Chapter 12 #4
I feel Lyra shift beside me. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she remembers—how everything changed in a single night. How the world we knew vanished in smoke and fire.
The others go still.
“I didn’t come here just because of the prophecy,” I add after a moment. “Yes, I’m Spiritborn. Yes, the world seems to think that means something. But I chose this. I could’ve run. Could’ve hidden. But I didn’t.”
I glance around at them—Taila, Darius, Fenric, Lyra. “I came because I want to fight for something better. Because I want this war to end with us. I don’t want anyone else to lose what we did.”
Fenric’s grip tightens just slightly. Darius’s hand is still in his hair. Lyra leans her shoulder into mine, and I let my head rest there.
We sit in silence for a while, a warm breeze ruffling our hair. The kind that carries the scent of blooming meadowgrass and distant woodsmoke from the village hearths.
On rest days at the outpost, the world feels different—softer, slower.
No shouts from the training grounds, no clash of steel.
Just the lazy hum of insects, the occasional call of a bird overhead, and the low murmur of voices drifting from further down the lakeshore, where other soldiers have claimed sun-drenched rocks for their own quiet escape.
Somewhere across the field, I hear the deep, rolling rumble of a dragon, content and drowsy. Likely stretched out in the designated clearing, basking in the sun while their riders take what peace they can.
The lake glitters, its surface rippling with golden light. The ancient oak behind me creaks as it sways in the breeze, its roots sunk deep into the earth like it’s been waiting centuries for days just like this.
Taila pokes my foot with hers, pulling me out of the quiet. I glance over, and she’s smirking.
“Someone keeps looking over here,” she says in a sing-song voice.
I follow her gaze to the far end of the outer field.
Thane.
He’s standing with his brothers—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian—spread out in a loose line near the stone perches where riders meet their dragons.
The sky above is clear and quiet, but they’re waiting for them to return.
Each warrior wears their riding leathers; the thick, fitted kind made for flight and battle.
Thane’s are jet black, burnished with crimson along the seams. The chest and shoulders are embossed with a subtle flame motif—stylized and sharp, like fire caught in motion. Gold rivets glint at his collar and wrists, catching the sun every time he shifts.
Garrick and Jarek wear similar gear, though theirs bear unique marks—Garrick’s has etched flame patterns curling down one arm like a sleeve of fire, while Jarek’s are darker, simpler, the flames carved deeper into the leather like smoldering embers.
Rian, standing slightly apart, breaks the pattern. His leathers are a deep sea-blue, almost black until the light catches them. Silver wave patterns ripple across the chest and bracers, subtle and elegant. There’s a calm in the way he holds himself—steady, still, like water before a storm.
Garrick’s talking, of course—gesturing wildly about something, grinning. Jarek looks half-annoyed, half-amused. Rian listens quietly, arms folded.
But Thane’s not really listening. His eyes keep drifting.
To me.
Thankfully, Thane was away at the capital for several days after the manure incident—what Lyra has gleefully started calling it.
Which meant I didn’t have to face him. Didn’t have to suffer through training while my dignity hung by a thread. Didn’t have to see that unreadable expression of his and wonder if he was silently reliving the moment a very unfortunate pile of manure made direct contact with my entire lower half.
By the time he got back, I was feeling a little more at ease about it. Mostly. And Thane—gods bless him—was gracious enough not to mention it. Every morning, he showed up to training, impossibly composed. Like nothing had happened at all.
I was happy to pretend that it didn’t.
The wind shifts—sharper this time, edged with pressure. A low rumble rolls across the field, like distant thunder shaking the bones of the earth.
We all look up.
Xaroth appears first, black wings cutting through the sky like a blade. His descent is smooth, powerful—each beat of his wings kicking up swirls of dust across the clearing. The sun glints off his obsidian scales, as if his entire body was forged from shadow and flame.
He is massive—easily the largest dragon at the outpost. When he lands, the ground trembles. Not violently—just enough to remind you what he is. Power. Dominance.
Thane steps forward as Xaroth folds his wings, his head lowering slightly as their eyes meet. No words pass between them, but meaning does—something ancient, unspoken.
Then more dragons follow—wings beating against the sky, cries echoing over the ridge. One by one, they land around their riders—less thunderous than Xaroth, but no less striking.
A copper-scaled dragon for Garrick, with streaks of gold along his wings. A lean, red-winged beast for Jarek, every movement precise and calculated. And for Rian, a pale blue dragon with eyes like mirrored ice, his body moving like water given form.
The field stirs with life and heat and wind as dragons settle and riders move to meet them.
And across it all, Thane’s eyes find mine one more time.
We watch as they move with practiced ease—each of them stepping into motion like a dance they’ve done a thousand times before.
Thane runs a hand along Xaroth’s neck as the dragon lowers his head, then swings up into the saddle in one fluid motion.
Garrick mounts next, grinning like the skies belong to him.
Jarek follows. Rian is last—quiet, controlled, a flick of his wrist steadying the stirrups as his dragon shifts beneath him.
Even from this distance, I can see how naturally they move; rider and dragon are one creature, one force.
Thane lifts his hand and gestures. A simple signal. And like an answer to a silent command, every dragon spreads its wings at once. The rush of air is immediate—powerful.
Even from here, beneath the oak, we feel it. The wind hits us in a wave, warm and fierce, ruffling our hair, stirring the grass around us, lifting petals and dust. The sound follows a heartbeat later: a roar of wings carving through the sky, beating against the earth like thunder with rhythm.
All four dragons lift into the air in perfect sync, massive wings cleaving through the sky. The field empties in a breath, leaving only swirls of wind in their wake.
We all sit in silence, watching until they disappear beyond the ridgeline. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until Lyra exhales beside me.
“Still makes the back of my neck tingle,” Taila murmurs.
“Every time,” Darius agrees.
I just stare at the empty sky and feel the thrum of something deeper. Not fear. Not even awe. Something else. Something that feels a little too much like longing.
“It never gets old, does it,” Taila murmurs, still staring at the sky. “I could watch dragons all day long.” There’s something soft in her voice—almost reverent.
Darius hums in agreement. “I still remember the first time I saw one. Thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.”
“Mine did,” Fenric mutters. “Or stopped. One of the two.”
Lyra leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. “It’s not just the dragons. It’s the way they move with their riders. Like they’re reading each other’s thoughts.”
I nod slowly, eyes still on the horizon. “They don’t just fly. They belong up there.”
“I hope a dragon calls me,” Taila says quietly, almost like she’s afraid the wind might carry the words away. Her gaze is still fixed on the sky, on the place where the dragons vanished beyond the clouds.
“Me too,” Darius murmurs.
“Same,” Fenric says.
“Gods, yes,” Lyra adds.
Their voices are soft, but sure. And without thinking, I find myself echoing them.
“Me too.”
Because it’s true. Oh, to be bonded to a dragon. To feel that connection—ancient and unbreakable. To fly like that, to wield your magics not alone, but with a creature born from the elements themselves. To be chosen.
It’s more than power. It’s purpose. Belonging. Destiny.
“What’s that thing Thane did with his hand before they took off?” I ask, still staring at the sky. “Some kind of signal?”
Fenric looks up at me from Darius’s lap, that twinkle of mischief returning to his eyes like a spark reigniting.
I narrow mine immediately. “Don’t.”
He grins like a cat who’s just found a new mouse to toy with. “Oh, that? That’s the ‘brace yourself’ gesture,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “He probably saves it for special rides—on dragons and otherwise.”
Lyra makes a strangled sound beside me. Taila bursts out laughing. Darius sighs like this happens far too often.
My face goes up in flames. Of course I know what he’s referencing. “Fenric!”
He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “What? I’m merely interpreting ancient Fire Clan communication methods. It’s practically scholarly work.”
“You are the worst,” I say, shaking my head—though I can’t stop the laugh that escapes.
He grins, smug. “I’m a national treasure, sweetheart.”
“That you are,” I reply, rolling my eyes—but smiling all the same.
Darius gently cuffs the side of Fenric’s head, not hard—just enough to make a point. “You’re awful.”
Fenric grins up at him entirely unrepentant, then blows him a kiss.
Darius shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turns to me.
“It was a signal,” he says, his voice settling into that steady, grounding tone of his.
“All riders have to learn how to communicate with their hands. When you’re flying, unless the dragons are flying close enough for a rider to shout, you can’t hear anything over the wind.
Especially not in formation. And in battle? It’s chaos.”