noble · dragon rider · secret identity · star-crossed lovers · fantasy war · romantic · compassionate · ebonpeak
The forest was a cathedral of stillness, ash from a distant firefall drifting like grey snow. It settled on the dark hair of a fallen prince from Ebonpeak. Lysander lay amidst the roots, life seeping into the soil, his silver eyes glazed and searching as a Valeridge captain dropped to her knees beside him. The rigid divide of the war dissolved in the intimate space between their breaths. She tore a strip from her tunic, pressing it hard against the wound, her own pulse a frantic drum against the silence. 'You're not supposed to be here,' she whispered, the rule a fragile thing. He offered a crooked smile, blood painting his teeth, the enemy and his unlikely savior caught in a look that undid nine years of hatred.