pressed against someone warm.

  Elara.

  She's lying beside me, eyes wide but steady, the blanket stretched between us. I didn't do that. I wouldn't. So she must have...

  "I... sorry," I manage, the words low and tight. Anything more would peel something open I'm not ready to face.

  I shift back carefully, put space between us, sit all the way up. Then stand. Distance helps. Air helps. Anything helps.

  The dragons are gone.

  Obsidian. Vitalis. No rumble of breath. No weight of scales. No silent watching in the dark. Did they ever come back? Does it matter? I tell myself I'm fine with it. The lie tastes familiar.

  My thoughts won't slow.

  The ceremony. The storm. The ash marks burning into skin. The way Obsidian looked at me—like he knew more than I ever will. The way Elara looked at me—like she saw something I don't want seen.

  Too much. Too fast.

  Morning light spills through the cave opening, hazy and pale gold over the chalk-white stone. The air is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. This isn't a place I chose. But here I am. Chosen anyway. For what, Rune Father knows.

  I move to the far corner: a small bed, desk, cabinet. Better built than anything Joren and I had growing up. My fingers trace the carved frame—smooth lines, careful hands. I don't know what to do with care that isn't expected to be repaid.

  I walk along the wall. Deep claw marks rake through the stone—Terragon work—carving out a nest for a mated pair. My hand drifts along one of the gouges, following its arc. The strength it took. The time. And of course my mind jumps to Joren and his Terragon—muscle and earth-brown armor, claws sharp enough to tear stone. What does he think about all of this now?

  My steps carry me toward the opening, and the world cracks open with it.

  The ocean stretches out below—dark teal, rolling, cold enough to bite the bones. Mist rises like drifting silver in the dawn light. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Let the wind scrape the inside of my lungs clean. Salt. Wind. The crash of waves. Birds crying overhead. The faint incense still clinging to my skin. For a moment, the world is sharp. Quiet. Steady.

  Then a voice softens the air.

  "I'm sorry."

  My eyes open.

  Elara stands beside me. I didn't hear her approach.

  Her voice stays low. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. I didn't mean it."

  I let the words settle, let them stop vibrating in my chest. "It was a stressful night," I say. "None of us were ready."

  Silence stretches between us. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just... waiting.

  She lifts her gaze. "And...?"

  I get it this time. "And I'm sorry too."

  A small smile flickers across her mouth—just enough to break the air open, soften it, make the night feel like it's finally behind us.

  A sound echoes down the tunnel: wheels. A cart.

  We turn as Mira appears, pushing a cart piled with food, books, blankets, tools, and half the things I dropped last night. Her eyes widen when she sees us—then she grins like everything is exactly where it should be.

  Before I can blink, Elara is running to her, peppering her with questions. I stay back, leaning against the wall, watching. The way Elara brightens beside her sister... it hits something in me. A small ache. A small warmth. Both at once.

  Mira talks fast—too fast—words tumbling as if she hasn't breathed since dawn.

  "When Ryker was chosen," she says, breathless, "the Leaders froze. Nobody knew what it meant. They asked the Elder dragon, but he wasn't calm. He just said, 'What is done is done. The Rune Father has written it, and we will not disobey.' Then he stormed off to his nest. Literally stormed off."

  I huff a breath. That tracks.

  Mira continues, "Lorewarden Brannis called an emergency council meeting. Told me to follow and record everything. They're... very interested."

  Elara absorbs every word like ink sinking into parchment.

  Then Mira looks at me—eyes narrowing in that way scholars get when they think something is a problem they're meant to solve.

  "They decided," she says slowly, "that because mated dragons choosing riders hasn't happened since before the Sundering... everything between you two needs to be observed. Recorded. They want to make sure you're comfortable. That you have what you need."

  Her tone is too practiced. Too council-fed.

  I let out a short breath—half a laugh, half a warning. Both of them glance at me.

  "It's not comfort they're worried about," I say. "It's making sure we're not dangerous. To ourselves. To the dragons. To the kingdom."

  Mira hesitates. Looks at Elara. Then back at me.

  "That... was one of the concerns," she admits softly.

  Elara nods, jaw tightening—like she already knew.

  I ask, "What else?"

  Silence.

  Mira swallows.

  Then she says it.

  "They're worried about you, Ryker. A rider who's powerful... with a history... and who doesn't trust dragons."

  There it is.

  The truth behind every stare at the ceremony. Every whisper. Every step backward when Obsidian chose me.

  I breathe out slowly.

  Of course they are.

  Scene 2

  -Elara-

  Mira sweeps into the cave like a gust of wind carrying half a library with it, her bag clattering against her hip, parchment and scrolls threatening to spill out in a cascade of ink and intention. She doesn't so much enter the space as claim it. "First," she announces, already heading for our small stone table, "we should probably discuss how your day is going to look. What my role is. And anything you might be literally panicking about."

  Her voice fills the cave, warm and too loud for morning. I thumb through a stack of books she unloads—bonds, riders, mated dragons, guild treatises older than the kingdom itself—mostly to keep my hands steady. Ryker stands a few paces behind me, broad-shouldered and quiet, eyes flicking to every shadow and exit. Always mapping danger, even when none exists.

  Strong body. Worried eyes.

  A contradiction carved into the shape of a man.

  Mira settles at the table, arranging her mountain of research into neat, meaningful piles. "When the council discussed who should observe you two, I volunteered," she says. "They accepted—Brannis vouched for me, and knowing you both made it easier." She opens a fresh journal, quill poised, ready for anything. Ryker's gaze narrows—barely a twitch, but enough that I feel it in the tension thickening the air. Mira sees it too, and her posture softens.

  "I'm here to help you," she says gently. "And to record what I see for the Scholars and the leaders. But—" she lifts a finger "—I won't write down anything you don't want shared. Bonds are personal. Sacred. If something is private, say so. I'll honor it. Fair?"

  Ryker's shoulders loosen, just slightly—relief spoken aloud without a word.

  "Yes," I say. "Thank you, Mira."

  She beams and gestures dramatically. "Come sit before I write something dramatic in the margins." Ryker obeys reluctantly, sitting beside me. Close, but not too close. Always calculating.

  "First question," Mira says, flipping a page. "What do you need? Comfort, supplies—anything. You'll be living here together until the Burned Mark appears. Full bonding first. Everything else second."

  Our home, I think—and the thought startles me enough to straighten.

  "Maybe... a privacy wall," I say. "For changing. And another bed. And a table with more storage?"

  The moment the word bed leaves my mouth, Mira freezes. Her eyes slide to the single carved bed... then the heap of furs by the fire... then to Ryker and me. Her smile is wicked.

  Ryker bolts upright so fast the table trembles. "It's not what you think," he blurts. "We had a rough night and—"

  "Oh, I can see that," Mira murmurs, savoring the chaos.

  Heat floods my face. "Nothing happened, Mira. We were just cold. And the dragons left. We didn't know what to do."

  That stops her entirely. "Your dragons left you?" she repeats. "But your Ash Marks are still present, yes?" Ryker and I both touch them instinctively—his hand on his chest, mine on my right shoulder. Still warm. Still etched into skin like a story we've barely begun reading.

  "That is not typical," Mira mutters, scribbling at once. "Not at all. What else happened?"

  So we tell her—the fight between Vitalis and Obsidian, the bowing, their leaving, their return curled in sleep. The strange rhythm of it all. Mira slows, thinking, her scholar-face tightening. "At least they came back. Maybe they argued. New mates do that, and it complicates bonding patterns."

  Ryker stiffens—a sharp, quiet reaction that only I would notice, felt like a warm pulse through my core as if the bond responds to him before I can.

  And then everything shifts.

  A pressure in the air. A breath across stone.

  The sound of wings.

  Obsidian lands first, a shadow folding into flesh and scale. Vitalis follows, her light brushing the cave in soft gold. Their presence changes the air—thickens it—makes it holy. Obsidian's gaze goes straight to Mira. Head low. A rumble rising deep in his chest.

  My stomach drops.

  Mira is an outsider.

  And this place is not just a cave—it is a nest belonging to a mated pair.

  Ryker steps forward instantly, arm raised, placing himself between dragon and sister without meeting Obsidian's eye. Protective. Instinctive. I rush to Mira's side, mirroring him.

  Vitalis slips fully into the cave, warmth radiating from her scales. She sees me, then Mira, and tension flickers across her lip—not a snarl, but a warning shaped by instinct older than kingdoms. "She's my sister," I say quickly, my voice shaking. "She's here to help us."

  Vitalis pads forward, slow, assessing, brushing Obsidian back with a gentle nudge. She lowers her head toward Mira and breathes her in.

  Then she bows.

  Obsidian follows, a heartbeat behind her.

  A warm rush sweeps through me—a wave of acceptance, permission, peace. As if the nest itself exhales and expands to make room. As if Vitalis' thoughts brush the edges of mine.

  Behind me, Mira whispers, "Maybe I should go."

  "No," I say softly. "They're okay with you."

  For now.

  We hover there for several heartbeats, suspended between instinct and intention. Obsidian and Vitalis shift—silent, fluid—settling shoulder to shoulder at the center of the cave, their eyes fixed on us. Watching. Measuring. Deciding.

  Something inside me flickers—a tether, warm and rhythmic—and I realize I've drifted closer to Ryker without thinking. I clear my throat, forcing myself back into the moment. "Anyway," I say too brightly. "Mira, is there anything else you need?"

  She glances at the dragons again, respectful now, before retrieving a scroll sealed with the council's crest. "Just one last thing. I was asked to check your Ash Marks and explain their meanings, if you don't already know." She sits, quill ready. "Then you both have new assignments. Since neither of your guilds can use dragons directly—Elara, Scholars stay within the kingdom, and Ryker can't return to hunting until he learns to ride—your duties will shift."

  The world outside the cave beckons at her words.

  A flutter of excitement rises in my chest.

  I might finally leave the kingdom.

  See the world beyond the cliffs.

  Fly.

  I sink into the seat beside Mira, unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips.

  "All right," I say, glancing between her and the dragons. "Let's do it."

  Mira grins—bright, triumphant—because she gets to leave too.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Okay, Ryker," she says, tapping her quill. "Let's start with you."

  Scene 3

  -Ryker-

  Obsidian lowers his head in a deliberate bow, the sound rolling out of him like distant thunder, vibrating straight through the stone. Vitalis settles behind him, regal and certain, the air shifting with her permission. Her nest. Her choice. And somehow... Elara's.

  Elara clears her throat, soft but steady, and reality cracks back into its human shape. I have to move. Have to breathe. My Ash Mark pulses once beneath my ruined shirt—a heartbeat that isn't mine. A truth I haven't looked at. Not once. If I do, it makes this real. Makes him real.

  Brannis' voice drifts through my skull: A bond can fail within the first month. Maybe some part of me is still hoping for that. Maybe some part of me is terrified it won't.

  "Ryker? You okay?" Mira asks. Both she and Elara are watching me, patient, expectant, uncomfortably present.

  I drag in a breath. I'm a hunter. A provider. A man who knows his place in this kingdom.

  A rune doesn't change that.

  A bond doesn't get to define me.

  "I'm fine," I mutter. A lie obvious enough to glow.

  I move to my pack and pull out a clean shirt. The one I'm wearing is burned straight through, charred where the Ash Mark seared into me. I grip the collar, pull it over my head—and there it is.

  The rune etched across my chest.

  Obsidian's rune.

  The Rune Father's script mirrored in flesh.

  Varn. The Rune of Pain.

  Everything inside me locks—shoulders, breath, memory—seizing all at once.

  Heat lashes up my burned arm, tearing through old scar tissue like something waking. I grab the arm instinctively, fingers digging in, like I can hold myself together by force alone. Not now. Not in front of them.

  I step back. Then another. As if distance could dull the truth.

  Of course it's Pain. What else would it be?

  Pain is what I bring.

  Pain is what I am.

  Static crawls through my chest, sharp and electric. When I turn, Obsidian is watching me—silent, unblinking, a mirror built of shadow and fire. I drop my gaze as I move past him, but the pressure between us spikes. My Ash Mark tightens. His chest rune flares, faint ember-light pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

  Mira's voice breaks in, soft but certain. "Ryker... that is Varn. The Rune of Pain. Do you know what that means?"

  "I know," I say, sharper than I mean to. "Just—check it. And let's continue."

  Mira steps in and examines the mark with careful hands, murmuring something I barely hear. My pulse is too loud.

  After, I yank the clean shirt on and fit my bracer over my scar, grounding myself in habit and leather and the illusion of control. When I finally look up, Elara is watching me. Not afraid. Not pitying. Just... steady. The kind of steady that makes something inside me unclench in ways I'm not ready to name.

  Mira turns to her. "Elara, your mark?"

  Elara steps forward and slides her tunic aside to reveal the curved lines of Tharen—Remembrance. Her rune glows softly in the firelight, shaped in balance, humming with quiet wisdom. Different from mine. Different in every way.

  I wonder what story the Rune Father intends for her. For both of us.

  Mira scribbles notes, the scratch of her quill anchoring the space again. Then she straightens. "All right. You two should get ready. We're walking the nest next—studying how a mated pair structures their routines and boundaries." She gathers a few papers, then adds, "And after that, we go help the Sailors Guild. Stonepeak's final trade shipments should be coming in."

  Her words echo distantly.

  All I feel is the burn beneath my ribs.

  And Obsidian's gaze—heavy, like a hand made of fire pressed between my shoulder blades.

  Pain.

  The Rune Father wrote it on me, but he didn't need to.

  I've lived it long enough.

  Not a sentence.

  A story.

  And I'm tired of writing it.

  Scene 4

  -Ryker-

  Something I never understood until now is just how massive the caverns beneath the castle truly are. I'd heard stories, of course—dragon tunnels, nesting hollows, ancient veins of stone carved by claws older than the kingdom—but seeing them is different. The scale is humbling. A whole world exists under our feet, layered and spiraling, with paths only dragons could have shaped.

  I knew dragons were sentient. I knew they could speak, could reason, could feel. But I never realized they lived in communities that mirror ours—laws, duties, shared spaces—only older and more instinctual. Mira walks ahead with her oversized map, gesturing to the shadows like she's presenting an entire kingdom. "These are the commons," she explains. "Dragons rest here, teach fledglings, watch the eggs. It's like the heart of their social life." Her voice bounces off stone softened by years of dragon fire.

  We step into a cavern so large I can't see the far edge. Dragons lounge in clusters, some curled lazily, others letting little ones climb over them. A few practice short glides from a ledge, wings flapping wildly. It's peaceful in a way I never expected—almost domestic. My gaze catches on the elder—the giant who pinned Obsidian's neck during the ceremony. He lies in the corner, watching the young dragons with a soft, distant look, like a grandfather remembering mornings long gone.

  The runes carved into the floor are dull now. Without the drums and ceremonial lighting, the room feels different—alive in a gentler way. A place dragons return to, not for spectacle, but for themselves.

  Elara walks beside Vitalis, their steps nearly mirrored. She looks right here. Like someone meant to stand among dragons, someone whose calm belongs to places like this. Her hair falls loose until humidity pulls it into waves, and something about the quiet confidence on her face makes me pause.

  Warm air brushes my back. Obsidian. I don't look. My body reacts before my mind does—shoulders tightening, pace quickening. I put just enough distance between us to breathe. I can feel him watching me. Trying not to panic becomes its own constant discipline.

  We move deeper until the stone archway up ahead glows faintly. Mira stops beneath it and turns to us, excitement bubbling through her voice. "This is the nursery," she whispers reverently. "Only mated dragons and their riders can proceed. All others cannot pass the threshold. Dragons won't ask why someone is near their eggs. They'll just kill them."

  My pulse spikes. Elara, unfazed, steps forward and wraps her arms around her sister. "Thank you for this."

  Mira squeezes her back. "Someday, when historians look back, your bond will be in the records. I never imagined I'd get to see any of this."

  Then a voice slices clean through the reverent silence.

  "Well, isn't it the hunter and the scholar? Heard you got chosen by the near half-souled Umbryx."

  My blood goes cold. Obsidian turns before I can. The growl rising from his chest vibrates through the stone. I turn just in time to see Drexen saunter toward us, his Pyraeth stalking beside him like a living ember. Flame flickers behind the dragon's bared teeth even before Obsidian can step forward.

  Instinct slams through me. My chest locks. I turn away—fast—before the Pyraeth's gaze can pin me in place. I can't look at it. Not this close. Not with Obsidian breathing behind me.

  Drexen laughs softly, low and poisonous. "Still can't even look at a dragon and you have one. Can't wait till the kingdom is under attack and we've got a useless rider."

  Heat floods my face—anger or shame, I can't tell. The Rune of Pain throbs beneath my shirt, and for a moment I swear I see the fabric dimly glow. Obsidian shifts beside me, ready to unleash something dangerous, but before he can match the Pyraeth's challenge—

  I catch it. Drexen's fingers twitch. A command. A push. He's forcing his Pyraeth forward.

  The red-scaled dragon surges, hissing flame, wings flaring wide. Obsidian answers with a guttural snarl, shadows rippling across his scales. For a tense heartbeat, everything tightens.

  Then Vitalis lunges between them like a bolt of living gold.

  Her jaws snap shut with a sound that cracks the air. Both males recoil instantly. Even Drexen stumbles. Vitalis spreads her wings—a radiant, commanding barrier—and the growl rumbling from her throat vibrates through the floor. A mated female defending her nest, her mate, her riders. The Pyraeth lowers itself in submission, trembling under her glare. Obsidian finally blinks and lowers his head as well.

  Drexen's smirk falters. His hand clamps onto his dragon's neck. "Touchy beasts..." he mutters, but he avoids Vitalis' eyes entirely.

  Mira storms forward, furious. "This is a nesting zone! If you provoke another dragon here, the elders will toss you off the cliffs!"

  Drexen scoffs but retreats, dragging his Pyraeth with him. The dragon keeps glancing back at Obsidian—and at Vitalis—before slinking into a side tunnel.

  Vitalis huffs sharply, dismissive, then nudges both Obsidian and us toward the glowing arch. Her message is unmistakable: He stays out. You go deeper.

  Obsidian nudges me hard enough that I stumble forward. "All right," I mutter. "I'm going." Elara and Vitalis enter first. We follow.

  Darkness swallows us until a low hum fills the air. Pale runes ignite overhead, one by one, waking like stars being breathed into existence. Vitalis is activating them—not by touch, but by presence alone. Dragons can wake runes like they're exhaling old magic. I knew this, but seeing it... it borders on miracle.

  The pale light glows across Elara's face. She turns to me, eyes wide, wonder bright as the runes lighting the path. "This is unreal. Did you ever think we'd see something like this?"

  Her awe hits harder than the glow. Something warm coils in my chest—sudden, intense, unwelcome. Longing? Where did that come from?

  Vitalis pauses ahead, glancing back at us—and at Obsidian. Their eyes lock for a brief, silent exchange.

  We round a bend and the chamber opens. A Hydrith and a Terragon curl protectively around mottled eggs, their wings domed like living shields. Heat radiates from them, thick and humid. Obsidian and Vitalis bow immediately. A low, layered conversation reverberates through stone and bone, a dragon-language deeper than the ground itself.

  Elara steps beside me, silent, taking everything in. Her hair slips forward; she tucks the damp strands behind her ear. The simple motion jolts something in me—I feel my breath catch before I can hide it.

  "What do you think?" I ask—too quickly, too tightly—desperate for a thought that isn't her.

  She studies the cavern walls streaked with glowing crystal veins. "This is where Vitalis will come when she lays her eggs," she whispers. "And... I feel it. Her excitement. Her fear. Like she's already imagining it." She turns to me, raw emotion reflected plainly in her eyes—hope, uncertainty, something brave.

  Something fierce rises in me—protective, overwhelming, terrifying. I look away.

  The dragons finish their conversation. They bow to the nesting pair and return to us. Time to leave.

  Outside the nursery tunnel, Mira is waiting, bouncing on her toes. "How was it? Elara, tell me everything!"

  The sisters fall instantly into chatter as we walk. Vitalis presses close to Elara, listening with warm approval. I fall back, letting them enjoy this moment. Letting Elara breathe without my awkward silence shadowing it.

  Then Vitalis stops.

  She flares her wings slightly and turns her head toward me. I freeze. She flicks her gaze behind me.

  I turn and see Obsidian walking several paces back, shadowing me at a distance of restraint rather than expectation.

  "What...?" I whisper.

  Vitalis bares a single fang—not threatening. Commanding.

  Go to him.

  My stomach sinks. Every instinct tells me to stay put—distance is safe. Distance protects everyone.

  But Obsidian... he waits. Not demanding. Not judging. Just there. Waiting for me to choose something different.

  My breath shakes. "Fine," I mutter, stepping toward him. He moves to my side, adjusting his gait to match mine. Warmth radiates off him—steady, familiar. For a moment, something inside me wants to lean into it.

  Vitalis watches us, expectant.

  But that's when it hits—the wrongness. The push. The pull. The choice that wasn't mine. So instead of moving closer, instead of letting the rune tug me into a place I'm not ready to stand...

  I shift one step sideways.

  Not away.

  Not back.

  Just outside the line she drew.

  A small step. A quiet defiance. But mine.

  Obsidian slows, blinking once as if recalculating. Vitalis's tail twitches—it's clear she noticed.

  Whatever warmth was forming cools into something taut, uncertain.

  Good.

  Forced is forced, no matter how gentle it feels.

  Ahead, Elara and Mira round the final bend toward the docks, sunlight spilling through the tunnel mouth.

  I keep my step of distance, steady my breath, and follow them out of the caves.

  Scene 5

  -Elara-

  The walk to the docks should feel simple—stone beneath my feet, salt wind curling around my hair—but my mind refuses to still. Last night. This morning. The echo of Vitalis' emotions crashing through the nursery, tides that did not belong to me yet moved through me as if they did.

  And now the docks.

  A place I have dreamed of seeing for years, though that dream feels distant now, thin as worn parchment.

  When Mira said our home kingdom this morning, something cold anchored itself behind my ribs. Her face told me everything I needed to know about why we came here. We must be careful. We must stay unnoticed.

  Our kingdoms have traded for generations—fish and medicine and rune-crafted tools flowing south, lumber and minerals and furs and salt flowing north. A fragile balance. One misstep could shatter it.

  Ryker and Mira walk ahead toward the Tidekeeper.

  "Afternoon, Tidekeeper Olsaro," Mira says. "I trust the tides have been steady?"

  "Mira," he replies warmly. "It has been a while since I have seen you and Brannis."

  Ryker tilts his head, quiet confusion in the gesture. Secrets keep piling between us, stones in a riverbed, and the current will only grow stronger now that we are bound to walk the same paths.

  I glance back. The white cliffs descend toward the docks like ribs bared to the sea, stark and ancient. Lookout towers stand along the outer wall, watching the horizon with patient, haunted vigilance. This kingdom is young, shaped by fear into readiness.

  Vitalis tugs gently through the bond, guiding my eyes upward as she and Obsidian rise into the sky. Then the bond stretches thin, a thread pulled too far, and breath slips out of me.

  Alone.

  I hate how swiftly that feeling devours me.

  Ryker notices instantly. He lifts a shoulder, helpless, as if to say, I feel it too. I just do not understand it.

  A horn cry splits the air. Sharp. Hollow. A warning.

  "Ship incoming!" someone shouts. "Smoke on the sails!"

  Tidekeeper Olsaro snaps into command. "Everyone to cover!"

  We duck behind stacked crates.

  "What is happening?" I whisper.

  Ryker and Mira look just as lost as I am.

  The ship lurches toward the docks, ropes charred, mast blackened, smoke curling upward like a frayed prayer slipping into the sky. The water is clear enough to see thirty feet down, yet no calm can soften what approaches.

  Then the sail shifts.

  The crest.

  My family's crest.

  My body moves before thought can catch me.

  "Elara!" Ryker calls. Mira shouts my name.

  But I am already weaving through bodies—fishers hauling nets, soldiers bracing for whatever horror made it back to us. I slip between them like a thread through cloth, pulled by instinct and dread and something older than both.

  I leap onto the ship as it touches the dock.

  Devastation greets me. Burned crates. Splintered barrels. Men wrapped in blankets, bleeding, shaking as if the sea still claws at them.

  My satchel is already in my hands.

  I kneel beside the first wounded man, crushing feverleaf into paste with burnroot, stirring until it thickens. The scent rises sharp and bitter, anchoring my breath.

  "What happened?" I ask.

  "Ambushed... at the river mouth..." he rasps. "Factionless."

  Another coughs, voice broken. "Two ships down. Both sides of the river. They hit us hard. We could not..."

  Tidekeeper Olsaro arrives. "Your captain?"

  "He did not make it."

  My vision wavers.

  Above us, dragons circle—Obsidian's dark wings, Vitalis' pale glow, more rising from their nests like omens.

  Then I see him.

  A man clutching his side, blood pouring between his fingers, clothes burned into his skin. A rune-fire wound. Severe. Fatal without intervention.

  I drop beside him.

  "Hold still," I tell him, though his agony shakes the boards beneath us.

  Ryker kneels across from me. "What do you need?"

  "I need him still. I have to paint a Mend rune. If I am not precise..."

  "You will not slip," he says, voice steady as stone.

  He tears open the fabric, holding the man tight, anchoring him to this world.

  I dip my finger into ink and trace the first stroke of the Mend rune along scorched flesh. It glows immediately, soft gold, pulsing with possibility. I finish the rune. It holds.

  It is working.

  I exhale, pouring intention into the lines, urging skin to remember itself and draw closed. Threads of light pull inward. Hope rises.

  Then the man screams.

  Not pain alone.

  Terror.

  His entire body jerks against Ryker's hold.

  I hesitate.

  Only a breath.

  My hand suspended over the rune.

  "Elara, keep going!" Ryker shouts.

  But a voice drifts from the docks.

  "... it was Black Stack..."

  Barely a whisper.

  But it hits like a blade to the spine.

  A white-hot flash cleaves through my vision. Serenya's voice slips into my ear. Memory cracks open. Just a sliver. Just enough.

  Vitalis senses the spike—not fear, but a rising tide of anxiety I cannot contain.

  She tries to steady me. But the bond is too new. Too raw. Her concern slams into my chest and my breath shatters at once.

  My hand twitches.

  The smallest movement.

  The glowing rune flickers, bends, twists inward on itself.

  "No... no, no..." I try to fix the line.

  But the rune collapses like a lung imploding.

  The wound tears wider.

  The man convulses once, body arching in Ryker's arms, and then he goes still.

  Completely still.

  Ryker lowers him gently, murmuring words I cannot hear.

  I stare at my trembling hand. At the ruined rune. At the life that slipped from my grasp because one whispered name dragged a memory from the dark and the bond turned my panic into a storm I could not hold.

  Vitalis keens overhead, grief twining with her fear.

  I cannot lift my head.

  I cannot feel anything except the hollow widening inside my chest.

  Ryker's voice reaches me gently. "Elara... look at me. Are you okay?"

  But I cannot.

  Not yet.

  Not with blood on my hands.

  Ryker guides me off the ship, Mira steadying my other arm. They bring me to solid ground near coiled ropes as healers rush in. The sea wind chills the sweat on my skin. I try to breathe. Try to steady my hands. Neither obeys.

  A Terragon dragon descends—stone-grey wings, a heavy thud, dust spiraling like falling ash. General Thalos dismounts with lethal precision.

  "What happened?" he demands.

  "Factionless ambush. River mouth," Olsaro says. "One ship made it back."

  Thalos' eyes narrow—not surprised, but recognizing a long-feared truth. "I knew something like this was going to happen," he murmurs. "We have been blind too long."

  Olsaro stiffens. "General?"

  Thalos studies the burning ship, the wounded, the crest scorched black. "We train the newly bonded tomorrow. No delays."

  "Yes, General."

  He lowers his voice again, meant for Olsaro alone, though we hear it anyway. "Prepare an emergency council meeting after this is contained. We cannot ignore this anymore."

  His jaw tightens. He knows more than he will admit.

  Fifteen minutes pass. Long enough for my shaking to fade. Long enough for the guilt to anchor itself deep.

  Then heat slams the air.

  A Pyraeth dragon dives down, landing hard enough to rattle the planks. Embers scatter across the dock. Drexen swings down in one fluid motion and takes in the carnage.

  His gaze lands on us—Ryker, Mira, and me.

  He shakes his head.

  Not shocked.

  Not sorry.

  Judging.

  As though three new riders could have stopped any of this.

  A cold knot forms in my stomach. Ryker stiffens. Mira's jaw tightens. Vitalis rumbles overhead, restless and anxious.

  Drexen approaches Thalos. "General," he reports. "I flew the coast. Two ships are sunk. Completely gone. No bodies. No raiders left onshore."

  Thalos' voice sharpens. "The Black Stack?"

  Drexen nods. "Yes."

  The name strikes again. Another blow.

  My breath fractures. Vitalis pushes comfort through the bond, but it only shakes me harder.

  Thalos does not notice.

  Or chooses not to.

  "Then we prepare," he says coldly. "Training at dawn. Cliffside cannot hesitate while raiders burn our borders."

  His words fall like a verdict.

  No one here knows who I am.

  No one knows why that crest broke me open.

  No one knows what the Black Stack did, or why their shadow stalks every breath I take.

  But the sea is burning.

  And I am running out of places to hide.