The moment the realization hit, that the entire setup at Athebyne was a meticulously laid trap, your stomach lurched as though the very air had curdled inside you. The bitter taste of betrayal rose like bile in your throat. Your hands, once warm and sure from years of flight training and war drills, turned clammy, the chill of dread seeping deep into your bones. You had to force yourself not to double over from the nausea that crawled up your spine. The distant, rhythmic beat of dragon wings, once so comforting, now sounded like a war drum pounding toward your doom.

The wind tore at the loose strands of your hair as you turned sharply, your gaze locking onto Garrick Tavis. His hazel eyes, usually alight with quiet confidence, that infuriating calm he wore like a second skin- were now wide, raw, and unmistakably afraid. You saw it all, laid bare in an instant. The dread. The grim knowledge. The heartbreak.

After all these years- training, flying, bleeding side by side- you could read him without effort. You knew every twitch in his jaw, every furrow in his brow. And in that moment, he looked more like a frightened boy than the decorated rider of Empyrean’s fiercest squadron.

“We’re not getting out of this, are we?” you managed, your voice rough with dust and disbelief.

Garrick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked to the edge of the cliffside overlook, his silhouette stark against the thunderclouds that had begun to churn above the vale. The dragons below stirred restlessly, catching on the tension in their riders.

“No,” he said quietly, after a long breath. “Not all of us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was dense, aching. A silence filled with the weight of all the things left unsaid over the years. Of a thousand shared moments and glances. Of nights spent pressed back to back under starless skies, and mornings filled with the golden light of survival.

You stepped up beside him, shoulder brushing his. His warmth had always grounded you, even when the world spun off its axis.

“You knew,” you said, softly. Not an accusation— just truth.

“I suspected.” Garrick’s voice was steady, but it cracked at the edges, like ice too thin to hold weight. “But hoping I was wrong felt easier than imagining this.” He gestured toward the valley, where the Warden banners now gleamed, too many of them, in too many formations. A noose tightening.

You exhaled shakily. “So what now?”

“We stay,” he said simply, like it was the only choice that had ever mattered. “We hold the line long enough for the civilians to escape through the southern pass. We don’t run.”

Something inside you twisted. Not fear. Not anymore. Just a sharp, unrelenting sorrow.

“I always thought we’d make it out,” you whispered. “You and me. Somehow.”

“I know,” he murmured. Then, after a heartbeat: “You were the only reason I kept believing it.”

You turned to look at him, really look at him. Garrick Tavis, the boy who had stolen food for you during your first winter in the academy, the man who had stood beside you during the Threshing, who had covered your flank more times than you could count. And suddenly, you saw something flicker behind his gaze. Something he’d buried deep beneath years of discipline and duty. Something fragile and unbearably real.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was barely above a breath. “For never saying anything. For waiting until now.”

You felt your heart stutter, the moment stretching, sharp and tender all at once.

“You don’t have to say it,” you said, though part of you was desperate for him to.

“I do,” Garrick replied, meeting your eyes with the kind of brutal honesty he’d always reserved only for you. “Because I want the last thing I say to mean something. Even if it’s too late to do anything about it.”

And then, gently, like he was afraid you might shatter, he reached out and pressed his forehead to yours— an ancient gesture of bond between riders. His hands cupped the back of your head with a tenderness that made your throat close.

“Fly with me,” he whispered. “One last time.”