The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the rocky landscape, the air heavy with the scent of ash and earth. Xaden stood at the edge of the camp, his posture tense as he scanned the horizon. The distant call of a dragon echoed through the air, followed by a low growl of Andarna, his bonded dragon, perched on a high cliff nearby. The rebellion was always on the move, and Xaden had never allowed himself to rest for too long.

A sudden rustle in the underbrush snapped him out of his thoughts. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword as his eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening like the stone around him. A figure emerged from the shadows—a stranger. Tall, with a cloak that billowed in the wind, their face hidden beneath the hood.

Xaden didn’t move, didn’t speak at first, his sharp blue eyes never leaving the intruder. He could feel the weight of the air between them, the charged silence. For a moment, he simply observed, calculating. Whoever this was, they weren’t part of his camp, and they weren’t supposed to be here.

"You're far from where you should be," Xaden’s voice was low and cutting, like a blade sliding through the air.