Veyna was a Dragon Hunter—or she would be, if tonight didn't kill her first.
She ran her fingers along the ceremonial bow across her knees. Silver runes shimmered faintly, etched in Tempest patterns for balance and precision. A gift from the Skyborn Council on her seventeenth birthday. A mark of passage.
But one mark pulsed differently.
At the center, an older glyph hummed faintly against her skin—ancient, unreadable, a thread of something deeper. Not just a rune for aim or strength. A legacy. A warning.
They had never believed in the Hunt.
She'd been raised in that tension—Sky Nomad culture hailing strength through the slaying of dragons, and her family preaching compassion, healing, mercy. For years, she'd tried to live between them.
But now, her twin brother was dying.
Taren lay beneath their mother's quilt, still and pale, his smile faint but stubborn.
Earlier that night, his voice had cracked. "It hurts so much I forget what breathing feels like." He'd gripped her hand hard, fingers digging in, his face drawn tight with pain—like even speaking cost him more than he had.
Then—when the pain dulled and his voice steadied, soft as wind through cracked glass—he'd whispered, "Pain and sadness pass in time, Vey. You just have to hold on long enough to laugh again."
At the time, she'd thought he was just trying to comfort her—putting on a show of strength for her sake.
But now, as each breath came faster than the last, she saw it for what it was.
He wasn't just soothing her.
He was leaving her something.
His strength. His hope.
Because he knew she'd have to face the rest without him.
Every hour, helplessness carved deeper into her ribs.
She couldn't wait any longer.
Not when her parents had already made peace with losing him.
Maybe they called it acceptance.
She called it giving up.
But she couldn't picture the silence his absence would leave.
She rose from his bedside in silence, the night pressing in despite the thick walls of their home. Outside, the wind shifted. A storm building.
There was still hope—fragile, stubborn, hers—and she refused to let it die with her brother.
Dragon scales could heal. They always had—for those with coin, or favor.
Her family had neither.
Their convictions—mercy over might—had made them easy to ignore. Unheeded. Unchosen.
She moved through the quiet, gathering what she'd stashed away: windsigil-lined armor and Council-forged arrows gifted just yesterday—symbols of their shared passage into adulthood. One life just beginning. The other already fading.
She dressed by memory, every strap fastened, every buckle drawn tight—ritual turned rebellion.
The Elders hoarded what dragon scales they had, whispering of a future that never came.
"Preparation," they said. Never rescue. Never Taren.
Wait. Accept. Endure.
They all had their words.
None of them meant saving him.
Others turned to pirate traders—at ruinous prices.
Her family couldn't afford salvation.
So she would take it.
Alone.
She crossed to the ceremonial bow. Her hand hovered for just a breath.
They'll say I've lost my mind. That I've gone Storm Mad.
She closed her fingers around it anyway. Steady. Certain.
The choice had already been made.
She moved fast—armor light enough to fly, thick enough to maybe survive flame. Her quiver locked in place, Galespike arrows at her back—magically enhanced, deadly even to the rarest Frostwraith.
Outside, the skiff waited at the cliff's edge, tethered to a soft-glowing mooring line.
She slipped into the cockpit, breath tight, hands already moving. She knew the schedules. It wouldn't be missed until dawn.
She slammed her palm against the helm. Lightning cracked down her arm from the Vaelstone, searing into the Cloudpulse Core. The skiff hummed to life, lifted with a shiver, and snapped free of its line.
Wind rushed past as the skiff climbed, the storm-slick air sharp in her lungs.
Below, her home—known to the world as Stormrest—fell away: cliffside homes, calm blue glows, and the great Vaelstone pulsing beneath it all.
A cradle of tradition. Of caution. Of helplessness.
She didn't look back.
Ahead, clouds opened like gates.
Only forward now.
She had tracked the Emberwyrm for weeks—a smaller dragon, bronze-scaled and battle-scarred, quick and clever. It ruled the Shattered Verge, darting through storms like wildfire.
As the skiff cut through the clouds, she adjusted the sail tension with one hand, the other steady on the helm. Her eyes never stopped scanning the jagged skyline.
She hadn't meant to name him.
But the first time she saw him blaze across the sky, the name hit like thunder.
Zephiron.
It had felt right.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
She leaned into the updraft, shifting her weight to steady the skiff as turbulence rocked the hull. Her fingers brushed the fletching of her arrows—counting, checking, breathing.
Solo hunts were forbidden. No one her age even tried.
And yet here she was—alone in the storm—guided by nothing but hope and desperation.
It wasn't courage that carried her forward. It was her refusal to stop.
The air thickened around her—sharp with ozone, pressure building in her bones. Her grip tightened on the helm, knuckles white. She guided the skiff lower, weaving between cloudbanks streaked with lightning.
There.
A flicker of gold.
Zephiron.
He flared into view—tail blazing, bronze wings stretched wide like fire-veined sails, sleek and sharp-edged. Their membranes shimmered with heat, pulled taut by motion and instinct. He landed on a jagged ledge in a whirl of steam, breath hissing, old wounds catching the light like ghosted scars.
No bigger than a large dog, he was small by dragon standards—quick, elusive, and just manageable enough to make a solo hunt possible.
Veyna crouched low, every nerve taut.
One unhampered shot. One dragon. One chance to save Taren.
She drew her bow. Nocked an arrow. Breathed.
Her Vaelstone pulsed.
Zephiron turned.
Their eyes met.
Time fractured.
She didn't release.
Couldn't.
There was something in his gaze—more than reflex. More than recognition.
Understanding.
Then he moved.
A blur of bronze fury. Wind exploded around her as wings surged forward—fast, direct, unhesitating.
He didn't veer.
He didn't warn.
He crashed.
Zephiron slammed head-on into the skiff with full force, a wall of heat and scale. The impact split the hull in two. Wood cracked. Magic burst.
The world bucked. Arrows scattered.
Her Vaelstone burst with light—then died, its magic devoured as the skiff tore apart.
She fell.
Sky spinning. Storm roaring.
Then—stone.
Pain erupted through her ribs. Air fled her lungs. Blood slicked her armor.
She lay stunned, every breath a broken thing.
Above her, the shadow circled back.
Zephiron loomed.
She flinched, pain lancing through her ribs, one arm instinctively curling around her side. She couldn't run. Couldn't fight. She could only brace for the strike.
Yet it didn't come.
She forced one eye open, vision blurred and pulsing with pain.
He was watching.
Waiting?
His wings folded close as he landed with a gust of heat. He stepped forward—cautious, heavy.
He lowered his head.
His snout brushed her side, just above where her arm protected the wound.
It wasn't a strike.
It was a question.
She felt it impressed upon her—not in words, but in sensation. Deep. Rooted. Waiting.
Will you accept this?
The inquiry hovered between them—wild and ancient, growing more insistent with every breath. A thing of instinct and legacy. A choice.
She couldn't speak. But her lips moved anyway.
"Yes," she whispered.
Magic tore through her.
Not hers.
Not his.
Theirs.
Lightning surged in her veins. Fire bloomed behind her eyes. The glyph on her bow ignited like a second sun—ancient light reborn.
She arched, body alive with reawakened forces, pain and wonder crashing through her in equal measure. Every sense unraveled—then reforged.
The world didn't vanish. It clarified.
Sound became rhythm.
Sky became pulse.
His thoughts slammed into hers like a second heartbeat—alien and familiar, vast and trembling.
She should have been terrified. Should have pulled away.
But she wasn't.
And that frightened her more than anything.
The Wyrmblood Bond had formed—
the one her people had feared for generations.
The one they swore would unravel mind and soul alike.
And still, she didn't let go.