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.

The stench of sweat and grit hung heavy in the air of the training pavilion. I stood with my arms crossed, my back against one of the massive stone pillars that held up the roof, watching the first-years get systematically brutalized on the mats. It was a required part of a wingleader’s duties—assess the new crop, identify the weak links. Most of them were exactly what I expected: arrogant, terrified, or a clumsy combination of the two.

Then my eyes found her.

Violet Sorrengail. She looked even smaller here, swallowed by the black leathers that seemed to hang off her frame. She was pitted against Jack Barlowe, a sadist-in-training who outweighed her by a good fifty pounds of muscle and ego. It was a mismatch designed for humiliation. I expected it to be over in seconds.

It wasn’t.

Barlowe came at her with a brutish charge, and she sidestepped at the last possible moment, his momentum carrying him past her. He stumbled, catching himself before he went off the mat, and the small crowd of onlookers snickered. His face turned a blotchy red. He spun, his movements sloppy with anger, and swung a wide, clumsy fist. Violet ducked under it, but he was too big, his reach too great. His other hand caught her by the shoulder and he threw her.

She hit the mat with a hard slap that should have knocked the wind out of her. I saw her jaw clench, her face pale with the impact. For a second, she lay still. Barlowe swaggered toward her, puffing out his chest. “Had enough, Sorrengail?”

Slowly, deliberately, she pushed herself up. First to her hands and knees, then to her feet. She was unsteady, favoring her left side, but she was standing. Her silver-blonde hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes—those sharp, intelligent eyes—were fixed on him with a defiance that was utterly stupid and somehow… familiar.

She is breakable, Sgaeyl noted in my mind, her assessment cold and clinical. The strange, pulling sensation from the hallway was still there, a low thrumming behind her thoughts. This is a waste of our attention.

She’s still standing, I thought back, the words forming before I could stop them.

The fight, if you could call it that, continued. It was a brutal display. He was a battering ram, and she was a splintering door. He knocked her down again and again. But every time, she got back up. She wasn’t winning. She wasn’t even landing any significant blows. But she was surviving. She was learning. I watched her adapt, her movements becoming smaller, more efficient. She stopped trying to dodge completely and instead started trying to deflect, to use his own weight against him. She’d turn his shoves into glancing blows, absorb the force of a kick by rolling with it.

It was a strategy born of pure desperation. It was the strategy of someone who knew they were outmatched in every physical way but refused to concede. It was the fight of a cornered animal, all instinct and stubborn will. I’d seen that look before. I saw it in the mirror every morning. I saw it on Imogen’s face, on Garrick’s, on every one of the marked children who had survived this long. It wasn’t about winning the bout; it was about refusing to be broken by it.

Barlowe finally caught her in a grapple, his forearm pressing against her throat. Her face began to purple, her hands scrabbling uselessly at his massive arm. She was seconds from passing out. Then I saw it. A glint of something sharp. She’d palmed one of the small daggers from her boot—an illegal move, but a smart one. With a final, desperate burst of energy, she drove the pommel hard into the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

He roared, his grip loosening just enough. She squirmed free, gasping for air, and scrambled away. The instructor called the match, declaring Barlowe the winner. He was still cursing, clutching his leg, while Violet pushed herself to her feet one last time at the edge of the mat. She was bruised, trembling with exhaustion, and utterly defeated.

But as she limped away, she glanced toward the pillars where I stood. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. There was no fear in them. Only pain, and a white-hot, burning determination that sent an unwelcome jolt of recognition straight through me. She wasn’t just the general’s daughter. She wasn’t just a liability.

She was a survivor. And that made her infinitely more dangerous than I’d ever imagined.

I turned away from the mats, the image of her defiant eyes burned into my mind. The respect she’d inadvertently earned was a bitter pill. Respect was dangerous. It was a step away from empathy, and empathy was a luxury I couldn’t afford, especially for her.

I walked the stone corridors back toward my quarters, the familiar weight of my responsibilities settling back over my shoulders. The encounter with Colton, the constant vigilance, and now this... this complication with Violet Sorrengail. It was another variable in an equation that was already impossible to solve.

My room was stark, functional. A bed, a desk, a weapons rack. Anything else was a vulnerability. As I closed the door, the silence was a brief respite. I ran a hand over my face, the tension in my jaw a familiar ache.

That one is all bone and nerve, Sgaeyl commented, her voice a low rumble in the back of my skull. The strange pulling sensation I’d felt earlier was a constant, low-grade hum, like a distant storm. She will not last the winter.

She might surprise you, I replied, stripping off my leather jacket and tossing it onto the bed.

A flicker of movement outside my window caught my eye. It wasn't a person, just a slight disturbance in the shadows on the stone ledge. I crossed the room and pushed the heavy glass pane open. A small, carved piece of obsidian shaped like a feather sat on the sill. It was cool to the touch. A signal.

I scanned the courtyard below. Empty. Whoever left it was long gone. I brought the feather inside, my pulse quickening. Messages from my network were rare and always urgent. I ran my thumb over the carving, feeling for the small, nearly invisible catch. A click, and the feather split lengthwise. Tucked inside was a tightly rolled piece of parchment no bigger than my thumbnail.

Unrolling it was a delicate process. The message was written in a numerical cipher keyed to a specific text—a book of Tyrrish poetry my father had given me. I retrieved the worn leather volume from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard. It took me ten minutes of cross-referencing page numbers, lines, and word counts, my frustration mounting with each deciphered word. The message was short, blunt.

Northern garrisons running silent. Supply manifests forged. Leadership reports patrols that never leave the ground. They’re stealing from us. They’re letting the border rot.

I stared at the decoded words, a cold dread seeping into my bones, chilling me more than the mountain air ever could. I’d known there was corruption. I’d known there was prejudice. I’d built my entire network on the assumption that we couldn’t trust the command structure to protect the marked children.

But this was worse. This wasn’t just about us. Forging supply manifests, faking patrols… that was treason on a scale that threatened the entire kingdom. They weren’t just letting us die; they were actively weakening the borders, leaving Navarrian citizens vulnerable. For what? Greed? Power? It didn’t matter. The result was the same. The gryphons and the venin would eventually push past the weakened wards, and thousands would die, all because some commander wanted to line his pockets.

A wave of fury, so potent it was almost nauseating, washed over me. I crushed the tiny piece of parchment in my fist. All our sacrifices, all the lives lost, all for a kingdom run by vipers who would sell out their own people. My father died fighting for this. My rebellion was supposed to protect the innocent children of the so-called traitors. Now, it seemed the real traitors were the ones wearing Navarre’s uniform.

The weakness is a disease, Sgaeyl’s voice was a blade of ice in my mind. It must be cut out.

She was right. But the rot was in the leadership. The very people we were sworn to obey. And at the head of that leadership was one man: General Melgren. The man who ordered my father’s execution. The man whose daughter just refused to stay down on the mat, her eyes full of the same fire that was currently burning through my veins. The question was, did she know? Was she a part of the lie, or was she just another cog in their corrupted machine, as blind as everyone else? I had to know.

I found her exactly where I expected to. Not in the library, hiding behind books, but leaving the infirmary, a place she was likely becoming far too familiar with. The setting sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, and she was a small, solitary figure moving through them, her limp more pronounced than it had been on the mats.

I moved to intercept her, stepping out from the archway of the academic building to block her path. She stopped short, her head snapping up. Her face was a canvas of purpling bruises, a small white bandage taped over her cheekbone. For a moment, all I could see was the damage Barlowe had inflicted, the physical proof of her stubborn refusal to quit.

“Sorrengail,” I said, my voice low and devoid of warmth.

She straightened her shoulders, a pathetic attempt to mask the pain that must have been radiating through her ribs. “Riorson.” Her tone was clipped, exhausted. “If you’re here to offer your congratulations on my defeat, you’re late.”

“I don’t congratulate failures.” I took a step closer, deliberately invading her space. She didn’t retreat, but I saw her hands clench into fists at her sides. Her scent filled the small space between us—the clean, antiseptic smell of the infirmary clinging to her clothes, and something else underneath it, something faintly floral and uniquely her. “I’m just curious. How does it feel?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “How does what feel?”

“To fight so hard for a system that’s utterly corrupt,” I said, my voice dropping, laced with the cold fury from the message. “To put your body on the line for leaders who lie, cheat, and steal from the very people they’ve sworn to protect. Does the hypocrisy ever choke you?”

Her eyes, a startling shade of hazel flecked with gold, widened slightly before narrowing into defiant slits. The flicker of surprise was all the answer I needed. She didn’t know. Or if she did, she hid it better than any actor I’d ever seen.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice tight with anger. “But I’m not going to stand here and listen to you slander my father.”

“Your father?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Your father is the pinnacle of it all. General Sorrengail, who preaches honor while his command rots from the inside out. He sends conscripts to their deaths on the parapet while commanders forge supply manifests and fake patrols, leaving the borders undefended.” I leaned in closer, my mouth just inches from her ear. “Tell me, does he share those little secrets over dinner? Or are you just the dutiful daughter, blissfully ignorant of the rot you’re a part of?”

She flinched, not from my words, but from my proximity. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, see the rapid pulse beating in the bruised flesh of her throat. My body reacted before my mind could stop it, a low, primal pull that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fierce, cornered energy she was throwing off. I wanted to see her break. I wanted to see her fight back. I wanted to push her until I saw the core of who she was—survivor or pawn.

“Get away from me,” she hissed, turning her face toward me. Her breath was warm against my cheek. Her gaze was pure fire, burning away any trace of the victim. In that moment, she wasn’t small or fragile. She was magnificent.

The thought was a betrayal. My fascination with her was a weakness, a dangerous distraction from the war I was fighting. I needed to hate her. It was simpler. Safer. But standing this close to her, seeing the unyielding strength in her battered face, hate was the last thing I felt.

I straightened up, pulling back abruptly. The air between us crackled with the sudden space. “Be careful who you trust, Sorrengail,” I said, my voice a harsh rasp. “The shadows in this place are longer than you think. And they swallow little girls whole.”

I turned and walked away without another word, leaving her standing alone in the fading light. My heart was pounding, not with the thrill of confrontation, but with a confusing, unwelcome turmoil. I had tested her defenses, and all I’d managed to do was solidify my own unwelcome fascination with the woman I was supposed to destroy.

As I stalked back toward my chambers, the cool night air did nothing to quiet the storm inside me. Every instinct screamed that I had just made a mistake. Showing that much of my hand, revealing the depth of my contempt for the leadership to her, of all people, was a tactical error. But seeing her standing there, so defiant in her brokenness, had shattered my control.

You are drawn to her fire, Sgaeyl noted, a hint of something that sounded dangerously like amusement in her tone. The persistent, humming pull in my mind, the one I’d felt since the conscripts arrived, sharpened into a distinct, undeniable yearning. It was her feeling, not mine, bleeding through our bond with an intensity that was new.

I’m drawn to a vulnerability I can exploit, I shot back, the lie feeling hollow even in my own head.

Liar. The word was a physical force, a shove against my mental shields. You see the same strength in her that I feel in him.

Before I could demand what she meant, the world dissolved. It wasn't a thought or a suggestion. It was a complete sensory takeover. The stone corridor of the Riders Quadrant vanished, replaced by an image so vivid, so real, that my legs stuttered to a halt.

Power. Ancient, absolute, and utterly unapologetic.

I was seeing through Sgaeyl's eyes, feeling with her heart. And what she was showing me was a dragon. He was magnificent, a creature of midnight and fury. His scales were the color of polished obsidian, each one a perfectly formed blade. Muscle coiled beneath the dark hide, promising devastating strength. A series of jagged spines ran the length of his back, culminating in a tail tipped with a massive, brutal club of bone and scale. His jaw was heavy, his teeth like daggers of white quartz. He was larger than Sgaeyl, older, a being forged in the heart of a volcano and tempered by millennia of war.

But it was his eyes that held me captive. They were molten gold, swirling with ancient knowledge and a profound, weary arrogance. He wasn’t looking at Sgaeyl, or at me. He was looking at something below him, something small, and the emotion that flooded my system through the bond was a complex cocktail of possessiveness, irritation, and a deep, resonant affection that staggered me.

The image was a snapshot, a single, perfect moment of another dragon’s existence, but it was imbued with so much feeling, so much raw presence, that it felt more real than the stone beneath my own boots. I knew this dragon. Not personally, but from a hundred tales, a thousand warnings. Every rider knew of him. The Black Clubtail. The most powerful of his kind still living.

Tairneanach. Tairn.

The vision receded as quickly as it had come, leaving me gasping in the empty hallway, my hand braced against the cold stone wall. The world swam back into focus, grey and dull after the breathtaking clarity of the vision.

The pull in my mind was no longer a vague sensation. It was a clear, ringing note of connection. A tether. Sgaeyl’s longing was a physical ache in my chest, a hollow yearning for her other half.

Her mate.

My blood ran cold. The legends were clear. Tairn hadn't bonded a rider in more than a century, not since the great war. He was considered all but retired, too old, too powerful, too unwilling to accept a human. Yet Sgaeyl’s vision was not a memory. It was happening now. He was here. At Basgiath. And if Tairn was here, it could only mean one thing.

He had bonded.

The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow. Sgaeyl’s mate, one of the most powerful dragons in existence, had chosen a rider from this year’s conscripts. And a new, terrifying piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The pull I felt toward Violet Sorrengail—that incessant, irritating, magnetic draw—it wasn’t just mine. It was a pale reflection of the cataclysmic bond between our dragons.