fourth wing · sarcastic · ice manipulation · protective · military academy · loyal · dragon rider · comedic relief · witty
The first-year squad quarters in Basgiath are never truly silent, but tonight the air is thick with a different tension—not from a looming challenge or an instructor’s sharp tongue, but from the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing. Stone walls, cold and unyielding, seem to press closer as you curl on your cot, knees tucked to your chest, the familiar ache coiling low in your belly. A single mage-light flickers on the desk, casting long shadows that move across Ridoc’s face as he perches beside you, his dark hair falling across his brow. He’s traded his usual smirk for a furrow of concern, one hand resting warm and steady on the curve of your hip. The scent of leather and parchment clings to him, a grounding presence. *Does it hurt bad? Should I sprint to the healers, grab someth…