Chapter 18 #5
The mask slips back into place—perfect, practiced, infuriating.
My smirk widens. “I won’t.”
Another pause.
Then, lower, quieter—almost to himself—“You never hesitate.”
The way he says it—flat, factual, resigned—tightens something in my chest.
I hold his gaze a moment longer, searching beneath the Warlord calm. But there’s nothing. Just Thane—assessing, weighing, always focused on the bigger picture.
Because that’s what I am to him. The key. The Spiritborn. The weapon to save the realm.
I turn back toward the ledge. And the moment I close my eyes—I feel her.
Valen steps closer, his voice measured. “Wielding the Elements is control, Amara. Bonding with a dragon is surrender. It’s not about power. It’s about trust. If you hesitate,” Valen continues, his expression serious, “she won’t catch you.”
“I won’t hesitate.”
“If you second-guess the bond—”
“I won’t hesitate.”
Valen studies me—measuring something deeper than readiness.
Then he nods. “You’re ready.”
Behind me, I hear the faint rustle of fabric. The shift of weight on a rocky trail. Thane’s arms tighten across his chest. His jaw ticks. Still, he says nothing. But I feel it—that pull from him.
Like gravity.
Lyra throws her hands up and covers her face. “Gods, I hate this! I can’t watch!”
I step to the very edge of the cliff, the air shifting around me—the pull, the promise of what’s waiting.
The wind isn’t just wind anymore.
It’s her.
She’s here. She’s waiting. And I won’t make her wait any longer.
I grin one last time, eyes locking with Thane’s. His expression doesn’t change—but something flickers there. Something sharp. Something breaking open.
Then—I dive.
A swan dive into the sky, arms open, heart open. Into the unknown.
Toward her.
The wind snaps around me, roaring in my ears, lifting my hair as I plummet. And behind me—
“Godsdamned reckless woman!” Thane’s voice—sharp, furious, panicked. “You just—”
I hear his footsteps—like he’s trying to stop me—and then a curse, low and bitten off, almost to himself.
I laugh as I fall.
Truly laugh.
Because he’s right. I never hesitate. Not when I know what’s waiting for me. Not when I know she’s there.
For a breath, there’s only silence. The wind tears through me, my stomach lurching. The cliffs vanish above as the earth rushes to meet me. Air burns my skin. My heart hammers so violently I think it might break me open.
But I don’t reach for my magics.
Because unlike anything else Valen and Thane have put me through these past few months, this isn’t a test of power.
It’s a test of trust.
And then—the shadow swallows the sun.
I do not hit stone. I do not meet my death. I slam into something solid. Something massive. Something alive.
Her.
Wings beat—once, twice—shockwaves rippling through the air, knocking the breath from my lungs. A roar splits the sky, and it is unlike anything I have ever heard before. It’s recognition.
It’s home.
My fingers grip the ridges of scales beneath me, my body molding instinctively into the curve of a massive neck. And in that instant—everything changes.
Magics rush through me. Not like wielding. This is older. Deeper. A current that has always existed, now awakened.
A presence pushes into my mind—not forceful or invasive, but undeniable.
And I know.
Souls recognizing one another.
And in this moment, everything I am—my past, my desires, my fears, my joys, my responsibilities—is known to Calryx. And everything that makes her who she is—her past, the memories of dragon history—is suddenly known to me.
She has a mate—Skorren—a mountain-born dragon with blue scales and a voice like thunder. She raised hatchlings. Taught them to fly, to flame, to sing—before the eggs grew cold.
She has never bonded or fought in battle. She remembers the turning of ages when the dragons chose to partner with the lords of the clans to create the wards.
She remembers the Great Stilling.
And I see it—through her.
Cliffs bathed in moonlight. Skies once full of wings, echoing with flight, flame, and song. And then . . . fewer. And fewer still.
They did not vanish. They simply chose less.
The dragons never stopped calling. But more and more chose silence.
They watched mortals turn bonds into trophies. Dragons into tools. Power into possession. So many stopped choosing. Stopped bonding.
Like they are again, today.
The sky grew quieter.
Calryx did not sleep through that age. She endured it. She remembers when Velkar’s Descent thundered with dragon-song. When riders leapt in groups.
She remembers what was lost—and what was foretold. The Guardians told her to wait, to watch.
One day, the Spiritborn would come. And dragons would begin to choose again. Not because the world was ready—but because the Spiritborn was.
She has been watching me from the moment I was born. She knows the scent of my blood. She called me Virelya long before I knew what the name meant. And still—she chose me.
I lock into place against her, every part of me fitting where it belongs. I’ve always belonged here. She’s always been here.
I just wasn’t ready to hear her before now.
“Virelya.”
A fire lighting in my chest, sinking into my bones, searing into my soul. I do not control her and she does not control me.
This is not power. This is a claim . . . a choice.
She chose me. And gods—I chose her too.
I press my palm to the base of her neck, feeling the strength beneath it, the heat of her body, the raw rightness of something new, something whole. She is beautiful. Fierce. Mine.
“Calryx,” I whisper through the bond, mind to mind.
A deep hum rumbles through her body, a sound of approval, of something almost amused. “You are mine now, Virelya.”
And I know it in my blood, in my breath. I am hers. The sky belongs to us now.
Her wings flare wide, catching the wind, lifting us higher—until the air thins and the clouds stretch beneath us. And then—she drops.
I barely have time to react. The wind screams past me, my stomach lurching as Calryx tucks her wings tight, dropping us into a near-vertical dive.
“What are you—”
“Prove to me you belong in my sky, Virelya.”
The earth rushes up. Too fast. Too soon. Too close.
Instinct begs me—grab the magics, stop the fall, seize control. But that’s not what this is. This is not about power or strength.
This is about surrender.
The air scorches my skin, the plunge pulling tears from my eyes.
I let go.
“I trust you, Calryx. I know you.”
Her wings snap open. The air slams into us. My body jerks—every muscle pulled taut. But I hold in place. I do not break or fall.
Then, we rise.
Higher. Faster. Untouchable. And gods—I have never felt more alive. More complete.
My braid whips behind me as Calryx soars over the cliffs, wings slicing through the air like twin silver scythes.
The plateau where Lyra, Valen, and Thane stand is just ahead, their figures small against the vast sky.
“Finally.”
I suck in a breath. My fingers tighten against her neck. “Finally?”
A deep rumble vibrates through her chest, through me, a sound of amusement, of certainty. “You took long enough.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you waiting on me?”
“Of course.”
Her wings flare wide, catching the wind. We rise again, higher. The sky opens before us, boundless.
And I realize—this was never about me being ready. This was about knowing . . . I was always hers.
Calryx’s wings tilt, catching the wind as she spirals lower, the ground quickly approaching. My pulse is steady. My heart thrums—wild, electric.
The moment her talons grip the stone, I dismount in one smooth motion.
My boots hit solid ground—then I run.
“Lyra!”
She barely has time to brace before I crash into her, arms locked tight. She lets out a sharp exhale but clutches me back just as fiercely.
“You reckless lunatic,” she hisses—half fury, half relief. “Don’t ever do that again!”
I laugh, breathless. “I can’t promise that. I’m a dragon rider now!”
Lyra pulls back, eyes scanning me for injuries, for proof that I’m real and whole.
“Whatever,” she mutters. “I hated every second of that. But gods—she’s beautiful.”
Utter joy still surging through me, I hug her once more before spinning on my heel—
Valen.
Without thinking, I throw my arms around him. He goes rigid—caught off guard—and I laugh. Valen is not a man of touch. Not of impulse or open affection. But after a beat, his arms come around me—firm, brief, certain.
“You did well, Amara,” he murmurs against my hair. “I knew you would.”
I pull back, grinning. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”
His lips quirk slightly. “Of course I did.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, but I don’t stop moving. Because there’s one more person I need to see.
Thane.
Standing just a few steps away, arms crossed, expression unreadable—always unreadable.
I don’t think.
I move.
I slam into him, throw my arms around his neck, and press against him—unrestrained, unthinking, unstoppable.
He stiffens—of course he does. I’ve never hugged him before.
But I can’t help it because elation rules me.
Slowly, his arms come around me. And in that moment—we are not warriors or training partners. We are not the Spiritborn and the Warlord.
We are just two people standing on the edge of something unspoken.
I pull back slightly and meet his eyes.
Smoke-gray intensity gazes back at me. I fall into them, and before I can think or second-guess the rush in my chest—
I press my lips to his.
Quick. Impulsive. Full of victory, adrenaline—everything spilling over.
Thane freezes, his lips stiffening.
His breath catches, fingers tightening on my back. Like he wasn’t prepared for this. Like he never let himself imagine it.
For a fraction of a second, I feel it—the hesitation, the instinct to stop. To pull away before it can go further.
His grip loosens, breath shaky against my lips.
Disappointment coils low in my stomach, fast and bitter.
But then—his eyes flick to mine, dark and warring with something I can’t name. His jaw tenses, lips hovering a breath from mine—and I hear it.
Low. Rough. Final.
“Fuck it.”
Then he crashes into me. His mouth claims mine—hot and consuming. No hesitation now. Just fire. Raw. Hungry. Built from weeks of restraint snapping all at once.
And gods, it’s different.
His lips move over mine with purpose—fierce, controlled. A match struck. A flame catching.
The world tilts.
One hand slides into my hair, fisting gently, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss. Take more. Give more. His grip shifts—firmer now. Certain. Possessive.
He’s decided there’s no going back.
And I don’t want him to.