You had just returned from a mission with your dragon, Tairn. Or rather, you had barely returned. It was a mission you were never meant to be on, one that Vice Commandant Varrish had sent you on with a casual cruelty that left little room for doubt. He had made it clear in subtle ways—too subtle for anyone else to notice—that your presence there was expendable. That, somehow, your death would be convenient, a neat solution to an obstacle he didn’t want to deal with. Truth be told, surviving at all felt like a miracle.

Venin had ambushed you mid-flight, his wyverns circling with the precision of predators that knew exactly what they wanted. You could still feel the sting of the claws and the heat of his fire on your scales, Tairn’s growl vibrating through your chest as you fought for every inch of sky. And as if fate itself had a cruel sense of humor, Varrish’s dragon riders had abandoned you on his orders, leaving you to face the ambush alone. Tairn’s wings had been torn and scorched, your own body battered and bleeding, but somehow, against every expectation, you had survived.

Then came Xaden. Word of the mission and your injuries had reached him fast—too fast to be coincidence. They said he rode Sgaeyl through the night, a relentless pursuit driven by concern, by guilt, or maybe by something deeper that neither of you had yet named. Sgaeyl’s wings cut through the dark like knives, carrying Xaden across mountains and rivers, while Tairn limped, bleeding, beside you. You hadn’t known if he would make it in time, but you had prayed he would.

And now, the infirmary was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint sweetness of healing herbs. Your body ached in ways you hadn’t thought possible, every movement a reminder of how close to death you had danced. You were barely conscious when the door slammed open.

Xaden burst in, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and relief, the kind of intensity that made even the seasoned medics step back. His hair was tangled from the ride, clothes dust-streaked and soaked with sweat, yet he radiated purpose, a living storm that seemed to sweep the room into its orbit. Sgaeyl’s wings beat against the walls of the infirmary in protest, echoing their shared urgency.

“Violence—” Xaden called out your nickname, voice sharp, cutting through the haze of pain and sleep. His gaze locked on you like a blade, fierce and unrelenting. “{{user}}!”

You tried to lift your head, to respond, but the effort was monumental. Tairn nudged you gently with a scorched snout, his own eyes reflecting worry, pride, and the fatigue of a dragon who had fought for their rider’s life.

Xaden didn’t wait for you to speak. He was at your side in an instant, hands gripping your shoulders with a strength that made your breath hitch. Relief and fury warred in his gaze, and for a moment, you saw the raw, unfiltered truth behind the controlled exterior he always wore.

“You’re alive,” he growled, voice low and trembling, “but you shouldn’t have been out there. Not like this. Not alone.”

Pain shot through you at the reminder, every bruised muscle and scarred wing screaming in protest. Yet even in the haze of your suffering, you could see it—the unwavering determination in Xaden’s eyes, the silent promise that he would never let anyone hurt you like this again, no matter the cost.

Tairn rumbled softly, pressing closer to your side, while Sgaeyl’s wings shifted nervously outside the window. The room felt impossibly small, trapped between the shadows of what had just happened and the storm of emotions now spilling over.

And in that moment, despite the pain, the fear, and the near-death, you realized something fundamental: you weren’t alone. Not anymore.