Chapter 18
VELKAR’S DESCENT
EIGHTEEN
We do not command dragons, just as we do not command the elemental magics.
We listen. And in that listening lies our greatest strength—an understanding born not of dominance, but of harmony.
The more we listen, the more we discover the path forward is not one of force, but of trust. And in that trust, we rise.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The morning stretches wide before us, the mountains unfolding like ancient sentinels, their jagged peaks dusted with the faint remnants of snow. The air is crisp from the altitude, rich with the scent of earth and pine.
We move at a steady pace, the horses picking their way over uneven terrain, their hooves muffled by dirt and loose gravel. We’ve been riding for hours. No one talks. The weight of what’s coming rides the silence between us.
The terrain shifts as we climb, the green of the valley fading into rockier ground, patches of wild mountain heather clinging to cracks in the stone. The trees grow sparser, twisted by the wind, their branches stretching like bony fingers against the sky.
Velkar’s Descent is a place of legend.
A place where riders are made—or broken. From what I’ve read, the cliffs are weathered, ancient. The trail carved by the passage of those who came before me. The stories say that Velkar, the first dragon to bond with a rider, forged this path himself, marking it as sacred.
No one can force a dragon to choose them.
The bond is earned. Tested. Proven.
I shift in my saddle, adjusting my grip on the reins when I hear it—the sound of a horse slowing behind me, then matching my pace. I glance to my side.
Thane.
Lyra immediately notices. Her eyes dart between us—quick, knowing. Then, without a word, she nudges her horse forward.
“Actually,” she says, far too loudly, “I’ve been meaning to ask Valen about dragon bonding.” She doesn’t wait for a response. Just moves ahead before I can question it—before I can even think of stopping her.
I narrow my eyes at her back as she pulls alongside Valen, chatting like this was always her plan.
It wasn’t. She left me—with Thane.
I exhale through my nose, adjusting my grip on the reins again, pretending I don’t notice the way my pulse has shifted—just slightly.
Thane rides beside me—steady, silent. His posture looks relaxed, but I know better. It’s the same stance he wears on the training field. Or walking into strategy meetings. Relaxed but ready.
Like he’s already assessed the terrain and knows how this ends.
We ride in silence.
One minute. Two. Maybe five.
I stop counting—too caught in the steady cadence of our horses. And the way my entire left side feels lit with awareness.
Every nerve pulled tight. Every breath tuned to his.
I glance at him, just once, from the corner of my eye. His jaw’s set. Eyes forward. That familiar mask of control.
But I know him now—well enough to see the tension riding his shoulders.
He feels it too.
This . . . whatever this is.
This thing between us—this ache, this pull, this impossible rhythm we can’t seem to step into—it’s too much.
I’m the Spiritborn. I’m learning magics I barely understand, tactics I haven’t had time to master. I’m bonding with a dragon, training for a war that’s coming too fast, and trying not to fall apart under the weight of it all.
I just need one thing to be easy. Just one. And maybe . . . maybe that could be Kieran.
Kieran Vael.
He’s everything Thane isn’t—open, charming, uncomplicated. Handsome in that effortless, windswept way, all silver-blue eyes and sun-warmed confidence. He makes me laugh. Makes me feel like the world isn’t always on fire.
He’s easy. Maybe that’s the point.
There’s nothing to question. Nothing to guard against.
Because he doesn’t make my heart ache just by looking at me.
The memories come unbidden.
All the times Thane reached down and pulled me up—even though he was the one who knocked me down.
His patience as I stumbled my way into this godsdamned role.
The way he believed in me before I believed in myself.
The quiet ways he checks on me when he knows I’m struggling, even if he never says a word.
And then—without thinking, without meaning to—I blurt out, “I didn’t sleep with Kieran.”
My face goes hot. Instant, searing red.
What the fuck?!
“I mean—I’m not with him. We’re just friends.” The words tumble out, rushed and unfiltered. I bite my lip, mortified.
“By all the elemental gods,” I mutter under my breath. I could die. Right here. Just vanish into the saddle.
Thane turns to look at me then. One eyebrow arches, slow and deliberate. His expression is hard to read—surprised, maybe. Or amused.
Then, in that maddeningly calm voice:
“I didn’t ask.”
I stare at him, heat prickling at my cheeks.
That bastard!
Acting like there isn’t something here. Like I imagined it. Like I didn’t see the way he looked at me when Kieran kissed my cheek—that flash of heat in his eyes, sharp and possessive before he masked it behind that Warlord calm.
I’m about to open my mouth—to tell him to fuck off, to say something—but then he speaks again.
“But I’m glad you didn’t.” Low and measured. Like it cost him nothing.
Like it cost him everything.
I hear it in the quiet. In the way he doesn’t look at me when he says it. And now it’s my turn to be silent.
It’s always this with him. Push, then pull. Fire, then frost.
Gods, it’s infuriating. One second he’s ice—distant, unreadable, like none of it matters. The next, he’s heat—saying things like that with a voice that slides under my skin and stays there.
But I’m glad you didn’t.
Like it didn’t just detonate something in me.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
I clench my teeth, fingers tightening around the reins.
I want to shove him. I want to kiss him. I want to scream. But mostly, I want him to choose a godsdamned side.
Again, I’m about to say all of it. Every jagged thought, every furious word—because I’ve had enough of this push and pull, of him acting like he doesn’t feel it too.
But he speaks. Calm. Direct. Like he didn’t just strike a match and walk away from the blaze.
“How did Calryx call you?”
I blink. The question hits me like a splash of ice-cold water.
Seriously? That’s what he wants to talk about?
Not the kiss. Not Kieran. Not the fact that I basically just announced I didn’t sleep with someone he claims not to care about?
I snap my head toward him, eyes narrowing. But he’s still staring ahead like we’re just having a normal conversation. Like this is casual.
I’m so thrown by the shift in momentum that I actually answer him.
“In a dream,” I say, blinking.
He nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like we didn’t just side-step a godsdamned battlefield.
“Did she show herself to you, or was it just her voice?”
I stare at him. Did he not hear me? I just told him I didn’t sleep with Kieran—and he said he was glad I didn’t.
I heard that. Right?
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead, like we’re talking about the weather. Like he didn’t just tie my insides in knots and walk away. And somehow—because all the heat in me has drained out—I answer again.
“I saw her,” I say quietly. “She stepped out of the mist . . . and there she was.”
He nods once. “What does she look like?”
And that’s it. No follow-up. No acknowledgment. We’re just not talking about it.
Fine.
We’re back to that. The push. The distance. The silence between landmines.
I breathe out slowly, re-centering myself. “Silvery-white. Iridescent. Like moonlight and frost.”
I’m done.
Done putting myself out there. Done playing this game where I bleed and he gets to pretend he’s unaffected.
Kieran it is.
Dragons, then.
Fine.
My turn.
I shift in my saddle, jaw tight.
“What about Xaroth?” I ask, voice cool. “How did he call you?”
A beat.
Then—still calm, still infuriating—“When Xaroth called, I thought I was having a nightmare. First there was light, and then everything went so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
It felt like an endless, starless void. The blackness was suffocating.
Then a booming voice called out my name. ”
His lips purse, as if weighing whether to say the next part. His eyes drop, then flick to me, then back to the path beneath the horses’ hooves. His mouth twitches.
“I pissed the bed.”
He glances over, eyes dancing.
“Take that to your grave.”
I bark out a laugh. “You didn’t!”
He shrugs, lazy, unbothered. “I did.”
“Were you in a bunk in the barracks?”
“That I was. Top bunk.”
“No!” I nearly shout. Lyra glances over her shoulder, brows pulled tight before a smirk curves her lips. She turns back to the road.
“Garrick was on the bottom bunk.”
And then—he grins.
It’s real. Unfiltered. The kind of smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. And gods, his eyes—they sparkle with the memory. Like the moment is still alive inside him.
I can see it—the awe of Xaroth choosing him, the hilarity of poor Garrick’s misfortune. And for a heartbeat, the weight between us shifts.
He looks lighter when he smiles. Like—for once—the duty, the control, the shadows aren’t pressing quite so hard.
And that face—sharp angles, smoke-gray eyes, lit with something warm and unguarded.
And just like that, my heart melts.
All. Over. Again.
Dammit.
He looks away, throat working like he’s considering whether to say more. He turns back to me, gaze steady. When his eyes find mine again, they’re steady—and his next words come low, deliberate.
“You’re doing better than most would in your place.”
Simple. Undeniable. And somehow, that makes it mean more.
I drop my eyes to the reins in my hands. They’re more callused now than they ever were back when I worked the fields with my parents. Harder. Rougher.
Like the rest of me.
I take a slow breath, then lift my head and turn to him.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
Because somehow, that small truth from him . . . it means more than I expected.