My Dragon is Mated to My Sworn Enemy's Daughter

The wind whipped across the stone of the parapet, a familiar bite against the exposed skin of my face. Below, another year’s reaping had been gathered. Hundreds of them, fresh-faced and terrified, huddled at the base of Basgiath War College like lambs awaiting slaughter. Most wouldn’t survive the crossing. More still wouldn’t survive the year. It was the same every Conscription Day—a grim spectacle of forced ambition and certain death. I watched, not out of morbid curiosity, but because it was my duty to see who was coming. To see the new threats.

And then I saw her.

Even from this height, she was unmistakable. Not for her beauty, though some might call her that, but for her sheer, shocking fragility. Violet Sorrengail. Her name was a curse on my tongue even when left unspoken. Her pale hair, shot through with silver at the ends, was pulled back in a severe braid that only emphasized the delicate lines of her jaw and the smallness of her frame. She looked like a porcelain doll someone had carelessly left among wolves, dressed in well-fitting black leathers, she looked just like a rider. Still, she didn’t belong here. Every line of her body screamed it. Scribe. Scholar. Anything but rider.

My jaw tightened. A Sorrengail. Here. As if the quadrant wasn’t already a pit of vipers loyal to her mother, the General who oversaw our parents execution. It was a joke. A cruel, sick joke played by the Fates. Or, more likely, a calculated move by the General herself. But for what purpose? To have her daughter fail so spectacularly that no one would ever question the quadrant’s lethality again? Or was it something more sinister?

She shifted her weight, her gaze lifting to the terrifying height of the parapet she would have to cross. There was no fear on her face. Not the open, weeping terror of the boy next to her, or the rigid panic of the girl on her other side. Instead, her expression was one of grim, stubborn determination. It was in the set of her chin, the hard line of her mouth. She looked breakable, but she didn’t look like she was planning on breaking.

That was what made her dangerous. Deceptive.

She was a complication I didn’t need. A liability. My responsibilities were already a crushing weight—the other marked ones within these walls, their lives tethered to my own secrecy and survival. Every move I made was calculated to protect them, to keep the rebellion breathing in the heart of the beast that sought to suffocate it. And now her. The daughter of the woman who murdered our parents and branded us for their “crimes.” A walking, breathing conflict of interest dropped directly into my path.

I should have felt nothing but cold, satisfying hatred. I should have hoped the wind would catch her just right and send her plummeting to the stones below. It would solve a great many problems.

But as she took her place in line, her small shoulders squared against the impossible task ahead, all I felt was a cold, sharp spike of irritation. She was going to get herself killed. And for some reason I couldn’t fathom, the thought didn’t bring the satisfaction it should have. It just felt like another godsdamned problem. My problem.

I turned from the parapet, forcing the image of the Sorrengail girl from my mind. She was an anomaly, a variable I couldn't control, and I had enough of those already. I moved through the stone corridors of the fortress, my footsteps silent. Here, even the shadows had ears. My own shadows, the ones I could manipulate, clung to me, a second skin of darkness that was both my birthright and my curse.

Garrick and Imogen were waiting in our designated place—a disused alcove in the lower armory, thick with the scent of honing oil and cold steel. It was one of the few places in Basgiath without prying eyes, where the ambient magic was too chaotic for scrying. Garrick was methodically sharpening a long, wicked-looking blade, the rhythmic scrape of stone on metal a calming sound in the oppressive quiet. Imogen, by contrast, was a storm of contained energy, pacing the small space with her hand resting on the hilt of one of the twin daggers strapped to her thighs. She stopped the moment I entered, her dark eyes flashing.

“Did you see her?” she asked without preamble, her voice a low hiss.

I didn’t have to ask who she meant. “She’s a name and a face. Nothing more.”

Imogen let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Nothing more? The General’s youngest whelp, the one who was supposed to be a Scribe, shows up on Conscription Day looking like a strong breeze could kill her? That’s not ‘nothing,’ Xaden. That’s a message.”

Garrick set his whetstone down, his movements deliberate. “Imogen has a point. Her presence puts a spotlight on this quadrant that we don’t need. People will be watching her every move. And they’ll notice who she interacts with.” His gaze met mine, steady and serious. “They’ll notice us.”

I leaned against a rack of training swords, the cool metal a familiar weight against my back. “Which is why we will treat her like the plague. We don’t look, we don’t talk, we don’t even think in her direction. She’s a ghost. As far as we’re concerned, she’s already dead. Our focus is on the living.” I leveled my gaze at both of them. “Our living. How is Bodhi?”

“Still rattled,” Garrick supplied, his brow furrowed with concern. “That run-in with fliers last week left him with more than just bruises. He’s scared. They’re all on edge.”

“Fear keeps them sharp,” Imogen countered, though her tone lacked its usual bite. “But Garrick’s right. The mood is different this year. Uppers are looking for any excuse to thin the herd before Threshing. And the marked ones are always the easiest targets.”

“Then we make sure we aren’t targets,” I said, my voice dropping to the command tone that left no room for argument. “We give them nothing. No insubordination, no flashy wins on the mat, no mistakes. We blend in until we’re just part of the stone walls. Every single one of the hundred and six children of the revolution is counting on us to hold this line. They survive because we are disciplined. Because we are invisible. Remind them.”

Garrick gave a single, sharp nod. “I’ll talk to them.”

Imogen’s jaw was tight, her restless energy coiling into a knot of defiance. She hated this—the hiding, the waiting. She wanted blood for the blood that was spilled. But she was loyal. She nodded as well. “And the little Sorrengail?” she couldn’t resist adding.

A flicker of the irritation I’d felt on the parapet returned, sharp and unwelcome. “She’s a complication,” I admitted, my voice flat. “But she is her mother’s problem, not ours. Let the General’s enemies deal with her. We have our own.” I pushed away from the weapon rack, the meeting concluded. “Pass the word. Absolute secrecy. Anyone steps out of line, they answer to me directly.”

Garrick and Imogen departed, melting back into the warren of passages that made up the college’s underbelly. I remained in the alcove for a moment longer, letting the familiar chill of the stone seep into my bones. Control. Discipline. Secrecy. They were the cornerstones of our survival, the armor I wore every single day.

As I pushed off the wall and started down the corridor, it happened.

You are slow.

Sgaeyl’s presence flooded my mind, not with a whisper but with the force of a tidal wave. It was a familiar invasion, the sheer scale of her consciousness a crushing weight that would have broken a lesser mind. Her power was a physical thing, a pressure behind my eyes and a cold fire that coiled in my gut. With her came the scent of ozone and storms, the vast, empty feeling of the sky at midnight. And her impatience. It was a constant, sharp-edged thing, the eternal frustration of an ancient predator forced to stalk in the shadows when she was built to reign from the clouds.

Hiding is for prey, she sent, the thought a razor blade against my own thoughts. We are not prey.

We are careful, I sent back, my mental shields reinforcing automatically, a habit born of necessity. The bond was absolute, but a sliver of privacy was something I fought for daily. Care is what keeps our people alive.

She rumbled her discontent, a low, thrumming vibration that I felt in my teeth. She didn’t understand the nuances of human politics, the need for subtlety. To her, there were only threats and the overwhelming urge to eradicate them. But then, beneath the usual current of her simmering fury, I felt something else.

A pull.

It was faint at first, a subtle deviation in the flow of her consciousness, like a river current encountering a new, unseen stone in its path. It wasn't my feeling; it was hers, bleeding through the bond with an intensity that was starting to build. It was a distinct, magnetic draw. An insistent thrumming that had no direction and yet felt centered on something specific, something vital.

My steps faltered in the empty hallway. What was this? I probed the sensation, trying to dissect it, to understand its origin. Sgaeyl’s mind was usually a fortress of focused aggression. This was different. This was… a longing. An ache. It was a deep, primal instinct that was completely alien to our shared experience.

Sgaeyl? I asked, focusing my full attention inward. What is that?

For once, she had no sharp retort. Her impatience was momentarily eclipsed by this new, overwhelming sensation. The pull intensified, becoming a tangible force in my mind, a humming cord of energy stretching from her to… somewhere else within these stone walls. It was a resonance, a call that only she could hear, and it was making her agitated. It made her restless.

Where? The thought wasn't a question, but a demand fired into the ether. It was pure instinct, a possessive, searching need that vibrated through every nerve in my body. It was the feeling of a compass needle finding its true north for the first time. Unsettling didn’t begin to cover it. I was the rider. I was supposed to be in control, yet this raw, draconic urge was threatening to swamp my own senses, pulling me along with it.

I grit my teeth, pushing back against the foreign emotion, fighting for equilibrium. Another variable. Another unknown in an equation already overflowing with them. First the Sorrengail girl, and now this inexplicable pull distracting the single most powerful weapon in my arsenal. The feeling didn’t recede. It settled deep within me, a low, persistent hum beneath my skin, a constant reminder that something new and powerful had just entered the game. And I had no idea what it was.

I shoved the unsettling feeling down, locking it away behind the mental walls I’d spent years fortifying. A mystery within my own dragon was a problem for later. Right now, I had to project nothing but unwavering control. My path took me toward the sparring grounds, the distant clang of steel a familiar, grounding sound. But as I rounded a corner into a less-trafficked corridor, a different noise cut through the air. A harsh shove, the scrape of leather against stone, and a voice dripping with condescending malice.

“What’s the matter, separatist scum? Missing your traitor father?”

My steps didn’t falter, but every muscle in my body went rigid. I knew that voice. Colton, a third-year wingleader with a cruel streak as wide as his shoulders. I slowed, letting the natural shadows of the hallway deepen around me, my approach utterly silent.

There, pinned against the wall, was a first-year I recognized. Soren. One of ours. His face was pale, a thin trickle of blood coming from his lip. Colton had him by the front of his tunic, his large frame blocking any chance of escape. Two of Colton’s sycophants flanked him, laughing.

“I hear they screamed when the dragons burned them,” Colton sneered, leaning in close. “Did you know that? Your whole family, just a pile of ash.”

A cold, precise rage settled over me. It was a familiar feeling, a switch being flipped. The constant pressure I felt, the weight of the hundred and six lives I was sworn to protect, coalesced into a single point of lethal focus.

Kill him, Sgaeyl hissed in my mind, her fury a perfect, sharp mirror of my own. The strange, pulling sensation was momentarily forgotten, replaced by a pure, predatory instinct we shared. Let me burn him.

Not yet, I sent back, the thought like ice.

I let my shadows recede just enough to make my presence known as I stepped fully into the corridor. “Colton,” I said. My voice was quiet, almost conversational, yet it cut through the air and silenced his cronies instantly.

Colton turned, his sneer faltering slightly when he saw me. He didn’t let go of Soren. A foolish mistake. “Xaden,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Just teaching the new conscript some respect for his betters.”

I took another slow step forward, my eyes locked on his. I didn’t look at Soren. I didn’t acknowledge the blood on his lip. I gave Colton my complete, undivided attention. “And who, exactly, would that be?” I asked, my voice still level. “Because from where I’m standing, all I see is a third-year with mediocre flight scores who’s two demerits away from being reassigned to the infantry. You’re harassing a rider from my wing. That makes this my business.”

His face flushed a dull red. “He’s a marked one. A rebel’s get.”

“He’s a cadet in the Riders Quadrant,” I corrected him, stopping barely a foot away. I was leaner than him, but the power that coiled in my muscles, honed by Sgaeyl’s strength, was a palpable threat. “And you are a wingleader. Your job is to train riders, not break them before they even have a chance to see the Threshing. Or have you forgotten the Codex?”

I saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He knew he was in the wrong, but his pride was on the line. I leaned in, dropping my voice so only he could hear it. “Let him go. Now. Or the next time you’re on a mat, it will be with me. And I promise you, I won’t stop when the sparring bell rings.”

The threat was clear, unambiguous. He could feel the power rolling off me, the promise of violence barely held in check. His fingers twitched, then uncurled from Soren’s tunic. He shoved the boy away, a petty, final act of aggression.

“Whatever,” Colton muttered, unable to meet my eyes. “He’s not worth the trouble.” He motioned to his friends, and the three of them beat a hasty retreat down the corridor.

I stood there until their footsteps faded, the cold rage slowly receding, leaving the familiar, exhausting weight in its place. I turned my head slightly, my gaze falling on Soren, who was now sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked up at me, his eyes a mixture of fear and gratitude. “Thank you, Wingleader.”

My expression remained hard. Showing any softness here, in the open, was a weakness neither of us could afford. “Get up,” I ordered, my tone clipped and devoid of warmth. “He was right about one thing. This place will eat you alive if you show them you’re weak. Don’t let them see you bleed.”

Soren scrambled to his feet, shame replacing the gratitude on his face. He nodded once, then hurried away in the opposite direction. I watched him go, the mask of the unfeeling leader firmly in place. But underneath, the pressure was immense. One hundred and six. Every single day was a battle to keep them safe, to hold the line. And as the adrenaline faded, that strange, insistent pull from Sgaeyl returned, a low hum beneath the surface of my thoughts. A new, unknown threat in a world already full of them.