Page 37 of Waking Her Dragon

Carrick stepped up beside them, his heavy boots sinking into the sod. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he looked down at his broken Guardsman. "Explain, Ginnie, please."

"Garrett isn't simply injured," Ginnie whispered, her hands shaking as she maintained the failing stabilization field. "His body has completely forgotten how to heal itself. We can't force his system to remember how to fight. He has to do that for himself."

Carrick’s heavy shadow fell over Sydney as more footsteps sprinted across the lawn. The air became thick with the ozone scent of incoming Healing Magic, and the space around Garrett’s unyielding, broken body grew desperately crowded.

Carrick reached down, his massive, scarred hand gently but firmly wrapping around Sydney’s upper arm. He didn't pull, but the upward pressure was clear. “Sydney,” he said softly, his deep voice stripped of its earlier thunder. “Move back. Give the Healers room to breathe. Let them do their jobs.”

Sydney didn't look up. She kept her eyes locked on Garrett’s pale, dirt-streaked face. Her fingers remained tightly interwoven with his cold, unmoving ones, anchoring him to the grass.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Syd…”

“I’m not interfering, Carrick,” she interrupted, her voice dropping into a flat, immovable register that matched the steely control in her soul. “I’m not touching Ginnie’s spell lines. I’m not blocking the path. But I am not letting go of his hand. If I let go, he drifts. I can feel him slipping down the tether, and I am the only thing keeping him on this side of the dirt.”

Carrick stood rigid above her for a long, heavy beat. He was a Leader used to complete compliance on a battlefield, a legendary Dragon Guardsman who knew that seconds meant the difference between life and death. Sydney braced herself for him to rip her away by force, prepared to unleash every drop of her golden Light to fight him if she had to.

Instead, Carrick went perfectly still.

The Dragon Elder studied the rigid slope of her shoulders. He looked down at the fierce, white-knuckle grip she had on Garrett’s hand, then traced the invisible, vibrating current of the Mating Bond humming between them. Finally, he looked at his broken Guardsman, whose chest gave another shallow, agonizing rattle.

Carrick saw it all. He recognized the primordial, supreme geometry of the bond. He knew that if he severed that physical connection right now, Garrett’s fading soul might never find its way back through the dark.

Jason, a young Guardsman studying to be a physician with the Ancients, sprinted up to the perimeter, hands already glowing with an amber glow. “Carrick, we need to clear the immediate circle for the transfer…”

“Leave her,” the renowned Guardsman commanded quietly, cutting the Healer off with a solitary flick of his wrist.

Jason blinked, completely thrown. “Sir?”

“I said leave her,” Carrick repeated, his tone allowing no argument. He released his grip on Sydney’s arm and took a step back, into the outer perimeter to act as her shield. “She stays. Work around her.”

Sydney let out a shaky breath, whispering a silent thank you into the wind, and squeezed Garrett’s hand tighter.

The grass of the clearing rustled as the Dragon Guardsmen who were closest began to materialize, stepping out from the shadows of the magnolia trees, barely making a sound.

Jason reappeared. “We can’t reach Garrett’s brother, Grey, or Grey's Mate. Where they are at the moment is currently locked down under a heavy temporal storm.”

But the Dragon Guard didn’t and couldn’t wait for optimal conditions. When a brethren fell, the network rippled outward automatically, catching whoever was closest to the frequency of the crisis.

First came Deacon, one of the legendary Dragons of Fate. He lived just twenty-five miles away on a quiet plot outside of Valentine. He had felt the raw, seismic shift in Carrick’s Magical emergency call before the comms lines even pinged. He walked up to the edge of the Healing Circle, his heavy trench coat catching the desert wind, his deep eyes dark with an ancient, heavy sorrow.

Right behind him was Colton MacAllen. His entire Family Clan ran a massive, sprawling ranch just west of Gravesland, and he had pushed his Dragon to the limit to cross the Texas sky in record time.

Then came Gunnar and Ruairí, Carrick’s own brothers, men who had walked the Earth for centuries, also been held captive and tortured, and had known Garrett since the very day he drew his first breath.

They gathered in a loose, protective perimeter around the glowing lavender stabilization field, their large frames forming a living wall of muscle and ancient Magic around Sydney and her fading Mate.

They didn't crowd the Healers. They didn't shout. Instead, the heavy, suffocating silence of the meadow was broken by the quiet, fragile weight of shared memories. Each man offered up a single, emotional anchor to help pull Garrett back from the edge of the Void.

Colton looked down at his friend’s shredded wrists, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle leaped beneath his skin. "He taught me how to fly formation," the Guardsman said quietly, his voice thick with a young Warrior's reverence. "When my wings were still too heavy for the thermal drafts, he stayed right on my flank for three days straight so I wouldn't drop. My brothers had given up on me ever doing more than hopping around in my scales."

Deacon let out a soft, sadly broken chuckle, his fingers reaching up to scratch at a faint, pale scar near his jawline. "He punched me square in the face the first day I met him." He shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I deserved it, too. I was being an arrogant bastard, and he didn't care that I was a Dragon of Fate. Garr just cared that I was breaking protocol."

Gunnar stepped closer to Carrick, placing a massive, calloused hand on his brother’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on the rattling, shallow rise of Garrett’s chest. "I still remember the day Aodhan chose him," Gunnar murmured, his deep voice vibrating with the weight of centuries. "He was just a boy, small and fierce, but he stood before the Dragon King without a single blink of fear in his eyes.

"Ruairí closed his eyes, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he let out a long, ragged breath. "He used to steal the apples from our orchard before he could Shift more than his hands. The crazy boy thought he was being so stealthy, completely oblivious to the fact that we were watching him from the porch and cheering him on."

The brief stories floated over the clearing like incense, bringing tiny, watery smiles and small, silent tears to the faces of the Universe’s Chosen Warriors.