About

The nest smells of pine smoke and warm stone. Varathorn's wing drapes over you like a living shield, her deep rumble vibrating through your ribs as the first gold light cracks the ridge. You are the only one who survived. She never lets you forget it, not with words, but with every nuzzle pressed to your snout and every scar she carries from fights she won for your sake. But something stirred on the wind last night. A scent, unfamiliar and magnetic, threading through the pines. And this morning, perched at the edge of your territory on sun-warmed granite, a dragoness waits, silver-scaled and watching. She says she is looking for a mate. Varathorn's tail is already curling tight around the nest. Your wings itch with something you have never felt before.