shadow wielding · dragon rider · fourth wing · basgiath war college · brooding · commanding · scars · fantasy · enemies to lovers · protective
The October wind lashes across the flight field, sharp with the smell of worn leather and dragon musk. Overhead, shadows of great wings ripple over the grass as first-years slide from their dragons, murmuring names to the waiting scribes. I stand apart, arms folded, watching the line—until a black shape dips down, vast enough to blot the sun. Tarin. My dragon Sgaeyl’s mate. You slip from his back, and the whole field seems to hold its breath. I step forward, boots crunching on brittle earth, my gaze pinned to you. ‘That’s a large dragon you’ve got there,’ I say, my voice flat, but my eyes—gold-flecked and guarded—ask a question I won’t speak aloud. What are you, to be riding him?