And then—for the briefest moment—a flicker of something rare. A discreet smile, brief and knowing, before he turns back to his plate and begins to eat.
But I saw it.
A silent offering. A quiet understanding.
I exhale, pick up my fork, and follow his lead. I don’t dare look at Evelyne. I don’t want to see if she’s watching. If she sees what I already know—that I’m still just a village girl who doesn’t belong here.
As the meal unfolds, the conversation shifts, growing more serious. They speak of the attacks—of the growing tension along the borders.
Captain Elaris sets down his goblet, his expression turning serious.
“More soldiers are arriving at the outpost every month,” he says. “From all over the realm. Some have already bonded with dragons. Some will. Some never will—fewer dragons are calling to riders now. But that doesn’t make them any less of a warrior.”
He leans back slightly, glancing around the table. “What matters is their strength. Their discipline. And right now, we need every fighter we can get.”
Valen swirls the wine in his goblet, his gaze thoughtful. “The scholars have taken note of this as well,” he says. “Fewer dragons are bonding now—far fewer than in years past. It’s not a coincidence.” He glances around the table, his expression serious. “They feel it too. The wards are weakening, and the dragons sense the threat just as we do—perhaps even more acutely.”
Garrick grunts in agreement, taking a sip of his ale.
Toren leans forward slightly, his expression unreadable. “What of the dormant eggs, Valen?” he asks, his tone measured. “Have the scholars discovered anything new about why they will not hatch? Have the dragons revealed nothing?”
Valen exhales, shaking his head. “The dragons have not.”
Toren’s lips press together, his frustration evident. “This is absurd. We all face the same threat. Why do they withhold what they know?”
Valen simply shrugs. “They are dragons.” As if that answers everything.
Garrick chuckles, shaking his head as he tears off a piece of bread. “They don’t explain themselves to us, Lord Toren. Never have, never will.” He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “If they don’t want to talk, no one’s making them.”
Toren huffs. “Proud creatures, the lot of them.” His tone is edged with frustration. “They keep their secrets close, even when Shadow Forces threaten to take down the entire realm.”
Rian lifts his goblet, swirling the wine before taking a slowsip. Then, with a hint of warning in his tone, he says, “Careful, Lord Toren. We’re fortunate dragons still choose to bond at all.”
He sets his goblet down with deliberate ease. “They have their ways. We respect them—or risk the bond that has lasted nearly a thousand years. We do not want to risk losing that gift they have given us.”
Valen nods, his voice low and thoughtful. “There are ancient magics in this bond. We need them, and they need us.” He glances at Lord Toren. “If there was something to share, I have no doubt they would have told us how to wake the dormant eggs.”
I listen intently, watching the exchange unfold. Toren’s frustration. Rian’s quiet warning. Valen’s measured response. The weight of their words settles over the table—thick as fire-warmed air.
I glance at Thane. He’s watching too, expression unreadable, gaze steady. He hasn’t intervened—just listens, assessing, weighing the conversation in that quiet, commanding way of his.
Lord Toren exhales sharply, shakes his head. “Fine. Dragons have their ways. But what of the people?” His voice sharpens, his frustration mounting. “What of the lands that suffer? What of the coin I must pour into fighting the Shadow Forces, only to turn around and spend twice as much rebuilding what they destroy?”
He leans forward slightly, fingers drumming against the table. “How long must we keep fighting battles we can barely afford? How long before the realm itself begins to break under the weight of it?”
Evelyne reaches to her right, placing a delicate hand over her brother’s. “Dear brother,” she soothes, her voice warm but measured. “Your concerns are not without merit. But you must not let frustration cloud your judgment.”
She tilts her head, offering him a reassuring smile. “You havealways been a shrewd leader, careful in your dealings. This is no different. The realm endures because of strength, patience, and alliances.” Her fingers press gently against his hand, a subtle reminder, a quiet command. “The dragons will not be swayed by anger. Nor will the Council. Control the board, and you control the game.”
Toren exhales, then shifts his attention to Thane at the head of the table. His voice is steady but edged with impatience.
“Warlord, I’ll be blunt.” He leans forward slightly, fingers tapping against the table. “My lands border the Forsaken Lands, and the attacks are growing worse. What are you doing about it?”
The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine lingers in the air, rich and heavy. Torchlight flickers over the table, gilding plates and catching on silverware. Conversation hums in the background, the low murmur of voices in response to Toren’s comments, the occasional clink of goblets being set down.
But then Thane speaks. And the room quiets. I watch him.
He barely lifts his gaze, spearing a piece of meat with slow, deliberate ease.
