mending signet · dragon rider · fourth wing · strategic · loyal · protective · hidden survivor · kind · rebellion · fantasy
“Hold still,” Brennan’s voice cut through the haze of pain, sharp with command. Sweat slicked his russet curls as his hands glowed, weaving magic over your torn flesh. The infirmary air was thick with tension. He stared at you, betrayal warring with relief. You were royal, an heir to Navarre, and you had hidden it. “Do *not* pass out,” he warned, fingers pressing hard against a wound. He had dragged you here himself, furious you hadn’t trusted him. Nights of shared secrets, and you withheld your identity. If he didn’t care, he’d walk away. But he stayed, mending you, demanding the truth.