“Language,” Drayke says from behind us. But when I turn, he’s smiling—actually smiling, which is still rare enough to be notable. His gaze finds the claiming mark where it peeks above Aisling’s collar, and something eases in his posture.
“Brother.” He clasps my shoulder. Squeezes once. “Well done.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
“Constant doubt. You’re remarkably good at sabotaging yourself.” But his tone is warm. Affectionate, even. “I’m glad you didn’t this time.”
Auren appears next, materializing from a side corridor with a stack of papers in his hands. He takes one look at us, notes the claiming marks visible on both me and Aisling, and nods once.
“Congratulations. When you’re finished celebrating, there are reports that need?—“
“No.” Drayke cuts him off. “Not today. Today we celebrate.”
Auren’s brow furrows. “But the rogue dispersal patterns?—“
“Can wait.” Selene links her arm through Auren’s, steering him away from his papers. “The world won’t end if you take one night off. Probably.”
“It might.”
“Then we’ll save it tomorrow.” She grins at Aisling and me. “Tonight, we feast.”
The great hall fills quickly. Word has spread—Valdris is dead, the rogues are scattered, and the wild brother has finally claimed his mate. Dragons pour in from across the fortress, from patrol routes, from territory outposts. The energy is electric—celebration and relief and joy.
I keep Aisling close. My hand on her hip, her body pressed against my side, the claiming mark pulsing warmly between us. She meets my gaze across the chaos, and something passes between us—not words, but understanding.
This is just the beginning.
There will be more battles. More enemies. The other Relics still wait in the dark, and whoever commanded Valdris might still be out there. The war isn’t over—just this chapter of it.
But tonight, none of that matters.
Tonight, I have a mate who loves me. Brothers who trust me. A family that, against all odds, has grown instead of shrunk.
Tonight, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Aisling leans into me as the celebration roars around us. “What are you thinking?”
“That I’m the luckiest bastard in three territories.”
“Accurate.” She grins. “Don’t forget it.”
“Never.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I love you, Aisling.”
“I love you too.” She turns in my arms, pressing her palm against the claiming mark on my chest—the one that pulses in time with hers. “Now. You promised me centuries of annoying me. Don’t think I’m going to let you slack off.”
I laugh. Pull her closer. Let the celebration wash over us while my dragon settles content and whole in my chest.
Centuries of annoying her.
I can’t wait.
AISLING
Three weeks after Valdris dies, I find myself on the ramparts at midnight.
The fortress sleeps below—or pretends to. Dragons don’t truly rest, not the way humans do. Somewhere in the depths, Auren is still poring over intelligence reports. Rurik patrols the eastern boundary, his fire visible as distant flickers against the mountains. Drayke and Selene are in their chambers, their claiming marks probably doing that annoying synchronized pulse thing that makes the rest of us roll our eyes.
The war isn’t over.
