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"But we need—"

Rhyven turns. "Now." One word. The handler moves. Everyone does.

"Return bonded dragons to protected sectors." Rhyven continues. "Nobody flies alone. Pairs minimum. Riders remain within direct bond range. Any disruption gets reported immediately."

Dax arrives beside him. "I'll take eastern relocation."

"Do it."

"Sky Wing?"

"With me." Dax leaves. No argument.

This is Rhyven furious. I realize it slowly. He isn't yelling. He isn't throwing things. His face isn't twisted with rage. He's becoming quieter. More precise. Every word clipped down to necessity. Every movement controlled so tightly it almost looks unnatural. And everyone around him can feel it.

Professor Vayne catches my shoulder. "Stay."

I stop. Right. Response protocol. Not Chief. Not Rider. Evidence. I force myself to look at the field instead of Rhyven. The depletion meter screams. Literally. A sharp magical whine. One wardkeeper jerks it away from the ground. "Gods."

"What?" Vayne asks.

"Thirty-eight percent." Silence. "Repeat."

"Thirty-eight."

"Localized?"

The wardkeeper walks the perimeter. The number changes. Thirty-two. Twenty-seven. Twenty. Then twelve. "Center is here." He points toward the deepest claw impression. Exactly where Theryn stood. The grass looks wrong. I crouch without touching. Not dead. Grey. Like someone washed the green from it.

The soil beneath is pale. A wardstone four feet away has cracked cleanly through the center. I look toward Vayne. He sees it too.

"Active structure." I say.

"What?"

"The wardstone." He turns. A faint residue coats the crack. More visible than Aelindra's. Still nearly colorless. But thicker. The lanternlight around it seems weak. Professor Vayne swears. Quietly. I've never heard him do that before. Not encouraging.

"Contain it." He orders. The wardkeepers move. "Nobody touches the stone. Measure first. Mark every object within six meters." Training takes over. Good. Something I can understand. I start documenting. Position. Distance. Magical status. Ground condition.

Evidence. Do not think about the missing dragon. Work. Then every dragon on the field goes silent. Not gradually. One moment— noise. Growls. Wingbeats. Handlers shouting. Then— nothing. My head lifts. Rhyven's does too. Everyone looks north. The air changes. Pressure. A shadow crosses the field. Massive. Ancient. Vyrael. He doesn't land gracefully. He hits the ground. Hard. The impact shakes dirt from the nearby wall. Wings remain fully spread. Head high. Golden-black eyes sweep the field. His gaze finds the empty place. Stops. Something moves through his body. Not confusion. Recognition. Then rage. Vyrael roars. The sound punches through my chest. Several people cover their ears. I don't. I can't move. Because at the exact same moment— Rhyven breaks. Not visibly. Inside. And I feel it. Fear. It hits so hard I lose my breath. Not mine. His. I know immediately. The connection between us tears open like a door caught by wind. No warning. No permission. Rhyven's fear floods straight through me. Deep. Violent. Nothing like the controlled concern I've felt from him before. This is older than thought.

Instinctive. Vyrael. Dragons. His Riders. Loss. A terrible, suffocating certainty that something has reached into a place he believed protected and removed something that should have been impossible to remove. I grab the edge of the evidence table.

Professor Vayne looks toward me. "Vaelith?"

"I'm fine." I'm not. Not because the fear is hurting me. Because it belongs to Rhyven. And Rhyven is never afraid like this.

Across the field, he looks toward Vyrael. Everything else disappears from his attention. He walks. Fast. Vyrael lowers his head before Rhyven reaches him.

Rhyven puts both hands against the dragon's face.

Forehead to scales. And stops. I've seen them together dozens of times. Rhyven leaning against Vyrael while reading. Rhyven checking harnesses. Rhyven standing beneath one enormous wing during rain. Rhyven annoyed because Vyrael refuses to cooperate with something trivial. Easy. Familiar.

This isn't that. Rhyven is checking. Not physically. Through the bond. Making sure Vyrael is there. Whole. Reachable. Real. Vyrael's eyes close. One enormous wing moves. Not fully around Rhyven. Partially. Enough to block the rest of the field from one side. A shelter. Or maybe a wall. Rhyven doesn't move. For several seconds he isn't Chief Corvell. He's just a Rider who watched another Rider lose half of himself. And needs to know his own dragon is still there. My chest hurts. The fear through our connection shifts. Vyrael. Relief. Still there. Then Sylvorin. Kaelthor. Checking. Reaching. Both answer.

More relief. His Riders. Count. Names. Positions. One by one. Then— me. The fear spikes. I stop breathing.

Rhyven's head lifts. Across the entire field he finds me. Instantly. Not searching. Finds. The connection between us tightens. And suddenly I understand something I wasn't supposed to. Part of what I am feeling is me. His fear for me. Theryn is gone. A dragon. Surrounded by other dragons. Within active wards. Bonded to a Rider standing feet away. Gone. And Rhyven is looking at me like his mind has already followed that fact to its next conclusion. If they can take her... I feel it. He doesn't need to finish. My own fear rises in response. Not of being taken. Of what this is doing to him. Of what it means. Of the empty field. Of Eddy still kneeling in the grass.