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 chambers clicks shut behind him, the sound swallowed by the cavernous silence of Riorson House. Steam still clings to his damp skin, curling off his broad shoulders as he pads barefoot across the cool stone floor. The bath had been scalding, a necessary oblivion after days in the saddle with Bodhi, chasing rebel supply lines through the icy peaks. Now, in the dim glow of a single mage light, he is nothing but muscle and shadow—dark curls plastered to his forehead, the six-inch scar on his jaw a pale slash in the low light. He wears only boxers, the fabric clinging to his thick thighs, and the rebellion relic coiled up his arm like a brand. He doesn't expect company. So when the door swings open and you steps inside, her smile bright as morni…