Scene 1

  -Ryker-

  As the soldiers finish gathering their gear, I slide my hand through the strap tied to Obsidian’s wing claw and pull myself up into the saddle. The motion is familiar now, practiced enough that my body can do it without thinking. That is the problem. My body is moving like nothing changed, like the sky didn’t split open between us yesterday.

  Something is wrong.

  It has felt wrong since the flight here. Since I said no to him.

  The absence is not quiet. Quiet is a room at night when the fire dies and the world finally stops asking things from you. This is different. This feels like being set down. Like being forgotten. Like I was a needed tool for a moment, and now I am not. The hollow settles deep in my chest, patient and cold, and it scares me more than I want to admit.

  That is not what I wanted.

  It drags me backward, to the time after my father died. The nights where I lay awake and stared at the ceiling until the dark began to feel like a weight pressing down on my ribs. People tried to reach me. Friends. Men who had fought beside him. Espen, who gave me a roof when there was nowhere else to go. They spoke softly, offered food, sat in the same room like their presence could stitch me back together. Nothing worked. Nothing filled the space my father left behind. I wasn’t drowning. I wasn’t falling. I was just there, unmoving, watching the world keep turning without me.

  For a moment it feels like I’m standing in that same place again. One step away from slipping into it. Not because of grief this time, but because I chose it. Because I pushed away the only thing that has tried to stand beside me without asking me to pretend I’m fine.

  A gentle pull to the east brings me back. Not through the bond. I do not feel anything from Obsidian except the heat of his scales under my gloves and the tension in his muscles. I turn my head anyway, searching the courtyard.

  Elara is already mounted on Vitalis near the far side of the clearing, her cloak pulled tight, her satchel strapped across her chest. She is watching me. When our eyes meet, she doesn’t call out. She doesn’t ask if I’m alright. She only lifts her chin once and holds my gaze like she’s anchoring me to something real. I nod back, hoping she understands what I cannot say with men listening. She smiles faintly, and the weight in my chest eases, not because it disappears but because someone saw it and didn’t turn away.

  I have been a hunter my whole life. I tell myself this is no different. You go out. You do the work. You come back. You keep moving because stopping is the quickest way to get buried.

  A dark red shape cuts through the sky as it rounds the lookout tower. Drexen’s Pyraeth descends in a tight circle, heat shimmering around its scales even in the cold air. It lands with a heavy thud near the center of the men, claws scraping stone, tail snapping once like a whip.

  Drexen’s voice carries across the clearing. “All right, men. We have the day. We move to the bridge site, repair it, and return before nightfall.”

  He scans them like they are numbers he already expects to lose.

  His gaze shifts to me and Obsidian, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Not amusement. Something sharper.

  “This hunter and his beast will accompany you,” he says, loud enough that no one can pretend they didn’t hear it. “They will be your eyes and ears in the sky.

  The way he says it is deliberate. Measured. A reminder of what he thinks I am. What he thinks Obsidian is.

  Under me, Obsidian’s muscles tighten. I don’t feel it through the bond. I feel it through the saddle, through the way his shoulders lock and the ridge of his neck hardens beneath my palm. A low sound vibrates in his chest, barely audible, like he swallowed something he wanted to spit out.

  Drexen’s Pyraeth steps closer, red-gold scales flashing as it angles its head. Its eyes linger on Obsidian. A fang shows as its lip lifts slightly, just enough to make the message clear.

  Drexen continues, speaking to the men but looking straight at me. “Your orders are simple. Fly patrol. Watch for dragons and factionless. Keep an eye on the work and make sure it is done before nightfall. We need that bridge ready in case we get one more trade with the Stonepeak clans before the frost hits.”

  He pauses, letting the cold settle into his words.

  “If they do not finish,” he adds, voice hard, “they will stay the night there until it is.”

  The men shift. Some look down. Some pretend not to hear. The threat lands heavy anyway, not because it’s new but because it’s spoken like he hopes it will break them.

  Then he points his chin at me. “You will return by nightfall to record and report.”

  I nod once.

  As Drexen turns, his Pyraeth moves forward to take off. Its tail snaps sideways and strikes Obsidian along the neck.

  Not an accident. Not a brush. A hit.

  My breath catches. My hand tightens on the strap without thinking, ready for Obsidian to react, to flare, to answer. He doesn’t. He only stares after them as they lift into the air, wings beating hard, heat washing the snow below.

  Obsidian’s scales under my palm warm with restrained anger. I feel the echo of it rise in me too, not through the bond, but because I know what it is to be treated like something less than human. Like something owned. Like something to be used and discarded.

  I focus on the men gathering below. Most are my age. Early twenties, some older. One boy stands out. He can’t be more than eighteen. Smaller than the others, bow strapped to his back, bundled in winter gear. He climbs onto a horse hitched to a cart of supplies and looks up at Obsidian like he’s staring at a storm cloud. Fear flickers across his face. Then he nods, more to himself than to us, and urges the horse forward.

  I should tell Obsidian to move. I should take us up and circle the line like Drexen ordered. I should do something.

  I lean forward slightly and pat Obsidian’s shoulder, the way you would with a horse before a run. “Obsidian,” I say under my breath. “That way.”

  For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

  I try again, firmer. “Obsidian. That way.”

  Still nothing.

  The cold crawls up my spine. Not from wind. From understanding.

  He isn’t refusing me.

  The bond isn’t pulling back because he’s angry or stubborn or punishing me. It is thin. So thin it barely exists. My words are not reaching him at all. I have been speaking into nothing and pretending it was normal.

  Panic curls in my chest. Not loud. Not explosive. Quiet and cold. The kind that turns your limbs heavy while your thoughts spin faster.

  I look at him again, really look.

  The tension in his muscles isn’t defiance. It’s searching. Waiting for something that never comes. Waiting for me.

  The realization lands heavier than any rejection could have.

  I did this.

  Not by saying no once. By closing myself so tightly there was no room left for him to hear me.

  A shout rises from below, a man calling for the line to move. The carts begin to roll. Horses stamp and snort, breath steaming in the cold. The work is starting whether I am ready or not.

  Obsidian shifts at last, not because he heard my command, but because he sees the movement. He takes a slow step forward, then another, following the flow of the men like a shadow that refuses to leave.

  Relief and shame hit me in the same breath.

  He is still here.

  He is still staying.

  And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

  I straighten in the saddle and keep my eyes forward, forcing myself to look like a rider who belongs here, like a man who has control. Inside, the hollow opens wider, and the memory of those nights after my father’s death presses close, not as a story I’m recalling, but as a place I might fall back into if I stop moving.

  I tighten my grip on the strap and follow the line toward the valley, snow crunching beneath Obsidian’s steps, my throat tight around words I am not ready to say.

  Not yet.

  But soon.

  Scene 2

  -Ryker-

  We reach the bridge site later than planned. The storm slowed the line more than anyone wanted to admit, turning the last stretch into a slog through snow that grabs at boots and wheels alike. Below us, the frozen creek cuts a dark line through stone, the gap narrow but deep enough that a fall would break more than bones. The men spread out as soon as they arrive, unloading packs and tools with stiff hands and quiet efficiency.

  I stay mounted longer than I need to.

  From the saddle, I can pretend I am doing what Drexen expects. Watching. Measuring. Keeping distance. It is easier than admitting I don’t know how to talk to the dragon beneath me anymore.

  Obsidian stands still, head angled toward the worksite. I rest my hand against his neck and breathe out slowly, hoping for something. Warmth. Recognition. Anything that feels like an answer.

  Nothing comes.

  Not emptiness exactly. Just quiet where something used to be.

  “All right,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, and slide from the saddle. My boots crunch into the snow as I land. The cold bites at once, sharp and grounding. The men barely look up as I approach. A few glance at Obsidian, then quickly look away again, as if meeting his gaze might invite attention they don’t want.

  General Morholt stands near the edge of the creek, one leg braced against a stone as he studies the gap. He looks tired in the way men do when they’ve done this too many times and still show up anyway. When he notices me, he straightens.

  “General,” I say.

  He nods. “Stormridge. Didn’t expect you on the ground.”

  “I thought I’d help,” I reply. “If that’s all right.”

  That earns me a look. Not suspicion. Calculation. He glances past me to Obsidian, then back again. “We won’t turn away hands,” he says. “But we’ll need direction more than strength.”

  “Then point,” I say. “I’ll listen.”

  Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Or relief. He gestures toward the slope on the far side of the creek. “Supports go there. Ground’s frozen solid. Picks and shovels until it gives. Trees for the main beams need to come down from the ridge. Straight ones, if we can get them.”

  I follow his gaze up the hill. Tall conifers stand tight together, dark against the white. Good timber. Strong. Too strong to cut quickly with numb hands and dull axes.

  I glance back toward Obsidian.

  He is watching the ridge too, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed as if already weighing distance and angle. He does not look at me. The bond stays thin, unhelpful, offering no sense of what he is willing or able to do.

  I hesitate.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  This is where a rider should know. This is where the bond should tell me how far I can push before I ask too much.

  Instead, I have to guess.

  “I’ll start with the trees,” I say to Morholt. “If that’s all right.”

  He follows my gaze again and nods once. “That’s the slow part,” he says. “Always is. Rush it and the bridge fails later.”

  “I won’t rush it,” I say, and hope that’s true.

  I walk back toward Obsidian, every step feeling heavier than it should. When I reach him, I stop just short of touching his scales. The space between us feels deliberate now. Chosen. I don’t know by which of us.

  “We’re going to need timber,” I say quietly. Not a command. Not a question. “From the ridge.”

  He turns his head just enough to look at me. There is no warmth through the bond. No agreement. Just awareness.

  I swallow and climb back into the saddle.

  As we lift, the wind cuts sharper, colder up here. From above, the best trees stand out easily. Straight trunks. Clean lines. Obsidian adjusts his approach without waiting for direction, banking toward the first stand with practiced precision. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  He lands hard but controlled, claws digging into frozen ground. Snow bursts outward beneath his weight. I slide down and step back as he squares himself with the first tree.

  For a moment, I wonder if he will hesitate.

  He doesn’t.

  Obsidian rises slightly onto his forelegs and brings one claw down, not slashing wildly but carving into the trunk with deliberate force. Bark tears loose in thick strips. Wood groans. He strikes again, deeper this time, then again, each blow placed where it needs to be. The tree shudders. Roots protest as they tear free. Snow slides away as the trunk tips and finally crashes downslope in a tangle of branches and ice.

  He steps back at once, watching until the last movement stills.

  Then he does it again.

  And again.

  No rush. No wasted motion. Just strength applied exactly where it matters.

  I stand there longer than I mean to, chest tight with something that isn’t awe so much as guilt. If the bond were whole, I would feel the effort it costs him. I would know when to stop him. Instead, I have to watch for signs the way any man would. The way I watched my father when he pushed himself too hard and pretended he wasn’t tired.

  By the time the fourth tree falls, steam curls faintly from Obsidian’s scales. He pauses then, breath heavier, shoulders rising and falling slower than before.

  “That’s enough,” I say quickly. “That’s plenty.”

  He looks at me, unreadable, then steps aside, clearing space for the men.

  They arrive not long after, axes over shoulders, expressions shifting from disbelief to something close to reverence when they see the trunks already down.

  “Holy hell,” one of them mutters.

  “This would’ve taken us hours,” another says.

  I take an axe without comment and start stripping branches. The work is familiar. Honest. The blade bites. My arms burn. Sweat stings my eyes despite the cold. Thirty minutes for the first tree. Then another. The rhythm steadies me in a way nothing else has since the bond went quiet.

  When I glance up, Obsidian is resting in the snow nearby, wings folded tight, head lowered. The ground beneath him is melting, water seeping into the dirt. He looks spent.

  The hollow in my chest deepens.

  I did this without meaning to. Asked without knowing the cost. The thought follows me as the men move faster now, spirits lifted by progress they didn’t expect to make today.

  “So what now?” one of them asks when the branches are cleared.

  “Usually we tie them to horses,” the younger man from earlier says. “Walk them down.”

  I look at Obsidian again.

  “Think you could carry two?” I ask quietly, already knowing the answer might be no.

  He lifts his head, eyes sharp despite the fatigue, and huffs once, offended

  One of the men grins. “Honestly? I think he could take all of them.”

  I hesitate, then shake my head. “Two at a time,” I say. “That’s enough.”

  Obsidian steps forward without waiting for more. He grips the first pair with practiced care and lifts, wings flexing as his body compensates for the weight. He moves slowly, deliberately, carrying them downslope like it costs him something to be careful.

  Watching him work like this, strained and silent, something settles in me that I don’t like. This is what it felt like after my father died. Functioning. Doing what needed to be done. Carrying weight without knowing where the breaking point was.

  I clench my jaw and force myself to stay present. To watch. To stop him if I have to.

  Because if I don’t, I know exactly how this ends.

  And this time, the silence won’t just take me with it.

  Scene 3

  -Elara-

  By the time the last of the men make it inside the palisade, night has settled fully into the valley. Cold pools low to the ground, thick and patient, seeping through stone and cloth alike. I move between firelight and shadow, fingers already numb despite the gloves, breath fogging as I kneel beside a man slumped against a crate.

  “Boots off,” I tell him gently. “Slowly.”

  His toes are pale, stiff with early frostbite, nothing severe yet. I reach for the packed dirt beside the crate out of habit, thumb searching for the first curve of a fire rune.

  My hand shakes.

  Not from fear. From cold that has worked deeper than I realized. My fingers feel slow, imprecise, and there is no room for error here. I withdraw my hand at once and reach into my coat instead, pressing a warming stone into his palms.

  “Use this,” I say. “Hold it close. Let it do the work.”

  He nods, relief loosening his shoulders as the heat seeps through his gloves.

  “Not too fast,” I add. “Let the feeling come back on its own.”

  He hisses as sensation returns, pain sharp but clean. A good sign.

  I glance up, scanning the yard, and realize I still have not seen Ryker or Obsidian.

  I know they are close. Vitalis knows it too. She paces just beyond the firelight, restless, her attention tugged west. This is the longest the dragons have been apart since bonding. The thought settles uneasily, and with it comes the realization that it is also the longest I have been apart from Ryker since everything changed.

  The longing surprises me. Or maybe it doesn’t. It presses quietly against my ribs, stronger than I expect, and I have to look back down at my work to steady myself.

  Around us, others move in silence. Wrapping strained muscles. Rubbing warmth back into stiff fingers. Passing cups of broth hand to hand. The bridge held. That matters. Bodies remember effort long after hunger is fed.

  I am tightening a bandage around a forearm when the air shifts.

  Not sound. Pressure.

  I look up just in time to see Ryker crossing the yard, snow crusted along his knees, posture set in that careful way he uses when he is bracing for impact. Drexen stands near the central brazier, arms folded, armor catching the firelight like a wound that refuses to close.

  “Before nightfall,” Drexen says.

  I do not need to hear Ryker’s reply to know what it is. I see it in his shoulders. The refusal to bend. The refusal to apologize.

  Their voices carry just enough to pull attention. Hands pause mid-task. Eyes drop a fraction too late. Respect gathers quietly.

  Drexen notices.

  The strike comes faster than I expect. Metal on flesh. The sound cuts clean through the yard. Ryker staggers, blood bright against his lip.

  I am already on my feet.

  Then I stop.

  Not because I do not care. Because the air has gone wrong.

  Obsidian’s presence surges beyond the walls, a sudden tightening in my chest as if the dark itself has drawn a breath. Stone shudders beneath my boots. His anger rolls outward, heavy and barely contained. A dark shape vaults into the yard as Obsidian lands behind Ryker, wings flaring wide.

  Ryker lifts his head and pushes one arm back toward him, palm open.

  Stay.

  The word is not spoken aloud, but I feel it land. Obsidian’s chest rune dims as it absorbs the pain Ryker just took. The pressure eases. The ground settles. Obsidian obeys.

  Drexen’s gaze drops then, catching on the faint blue glow beneath Ryker’s torn collar. The Ash Mark pulses once, uneven, like a heartbeat that has slipped its rhythm.

  Something sharp flickers across Drexen’s face. Not surprise. Recognition. Envy, thin and dangerous. His hand clenches, and almost as if in answer to that emotion, his Pyraeth screams.

  Fire tears down from the clouds, white-hot and uncontrolled.

  The yard erupts. Men scatter. Someone shouts. The brazier tips, coals spilling across the dirt.

  Obsidian moves without waiting for command. He surges forward, wings wrapping around Ryker as the flame strikes, blocking the worst of it. A thin ribbon of fire slips past and vanishes into smoke. The ground hisses, scorched but intact.

  I feel Vitalis move before I see her.

  The resonance hits like a chord deep in my bones. A dull tan light ripples outward, broad and steady, pushing back panic as surely as hands on shoulders. She lands between the two dragons, wings half-spread, her chest rune glowing warm and constant.

  No fire. No shadow.

  Balance.

  “Vitalis,” I call, already running. “Wait.”

  She did not wait for me. She never does when fear spikes that sharply.

  I reach the yard breathless, Lyra close behind, and take it all in at once. Scorched earth. Two dragons locked in stillness. Drexen shouting at his Pyraeth, who looks less furious than confused.

  “She felt it,” I say, more to Lyra than anyone else. “The surge. The loss of control.”

  Vitalis hums low and harmonic, her light smoothing the last edges of fear from the men nearby. Breathing steadies. Hands stop shaking. The yard remembers how to exist.

  Drexen straightens. “The Pyraeth reacted to emotion,” he says. “It’s contained.”

  I nod once, calm and professional. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Even as I say it, I know what I saw does not match his certainty.

  Lyra shifts beside me, tension sharp in her posture, but I brush her arm lightly. Not now.

  Drexen mounts without another word. The Pyraeth lifts into the night, fire trailing thin and furious before vanishing into cloud.

  Silence settles hard.

  I kneel with Lyra to right the brazier, setting the coals back into place, then turn toward Ryker. Blood streaks dark along his swollen lip.

  “Sit,” I say.

  He opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.

  I tilt his chin gently, careful of my touch. His skin is warm with adrenaline, pulse steady beneath my fingers. I trace the Mend rune against a smooth stone, letting the warmth build slowly before lifting it to his skin. No rush. Healing done too fast leaves its own scars.

  Rune fever brushes the edges of my awareness, a quiet warning after tending so many men. I make the mistake of looking up as I finish and catch his eyes on me, steady and intent. Heat blooms in my chest, my heart quickening in response, and I force myself to focus long enough to finish cleanly.

  The cut seals. The pain eases.

  “Better,” I say.

  “Better,” he agrees.

  I stand and brush my palms against my coat, then glance once toward the sky where Drexen vanished before meeting Ryker’s gaze again.

  “He saw your mark,” I say quietly.

  “I know.”

  There is no fear in his eyes. Only awareness.

  “Be careful,” I tell him.

  He gives a faint, familiar half-smile. “I always am.”

  I do not answer.

  Vitalis hums softly beside Obsidian, their light and shadow brushing together for a single fragile heartbeat before fading. They circle one another in quiet reunion, careful, restrained, like they are holding something delicate between them.

  Lyra finally steps forward, Kethis arriving at her side a moment later. “Well,” she says dryly, “he’s going to have a difficult time explaining that to Thalos.”

  She turns her attention back to the yard, subtly signaling Kethis to make a slow circuit, a reminder for the men to return to their work and their beds.

  “Are you all right?” she asks Ryker.

  “I’ll live,” he says.

  His gaze finds mine. Dark green. Unshielded. My heart stutters, then steadies.

  “Since when do dragons lose control like that?” he asks quietly.

  Lyra shakes her head. “They don’t. Not without reason.”

  The cold creeps back in as the adrenaline fades.

  Lyra nods toward the barracks. “I’ll give you two a moment.”

  She leaves without waiting for a reply.

  The dragons settle at last, exhaustion evident in the way their wings fold and their heads lower. I realize how late it has grown, how thin Ryker looks now that the tension has bled away.

  “They don’t want to separate,” I say softly.

  “No,” he murmurs. “They don’t.”

  He steps closer, stopping just short of touching me. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping.”

  I nod.

  “Goodnight, Elara.”

  “Goodnight, Ryker.”

  He turns away, and the night closes gently behind him, leaving the yard quiet and altered, like something fragile has been exposed and no one knows yet what it will become.

  Scene 4

  -Ryker-

  Energy drains from me as I activate the flame rune set into the wall. Heat blooms outward at once, filling the small room and pushing back the cold that has settled deep into my bones. My body aches in protest. I came too close to the fire earlier, close enough that the memory still tightens my shoulders. And Elara. I let the thought exist without chasing it. Tonight, I do not have the strength to untangle everything it brings with it.

  I look across the room to where Obsidian has curled himself into the far corner. The building is not large, but it is enough. Enough space for his wings to fold without scraping stone. Enough room for him to rest without pressing against the walls. After today, that matters more than comfort. He breathes slow and deep, each rise and fall measured, controlled. Without meaning to, I start matching it. In and out. The rhythm steadies something in me that has been clenched since morning.

  It has been a long time since I have watched something this powerful truly rest. The size of him still unsettles me when I think too hard about it. The strength I saw today feels unreal when set beside the quiet presence filling the room now. Snow melts from his dark blue scales, thin rivulets sliding down to the stone floor before disappearing. He shifts one shoulder, loosening muscles that carried too much weight for too long. His claws rest half-curled beneath him, black and sharp, the same talons that carved trees apart with patient force only hours ago. Seeing them still feels strange, like watching a storm choose to sleep.

  When I realize he is watching me, my first instinct is to look away.

  I stop myself.

  The habit runs deep. Drop your eyes. Don’t invite questions. Don’t let anyone look too closely. I have lived like that since my father died, since attention became something dangerous. But after today, after everything I said and everything I didn’t, looking away feels like another small abandonment.

  So I hold his gaze.

  “Obsidian,” I say quietly, then pause. The word feels heavier than it should. I clear my throat and try again. “I don’t really know how to do this.”

  He lifts his head, horns coming close to the ceiling, and turns fully toward me. All of his attention settles on me at once. Not pressure. Not expectation. Just presence. The bond does not rush to fill the space. It stays thin, fragile, like a bridge only half built. That almost hurts more than silence would.

  I push myself upright against the head of the bed. “I know you can’t answer,” I say carefully. “But I keep thinking about today. About Drexen. About his dragon.” My jaw tightens. “I was prepared to take what he gave me. That’s how it works. In the military. In my father’s world. You make mistakes, you pay for them.

  Obsidian’s eyes do not leave mine.

  “I’m grateful you stepped in,” I continue. “Truly. I know what would have happened if you hadn’t.” I glance away for a moment, then force myself back. “I just didn’t know how to reconcile that with the rules I grew up with.”

  He closes his eyes once, slow and deliberate, as if acknowledging the weight of the words rather than judging them. The tension in my chest eases a fraction.

  “And I’m sorry,” I add, quieter now. “For the sky. For pushing you away and then pretending it didn’t matter.” The truth presses forward before I can stop it. “I’ve been here before. This feeling. After my father died, everything went numb. Direction disappeared. I kept moving because stopping meant sinking into something I wasn’t sure I’d come back from.”

  My hands curl against the blanket. “When the bond went thin, it felt like that again. Like I was standing on the edge of that same place. And it terrified me.”

  I swallow and keep going while I still can. “I don’t trust myself with connection. Every time I get close to someone, something breaks. People die. People leave. Or I hurt them.” My voice drops. “I didn’t want to do that to you.”

  Obsidian shifts closer, not touching, but near enough that I feel the heat of him through the air. The bond stirs faintly, not warmth exactly, but attention. He is listening.

  “I don’t understand why you chose me,” I admit. “I don’t understand why you’re still here after everything I said.” The question tightens in my throat. “You could have pulled away.”

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, his tail slides slowly around me, careful and deliberate, drawing me back until my shoulder presses against his chest. I freeze for a breath, then let myself lean into the weight of him. Solid. Real. Unmoving. The kind of presence that does not disappear when you flinch.

  He lowers his head until his eye is level with mine.

  For once, I don’t look away.

  There is no accusation there. No demand. Just recognition. Like he sees exactly where I am standing and has chosen to remain anyway

  The relief that spreads through me is unfamiliar and unsettling. Not forgiveness. Not resolution. Something quieter. Permission to keep trying.

  “I know you’re waiting on me,” I whisper. The words feel fragile but true. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” My throat tightens. “I don’t know how to do this yet. I don’t know how to open the door without panicking and slamming it shut again.”

  I rest my forehead briefly against his scales, feeling the steady heat there. “But I’ll try,” I say. “I’ll try to understand. I’ll try to meet you instead of running every time it gets hard.”

  The Rune of Pain flickers faintly beneath his scales, warm but unsteady. The bond answers in the smallest way, not whole, not healed, but present enough that I feel it. Thin. Fragile. Still there.

  That is enough for tonight.

  I lie back and pull the furs up around me as exhaustion finally takes its due. Sleep does not come immediately. My thoughts drift, slower now, less sharp. Elara’s face surfaces without effort. Not as a question. Not as a fear. Just there, steady and unresolved.

  Wanting her isn’t the problem. It hasn’t been for some time now. I know what I feel. I’ve accepted it in the quiet places where I don’t lie to myself.

  The problem is timing. Words change things. Once spoken, they demand answers, and right now everything feels too close to the edge for careless truth. We’re both still carrying too much. Too many wounds only half closed

  Behind me, Obsidian breathes slow and even. The bond doesn’t push. It doesn’t ask. It waits.

  My father’s voice surfaces then, not sharp or painful, just familiar. Some things aren’t meant to be decided where everything is loud. If you want to think clearly, you go somewhere that doesn’t need anything from you.

  The memory brings pine and cold earth, the hush of wind high in the branches. The place he used to take me when answers needed time. Where silence wasn’t avoidance. It was respect.

  The thought settles, firm and unhurried.

  Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll go there. Not to fix anything. Not to force a decision. Just to stand on solid ground long enough to decide how, and when, I’m ready to speak the truths I’m still learning how to carry.

  For now, I let my eyes close, anchored by the steady rise and fall behind me, holding onto the simple fact that for the first time in a long while, I am not completely alone.