It still stings, but the pain is dull now. They hand me a small jar of the balm, instruct me to reapply it tonight, and then send me on my way.
I head straight for the bathing chambers.
The second the hot water hits my skin, I exhale—long and slow—like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment the Gorganthe appeared.
Steam rises around me, thick and heavy, curling along the walls as the water covers my shoulders, washing away the dirt, the blood, the adrenaline.
I let myself feel all that happened today.
Beneath the exhaustion, the soreness, and claw marks—I feel something else. Something new.
Power. Control.
I wielded earth like it was an extension of me. I turned rain into spears. I summoned lightning from the sky. And I stood my ground against something that should’ve broken me.
I’ve spent so long feeling like I was the mistake in the story. Today, I didn’t just survive. Ifought. Andwon.
I’m not the same girl who walked onto that field this morning.
I sleep hard that night. Dreamless. The kind of sleep thatpulls you under and doesn’t let go. When I wake in the morning, the world feels heavier. My limbs ache. My back throbs. I’m sore in places I didn’t even use.
But I’m awake. Alive.
And part of me is still humming with the memory of power.
Today is a rest day.
Once a week, it’s required that we let our bodies and minds breathe. Some of the warriors stay at the outpost enjoying the quiet, but most of us head into the village for a change of scenery. I am meeting Valen for more studying after breakfast, then Lyra and I are going into the nearby village to meet up with the others.
Later that morning, I sit in Valen’s quarters. It’s a comfortable size, but it feels much smaller because every inch of wall space is taken up by shelves overflowing with books. Some are crammed in sideways, others stacked on top of each other, like they’ve outgrown the space long ago. The scent of old parchment and spiced tea lingers in the air. A fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting golden light over the worn rug.
I cradle a warm cup of tea between my hands, its steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Across from me, Valen scribbles something into a leather-bound journal, lips pursed in thought. The only sounds are the scratch of his quill and the faint crackle of firewood. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet, my mind is anything but still.
Today, we’re diving deeper into dragon history and lore, and I struggle to contain my excitement. Being stationed at the outpost has brought me closer to dragons in a way I never imagined. Back in the village, we would catch glimpses of them in the sky, majestic silhouettes against the clouds, often with a rider on their back, soaring in formation with others.
They were distant, almost mythical. But here at the outpost, they’re tangible.
I can hear the thunder of wings when they land in the clearing, feel the shift in the air when one of them exhales a plume of fire or smoke. I’ve stood close enough to see the intricate pattern of scales, to hear the deep rumble of a dragon communicating with another.
I learned from Thane when I came to the outpost that fewer dragons are choosing to call riders. Valen suspects it has to do with the shifting balance of magics.
There are bonded riders here at the outpost—not just Thane. Garrick, Jarek, Rian. Several of the other warriors I’ve come to know are riders, too. Each bond is different, each dragon distinct. There’s an energy here, a kind of unspoken reverence between warrior and beast.
Valen looks up from the journal he’s been writing in, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Have you heard about the Guardian Dragons of Mythren Valley?”
I shake my head.
He nods, as if he expected that. “Most in the realm have not. Many warriors know of them—some nobles, too. All of the Lords of the Elemental Clans know. And every rider learns of them.”
I don’t interrupt. I keep my eyes on him, posture steady, hands wrapped around the warm mug in my lap. I want him to know I’m listening. That I’m ready.
The weight of it presses in—something old and sacred.
Valen leans back, folding his hands in his lap, like he’s easing into a story he’s only told a handful of times.
“Long before the Shadow Wars there were the Guardians of Mythren Valley.” He glances toward the shelves, eyes briefly resting on a worn, dragon-hide book. “They are not the dragons you see at the outpost or on the battlefield. These are ancient beings—timeless, powerful, and bound to the very balance of the elements themselves.” He pauses. “There are five known to us.”
