I need to find her.
I know Lucien told me to stay inside, but he's back and so the Veils should be up now, and it’s not like sitting here is any less risky. If Ahria decides to break the bond, I die anyway.
My grip tightens around the soft leather of the journal as I stare at the canvas above me.
Screw this.
Throwing back the covers, I drop the book onto the bed and shove my boots on. Then I grab Talen’s flight jacket, and slip out before I can talk myself out of it.
Pulling the jacket higher around me, I move quietly through the moonlit campsite toward where Lucien’s sleeping. I have no real plan, no idea what time it is. Just one thought, circling hard and desperate: if I can find JC, maybe I can talk her into taking me to find Ahria.
Loud snores drift through the gap as I approach the second tent. Peeking inside, I find Lucien sprawled on his back, fully clothed, the teapot tipped on its side beside him, empty.
But I can’t see JC.
Fuck. Where is she?
Breath coming too fast, I drop the canvas back down and look around the campsite, but the moon’s lower now and the darkness is thicker.
“JC,” I mutter. “JC.”
Goddamn it, why the heck do dragons have to be so bloody small?
Spinning on the spot, my boots scrape across the dry earth as I keep searching, scanning over the scrubland—until something blue glints in one of the lone trees just outside camp.
Careful not to trip over any tent ropes, I start toward it as a gust of wind presses in from above.
My head jerks up as a shadow of wings sweeps overhead. Too small to be Cal. Too large to be Ahria.
Cold air lodges in my throat, and I stay motionless, holding it there as pressure builds behind my ribs while the creature circles once overhead, then disappears into the night sky.
Shit.
I exhale hard. Maybe this was a bad idea. But JC’s Veils must be up, keeping us hidden, and I’m already halfway to the tree. I can’t give up. Not yet.
My footsteps quicken, matching the pace of my pulse as I push on—only for my shoulders to drop when the glint turns out to be nothing more than a metal mug that someone must have left hanging to dry.
Hands flexing in frustration, I turn to head back when another gust races through the camp. A second later, something massive slams down behind the tree, the force of it rippling through the ground and straight into my knees.
Instinct takes over and I shove myself back against the trunk, fingernails digging into the bark, because unlike JC’s landings, this one doesn’t sound clean. There’s no controlled sweep of wings, no neat scrape of claws finding earth. This is messy. Heavy. More fall than landing.
A deep, broken growl drags up from the creature behind, reverberating through my bones.
God, there are only two ways this goes. Either it’s Ahria or Cal, hurt badly enough to need help, or it’s the dragon I just watched cut across the sky—and I have no idea if that thing was a scout or unbonded, only that I’m out here alone, with no magic and no plan.
Another strangled noise rolls through the gloom behind me, followed by the rough drag of claws over earth, a leathery scrape, then a heavy crash like it’s trying—and failing—to push itself up.
Unable to wait any longer guessing, I cautiously ease my head around the tree and a gasp escapes me as moonlight slides over dark orange scales.
Cal.
He’s hunched low, one wing tucked against his side, his whole body curled around it. Every few seconds, his claws flex in the dirt and another strained rumble vibrates through his chest as he tries to spread the injured wing out. The movement barely lasts a heartbeat before it folds back in with a sharp twitch.
“Talen!” I step out toward him and immediately regret it as Cal’s head whips toward mine at terrifying speed, the gold in his eyes blazing so bright they look like flames against the darkness.
My whole body contracts in around itself as the scales around his mouth pull back, revealing row after row of perfectly sharpened teeth. Then he snarls, and the heat rolling off him hits me in a powerful wave, forcing me back a step as my palms lift between us.
“It’s okay,” I stutter, each word coming in short, broken pants as he stalks toward me. “It’s me. Lyra.”
