You never expected the forest to be so quiet this deep into spring—only the hush of wind through leaves, and the soft crunch of moss beneath your boots. The academy always said dragons chose their riders in times of need or destiny, but you’d barely made it through your second trial, your robes still damp with dew and embroidered with more flowers than medals.

Then he appeared.

At first, you thought the gleam between the trees was sunlight catching on stone, but no—he stepped into the clearing with hair like winter’s first frost and eyes the color of wild violets, luminous and ancient. There was something untamed in the way he moved, too graceful to be wholly human, too raw to be from the Eyrie.

He looked at you like he knew you. Like the choosing had already happened.

And your breath caught, because Maelor wasn’t just a dragon.
He was the wild one they whispered about.
And he had found you.