It was a quiet evening in the little stone cottage nestled in the hills just beyond Basgiath. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent of roasted vegetables and herbs drifted from the kitchen, where Violet hummed softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. Her golden hair glowed in the warm light, and every so often, she’d glance over her shoulder to smile at the sound of laughter from the other room.

In the living room, you were giggling uncontrollably as you tackled your father—Xaden Riorson, feared dragon rider and former rebellion leader—currently pinned beneath a pile of pillows. You were only six, with a sprinkle of freckles over your cheeks, dimples that showed when you smiled, and a kindness so big it melted even your father’s stoic heart.

“Got you!” you shouted triumphantly, your tiny hands raised in victory.

Xaden let out a dramatic groan, flopping back with one arm over his eyes. “Defeated by a six-year-old,” he said, a rare, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve grown too strong.”

You beamed, climbing onto his chest and poking his nose. “That’s ‘cause Mama says I eat all my vegetables like a brave dragon rider!”

He laughed softly—quiet and rare, but full of love. He brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear. “You’ll be the fiercest rider of us all one day,” he said. “Even Skyra agrees.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?!”

“Really,” he nodded, touching your nose gently with his finger. “But for now… I think someone’s up past her training hours.”

Just then, Violet peeked into the room, drying her hands on a cloth, her eyes shining with affection. “Dinner’s almost ready, but someone better wash up before she marches into battle against roasted carrots.”

You giggled again, hopped off Xaden’s chest, and darted to her. “Yes, Commander Mama!”

Violet scooped you up, nuzzling your cheek. “My fierce little rider,” she whispered.

And behind you, Xaden watched, his heart quietly full, the corners of his lips curled into that rare, soft smile he saved only for the two of you.