The Hinterwoods burned in patches, as if the fire had decided to take its time, nibbling at the underbrush, licking the edges of splintered trunks. The stench of scorched pine clung to everything. Samwyll and Bendry had been running since they saw the sky turn to fire. Now, in the smoldering wreckage, the dragon lay sprawled in the dirt, its breath dragging rough and uneven, its blood dark against the earth.

  It was real. And it was dying. Samwyll’s stomach clenched. His body knew what his mind didn’t want to admit, that nothing this big, this ancient, this powerful, simply was. It always meant something worse.

  The tail stretched across the dirt, ridged and still, the sharp edges catching the light. With every slow rise, and deliberate fall, the creature's chest moved as if every breath demanded careful negotiation against the pain.

  Bendry was already stepping forward, eyes wide.

  “Bendry—”

  “He’s alive.”

  “So are we. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Bendry ignored him. “He’s hurt.”

  Samwyll exhaled. “Not our problem.”

  Without warning, a voice invaded Samwyll’s mind. It was not sound, not really. It did not come from the dragon’s throat, did not ripple through the air like a growl or a roar. It slid into their skulls like a blade dipped in ice, cold and cutting, pressing deep and leaving no room for doubt.

  "Ah. Humans.” Its silver eyes flicked between them. "Crawling to a fallen beast. Here to pick the bones, are you?"

  Bendry stiffened. "Did you hear that?."

  The presence hit like a storm front, pressing and cold. The weight of it settled against Samwyll’s ribs, heavier than before and his fingers clenched around his knife.

  “Yeah, that thing just spoke in my brain like a—fiend.” He grabbed Bendry’s arm, yanking him backward. Bendry resisted. He dug his heels in, turning as they retreated.

  “We can’t just leave him like this.”

  “That’s exactly what we can do.” Samwyll released him the moment they were out of range.

  “He’s injured.”

  “He’s a dragon.”

  “And?”

  “And,” Samwyll gestured, “He doesn’t need our help.”

  Bendry crossed his arms, his expression shifting into something stubborn. “You don’t just leave someone to die like that.”

  Samwyll exhaled sharply, gripping the bridge of his nose. Gods, he hated how easy it was for Bendry to say things like that. Like the world worked in straight lines, like good people did the right thing and it always turned out fine.

  “Bendry—”

  “We can try.”

  “And die trying.”

  The voice broke, a sound like stone splitting.

  "I am Rhyzek."

  The air vibrated.

  "Storm-Fanged of the Kyraz-Thal."

  The trees shuddered and the ground beneath them felt less solid, as if the weight of his name alone could crack it open.

  "I have seen continents shatter beneath my shadow, cities swallowed by the sea, empires crumble to dust."

  Samwyll’s breath hitched. His pulse slammed against his ribs. For once, even Bendry hesitated.

  "And you—" a pause, heavy, "two fleeting things of bone and want—think you have something to offer me?"

  His silver eyes fixed upon them, slow and deliberate, pinning them where they stood. Samwyll couldn't move. Bendry stood frozen, fingers twitching at his sides.

  "My kind is beyond your understanding. You live and die in the span of a breath. You claw at the dirt, fashioning kingdoms of dust, waging wars that will be forgotten before the next turning of the sky. You cannot conceive of what stands before you."

  His claws flexed against the charred ground, then softer, in a low growl edged with something Samwyll could almost mistake for bitterness, "And yet, what am I now?"

  His gaze flicked to his ruined wing, to the blood crusted thick along his scales.

  “Just a broken thing, waiting for the last embers of his fire to burn out.”

  The wind shifted, curling through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and ruin. He exhaled again, slower this time.

  “So leave me to it.”

  His voice was quieter now.

  “Go back to your small, fleeting world. Find another story to chase. I am done. Let the sky forget me now."

  His tail curled in slightly, his massive frame shifting like he meant to settle into the earth itself. For the first time, Samwyll didn’t see a dragon. He saw something dying. He felt it. Not just power. Not just the weight of something beyond reckoning, but inevitability, thick as the air before a storm.

  Bendry, usually foolhardy and fearless, stood silent, fingers curling at his sides as if grasping for a protest that wouldn’t come. The truth hung too heavy between them, undeniable, final.

  Samwyll seized the opening. He grabbed Bendry’s arm and yanked, dragging him forward before second thoughts could settle. At first, Bendry resisted, but Samwyll’s grip turned iron.

  “Move,” he said, voice low, urgent. “Now.”

  Bendry swallowed hard and stole a final glance at Rhyzek, something raw flickering behind his eyes. He turned and followed.

  The trees swallowed them whole, dense and unyielding, their trunks stretching skyward in columns of shadow. Yet the dragon’s presence lingered, a weight at their backs, pressing down long after its silhouette had vanished beyond the canopy. The day, once golden and crisp, faded into evening, its warmth seeping away with the light. Bendry had grown sullen in the hours since, his silence turning barbed. He kicked stones from the path, muttering curses too low for Samwyll to catch, though the sharp edge in his voice was impossible to ignore.

  For a time, Samwyll let it pass—focused instead on the hush of the woods, on the whisper of wind through pine needles, on the feeling that something, or someone, was still following. Then Bendry halted, right in the middle of the path, his stance rigid, his hands curled.

  “Don’t you see that this is my chance.”

  “For what?”

  “My chance to have a dragon friend.”

  Samwyll blinked.

  “I am going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

  “Yeah—I finally have a chance to have a dragon friend, and you’re ruining it!”

  “Bendry—Right now, we have a chance to not die and you’re ruining THAT.” Samwyll threw up his hands. “Dragon friend? Are you joking?”

  Bendry wasn’t joking. He stared out across the empty land behind them, where the dragon lay somewhere beyond sight.

  Samwyll sighed, rubbing at his face. “Bendry—”

  “I know—you always say I dream too big.” Bendry’s voice was quiet now, a little raw. “But what if, just this once, I’m right?”

  Samwyll had spent his whole life knowing better. The world didn’t give. It took. Dream too big and the fall only hit harder when it all went to shit. He had told himself that a thousand times. And yet, there was Bendry, looking at him with those damn eyes. The same ones he had when they were kids, staring at the empty cupboard, saying, maybe tomorrow there’ll be more. Samwyll had known better then, just like he knew better now. But gods, for once, he wanted Bendry to be right. Just once. He exhaled, slow and heavy, bracing himself against the pull of something he had no business believing in.

  “I really wish you were someone else’s problem.”

  Bendry didn’t wait for an answer. He grinned and turned back toward the clearing. He moved with the same easy confidence that had led him into trouble more times than Samwyll cared to count. He moved like the world would part for him. Samwyll lingered, just long enough to feel the decision harden into regret. Then he followed.

  The air was thicker now, heavy with the scent of pine burned down to its bones. Voices reached them. Faint at first. Then clearer—steady speech, clipped commands, boots grinding against loose soil. Samwyll slowed first. He raised a hand.

  Samwyll dropped into a crouch, fingers pressed flat against the damp ground. He listened. Metal scraped metal. Someone barked an order. The sound was close.

  "Someone beat us here," he said quietly.

  Bendry’s breath caught. "Is it—?"

  Samwyll moved without answering. He slipped through the trees, body close to the ground, each step shaped by instinct and silence. The ridge crept upward beneath his palms, slick with ash and moss. At the top, he went still.

  The clearing below glowed faintly, the light catching on red armor dulled by soot. Gold shimmered faintly at the edges. Their helms bore crimson crests. They stood in tight formation—unhurried, but sharp. Confident.

  The sight stirred a memory, faint and half-heard—traders muttering of Caladreth in the same breath as bad weather and pirates. The desert kingdom that bordered them to the south, where gold ruled sharper than steel. The kingdom where soldiers wore gold and kings bled silver. Where every command had a price, and someone else always paid it.

  “They shouldn’t be here—”

  At the center of the clearing, bound in heavy ropes, lay the dragon.

  The officer in charge stood near the beast’s head, expression sour, shoulders slumped like a man enduring a punishment he didn’t deserve. His leather gloves were tucked into his belt, and he massaged the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply as he watched his men stumble The officer closed his eyes. Breathed deeply. Then, without turning his head—.

  “Brenor.”

  The soldier flinched. “Sir?”

  “Tell me something.” The officer finally looked at him, arms crossed. “Are your fingers made of soap?”

  The man paled. “Sir?”

  “Because in the past three days, you have dropped your spear, your sword, your horse’s reins, and now the godsdamned rope. So unless you were born cursed with butter for bones, I would like to know—what exactly is wrong with you?”

  Brenor opened his mouth. Closed it. Then bent to grab the rope.

  The officer shook his head. “This is bullshit,” he muttered to the man beside him, pulling his gloves on as he surveyed the smoking wreckage. “Back in Kythren, I had a good post. Guard duty. Comfortable. And now I’m out here in the ass-end of nowhere hunting fucking dragons for some glory-hungry bastard with a magical necklace and no leash.” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Half of Alzahir burned to ash, and somehow I’m the one paying for it. Unbelievable. I hate my life.”

  Samwyll barely breathed, watching from the ridge as the men fumbled through their orders. The dragon was still, but Samwyll could see the slow, shallow drag of its breath, nostrils flaring like a warhorse that had run itself too hard.

  There was a moment, a creeping thing, before a storm breaks. Samwyll could feel it.

  The officer gestured vaguely at his men. “Just—finish it.”

  Another soldier stepped forward, holding a thick iron stake.

  “Should I—?”

  “Yes,” the officer cut in, rubbing his temples. “Stake it down. Like we have done five times already.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer sighed. “Gods help me.”

  The soldier drove the stake into the dirt. Another length of rope pulled taut against the dragon’s limbs. Samwyll clenched his fists.

  “They’re moving him,” He whispered and Bendry stiffened beside him, a sharp breath pulling his shoulders tight. Samwyll already knew what was coming.

  His voice barely above a whisper, “We have to do something.”

  Samwyll didn’t answer.

  This wasn’t Lowreach. This wasn’t lifting purses or cutting a horse loose in the middle of the night. These were trained soldiers and a dragon that could wipe everyone out in a heartbeat. The smallest misstep now could mean the difference between life or—.

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  CRACK.

  A sharp snap cut through the clearing. Samwyll’s stomach plummeted. He did not need to look down to know what had happened. Bendry’s foot had found the one dry branch in a sea of damp earth, and now dozen pairs of eyes were turning toward them.

  The officer closed his eyes, exhaling slowly .

  Without looking, he pointed in their direction. “Who was that?”

  A soldier near the back lifted his hands. “Not me, sir.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. Derys.”

  Samwyll’s grip tightened on Bendry’s arm. “You need to run.”

  Bendry’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “Run, Bendry.” Samwyll shoved him back, his voice a whisper but firm. “Now!” Bendry hesitated for half a breath, then turned and darted into the trees, his form vanishing into the darkness.

  Samwyll barely had time to curse before half a dozen hands were dragging him forward into the light. The officer looked him over with an expression of mild amusement, as if he were inspecting an insect that had wandered into his boot print. Samwyll had been in enough bad situations to recognize the moment when things truly turned to shit. That first second when the fight was already lost, but you still had to pretend like you had a way out. The officer tilted his head.

  “Well,” he drawled, “what have we here?”

  Samwyll swallowed, forcing a smirk.

  “Just a humble traveler,” he said, casual as he could manage. “Bit lost, actually. Any chance you fine gentlemen could—”

  The first punch landed before he could finish. The second slammed into his gut. Samwyll doubled over, coughing, as laughter rippled through the soldiers. The officer shook his head.

  “Gods,” he sighed. “What was that? He was already talking.”

  Another soldier stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

  “Should I—”

  “No!,” the officer answered. “No! You wait for him to say something stupid first, and then hit him.”

  “Got it.” The soldier nodded and they all turned to Samwyll again. Samwyll coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. He lifted his head, grinning. Hopefully, he had bought Bendry time. He just had to hope it was enough for him to get far away.

  “You hit like a milkmaid.”

  Everyone paused.

  The officer blinked, then, “Well, fucking hit him!”

  The next punch came fast, then a boot hit the back of his knee and Samwyll went down, hitting the dirt hard. He tried to twist away, to plant his feet and regain his balance, but the next boot struck his ribs with brutal force. Something inside him cracked and a deep, splintering pain sent him sprawling across the ground.

  The officer sighed again. “Enough.”

  Samwyll forced his head up. He had bought Bendry some time, and that was all that really mattered. The officer crouched slightly, eyeing him.

  “You think you’re funny, boy?”

  The world vanished in shadow, a vast, shifting shape, unfurling from the earth itself. Beneath his feet, the ground shuddered—deep, rhythmic, like the slow, deliberate tread of something immense.

  Someone whispered, “Oh, shit.”

  Samwyll looked up.

  The dragon’s tail lashed through the air, a whip of blackened scales and fire-lit embers. The first soldier never had a chance. The tail struck, his armor crumpled, and he hit a tree with a wet thud. The second soldier tried to run. He made it two steps before the dragon’s wing lashed outward, a brutal, battering sweep of its half-torn membrane. The force alone took his legs out from under him. He crashed to the ground, rolled, and didn’t get up.

  The officer stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the dragon with a blank, almost resigned expression

  He started, without turning his head, “Brenor. You were on ropes.”

  Brenor made a small noise. “Sir—”

  The officer held up a hand. He didn’t even look at Brennor.

  “Brenor,” he said again, patient and measured. “Were you or were you not responsible for securing the ropes on the very large, very dangerous lizard?”

  There was a long, terrible silence.

  “Sir, it was loose before—”

  “Oh,” the officer muttered, nodding. “Oh, was it? Loose before—Well, then. My mistake,” the officer continued, “Maybe we should go tell the Dragon Lord right now. ‘Oh, sorry, Your Highness, we were going to bring you that big, nasty beast, but turns out it had agency.’” He dragged a hand down his face.

  The dragon growled and the sound rolled through the clearing, low and terrible, like a distant storm before the first strike of lightning.

  The officer glanced up and sighed.

  “Alright, men,” he said, clapping his hands together once. “New plan. Kill the dragon.”

  Brenor hesitated. “Sir? The dragon lord wants them alive.”

  The officer turned, eyes narrowing.

  “Brenor. I swear to every god listening, if you don’t raise your fucking spear in the next two seconds—”

  Brenor raised his spear, but it was already too late.. The dragon had moved first and a claw the size of a man’s arm came down on the nearest soldier, cutting through armor like wet parchment. Blood splattered the dirt in a wide arc. The soldier let out a gurgling, half-scream before his body was pinned to the ground, crushed beneath the dragon’s sheer weight. The others finally reacted and three of them launched their spears, but only one hit.

  It buried deep into the dragon’s torn wing, punching through raw, exposed membrane. The beast snapped its head around, silver eyes locking onto the man who had thrown it. He tried to step back, but the dragon lunged. Its jaws closed around him, armor crunching beneath the force. A brief, muffled scream was cut short as the dragon whipped its head sideways and the man came apart. Half of his body landed in the bushes. The other half never hit the ground.

  The dragon fixed its gaze on the officer. A slow exhale left the man’s lips, his throat working as he took a measured step back. Silver eyes watched him, cold as moonlight, unblinking. The beast loomed higher, shifting its weight, the sound of its breath deep and steady. The officer swallowed hard. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword. A ragged breath escaped him. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, “I should’ve stayed in Kythren.”

  Then the teeth closed around him.

  Brenor stared at the spot where the officer had been standing.

  “Oh, shit. It got Captain Rhoen.” The soldiers didn’t hesitate. They scattered like rats from a sinking ship. The dragon lashed its tail sideways, sweeping low, catching the first by his knees. The force ripped his legs out from under him, flipping him end over end before he crashed back down.

  Brenor raised his shield, shaking in his grip. The dragon struck, claws raking across metal, the sheer force sending him sprawling onto his back. Before he could rise, a massive foot planted itself against his chest, pressing down with slow, deliberate force. His breath caught, then thinned to a rasp, his body straining against the weight. He tried to push back, his hands scrabbling against the earth, but the pressure only increased. His ribs bent inward, groaning under the strain. The first snap sent a jolt of pain through his body, sharp and undeniable. The second took his breath entirely. The final, grinding crush left nothing but silence.

  The last two soldiers let their weapons fall. One collapsed to his knees, his hands raised in surrender. “Please,” he stammered. “Please, we—”

  The dragon inhaled.

  Samwyll had no time to think. He threw himself to the ground, pressing his body against the earth before the world went white.

  It was not fire. Fire burned, consumed, left behind the wreckage of what it destroyed. This was something that reduced the man’s body to ash before his bones even hit the ground. The blast struck the trees beyond him, vaporizing bark, leaving a charred, smoldering path in its wake. Smoke rolled through the space where he had stood. The air shimmered with fading heat. Samwyll coughed, his throat raw and lungs burning.

  Silence settled over the clearing. The soldiers were gone.

  Samwyll pressed a hand to the ground, feeling the grit and damp earth beneath his fingers as he pushed himself upright. His vision swam, a haze of color and motion that refused to settle. For a moment, the world seemed too far away, its edges blurred, its sounds distant. Then he turned his head.

  Bendry stood a few paces off, his posture loose and effortless. Behind him, the thick ropes that had bound the dragon lay in severed coils, their ends curling like snakes. Bendry balanced a knife between his fingers, rolling it in a slow, absentminded motion, as though testing its weight. The metal gleamed whenever it caught the dim light, a steady rhythm of glinting silver against the dark.

  "You were right," Bendry said, quiet but sure. He gave the knife one final turn before stilling it against his palm. "This is a good knife."

  Samwyll didn’t move. He couldn’t. Every breath was a raw scrape through his ribs, each inhale dragging against bruised flesh. His blood pooled in his mouth, thick and metallis. His limbs were leaden, pain curling deep in his muscles, pulsing sharp where boots had driven into him. He forced himself to swallow, to shift the weight of his body, but the simple act of standing felt like peeling himself from the ground after being nailed to it.

  Bendry was still grinning.

  The dragon’s silver-white gaze flicked toward them, his head tilting slightly. He felt it again. Samwyll felt it reach into his thoughts again slow at first, like fingers trailing through water, pushing harder, not just with words but images. pressure sharpened, slipping past thought and into memory. They flashed in his mind.

  The fire burning low, the smell of smoke, pine resin lingered in the air, and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls. He was young, too young to understand what dying meant, but he knew what not waking up looked like. The air had smelled of sickness for days, thick and cloying. The hands that had held him steady, that had smoothed his hair and cupped his cheek, would never move again. He had stood at the threshold, not stepping forward, not stepping back, listening to the crackle of the fire because it was the only sound left.

  Laughter pulled him away, bright and breathless. Bendry, darting ahead on the forest path, feet kicking up dirt, the summer air thick with the scent of pine. Samwyll called for him to slow down, but the boy only grinned, disappearing between the trees. A splash. Cold water closing over his head. Darkness swallowing sound. Kicking, flailing, lungs burning, where’s up, where’s up? Hands reaching for the riverbank, slipping. Someone shouting his name. He fought, hard, but the current had him. He remembered the pull, the weight of the water deciding if it would keep him. And beneath it all, curling through the cracks of his thoughts, something else. Samwyll jerked upright, breath dragging in sharp and ragged. The vision broke.

  "Ah. I see you now. Samwyll Thrayne"

  The dragon’s silver-white gaze lingered on him.

  He gave what sounded like a slow, curling exhale. Like the sound of shifting stone before an avalanche. "You returned." His gaze lingered, "You are even more foolish than I thought."

  Samwyll forced his shoulders to stay loose. His left eye was starting to swell.

  Bendry stiffened, but he didn’t back down. "We came back to help you, Rhyzek."

  "Then you came for nothing."

  The words hung between them, but Samwyll saw it now, clearer than before. Rhyzek had already decided how this would end, not in fire and glory but stillness. He wasn’t waiting for help. He was waiting for the world to forget him.

  Bendry must have seen it too.

  "You’re really just going to lay here?" His voice was quiet, but something raw edged it. "You—one of the Kyraz-Thal, the Storm-Fanged—you're just going to die in the dirt?"

  Rhyzek’s tail flicked, but he did not answer.

  Bendry scoffed, frustration bleeding through. "You don't get to choose that."

  The dragon’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

  “I do.”

  His breath dragged in slow, deliberate, settling deep in his chest. For a moment, it looked like that would be the end of it. That he would close his eyes, let the world move on, let the sky leave him behind.

  Bendry exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He tilted it then, eyes narrowing. “What, no one?”

  Rhyzek didn’t answer.

  Bendry took another step. “No friends, no family, no one who gives a damn whether you live or die?”

  Something shifted in Rhyzek, something instinctive. Samwyll saw it. The flicker in those silver eyes, the way they darted past them both, into the horizon. It was a memory. A name unsaid. A place unseen. A promise waiting in the distance. Samwyll didn’t know which. Neither did Bendry. But Rhyzek did.

  His gaze lingered northward, locked onto something neither of them could see. And for the first time, Samwyll caught it—the thought, unspoken, forming behind that cold exterior. Rhyzek wasn’t alone. Bendry had just reminded him.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move.

  Then his claws scraped against the ground, shifting. A breath, long and steady, rolled from his chest. Rhyzek staggered forward, his claws sinking deep into the scorched dirt. The gashes along his ribs were splitting open, each shallow breath forcing fresh rivulets of blood to well between the torn scales. His back leg trembled, the muscles twitching violently. He set his stance, pushing his weight down, coiling his legs beneath him.

  His wings flared. A gust kicked up, scattering the ash. For a moment, the air seemed to take him, the sky seemed willing. Then his body folded in on itself, like a bridge collapsing mid-span. His left wing buckled. His ribs gave way. And the sky let him go.

  The dragon hit hard, left wing first. The membrane tore with a wet snap. Then his body followed, slamming into the dirt. The ground trembled. The sound that tore from Rhyzek’s throat was unfiltered suffering.

  He clawed, his limbs flexed, straining to push himself up.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Rhyzek collapsed, breath ragged, muscles spent.

  “Huh,” Bendry muttered. “That was almost impressive.”

  Rhyzek’s lifted his head towards the boy. His silver eyes unreadable.

  “You should not be here."

  The voice pressed hard against Samwyll’s skull, but it had grown weaker—tired.

  Bendry was unfazed. “Yeah, well. We are.”

  Samwyll closed his eyes for half a second, bracing.

  Bendry gestured to the wreckage and the torn wing.

  “You can’t fly. So what’s the plan? Limp across the whole damn Hinterwoods? Crawl?” Bendry took a step closer. “You need us.”

  Rhyzek said nothing. Samwyll watched the dragon’s breath hitch slightly, just for a second, before he exhaled. His frame stayed tense. His jaw locked. Even on a dragon, Samwyll knew that look. He’d worn it himself a thousand times. That war inside your head, the one that told you don’t trust, don’t rely, don’t hope because hoping made you vulnerable. Hoping made you desperate, and desperate men made mistakes.

  Bendry tilted his head, studying the dragon, then shrugged and folded his arms. “Look, I get it. You think you’ll make it alone. That’s real inspiring. But you’re not thinking straight, so let me help.”

  He held up a finger.

  “First? You can’t fly. Not today, not tomorrow. Maybe not for weeks.”

  Another finger.

  “Second? You’re injured worse than you’re admitting. That wound on your ribs? Deep enough that you’re still bleeding. You keep moving like this, you’ll be dead before you even reach the mountains.”

  Third finger.

  “Third? You need food. You need water. You need a place to hide. You’re too big to go unnoticed, and you’re leaving a damn blood trail for anyone who wants to finish what those guys started.”

  Bendry’s hand dropped, his voice leveling out. “You think we can’t help you? Fine. You think we’re weak, or annoying, or not worth your time? Fine. But unless you’ve got a hidden stash of dragon-sized bandages and an underground tunnel leading straight to wherever you need to go—” He gestured at the torn wing, the blood-slicked scales. “You. Are. Not. Making it.”

  “So here’s what I think,” Bendry said, stepping forward again, voice firm. “Sure, you know the sky. The wind, the mountains, the storms. You know where you need to go. But we know the land.” He nodded toward the trees. “The roads. The rivers. The places you can hide. We know where people will come looking for you and where they won’t. I already cut you free once. If you want to get back to your—kind, you’re going to need us.”

  Rhyzek’s legs flexed, his eyes locked on the northern sky. For a moment, Samwyll could swear he saw something there—a place, a name, a reason. He took a breath, deep and steady, and shifted his weight forward. He pushed himself upright, slow and shaking, one limb at a time, one breath at a time.

  Then, his left leg buckled. His wing dragged uselessly behind him, torn and raw. His breath shuddered, and he collapsed. The ground shook with the impact. The dragon let out a low and guttural roar.

  Rhyzek’s voice dragged against the air, raw and final. “I will not make it. Leave me.”

  Samwyll had expected it. He’d seen the wound and done the math. Rhyzek had looked at his own ending and decided it wasn’t worth the fight. He let out a slow breath. His ribs ached. His body screamed for him to walk away. He could almost feel Lowreach waiting for him—a warm bed, the river air, the chance to forget Bendry had ever dragged them into this mess. It was the logical choice. The safe one. The one that wouldn’t get them killed, but then he looked at Bendry.

  His little brother, who had spent the day arguing, pushing, believing. Now, Bendry was frozen. His fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders locked in stiff defiance. But the look in his eyes wasn’t stubbornness anymore. It wasn’t even anger.

  It was helplessness.

  The quiet kind. The kind that settled deep, that took root in a person and never let go.

  That was the thing Samwyll couldn’t take.

  For the first time since this all began, he wasn’t thinking about survival. Not about the dragon. Not about the danger. Not about the hundred ways this could go wrong.

  He was thinking about every time he had told Bendry no. Every time he had said the world didn’t work that way. That hope wasn’t enough.

  Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they would lose, but gods, just once, Samwyll wanted to believe. He sighed, already knowing he was going to regret this.

  "Yeah, well. Tough shit."

  Rhyzek’s head shifted slightly, silver eyes flicking toward Samwyll.

  Bendry squared his stance.

  “Oh, you’re pissed because you lost a fight?” Samwyll scoffed, shifting his weight, arms crossed. “Please. I lose fights all the time.”

  Rhyzek’s silver gaze lingered on him, sharp but silent. His claws flexed, digging into the dirt.

  Samwyll took a slow breath, shaking his head. “You think you’re the first one to feel like this? Like everything’s been ripped out of your hands and all you’ve got left is knowing you lost? You think you’re the only one who’s had to get up when it felt pointless?” His voice hardened. “Then you don’t know anything about fighting.”

  Rhyzek’s breathing shifted, deeper now, controlled. His tail flicked once, a slow, thoughtful motion. His silver gaze locked onto Samwyll, piercing, but for the first time, Samwyll didn’t flinch under it.

  Bendry stepped beside Samwyll, arms crossed. "So, you coming with us or not?"

  Rhyzek did not answer. His gaze lingered on the horizon again, his body coiled in stillness. Rhyzek took a breath, deep and steady. He shifted his weight. He pushed himself upright, slow and shaking, one limb at a time, one breath at a time, until he stood once more, towering above them. He took a slow and painful step forward.

  Bendry elbowed Samwyll, grinning like he’d won a bet.

  “See? Dragon friend.”