I take a deep breath and reach for him.
His grip is strong, sure. In one fluid motion, he pulls me from the windowsill onto the drake's back behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist instinctively, feeling the solid warmth of him through his thin shirt.
The drake gives a soft chirp, adjusting to my added weight. Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, we're moving away from the window, soaring into the night sky.
The Ironhold falls away beneath us, its imposing silhouette receding as we climb higher. The wind tears at my hair, cold enough to make my eyes water. I cling tighter to Byron, pressing my face against his back for shelter. There’s no saddle, only the rough ridges of the dragon’s spine.
“Where are we going?” I gasp over the rush of air.
He doesn't answer—of course he doesn't—but reaches to squeeze my hand slightly, as if to reassure me. We bank left, the drake responding to some subtle command from Byron, and head toward a cluster of jagged peaks that rise from the mountainside like broken teeth.
As we draw nearer, I notice a narrow opening in the rock face: a cave entrance, barely visible in the darkness. Byron guides the drake toward it with expert precision. The creature folds its wings at the last moment, slipping through the gap with inches to spare.
Inside, the cave opens into a larger chamber. The drake lands gently on a flat stone platform. Byron slides off first, then helps me down, his arm steady around my waist.
The torch he carries provides the only light, casting long shadows across the rough walls. The cave extends deeper than the light reaches, its depths lost in darkness.
“Byron,” I say, my voice echoing slightly, “what is this place? Why bring me here?”
He still doesn't speak, but gestures for me to follow him. The small drake settles onto its haunches, watching us with intelligent eyes that reflect the torchlight.
We move deeper into the cave, the flame throwing our shadows into warped shapes on the walls. After about thirty paces, the passage widens again, opening into a second chamber.
Byron lifts his torch higher, and I gasp.
The walls are covered in paintings—ancient, by the look of them, but still vibrant with color. They depict fae and dragons, not in combat but in harmony. Figures with hands raised, connected to dragons by swirls of energy. Dragons in flight, carrying fae on their backs.
But what truly steals my breath is the central image: a woman with her arms outstretched, surrounded by dragons of all sizes. From her hands pour streams of light that connect to each creature. Their eyes—both hers and the dragons'—are painted with the same golden pigment.
“What is this?” I whisper, moving closer.
Byron steps up beside me, close enough to make the cold feel less sharp. He lifts his torch higher, the golden eyes in the painting blazing in the light. Then he glances at me, holding my gaze for a moment before tracing two deliberate words in the dust on the wall with the tip of his finger:
HISTORY. TRUE.
The words make my pulse quicken. “These are… dragon-bonded?”
He nods once, then sweeps his hand across the mural. His palm stills over the painted woman’s heart, then he looks back at me, something unreadable in his expression.
“The old way,” I murmur. “Before the empire twisted everything.”
I move along the wall, taking in other images. Some show rituals: fae and dragons gathered in circles, sharing some kind ofcommunion. Others depict what appear to be battles, fae and dragons fighting together against armored warriors.
The events had to be hundreds of years old. Maybe thousands.
Byron moves beside me, his torch illuminating a sequence I hadn't noticed before. He indicates a spot where the images shift, showing soldiers capturing dragons, forcing them into submission with chains and blades. Fae in elaborate robes overseeing the construction of what might be early versions of the Ironhold. Dragons in pits, their wings clipped, their spirits broken.
These pictures tell the story of how it changed.
How our world changed.
“The empire rose on broken bonds,” I say softly. “They didn't just squash our own gifts… They severed the connection between other creatures too. Made us forget what was possible.”
I turn to study Byron in the flickering light, seeing him up close for the first time. A loose strand of hair falls across his handsome face, shadowing eyes that seem to hold a weight far beyond his years.
“Why show me this?” I ask. “Why now?”
Byron meets my gaze, then lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug that somehow conveys more than words could. The gesture seems to say: Because you should know. Because this belongs to you too.
