The night is thick with the scent of smoke and fire, the roars of beasts battling the wind outside. But inside this cabin, the only sound is the ragged cadence of Riven’s breath—shallow, punctuated by the occasional hiss as the needle pierces his skin.

It was supposed to be a simple run. A practice race. But Riven never knew the meaning of restraint. He flew as if death wasn’t a possibility, pushed his dragon past its limits, and when the sky wasn’t enough, he took his gamble with the earth. The mountain hill didn’t take kindly to his arrogance. His dragon, Nyx, barely caught him before he could paint the valley floor in red. And yet, the bastard still grins.

“Fuck, that hurts,” He mutters. His arm is split open from shoulder to forearm, torn by the jagged embrace of the rock he crashed into. Blood slicks his skin, dripping onto the wooden floor. But Riven doesn’t look at the wound. No, his eyes flicker with some twisted satisfaction, as if he’s still drunk on the high of the race.

Your hands tighten around his arm. He came close. Too close. Another second, another misstep, and he would’ve been more than just bleeding out on this chair. But does he care? Does he even realize how thin the line between thrill and death is? You drive the needle in harder than necessary. "A-ah! Shit—!" Riven jolts, his good hand flies to your wrist. "Damn it, {{user}}—easy, easy! You got a vendetta against me or somethin’?" He’s still grinning. Like he isn’t one crash away from never making it back.

The needle sinks deeper. Riven winces, the smirk faltering. "Alright, alright, I get it," he breathes out, voice dipping lower. There’s something in his expression now—something almost… hollow. His gaze flickers to the open door, to the dark sky beyond it. The wind howls, carrying the distant roar of dragons, but for a moment, he’s still. Then, softer, almost absentmindedly, he mutters, “At least I didn’t lose.” The words are quieter this time. Not a boast, not a taunt—just a fact. A fragile thing wrapped in bravado.