“I’m fine,” I said aloud, though my answer came out smaller than I’d intended.
“Fine.”He repeated the word like it tasted of poison.“You threw yourself between trained killers and certain death. Repeatedly. That is not ‘fine,’ that is suicidal.”
“I saved his life,” I shot back, gesturing toward Lincatheron.
“And nearly lost your own in the process.”Kaelen’s voice dropped low and dangerous.“Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? What it would have cost?”
The raw pain beneath his fury made my chest tight. I could feel it through our bond, the way his heart had stopped every time a blade came too close, the way terror had clawed at him when that woman’s magic had surged across the field.
“Kaelen—”
“No.”He cut me off, but the mental snarl lacked real heat now.“Just... no more throwing yourself at enemies you can’t defeat. Please.”
Thepleasebroke something in me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, reaching out to touch the warm scales of his neck. “I didn’t think?—”
Lincatheron cleared his throat, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounded shoulder. “We should move. If Xyliria was here, there might be more coming.”
A handful of soldiers converged on us, their expressions severe, their armour scorched and smeared with dirt. Less than a dozen left standing.
Lincatheron squared his shoulders despite the blood dripping from his wound. “Anyone else alive?”
One of the warriors, a female with soot streaked across her face, shook her head. “If they are, they’ve already retreated.”
Lincatheron exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right then. Let’s go. Has anyone signalled for a squad to search for survivors?”
A male soldier nodded. “Yes. Already done.”
“Good,” Lincatheron said. He pressed a hand against his bleeding shoulder and turned to me.
I looked at him with narrowed eyes, taking in the ashen cast to his skin beneath the blood, the way he held himself too carefully straight.
“You’re flying with me,” I said, crossing my arms.
Lincatheron’s jaw went tight. “I’m perfectly capable of flying my own dragon.”
I snorted. “Right. And I’m perfectly capable of explaining to Fenric why you fell off your mount and splattered across the countryside like some tragic war ballad. That’ll go over well.”
“I’m not going to?—”
“Like hell you’re not.” I stepped closer, letting him see exactly how serious I was. “You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you just went head-to-head with someone insane enough to call herself Bloodwitch. You’re not flying alone.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Isara?—”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand. “Don’t you dare ‘Isara’ me in that reasonable commander tone. I watched you nearly die today. I watched that bitch carve you open like she was peeling fruit. So no, you don’t get to play the stoic military hero right now.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“It’s a flesh wound that’s still bleeding.” I gestured at the crimson spreading across his leathers. “And we both know what happens when people lose too much blood at altitude.”
Lincatheron was quiet for a long moment, his gaze flicking between me and his dragon. I could practically see him weighing his options, his pride warring with whatever practical voice in his head was probably screaming at him to accept help.
Finally, he let out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But I’m not riding behind you like some helpless?—”
“You’re riding with Kaelen and me,” I interrupted. “Your dragon can fly formation.”
He grumbled something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary, but nodded.
