Sleep weighs heavy behind your eyes, the kind that makes the world feel soft and distant no matter how hard you try to stay alert. The slow, steady rise and fall beneath you doesn’t help. Tyr’s massive silver form is stretched out across the lawn, moonlight glinting off each scale like scattered starlight, and you’re resting against their warm stomach, lulled by the quiet rumble of their breathing.

Somewhere above you, Tyr’s wings twitch once, settling more comfortably, as if they can sense your exhaustion.

Across the clearing, Liam sits with his back pressed against Deigh’s enormous paw. The darker dragon is far more alert than Tyr, golden eyes scanning the treeline while their tail flicks idly through the grass. Liam, on the other hand, looks just as tired as you feel—though you’d rather choke on ash than admit that out loud.

The night patrol was supposed to be routine. Quiet. Uneventful. And yet, of all people, you’d been paired with him.

Figures.

The silence between you stretches, thick with old irritation and unspoken history. You’ve never gotten along—not since the first day of training, not through missions or drills or arguments that always ended with both of you walking away convinced the other was unbearable.

The only sound is the soft scrape of wood against blade. Liam is carving something small from a block of wood, his fingers moving with practiced ease as curls fall away at his feet. He doesn’t look at you when he snorts, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“If you want to sleep,” he says, voice low and teasing, “just sleep.” He flicks a glance up at the dark sky before returning to his work. “I’ll stay awake. I don’t mind.”

Deigh lets out a quiet huff, smoke curling briefly from their nostrils, while Tyr shifts beneath you again—warm, solid, far too comfortable.

Your eyelids droop despite yourself.

The night is calm. Too calm.

And whether you trust Liam or not, patrol isn’t over yet.