He Forbade Me From The Mission, Now He's My Only Protection

The dust motes danced like tiny, golden sprites in the slivers of moonlight piercing the high arched windows of the Basgiath archives. It was a place of silence, of history, a sanctuary built from paper and ink where I had always felt more at home than anywhere else within these stone walls. The scent of aging vanilla and dry leather was a comfort, a familiar perfume that clung to my clothes and hair. I ran a finger over the brittle spine of a tome detailing the lineage of the Black Drakes, my ostensible reason for being here, but my mind was elsewhere. It was lost in the margins, in the footnotes, in the whispers of stories untold.

That’s where I found it. Tucked inside a dense, dry account of migratory patterns of griffin fledglings was a single, folded sheet of vellum, its texture jarringly different from the surrounding pages. It wasn’t a note or a forgotten bookmark. It was a report, fragmented and hastily written, the ink bled in places as if from a trembling hand.

My breath caught. It detailed a patrol in the Esbenson Mountain Range, but the language was fractured, desperate. It spoke of a feeling, a creeping emptiness that settled over the riders before they even saw a threat. Magic leeches from the air, the scrawl read. Tairn is… quiet. Weak. My own bonded dragon stirred in my mind at the mention of his name, a low grumble of concern that echoed the sudden chill tracing its way down my spine.

Then I saw the sketch. A crude drawing of a monolith of dark stone, etched with runes. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew them. Not from any standard military text, but from a rare, forbidden manuscript on venin spellcraft I’d spent a month translating for a crotchety old scribe. These were corrupted runes, twisted versions of ancient wards, repurposed for draining power, for siphoning it. A venin-created wardstone.

The report ended abruptly. The rest of the page was torn away.

With shaking hands, I cross-referenced the patrol number. They were listed as missing, presumed lost in an unseasonable blizzard three months ago. A cold knot of dread formed in my gut. I pulled more files, my movements becoming frantic. Another patrol, lost in the same sector six weeks later. And another, just two weeks ago. The official explanations were flimsy—rockslides, sudden squalls, pilot error. But the pattern was there, a trail of ghosts leading back to those mountains.

My mother’s office was as severe and unyielding as the woman herself. She didn’t look up when I entered, her focus entirely on a strategic map laid across her desk. I placed the vellum sheet beside her hand.

“I found something,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “A report. It connects the disappearances in the Esbenson Range.”

General Sorrengail picked it up, her eyes scanning the page with practiced indifference. She read it in less than a minute, her expression unchanging. “This is a fragment, Cadet. The panicked last words of a rider who likely flew into a storm.” She dropped the vellum back onto the desk. “Unverified. We don’t re-task active wings to chase shadows based on scribbler’s fantasies.”

“It’s not a fantasy,” I insisted, pushing the paper back toward her. “The runes—I recognize them. It’s venin work. A wardstone that drains magic. It’s why no one is coming back.”

“Your expertise is in history, not threat assessment,” she said, her voice cutting. “Your station is in the archives. I suggest you remember that.” The dismissal was absolute.

I left her office with the report clutched in my hand, her cold words ringing in my ears. Back in the solitude of my room, I stared at the sketched runes, at the desperate, fading words. My mother was wrong. The command was wrong. This wasn't a ghost. It was a monster, lying in wait. And the weight of that knowledge settled over me, not as a burden, but as a conviction. Ignoring it wasn't an option. It was a death sentence for the next riders to fly into that whispering cold.

The War College briefing room was a chamber designed to intimidate. A massive, polished oak table dominated the space, reflecting the stern faces of the leadership quadrant like a dark mirror. Generals Panchek and Melgren were there, along with a handful of other senior officers. And, standing near the far wall, cloaked in his customary black and radiating a quiet intensity that drew the eye, was Xaden Riorson. His presence was an unexpected complication, a jolt to my already frayed nerves. He was supposed to be in Aretia. His return to Basgiath for "strategic meetings" was news to me.

I laid the report, my cross-referenced patrol logs, and a detailed transcription of the venin runes on the table. I kept my voice even, my hands clasped behind my back to hide their tremor. "The official reports cite weather and pilot error for the loss of three patrols in the Esbenson Range. I believe the cause is a new type of venin ward, one that siphons rider and dragon magic from a distance."

General Melgren leaned forward, his one good eye fixing on my research. "A bold theory, Cadet Sorrengail. Based on a single, torn page."

"Based on a pattern, General," I countered, tapping the log files. "And on these runes. I can translate them. They describe a construct of immense power, designed to drain and store magic. Sending a full-scale wing would be like offering a banquet. The ward would detect them miles away and bleed them dry before they even knew they were under attack. We need a small, specialized team for a reconnaissance mission. Get in, confirm the ward's existence and location, and get out."

The room was silent for a moment, the generals exchanging skeptical glances. Then, the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to deepen, coalescing around Xaden as he pushed off the wall.

"Absolutely not." His voice was low, but it cut through the silence with the finality of a blade. Every head turned toward him. "You are not sending anyone on this fool's errand, least of all her."

His shadows writhed at his feet, tendrils of darkness stretching and retracting like living things, a rare and startling loss of his iron control. He stepped forward, his eyes locked on mine. "This isn't a library expedition, Sorrengail. It's a mountain range that has already swallowed three wings of experienced riders. We send our strongest, or we don't send anyone at all." His gaze swept over me, a dismissive appraisal of my size, my perceived fragility. "Sending you would be a death sentence."

His words were a physical blow, a cold, hard wall of opposition meant to crush my argument and my resolve. The entire quadrant was staring, caught in the sudden, raw tension between us. But as his dark eyes burned into mine, I saw past the fury, past the cutting disdain. For a fraction of a second, I saw a crack in his armor. It wasn't just anger in his gaze. It was a flash of raw, primal fear, so potent it stole my breath. It was the terror of a man looking at something he couldn't bear to lose, and it was aimed squarely at me.

I held his gaze, refusing to break under the weight of his fury, of that terrifying, possessive fear. I took a steadying breath, the air in the room thick with the ozone crackle of his power. Then, I turned my back on him, addressing the generals as if he hadn't spoken at all.

“Rider Riorson is correct,” I said, my voice clear and carrying in the sudden quiet. “It would be a death sentence. For anyone who goes in blind.” I pointed to the runes I’d transcribed. “Your strongest riders can’t read this. Their power will only make them a bigger target for the siphon. I am the only person in this room, possibly in this quadrant, who knows what these runes mean. I can identify the ward’s power source, its trigger, and its potential weaknesses on sight. Without me, any reconnaissance team is just another patrol you’ll be listing as ‘lost’.”

Xaden took a step forward, his jaw tight. “There are other scribes.”

“None who have studied this specific dialect of corrupted spellcraft,” I shot back, finally turning to face him. “And none of them are bonded to a dragon whose abilities are still a mystery. We don’t know what this wardstone does to dragon magic, but Andarna is… different. Her gift might be the only thing capable of creating a window for us to get close enough, to disrupt the siphon’s field for just a moment.”

General Melgren stroked his jaw, his eye moving from my face to Xaden’s. “The girl has a point. Her knowledge is a strategic asset we cannot ignore. And the uncatalogued abilities of her second bond… it’s a variable the venin won’t be expecting.”

“It’s too great a risk,” Xaden ground out, his voice a low growl. He wasn’t speaking to the generals anymore. He was speaking to me.

“The greater risk is allowing the venin to establish a foothold that can neutralize our riders from a hundred miles away,” I stated, my eyes pleading with the command quadrant. “Let me go. Let me confirm the threat.”

A long silence stretched, filled only by the subtle whisper of Xaden’s shadows against the stone floor. It was my mother who broke it.

“The mission is approved,” General Sorrengail said, her voice devoid of any emotion. The words landed like stones. “Cadet Sorrengail’s logic is sound. A small team, focused on reconnaissance only.” She paused, her gaze shifting to Xaden, cool and sharp. “But on one condition. Rider Riorson, you will lead it. Your command of the shadows is our best and only defense for a true stealth insertion. You will be responsible for the team. You will be responsible for her.”

The blood drained from Xaden’s face. It was a checkmate, and he knew it. He was being handed the very thing he dreaded most—my life.

“Dismissed,” General Panchek grunted, pushing his chair back. The other officers filed out, leaving a wake of silence behind them. Soon, it was just the two of us left standing in the vast, empty room. The mission was approved. We were bound together, not by a shared goal, but by the cold, hard certainty in his eyes that he was about to watch me die.