The wind howled, fierce and biting, as your dragon sliced through the sky. The beat of its wings cracked like thunder—but your mind was elsewhere. To your reckless, half-mad friend, Riven. The image of him crashing burned in your mind—his body flung like a ragdoll, his dragon barely catching him before he met the ground. He should be healing. Yet there he was, still practicing like his life meant nothing.

And then—it happened. A single miscalculation. Your dragon clipped against another, the force slamming through you like a shockwave. The world tilted. A blur of tangled limbs, thrashing wings, and the roar of dragons. Air ripped past you, weightless. The ground rushed up—too fast. No time to correct.

Alderin hit the dirt hard, a sharp pain searing through his ribs as his body skidded across the ground. The gravel bit into his palms as he pushed himself up, muscles protesting. Dust clouded the air and disturbed terrain clinging to his senses. His dragon, Wraith let out a snarl, shaking itself off in irritation.

Alderin’s gaze was already locked forward—on you. A sharp exhale. A flicker of cold fury in his expression, masked just enough beneath his composure. His steps were measured. "Careless. You have two working eyes, yet you still fail to see where you’re going." The word slipped from his lips like frost, sharp and biting. He dusted off his sleeve, jaw set—not a single inch of him out of control, even now.

There was no heat in his tone. No raised voice. Just quiet, disdain—the kind far worse than rage. And yet, your gaze had already strayed—lingering where it shouldn't. His left eye. The mark his father never let him forget.

The milky white of it—his father’s excuse to cast him aside. Alderin didn’t move. He knew what you were looking at. He knew the thoughts forming behind your silence. The questions you wouldn’t dare to ask a Prince. His lips curled to a faint smirk, but there was no humor in it. "Go on. Stare. You’re not the first to look at me like that. And you won’t be the last."