I Was Forced to Share a Bed With the Dragon Rider Who Saved My Life

The first sign of trouble wasn't a sight, but a sound. A high-pitched, chittering screech that sliced through the crisp mountain air and sent a flock of birds scattering from the pines. I looked up from the book I was reading in the back of our wagon, my heart giving a single, hard thump against my ribs. Old Man Hemlock, driving the lead wagon, pulled his team to a halt. The sudden silence that followed was worse than the screech. It was heavy, expectant.

Then they swarmed from the rocks.

Crag-goblins. Dozens of them. They were wiry, hunched creatures with skin the color of wet stone and teeth like broken shards of glass. They moved with a jerky, unnatural speed, brandishing crude iron blades that glinted in the afternoon sun. Screams erupted around me. Not just the goblins' terrible cries, but the screams of the caravan guards, of the other merchants. The sound of splintering wood and panicked horses filled the pass.

My father, a kind man who knew more about poultices than pikes, had paid good money for armed guards. I saw one of them go down, a swarm of goblins overwhelming him in a flurry of snarling and stabbing. My stomach churned. This wasn't supposed to happen. We were just traveling to the capital to sell my mother's remedies. My biggest worry an hour ago was whether I had packed enough warm socks.

Someone ripped the canvas flap of our wagon open. A goblin face, all sharp angles and malevolent black eyes, peered in. It grinned, showing off its jagged teeth, and started to climb inside. I didn't think. I scrambled backward over sacks of dried lavender and chamomile, tumbling out the other side of the wagon. I landed hard on the rocky ground, the impact jarring my bones.

"Run!" It was one of the other merchants' wives, her face a mask of terror. She pointed toward the dense forest that lined the pass. "Run, child!"

And I did. I ran without looking back. I didn't grab my satchel, my money, or the thick cloak I would desperately need later. I just ran, my simple cotton dress snagging on thorny bushes, my thin shoes slipping on loose stones. The sounds of the massacre faded behind me, replaced by the frantic pounding of my own heart and the ragged gasp of my breath.

I pushed deeper and deeper into the woods, long after the sounds of the attack were gone, driven by pure, animal fear. Only when my lungs felt like they were on fire and my legs refused to move another step did I collapse behind a thicket of ferns, my body trembling uncontrollably.

As dusk bled into a moonless night, the cold began to seep into my bones. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, sent a fresh wave of terror through me. I could still hear them sometimes, distant, triumphant shrieks echoing through the mountains. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. I was Gemma, the herbalist's daughter. I knew how to treat a fever and soothe a cough. I knew nothing of this. Nothing of the gnawing hunger in my belly, the paralyzing fear in my heart, or the profound, crushing loneliness of being hunted in the dark. My quiet, simple life hadn't prepared me for this. It had left me soft and helpless, and I knew, with a certainty that was colder than the mountain air, that I was not going to survive the night.

Somehow, I did. When the sun finally cut through the canopy, its weak light felt like a miracle. My body was a constellation of aches, my throat raw and completely dry. Thirst was a physical pain, a clawing desperation that overrode the terror that had kept me frozen all night. I had to find water. I had to move.

Getting to my feet was a clumsy, agonizing process. Every muscle screamed in protest. I stumbled through the undergrowth, my mind a foggy haze of one single thought: water. The forest was no less intimidating in the daylight. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches like grasping fingers, their shadows hiding unknown threats. I pushed forward, ignoring the scratches from thorns and the slick mud that caked my bare ankles.

After what felt like hours, the trees thinned. I saw a patch of sunlight ahead and pushed through a final curtain of ferns, collapsing into a small, grassy clearing. In its center was a pool of water, dark and still, fed by a trickle of moisture seeping from the rocks above. Hope, sharp and dizzying, shot through me. I crawled toward it, my hands sinking into the damp earth.

A low growl stopped me cold.

It came from the other side of the pool. Lifting my head, I saw it. The creature was something from a nightmare tapestry. It had the tawny body of a lion, massive and rippling with muscle, but its face was unnervingly human, twisted into a permanent snarl. A pair of leathery, bat-like wings were folded against its back, and its long, serpentine tail, tipped with a cluster of venomous-looking spines, twitched back and forth. A manticore. I’d only ever seen them in books, terrifying illustrations on a page. The reality was so much worse.

It lowered its head, its cold, intelligent eyes fixing on me. I was an intruder in its territory, near its water. I was prey. I tried to scramble backward, but my limbs wouldn't obey. I was trapped between the beast and the dense woods. The manticore let out a guttural roar that vibrated in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut, a pathetic whimper escaping my lips. This was it. This was how I died.

It lunged.

A shadow fell over the clearing, so vast and sudden it felt like a personal eclipse. A roar, infinitely more powerful than the manticore’s, tore through the air. The ground shook with a deafening thud that threw me onto my side. I forced my eyes open. A dragon, its scales the color of molten bronze, had landed just feet away, its massive form dwarfing the manticore. Before the dust even settled, a figure in dark leather armor vaulted from a saddle on the dragon's back. He landed with impossible grace, a sword already in his hand. The blade seemed to hum with a faint, blue light. He glanced at the cowering manticore, then his gaze flicked to me, and a confident, almost arrogant smirk touched his lips.

He didn't even look at me again. His focus was entirely on the beast. The manticore, momentarily startled by the dragon's arrival, seemed to gather its courage, letting out another snarling roar. Kaiden didn't flinch. He moved with a lethal economy that was more terrifying than the manticore’s rage. He sidestepped the creature’s initial swipe, its spined tail whipping through the air where he’d been a second before. The spines whistled past his head.

He was a blur of black leather and shining steel. The humming sword became an extension of his arm, a ribbon of deadly blue light. He ducked under a snapping jaw and drove the blade upward, a clean, powerful thrust into the manticore’s soft underbelly. The beast shrieked, a horrible, high-pitched sound of pain and shock. It staggered back, black blood pouring from the wound. Kaiden didn't give it a chance to recover. He spun, his movements fluid and precise, and brought the sword down in a brutal, final arc that silenced the creature forever.

The fight was over before I had fully processed that it had begun.

Silence descended on the clearing, broken only by the huffing breaths of the bronze dragon and the drip of blood onto the grass. Kaiden stood over the dead manticore for a moment, his chest rising and falling evenly. He hadn't even broken a sweat. He wiped the black blood from his blade onto the grass, the motion casual, like he was wiping mud from a boot. He sheathed the weapon with a soft click, and the faint blue hum died away.

Then, he turned to me.

I was still on the ground, propped up on one elbow, my mouth hanging open. He walked toward me, his heavy boots making soft thuds on the earth. Up close, he was even more imposing. He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his leather armor. His dark hair was windswept, and his jaw was sharp and stubbled. His eyes, the color of moss after a rain, swept over me. They took in my torn dress, my bare, mud-caked feet, my scratched arms. I saw a flicker of something in them—pity, maybe, but also a sliver of amusement that made my cheeks burn with shame.

"You're a long way from anywhere," he said. His voice was deep, calm. The kind of voice that was used to giving orders and being obeyed.

I could only nod, my throat still too tight to form words.

He crouched down, bringing us to eye level. The scent of pine, leather, and something sharp and metallic—ozone, maybe, from his sword—clung to him. "The nearest town is Silverstream. For you, on foot? It's a week's walk. If you don't run into anything else like that." He gestured with his chin toward the dead manticore.

A week. The words landed like stones in my stomach, extinguishing the tiny spark of hope I’d felt. I would never make it. I would die of starvation or be eaten by some other monster long before then. The realization must have shown on my face, because the amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something more like professional concern.

"I'm Kaiden," he said, his tone softening just slightly. "My outpost is two days' ride from here. I can take you there. You'll be safe." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, a lifeline thrown into the dark pit I'd fallen into. I looked from his steady gaze to the massive dragon behind him, whose golden eyes were watching us with an unnerving intelligence. Safe. It was a word I hadn't dared to even think. I gave another shaky nod, finding my voice at last.

"Okay," I whispered.