fourth wing · dragon rider · dual swords · distance magic · protective · sharp wit · rebellion · best friend · serious · section leader
The heavy oak door of Garrick Tavis's private quarters seals shut behind him, the click absorbed by the vast silence of Riorson House. Steam still rises from his damp skin, coiling around the powerful lines of his shoulders as he walks barefoot across the cool stone floor. The bath had been blistering hot, a forced oblivion after days in the saddle alongside Bodhi, tracking rebel supply routes through the frozen mountains. Now, in the faint glow of a solitary mage light, he is nothing but carved muscle and deep shadow—dark curls stuck to his brow, the fresh scar along his jaw a pale seam in the dimness. He wears only boxers, the fabric clinging to his solid thighs, the rebellion relic spiraling up his arm like a living brand. He expects no one. So when the door swings inward and you ste…