Something in the way he moves. The way his steps shift slightly toward me, covering my blind spot without thinking. The way his blade angles—not just to kill, but to protect. The way his fire never strays too close to me, but instead surrounds me, shielding.
I feel it then. The weight of his protection. Of something unspoken threading between us.
The thought hits me hard—too hard.
I’m distracted, and I falter.
One of the wraiths lunge towards me. Thane moves first.
His arm catches my waist, yanking me back, his blade slicing clean through the creature before it can reach me. The wraith vanishes.
And for a moment, I am pressed against his chest, breathless. His hand lingers. Just for a second. Just long enough that I feel the tension in his grip. The restraint. The fire simmering just beneath the surface.
Just long enough that I remember the way he looked at me after the Kethraki attacked Calryx and me. After I returned. After he told me I wasn’t allowed to fly alone.
Is that the bond? Is this what he’s been feeling? I felt something, but I am just not sure what that was.
But then—his jaw tightens. His fingers flex—then he lets go.Steps back. Composes himself. Like nothing happened.
“Focus,” he says, his voice rougher than before.
And just like that—the moment is gone.
A few days later, we take our training to the skies.
Xaroth and Calryx fly side by side, Kethraki wraiths forming in the clouds, summoned by Valen.
We dive. We twist. We fight.
But this time, I notice.
Every time a wraith lunges at me, Xaroth is already moving—before Calryx can react. Every time I break formation, Thane shifts—seamless and certain. Every time I take a risk, he curses under his breath—adjusting, covering, shielding.
At first, it seems like instinct.
But then I realize—it’s not.
He’s reading me—but not just in the way a warrior reads a partner in battle. And we’ve only just started training like this together. I may be new to this world of war and infantry formations, but even I know—this isn’t normal.
We haven’t had the time. No years of practice. No long, shared history of moving in sync. And yet . . . he’s there.
Every time.
Deeper. Quieter. More precise.
Like he knows what I’m going to do before I do. The way he watches me. The way he moves around me. The way his fire is never reckless, only protective—always curling just short of me. Never touching. Only guarding.
That night, I sit by a lone fire with Calryx. My friends are giving me space. They know something’s off—but I don’t have the words yet. Not for them. Not even for myself.
So I am here, with my dragon.
Calryx shifts beside me, the heat of her body grounding, steady. Her mind brushes gently against mine.
“You saw it today,”she says simply.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
“I saw something. I just don’t know what it meant.”
