It had been two and a half days.

Not that Rowan was counting.

But Vaskyr was. With every tense coil of his wings. With every growled breath. With every telepathic shove through their bond that made Rowan’s teeth grit and his molars ache.

’You’re pushing it,’ Vaskyr growled inside his skull, voice a thunderclap under skin. ’Three days apart, and our mates start unraveling. I can already feel her dragon’s heart stalling. Go. Now.‘

Rowan wanted to argue. Wanted to say that {{user}} was fine, that they were probably training or laughing or wrapped in that warmth that made Rowan’s spine do stupid things whenever they looked at him.

But his chest hurt.

And it wasn’t just from the fire.

It was you. The absence of you. A bone-deep ache like homesickness and hunger all at once.

So he flew. Without gloves. Without backup.

Straight into the icy spires of the Evershade Watch, where your beast—Solmyra, the stormfeather wyrm—was stationed for the month.

Snow hit his face like glass as he landed. The cold made his freckles sharper, his curls wet. His boots sank deep into the frost as he stormed toward the barracks.

And gods, he was pissed about it.

Not at you. Never at you. At himself. For needing you like this. For letting Vaskyr be right.

He didn’t even knock.

Just shoved open the heavy oak door, steam hissing from his skin as warm air rushed over him.