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Sorin
Dragons were dangerous creatures—Sorin knew it better than most—but even he was not prepared for the viciousness of Bertram’s growl when seven riders in full riding armor crested the nearest hill. It was a terrible sound. Inhuman. Cruel and brutal and gut-wrenchingly deep. There was no humanity in it—only dragon—and its message was unmistakable: I will kill you if you come any closer.
But the vehicles did not stop.
They barreled forward, kicking up dirt and stone with their tires as their engines rumbled out a message of their own: We’d like to see you try.
Sorin, heart racing with panic, reached out a hand for Bertram, but before he could make contact, Bertram lurched forward, back hunching as transformation ripped through him. His chest broadened. His thighs swelled. Claws jackrabbited from his fingertips, and scales plunged down his neck as the seams of his shirt began to burst.
It had only been seconds, but his dragon was already well on its way out.
“Get inside,” Bertram told him in a low and lethal voice that registered somewhere between dragon and man. “Do you remember where our guns are?”
“Yes, but—”
“Take them. Put your back to a corner and flip a table to shelter behind. If they get through me and your magic is not enough to kill them on the spot, shoot them as they come through the door.”
“Bertram…”
“Go.”
The first rider—a slender thing in sleek black riding armor complete with a full-face helmet—arrived within a hundred feet of them, the rest of his entourage hot on his tail. Bertram spared Sorin just one last look, then turned his head and thrust his hand forward, palm open, before swinging it violently to the side. Fire erupted several meters to the left of the rider and spread like a wall in front of him, blocking him from view.
Sorin knew he ought to run, but it felt like his feet had been rooted to the ground. The noise in his head—barely louder than a whisper since his reunion with Bertram—flared painfully, screeching in his ears so loudly, it felt like his whole head was throbbing.
He had faced down many a deadly situation before, but this—this was different.
He had never seen Bertram like this before, and it made him afraid.
Another wall of fire went up, blocking off a rider coming in from farther down the way. Brakes screeched. Flames crackled. Hearing them triggered a memory in Sorin, bringing him back to the day he’d burned himself while trying to rescue his eggs. It had been agony, and he had been alone.
So alone.
He couldn’t let the same happen to Bertram.
If they were to die, whether by fire or some other means, they would die together. They had fought too long for this to spend their last moments without each other. Bertram was the one with claws, but Sorin wasn’t defenseless—his magic was powerful, and it had saved him more than once. It stood to reason it would save him again.
“I’m staying here,” he said, gritting his teeth against his fear and pain. “I’m not letting you die alone.”
“Sorin—”
“No.” Sorin stepped forward and stood at Bertram’s side. “We chose this life together. My place is here, with you. I won’t leave you. Not now. Not ever again.”
Bertram’s eyes had been locked on Sorin’s through the entirety of what he’d said, but as his speech concluded, Bertram dropped his gaze and—to Sorin’s surprise—took his hand.
“Then we will fight together,” he said, squeezing Sorin’s hand gently. “It’s the way it always should have been.”
“And now, it’s how it will be.”
Bertram lifted Sorin’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, then lowered his hand again. “Our time draws short, love. My magic is nearly depleted, and I won’t be able to summon flame again until my quiescence subsides. Are you ready for what’s to come?”
Sorin glanced at the wall of fire separating them from certain death and took a deep, grounding breath.
“I’m ready,” he said, and squeezed Bertram’s hand back. “Let them come. I’ll show them what a mistake it was to come threaten a dragon in his own home.”
Bertram chuckled, and with a curl of his fingers, the wall of fire vanished. Behind it, all seven vehicles had come to a stop, and several of the riders had dismounted. Their identities were hidden by head-to-toe riding armor comprised of skintight suits, sturdy boots, and full-face helmets with tinted face shields, but there were a few telling features their clothing could not hide—they were shorter than Sorin had expected agents of the council to be, and the first one who stepped forward after the wall of fire fell was strangely delicate. The discrepancy gave Sorin pause, but it did no such thing to Bertram, who took an aggressive step forward and snarled as the rider approached.
“Now, now,” chided the man beneath the helmet. He did not sound in the least bit alarmed, and as he pulled his helmet off to reveal a head full of blond curls, Sorin realized why. “There’s no need for that, darling.” None other than Peregrine tucked his helmet under his arm. “We mean you no harm, and you’ve no reason to fear us—we have come unarmed, and better yet, we’ve left our mates at home.”
