15. Chapter 15
AMARIA
Grey light through the window slit. Another morning. Another night survived.
I stared at the ceiling and let myself hate everything for a moment.
The stone floor where I'd slept—again—had left my hip aching and my neck twisted. The furs helped, but not enough. Nothing helped enough. Not when he was right there, ten feet away, breathing slow and steady in sleep while I lay awake counting the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to scream.
It was getting worse.
Not the Marks—those had settled into their constant low hum, the background noise of wanting.
It was everything else. The awareness. The way my whole body tracked his presence like a compass pointing north.
The way I caught myself leaning toward him without meaning to, swaying into his orbit, pulled by something deeper than magic.
Three days of this. Sleeping on opposite sides of a room that shrank every night. Waking with his name in my mouth. Catching his scent on the air and feeling my whole body pull taut like a bowstring.
Something was going to snap. Probably me. Probably spectacularly.
They'd find scorch marks where I used to be.
Eryndor was still asleep. Or pretending to be. His back faced me, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. The blanket had slipped, exposing the line of his spine, the edge of his shoulder blade.
I looked away before I did something stupid.
The door banged open.
"Up." Maxx stood in the doorway, grinning. "Both of you. Now. You have to see this."
I sat up, shoving hair out of my face. "See what?"
"Just come." His grin widened. "Trust me."
I didn't trust him. But I was already moving—snapping my vambraces into place and tightening the straps of my joint-blades with practiced speed, grateful for any excuse to stop lying on the floor torturing myself with the shape of Eryndor's back.
We followed Maxx through the corridors, Eryndor a careful distance behind me. The morning crowd was thin—a few warriors heading to early drills, a scholar carrying a stack of scrolls. The hatchling appeared from somewhere and fell into step at Maxx's heels, chirping.
"Where are we going?" Eryndor's voice was rough with sleep.
"Training grounds." Maxx glanced over his shoulder. "The dragon ones. Not the punching ones."
The corridor opened onto a wide ledge carved into the mountainside. Wind whipped past, cold and sharp. Below us, the training valley spread out—a massive natural bowl in the rock, open to the sky, large enough for dragons to maneuver.
And in the center of it—
"Is that Serenya?"
Maxx's grin was insufferable. "Told you."
She stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, chin raised, facing down three trainers and Dreadscale himself.
"I'm not asking permission." Her voice carried across the stone. "I'm telling you what I'm going to do."
"You're an outsider," one of the trainers said. "Outsiders don't ride."
"Then make me not an outsider."
"It doesn't work like that—"
"Why not?" She stepped forward. "War is coming. You don't have the luxury of turning away willing hands."
"You're a priestess. Priestesses pray. They don't—"
“I don't need a blade to be dangerous." She turned to Dreadscale. "You know I'm right."
Dreadscale studied her and dipped his head in agreement.
"She has a point," Eryndor added. "Aerial reconnaissance could change everything."
The scarred trainer scoffed. "And if she falls? If she panics? If the dragon decides she's not worth carrying?"
"Then I fall." Serenya's voice was steady. "That's my risk to take."
"The dragons are not toys for lowlanders to—"
A sound cut through the argument.
Low. Resonant. Coming from somewhere above.
We all looked up.
A Mist-Walker descended through the morning clouds. Smaller than Umbra, scales the color of storm clouds and twilight. It landed on the platform's edge with barely a sound, silver mist curling from its nostrils.
The trainers stepped back. Even the scarred one.
The dragon's head swung slowly across the platform. Past the trainers. Past Dreadscale. Past me and Eryndor and Maxx.
It stopped on Serenya.
Those silver eyes held her. Assessing. Measuring her.
Serenya went very still. Her breath caught.
The Mist-Walker took a step forward. Then another. Its movements were liquid, silent, mist trailing from its scales like smoke. It stopped five feet from Serenya and lowered its head, nostrils flaring.
Scenting her. Reading her.
No one moved. No one breathed.
The dragon narrowed its eyes and tilted its head in silent judgement, releasing a bright, inquisitive chirp that sounded surprisingly gentle.
It studied Serenya for one long moment.
Then it turned, launched itself off the platform, and vanished into the clouds.
The scarred trainer let out a breath. "That was..."
"Unusual." Dreadscale's voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes glowed with pride. "Mist-Walkers don't approach outsiders. They certainly don't scent them."
"What does it mean?" Serenya's voice was barely a whisper.
The trainers exchanged glances. The scarred female sighed.
"It means," she said slowly, "we'll consider your request."
Serenya's shoulders dropped. Relief or disappointment—I couldn't tell.
"Consider?" Maxx stepped forward. "That dragon practically—"
"We'll consider it." The trainer's tone left no room for argument. "The Mist-Walkers do not bond lightly. If this one shows interest again, we'll discuss next steps."
Dreadscale nodded. "That's fair."
"But—" Serenya started.
"That's more than most outsiders ever get." Dreadscale's hand landed on her shoulder. Brief. Steadying. "Be patient."
Serenya looked up at the clouds where the dragon had disappeared.
"Patience I have." Her voice was steady, but her hands weren't. "It's the waiting that kills."
Then, quieter: "But, she looked at me. She really looked at me."
"She did." Dreadscale's voice softened. "And she'll be back. If she wants you, she'll be back."