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like all-fire² ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you’ve been shirking everything. your mission, your people, your own sense of direction—all for the soft curve of lando’s grin and the dragon who used to terrify you. (or: part two of the 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘵𝘵𝘺𝘥 𝘢𝘶.)

ꔮ starring: dragon rider!lando norris x dragon hunter!reader. ꔮ word count: 34k overall; 17.5k in this part two. read part one here. ꔮ includes: romance, action, angst, implied smut. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: how to train your dragon. depictions of injuries, blood, violence, animal/dragon death; mentions of food, alcohol; suggestive language, profanity. one-sided rivalry, slowburn, rivals to lovers, creative liberties on viking culture, lando has a hiccup -ish story arc. not beta read; all mistakes are my own. ꔮ commentary box: my words continue to fail me when they matter most; 34k and then some, and it all still feels wildly not-enough. happy birthday to my darling, dearest @norrisradio. i love you. i wouldn’t know how not to ❤️‍🔥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🎧 official playlist ⸻ flight risk

THIS IS PART TWO OF THE STORY. READ PART ONE HERE!

You arrive back at your village on a rickety boat, your legs half-asleep from the ride and your heart still somewhere between Berk and the moment you’d fled it. The skies are overcast, clouds heavy like they know something you don’t. The air tastes like soot even before you land.

It only takes one glance to see that something is very, very wrong.

The village is a wreck.

Splintered wood is strewn across the paths, mixed with shattered pottery and snapped beams. Upturned carts lean drunkenly against walls half-collapsed. Entire roofs have been peeled back like sardine tins, exposing the damp, ransacked interiors of homes.

Smoke still curls lazily from what used to be the storage barn, now reduced to blackened ribs and ash, the lingering scent of burned grain acrid in the air. The training field—your training field—is carved with deep trenches that rake across it like claw marks, and the northern watchtower, once proud and stubborn, leans at a precarious diagonal as if it’s too tired to keep standing.

You kick off your boat in a hurry, boots slipping slightly on the scorched, mud-streaked earth. Your knees protest when they hit the ground, still stiff from travel, but you barely notice. Villagers move in quiet urgency through the wreckage. Some with shovels, others with buckets. A few with just their bare hands and eyes too stunned to cry.

The silence is louder than any panic. It’s the kind that sinks into your bones.

A child walks by, face pale, a crude bandage wrapped around his head. He’s clutching a single piece of painted pottery in his arms like it’s the only thing he has left.

Yuki finds you first. Of course he does. His coat is torn at the hem, one eye swollen, and there’s a smear of dried blood across his sleeve. His expression hardens the moment he sees you.

“Nice of you to show up,” he snaps.

You’re already flinching before the words land. “Yuki, I didn’t know—”

“No?” he interrupts, voice brittle with exhaustion and fury. “Because a Triple Stryke trampled through here last night. Took out half the grain stores, flattened the forge, and nearly crushed the entire eastern quarter. But yeah, I’m sure whatever you were doin’ was far more important.”

You want to tell him. You want to explain. But the words catch, curdle.

George appears from behind a half-collapsed wall, brushing ash from his shoulder, the usual mischief gone from his eyes. “Ease up,” he says, nodding toward you. “She wasn’t lounging around. Max gave her a mission.”

From across the square, Max himself grunts in agreement. He’s on one knee, inspecting the splintered remains of someone’s porch. “She was following orders,” he says without looking up. “Leave it.”

Yuki scoffs and turns away, but not before you catch the bitter twist of his mouth. “Convenient,” he mutters.

You don’t reply. You can’t. The defense feels heavier than the accusation.

You were supposed to be here.

You take in the quiet ruin of it all. The smoldering barn, the way the well is cracked clean through, the missing shingles like picked scabs on every rooftop. Someone is patching a torn sail across the remnants of a house like a makeshift roof. A dog limps past, yelping, its leg wrapped in something bright blue.

No one died, they say. But you wonder if it would feel less hollow if someone had. Loss has taken a different form this time. One you helped create simply by not being here.

Smoke and guilt cling to the inside of your throat. You want to retch. You want to run. You want to sleep for a hundred years and wake to a village whole again, to a world before.

You were with Lando.

You swallow it all down and try to stand straighter, even as your knees threaten to buckle under the weight. For once, you don’t have anything clever to say.

Max doesn’t need to tell you what to do.

He watches from under the soot-streaked shadow of the broken watchtower, arms crossed, saying only, “Go.” No briefing. No fanfare. He knows your blood is already boiling, that your hands are twitching from the guilt, the need to fix what’s broken. To put something down without it looking up at you with Lando’s eyes.

You leave before Yuki can say anything else. You hit the ground running and find the Triple Stryke in record time.

It’s not even hiding—just out in the open near the basalt cliffs of Ember’s Spine, coiled like it owns the place, tails flicking and braiding and unbraiding as if just daring the world to try again. The ground is scorched in an erratic spiral around it, boulders melted into glassy slag. You circle it once, twice, and then dive in with reckless grace.

It’s like hitting a wall.

Your first strike glances off its hide like a pebble against plate armor. The creature screams, high-pitched and furious, and lashes out with its trio of tails like whips of living lightning.

You dodge. You grit your teeth. You shout things at it that would probably make your ancestors cry. But it’s not enough.

Then you remember Lando.

Specifically: Lando flipping through a tattered notebook one afternoon in the cove, dramatically reading out loud between mouthfuls of dried fruit.

“Triple Strykes, surprisingly vain,” he’d said, licking his thumb. “Real divas. Show them a prettier version of themselves, and they’ll get distracted. Dragons. They’re just like us.”

You’d called him an idiot.

Now, you dig through your satchel mid-fight and pull out the polished metal disk you use for signaling. Smooth enough to catch the moon and, hopefully, a narcissistic dragon’s attention.

You swoop back low, flashing the metal toward the beast’s face. It halts. Blinks. The tails pause mid-lash. It studies the glinting surface with the intense scrutiny of someone trying to remember if they left the house with eyeliner.

You approach warily, angling the disk just right. It stares at its reflection, tilts its head. The posture loosens. More importantly, it rears back slightly and exposes its underbelly.

Soft. Pinkish. Vulnerable.

You aim your next net perfectly.

It tangles around the creature’s midsection with a satisfying thunk and a shriek of surprise. The Triple Stryke bucks and screams, but the net holds. You cinch the ropes tighter with a practiced spiral. A few minutes of expertly danced chaos later, the beast collapses, worn and breathing hard.

Tamed? Not quite. But no longer a rampaging blur of venom and destruction.

You stand beside it, chest heaving, heart stuttering. The wind blows your hair into your face. The dragon glares at you with all three sets of tail tips twitching.

You hold the polished disk toward it again.

“Yeah,” you pant, smiling despite yourself. “Still pretty.”

The Triple Stryke’s massive, segmented tail thrashes behind it like a nest of angry snakes, gouging trenches in the stone. The creature's golden-orange carapace glistens in the sunlight that filters through the trees, every armored plate a warning. It breathes hard, heat curling from its nostrils, venomous tails raised in warning but not striking.

You’re crouched just outside the circle of scorched brush, one hand on your sword, the other steadying your breath. You could do it now. A clean strike. Max would be proud.

But something about the dragon’s stance makes you hesitate.

Its breathing is shallow, pained. The braids of its tails are knotted tighter than you’d expect, almost protective. Its eyes—deep-set and flashing—aren’t just wild. They’re tired. That makes two of you.

“Alright,” you say under your breath, sheathing your sword. For now. “Let’s figure out what your problem is.”

You creep closer, keeping your movements slow, non-threatening. The Triple Stryke watches you warily, snarling low in its throat, but it doesn’t strike. You circle its flank, ducking when one tail lashes close. It’s then you see it: a thick, jagged splinter of wood embedded deep between the braid’s middle coils. The flesh around it is swollen, inflamed.

“No wonder you’re pissed,” you whisper.

You’re not sure what comes over you. Maybe it’s the ghosts of guilt and a curly-haired dragon boy playing knight in your head. Whatever it is, you reach for your satchel and fish out a pair of forceps. “Don’t torch me for this,” you warn.

The Stryke growls. You roll your eyes.

With the gentleness of someone who absolutely should not be doing this, you press your knee into the ground and slowly, steadily, ease the splinter out. The dragon flinches hard. You mutter apologies under your breath like a prayer. When the shard finally pulls free with a wet noise, the Stryke emits a sound that is neither growl nor hiss but something almost… relieved.

It looks at you. And then it lowers its tails.

You lean back, stunned. Your knees are soaked, your hands coated in sap and dragon blood, and your heart’s thudding because that shouldn’t have worked.

A breeze moves through the clearing. On instinct, you reach into your coat and pull out the crumpled parchment you’d read just before departure. Lando’s notes. Scrawled in looping script, sentences like Vain bastard, but secretly sensitive, and Braid fusses when anxious; maybe tail grooming = bonding??

You’d scoffed at his notes. Dismissed them as nonsense. But now?

You stare at the calm, massive beast before you. You see not a war machine, but something wounded. Misunderstood.

“Oh my gods,” you breathe. “You’re not just ridiculous, Norris. You’re brilliant.”

The Triple Stryke chuffs, as if questioning who this fabled Norris might be.

You sneer. “Don’t get smug. One of you is enough.”

Still, you don’t raise your weapon. You don’t need to.

You report back to Max with a careful shrug and the laziest smirk you can muster. “Triple Stryke’s not an issue anymore,” you say, tossing a dragon scale onto his map table like it’s an apple core. “Consider it resolved.”

Max eyes the scale with a brow raised, then glances up at you. “You kill it?”

“It won't be bothering the village again.” You don’t elaborate. Max doesn’t press. That’s the unspoken agreement. You get the job done, details be damned.

Yuki corners you outside the strategy hall, rubbing the back of his neck. His coat’s freshly patched, and he won’t quite meet your eye. “Hey,” he says. “About what I said. I was out of line. You were just doing what Max told you to.”

You blink at him. That’s... shockingly mature. “Are you feeling alright?”

Yuki glares. “Don’t make me regret apologizing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, grinning as you clap his shoulder.

The next few days slip into a quiet rhythm. You don’t think about the Night Fury. You definitely don’t think about Lando. You pour yourself into your duties like a woman on fire: patrolling, mapping routes, sparring until your arms ache. Max praises your renewed focus. George offers you leftover bread rolls and a raised brow. You ignore both.

One off afternoon, you duck into the woods, a basket in hand, eyes scanning the underbrush for anything remotely edible. The trees sway gently, sunlight filtering down in golden splinters. You bend to pick some wild ginger; you hear a branch snap behind you.

You freeze. Then slowly, you turn.

There it is. The Triple Stryke. Standing maybe twenty paces away, head cocked like a curious dog, its tri-braided tail low to the ground.

You straighten, trying very hard not to make eye contact. “No. Nope. Don’t even think about it.”

It blinks at you.

“You’re not following me. That’s not what’s happening here.”

It takes a step closer.

“Shoo. Scat. Go terrorize someone else.”

Another step. It purrs. Actually purrs. Like a scaly, overgrown feline with venomous tails.

You spin on your heel and march away.

Fifteen minutes later, your basket’s fuller, your boots are muddier, and the Triple Stryke is still there. Following at a polite distance. Like it’s on a scenic walk. With you.

You turn around, hands on your hips. “You’re not my dragon,” you tell it. “I don’t care what stories Lando probably read to you. Go home.”

The dragon flicks one tail lazily and settles in a sunny patch of grass, watching you with far too much interest.

You sigh, long and theatrical. “Great. Just what I needed,” you mumble. “A walking guilt trip with claws.”

It yawns at you, utterly unbothered.

You press a palm to your forehead and trudge back into the brush, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down.”

You try to hunt. Try to get back that killer instinct that you’re known for. But when you do, the deer gets away. Again, and again, and again.

You watch it bound through the underbrush, graceful and smug, and you lower your bow with a frustrated sigh. There was a time you would have fired without hesitation, arrow slicing through air and hide. But now? Now you fucking hesitate. You keep hesitating.

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe with the Windwalker. Maybe with the Triple Stryke. Maybe with Lando. All you know is that every time you look through your sights, all you see is a question.

Soft, George would probably mutter if he saw you. Gone completely soft.

You don’t disagree.

Instead of returning to the village, you veer deeper into the woods, where moss grows thick and the canopy swallows sound. You settle on a log beside a mossy boulder and let your head fall back against the bark of a tree. A few birds chirp in the distance. A squirrel chides you from above.

You ignore the world until you hear the familiar rustle of something much bigger. You don’t look up. You don’t have to. “You again?”

The Triple Stryke huffs, slithering with too much serpentine pride for something that once trampled half your village. You sneer at it. “You really need a hobby.”

It settles beside you like an oversized, armor-plated dog. You side-eye it. It blinks back. You seem to be its new hobby.

“You know, you weren’t invited,” you say, arms crossed. The Triple Stryke flicks one of its tails and gives a low purring growl that, shockingly, doesn’t sound entirely hostile. “You’re vain, annoying, stubborn as sin...” You hesitate, then reach out to stroke the smooth patch beneath its jaw. “...but I guess you’re kind of cute.”

“Should I be jealous?”

The voice cuts through the trees like sunlight. You jolt up, hand flying to your belt out of instinct, but your heart gets there first—leaping straight into your throat.

Lando stands just past the tree line, one leg kicked lazily over the saddle of a certain smug-faced Night Fury.

“You—what—how long have you been there?” you stammer.

Lando grins, all teeth and something else behind the eyes. “Long enough to witness some very flattering compliments.”

Your hand is still on the Triple Stryke’s chin. You withdraw it like it’s on fire. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Uh-huh,” Lando says, sliding off the Night Fury with practiced ease. He lands lightly, despite the snow and roots beneath his boots. “So you haven’t tamed the very dragon that wrecked your village, adopted it as a hiking buddy, and started whispering sweet nothings into its scaly ears?”

“Again, not what it looks like.”

The Triple Stryke, traitorous beast, purrs and nudges your side.

Lando’s smile falters just a little. His eyes settle on you, taking in the muddy boots, the stray twig in your hair, the exhaustion in your shoulders. Something tender curls into the air between you. His voice is softer when he asks, “You alright?”

You want to answer. You don’t know how. Not with your throat clenched the way it is.

He steps closer, Night Fury trailing behind like a shadow. The two dragons eye each other warily but don’t fight. You wonder if that means something. You wonder if everything means something.

“Nice friend you’ve got there,” Lando comments, trying to keep things light.

You shrug, but it comes out more like a sigh. “It followed me home.”

His smile returns, crooked and quiet. “You planning to keep it?”

You glance down at the Triple Stryke, then back up at him. The question lingers in more ways than one.

The two dragons are dancing now.

At first, it's just a low rumble of interest. A cautious circle, the sound of soil being disturbed by talons and claws. You hold your breath as the Night Fury tilts its head at the Triple Stryke, nostrils flaring, wings twitching like a cat about to pounce. The Triple Stryke answers with a snort, each tail tip flicking with their own rhythm, like a trio of agitated drummers.

And then, like someone’s flipped a switch, they’re bounding at each other. Not in attack, but in something that can only be described as wildly awkward, draconic play. The Fury darts in and out like a shadow with too much caffeine, while the Stryke tries to catch it in a loping, bumbling chase. The whole clearing smells of churned earth and singed pine needles.

You’re too caught up in the madness to notice the sound of Lando’s nearing footsteps until it’s too late. “They’re playing,” he says, and you whirl around at how near he now sounds.

The sight of him makes something in your stomach churn. Wind-tousled hair, goggles pushed up on his forehead, and that stupid half-smile that makes your chest do something unspeakable.

“Didn’t realize you were in the neighborhood,” you manage.

He glances at the dragons, who are now inexplicably rolling in the dirt together like oversized puppies. “Didn’t realize you had a thing for bad-tempered reptiles.”

“Occupational hazard.”

There’s a pause. The kind that doesn’t feel like silence so much as breath being held.

Lando shifts closer until you can smell leather and soap and something faintly smoky. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, tone softer now, almost uncertain. “Ever since Berk. That night.”

You cross your arms, digging your fingers into your sides. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Apologize for being a bumbling idiot?”

You shrug, fix your gaze on the dragons instead. The Night Fury is now perched on the Triple Stryke’s back, looking far too smug for something with murder eyes. “It was nothing,” you say dismissively.

Lando goes still beside you. You can feel the tension roll off him, unspoken but undeniable. “Was it?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know the answer. Like it matters more than he’ll admit.

You blink up at Lando, thrown for a second by the gleam in his eye. A little playful, a little hopeful. The wind rustles the grass around your knees, and the Stryke makes a low, almost smug sound behind you, curled at the base of a tree like a very large, very dangerous housecat.

“Let me help you make up your mind,” Lando says.

You tilt your head to one side. “About what?”

He grins. “About everything. Us. This ridiculous, dragon-ridden mess. C’mon. Fly with me.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “Fly with you?”

He nods toward his Night Fury, lounging a few meters off, nosing the Triple Stryke like it’s testing boundaries. You realize now, with a flush creeping up your neck, that the Fury’s tail fin is gleaming under the sun. A perfect prosthetic mirror to Lando’s leg. Sleek, forged from some kind of dark metal with etchings that look suspiciously like they were carved with care, not utility.

“You… want me to fly with you,” you echo, trying to sound unimpressed. You mostly just sound squeaky.

Lando’s grin softens. “What, scared?”

You shoot him a look. “No. I just—” You look away. “I’ve never flown. Not really.”

That gets his eyebrows up. “Seriously?”

You fidget with your sleeve. “Most of the dragons I work with aren’t exactly built for passenger seating, Norris.”

His smile turns radiant, then. “Well. Good thing I am.”

The Night Fury senses something, lifting its head and letting out a purring chirp. Lando steps forward, hand out to help you up. “Come on. Hold onto me.”

You hesitate. For a moment, you swear he looks nervous, too. But then you take his hand, warm and calloused, and he pulls you up onto the saddle behind him. It’s a snug fit, your chest pressed to his back, arms awkwardly not-quite-around him.

“You’re gonna fall off like that,” he says, over his shoulder, “and I’m not diving into a fjord to fish you out.”

You mutter something unkind under your breath, but you slide your arms around him properly. He laughs, the sound loud and pleased.

And then the ground disappears.

You gasp. Not out of fear, exactly, but sheer, overwhelming wonder. The air rushes up to greet you, cold and biting. The view—the stretch of green and gold, the distant shimmer of the sea, the tiny specks of your village, the dragons wheeling far below—is enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

You bury your face briefly in Lando’s shoulder, partly to hide the shock and partly because you don’t quite know what to do with your heart now.

Lando doesn’t say anything right away. But his hand slides briefly over yours where it rests against his ribs, and he leans back just enough to murmur, “Hold tight, okay?”

Eventually, he coaxes you out of hiding with a nudge to your arms, firm but playful. “Come on,” he says, voice whipped thin by the wind. “You’re missing the view!”

You peek out from where you’ve buried your face into his shoulder, knuckles white where they clutch at his tunic. The air hits your cheeks like cold seawater, sharp and crisp. You see it: the world unfurling below, a patchwork of pine-covered ridges and glittering creeks, soft clouds scudding beneath you like they’re trying to keep pace.

And just beside you is the Triple Stryke, its three tails trailing like elegant ribbons. It keeps pace with the Night Fury, almost smug in its smooth gliding. Wings rippling like molten bronze. You laugh, breathless. The sound gets caught in the breeze.

“He followed us?” you shout over the gusts.

“Guess he likes you,” Lando calls back, turning enough to grin at you.

His curls are wild, caught in the gale, and his eyes—stormlight and seafoam—crinkle with delight. The sun has caught his cheekbones, turning him gold. You don’t know if it’s the altitude or something else that makes your stomach flip.

Do you like me? you want to ask.

Instead, you lean forward before you can think better of it. You press a kiss against the side of his mouth. Certain and chaste. It’s chapped and warm and tastes like salt and fire.

Lando yelps. The Night Fury gives a startled dip, a stomach-lurching swoop that has you both grabbing on tight. “Don’t do that when I’m steering!” he shouts, but he’s laughing.

You punch his shoulder, scowling and grinning all at once. “Then steer better!”

“You kiss like a saboteur!”

“You fly like a drunk goose!”

He laughs again, wild and happy, as the Night Fury levels out. Below, the mountains fade into cliffs, and the sea glitters like a blade drawn from a sheath. You hold on, not just to Lando, but to the moment, lungs full of wind and wonder.

You don’t look down anymore. You look ahead.

The wind thrums beneath you, cool and sharp against your cheeks, as Lando steers the Night Fury into a lazy hover above the clouds. The dragon beats its wings in a steady rhythm, casting fleeting shadows on the mist below. The Triple Stryke does a show-offy loop through a puff of cloud, its triple tails trailing like ribbons, before vanishing briefly from sight. You’re too dizzy with adrenaline and warmth to care.

Lando turns in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him. His prosthetic leg presses lightly into your shin as he shifts, bracketing your thighs with his. He’s too close. He always is. But now there’s no mistaking the way his gaze lingers, half-smile curling against the wind.

“You’re in love with me,” he says, utterly shameless.

You snort, leaning back slightly. “Wow. Modesty really is extinct in dragon country, isn’t it?”

“No point being modest when I’m right.” He leans in a bit, voice lowering like he’s sharing a secret. “You kissed me mid-flight. You cooed at a Triple Stryke. You haven’t tried to stab me in at least a week. I think that’s love.”

“I was distracted,” you retort, cheeks burning. “By the clouds, the zephyr, your stupid curls. And I only didn’t stab you because the Triple Stryke was watching.”

“Ah, so the dragon gives you standards. Good to know.”

You roll your eyes and try to twist away, but his knees are still bracketing yours, steadying you, anchoring you. The sky hums around you both, a brilliant blue stretched across forever.

It’s impossible to lie when you’re this high above the world. There’s too much honesty in the air. You exhale, a long sound that leaves you a little lighter. “Fine,” you murmur. “Maybe I do… like you. A little.”

His grin turns roguish, eyes crinkling with something far softer than mischief. “A little, huh?”

You flick his arm. “Don’t push it, Norris.”

But your hand stays on his sleeve. His fingers settle gently over yours, squeezing once. “I like you too, though,” he says, quieter now. “A lot.”

With the clouds drifting lazily beneath you and the dragons wheeling above, you can do nothing but believe him.

Lando still has your hand in his when he says, voice light but eyes too intent, “So... what do we do now? Do we write it down somewhere? Carve it into a tree? Tell your terrifying boss that we’re entangled in a scandalous affair?”

You stiffen. Just a little. Your eyes flick down, and Lando catches it. He always does. “Hey,” he says softly. “I was joking.”

You nod, but it feels like your throat’s been stuffed with wool. You try to laugh it off, some breezy chuckle that sounds more like you than what you’re actually feeling. “Max would kill me. And then probably bring me back to kill me again.”

Lando leans back slightly, lips twitching. “Sounds like Mad Max.”

You groan and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You can feel the weight now, like stormclouds gathering behind your eyes. You’ve been shirking everything. Your mission, your people, your own sense of direction—all for the soft curve of Lando’s grin and the dragon who used to terrify you.

Lando doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you from beneath those stupidly long lashes of his. The Night Fury hovers beneath you like a living breath, wings shifting to catch the air.

“Hey,” he says again, and this time it’s lower, gentler, coaxing. “I get it. It’s messy. You’re on one side, I’m on the other. You’ve got people counting on you, and I’m just the distraction with curls and a nice dragon."

You glance at him.

He grins. “A very nice dragon.”

You snort, but it’s small and fragile. He sees that, too. He adds, with mock gravity, “Personally, I’m a fan of secret romances. Very thrilling. Good for the skin.”

You swat his arm. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you kissed me in midair. Which, if I recall, almost killed us both.”

“Drama queen.”

“Your drama queen.”

Before you can respond, he kisses you again.

This time, it’s tender. Tentative. Like he thinks you might pull away.

You don’t.

When he draws back, the question lingers in his eyes. If you’ll have me, he’s saying. You answer it without a second’s hesitation. You grab the front of his tunic, yank him back, and kiss him until you’re both breathless. I’ll have you, you’re saying. Every bit and piece you’re willing to give.

His laugh, when it comes, is dazed. “Okay,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. “We’ll figure it out.”

You close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale. “We will,” you say.

The thing about secrets is that they make everything feel sharper. Louder. Sweeter. Like sneaking dessert before dinner or dipping your feet in cold water on a hot day.

Your meetings with Lando become just that. A string of stolen pleasures, one after the other, stitched into the fabric of days spent pretending.

You meet halfway between your islands, both outposts hidden enough to draw no questions, just far enough to convince Max and George that you’re being thorough in your Night Fury pursuit. You even keep a tally on your map and scratch fake sightings into the margins. It helps you lie better.

Lando doesn’t make it easier. “You’re getting good at this,” he says one afternoon, watching you mark an invented trajectory on your parchment. He bites into an apple, smirking, juice running down his knuckles. “Should I be worried about how easy you lie to your friends?”

You elbow him. “Only when I start lying to you. Until then, consider it a survival skill.”

The cove becomes neutral ground. His Night Fury makes peace with the Triple Stryke after some initial power struggles involving a lot of snorting, dramatic tail-slaps, and the Stryke hissing like it had something deeply personal to protest. Eventually, they nap near each other, mutual disdain settling into mutual tolerance.

You suspect they’re bonding through shared annoyance at their human companions. The Night Fury even starts nudging the Stryke when it gets too dramatic, which somehow makes the Stryke even more dramatic.

You bring food you pretend you caught on solo hunts, sometimes even charred just right to pass for “freshly roasted,” while Lando brings mismatched gear he salvaged and claims is for “scientific purposes.” You both know it’s just an excuse to spend more time fixing things together—side by side, fingers brushing over leather and bolts and the occasional grease-smudged diagram.

There are quiet moments, too. Sitting beside the water, shoulders pressed close, dragon snores in the distance. Brushing fingers when you hand him his tools. Lando sprawled on the grass like a starfish with a secret, mumbling about sky currents and wind pockets while you lay beside him, listening more to his voice than his words. You let yourself forget about orders and expectations, if only for an hour or two.

“We’re terrible at keeping things casual,” Lando murmurs one day, lying in the grass, eyes half-lidded under the sun. A dragon's tail flicks behind him like a metronome.

You glance over, smirking. “You say that like you weren’t the one who initiated this.”

“Yeah, but you kissed me,” he shoots back, that familiar spark in his voice.

You throw a pebble at his chest. He lets it hit him like it’s a badge of honor.

Max continues assigning you the Night Fury task, thinking your narrowed eyes and furrowed brows mean you’re honing in on the dragon’s location. George keeps giving you snacks for the road, always wrapped in napkins with scrawled smiley faces. Yuki glares less, though he still occasionally squints at you like he suspects you’re up to something. It’s a cruel irony, how good you’re getting at fooling everyone just when you feel most like yourself.

You find excuses to stay longer. Tell Max the trail’s still warm, that you almost had it yesterday. You keep your gear packed, your alibis polished. You know this can’t last, but it’s hard to let go of something that feels so easy.

You’ve grown soft for the reckless curl of Lando’s hair, for the way he holds his breath before stepping into your space, like he’s bracing for impact. You’ve grown softer still for the dragons, misunderstood and magnificent, just like the boy who rides one. You memorize the way Lando pulls you in by the hem of your sleeve, the way his smile tugs at his scar, how he always looks surprised after you kiss him, like it's the first time, every time.

Maybe, just maybe, you want to keep this going a little longer. If only for the warmth it plants in your chest when you think of the next time you’ll see him. For the way the world shrinks to a cove and two dragons and someone who sees you, lies and all, and still leans in closer.

The cove, dusky and humming with the low trill of insects and the soft splash of waves against mossy stone, has become the kind of place where secrets are born and kept. Today, Lando is sprawled on the grass, arms behind his head, his Night Fury curled beside him with its eyes half-lidded like it’s listening to your conversation while pretending not to.

“You’re never going to guess what I’ve decided,” Lando says, with the smugness of someone who’s just pulled off an elaborate prank.

You glance over, plucking a blade of grass to twirl between your fingers. “You finally figured out how to use a whetstone without nearly slicing off your fingers?”

He sits up, indignant. “That happened once. And I bled very bravely, thank you. No, I meant Lucky. That’s what I’m calling him now.”

You blink. “Lucky?”

Lando gestures to the dragon. “Yeah. It’s ironic. You know—he’s black, hard to find, objectively terrifying. Like a cursed omen, but make it endearing.”

You snort. “That’s what you want to name a creature people think is a mythic harbinger of death?”

“Exactly,” he says proudly. “Lucky. Can you imagine?”

You laugh, the sound echoing off the rocks and rolling into the trees. Lucky, as if knowing he’s the topic of discussion, lifts his head to blink at you with slow, predatory indifference. He yawns. Lando grins.

Then Lando turns to you, and his eyes crinkle just slightly. “Your turn.”

You stiffen. The Triple Stryke, lounging a cautious distance away like it's pretending not to care, flicks one of its tails as if bored. “I don’t think I should name it,” you say slowly. “Feels... final.”

Lando’s brow arches, but he doesn’t tease. “It already follows you like a lost puppy.”

“Because I removed a splinter from its tail, not because we’re bonding over mutual trust and affection,” you retort.

“Oh, sure. That’s why he curls up behind you when you nap.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch like they miss stroking the dragon’s hardened scales. There’s truth in what he’s saying, and that terrifies you more than admitting the name aloud.

Lando must sense it, because his smirk softens into something warmer. “Alright,” he concedes. “No name for now. But don’t think that gets you out of this next thing.”

You narrow your eyes. “What next thing?”

He grins, grabs your wrist, and tugs you toward the jagged shadow of a cave carved into the cliffside. “The part where I kiss you until you stop thinking so much.”

Your protests die on your lips as he hauls you into the cool dark, laughter bouncing off the stone walls. The sound of Lucky’s snort echoes behind you. They’re so sick of you two, and rightfully so.

The news comes at the tail end of a war meeting, when Max straightens from the table and levels a glance at the room. “We leave for the Isle of Formulae in three days.”

Silence follows. For a beat too long.

You can feel Yuki stiffen beside you, sharp as a drawn blade. George furrows his brow, mouthing a slow, skeptical, Diplomatic? under his breath.

Max nods, reading the room like it's a particularly dull map. “It’s a diplomatic mission,” he confirms. “They’ve requested conversation.”

You force your jaw to relax, even as your pulse stutters. The Isle of Formulae. Lando’s island.

You don’t look up from the surface of the table, where your thumb rubs idle circles into the worn wood. It feels like the grain is buzzing, like it knows something you don’t. You hear Max continue, outlining escort numbers and expected supplies, but his voice drips away into a distant static.

Lando hadn’t mentioned this. Of course he hadn’t. He probably doesn’t know. Or maybe he does, and he’s staying quiet for the same reason you are.

You risk a glance across the table. George looks bored, though you know better. Formulae is a part of his past, a place he avoids like the plague. Meanwhile, Yuki’s mouth is pinched in a thin line. Max looks, as always, like he’s three steps ahead and daring anyone to catch up.

And you—you swallow the taste of worry. It coats your throat like bad mead.

You nod when expected, speak when spoken to, and smile like your guts aren’t twisting into knots.

Because you’re going to Lando’s island, and something about this doesn't feel diplomatic at all.

Three days later, you’re in a newly hemmed kirtle as your boat approaches the Isle of Formulae. It itches. It’s too clean. You look like you’ve never fought a day in your life, which, you assume, is precisely what Max wanted. “Diplomacy,” he said, tugging the sleeves of his formal tunic as if that alone would guarantee peace. “We arrive looking civil, or we don’t arrive at all.”

So you scrubbed your face raw, wrestled your hair into some semblance of neatness, and wore the damned kirtle. Soft blue with delicate embroidery that makes you look like a village baker’s niece rather than a dragon hunter with a kill tally.

Yuki mutters beside you, tugging at the stiff collar of his own doublet. “I look like I’m about to serve fruit pies at a harvest fair.”

“You’d make a killing,” George offers, all sunny and unbothered. He hasn’t stopped admiring the pearl buttons on his cuffs since you set sail. “Maybe they’d surrender out of pity. Or hunger.”

Max stands at the bow like he’s auditioning for a heroic painting. His jaw is set, his hands clasped behind his back. “Remember,” he calls over the wind, “this is not a raid. This is a discussion.”

The docks of Formulae come into view. Cleaner than yours, lined with smooth stones and bordered by woven banners in crimson and deep gold. People bustle without urgency, and the air smells like spiced citrus and brine. It’s almost pleasant. You hate that.

A small group awaits your arrival at the end of the dock. There’s Lewis, leading the delegation. Tall, elegant, and half-smiling like he knows something you don’t. His cloak is midnight-black, held in place with a dragon-shaped clasp.

Beside him stands Oscar, all clasped hands and tight grins, and Alex, who gives you a polite nod like he’s already ranking you based on your posture.

And then there’s Lando.

He looks like he hasn’t seen you in years, not days. His curls are tamed for once, his expression unreadable, his prosthetic polished to a shine. He stands straight, his face carefully blank, but the moment your eyes catch, it’s like the breath gets kicked out of you.

You can’t smile. Neither can he. Not here.

“We hope your journey was smooth,” Lewis says, stepping forward with all the practiced charm of a man used to controlling a room.

“As smooth as a diplomatic mission can be,” Max replies, offering a deep nod. “We appreciate the welcome, Chief Hamilton.”

You step onto the dock last, your kirtle sweeping against the wood, and you swear you see Lando’s mouth twitch—just a little.

“This is my team,” Max continues, gesturing. “My brawn, my brain, and my beating heart.” Yuki, George, you.

Lando’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should. You incline your head. Words are dangerous, so neither of you say anything.

You catch the flicker of a smirk in Lewis’s eyes. Whether it’s from Lando’s performance or yours, you can’t tell.

The game is on. And you have to play it well.

Formulae’s war room is carved into the heart of the island’s craggy ridge, all black stone and flickering torches, their flames casting long, dancing shadows over the dragon motifs etched into the walls. There’s a long table hewn from driftwood, sun-bleached and smooth, and it groans under the weight of scrolls, maps, and heavy clay goblets filled with strong-smelling tea.

You take your seat slowly, trying not to crinkle the absurdly crisp folds of your new outfit. Max claims the chair nearest the head of the table, opposite Formulae’s chief, Lewis. Beside Lewis are Oscar and Alex, both watching you all with the relaxed alertness of seasoned dragon riders.

Lando slides into the seat directly across from you, a picture of casual indifference. His prosthetic clicks softly under the table.

“Welcome to Formulae,” Lewis begins, voice steady and rich. “We've long believed in coexistence with dragons. They are not weapons, nor threats to be neutralized. They are kin.”

Max folds his hands, elbows on the table like they might anchor him in place. “And we believe the safety of the archipelago must come first. Some dragons, perhaps, can be… tolerated. But we cannot ignore the destruction that so many bring.”

“The destruction comes from misunderstanding,” Lewis replies smoothly.

Your eyes remain fixed on the maps, tracing the borders of disputed territories. You can feel Lando watching you, his gaze like heat against your cheek.

Then something shifts. A brush. A nudge.

You blink. His boot.

It glides, slow and deliberate, up the inside of your calf, teasing past the laces of your boots. Higher.

Your throat tightens. Your hand, which had been reaching for your goblet, freezes halfway.

Max is still talking. Something about evacuation protocols. George leans forward, eyes darting between the speakers like he’s watching a particularly juicy tavern brawl. Yuki frowns at a scroll.

Lando, damn him, is looking nowhere near you. He rests his chin on his hand, utterly composed, one eyebrow lifted in vague amusement as if he’s only half-listening. The toe of his boot presses higher.

You meet his eyes. You don’t flinch. You will not.

“As I was saying,” Max continues, unaware of the under-table debauchery unfolding beneath his own diplomatic overtures, “a disarmament treaty will only work if both parties understand the risks involved.”

“Indeed,” Lewis agrees. “Which is why you should see the dragons not as beasts to be managed, but as forces to be respected.”

You nod solemnly. Under the table, your hand slips down and swats Lando’s ankle hard. He grins. Still, your face remains perfectly neutral. Diplomacy, after all, is about balance.

Max and Lewis send out the youngins as they decide to have some closed door conversation, which means Alex is in charge of touring your lot. The stables at Formulae smell like well-oiled leather, warm hay, and the faint tang of smoke. Dragons blink from their stalls with knowing, intelligent eyes. Sleek, gleaming creatures whose scales look more expensive than your entire village’s annual income.

Alex beams as he gestures toward each one like a proud parent. “That’s Hugo,” he says, pointing to a particularly preening Nadder with a purple sheen. “And that’s Armani. He bites. Gucci’s shy. Prada is, well, Prada.”

Prada, a willowy green Zippleback with gold-tipped horns, looks down its dual noses at you like it's offended by your very existence. You nod with all the seriousness of someone being presented an elite military lineup.

“They sound more like a fashion house than a fighting force,” you whisper to Lando, who has somehow sidled up beside you without a sound.

“They fight with style,” he murmurs back, and then, with calculated carelessness, places his hand at the small of your back. Not quite inappropriate. Just enough to make your skin spark.

You glance at him, warningly. He smiles, all dimples and danger.

“Behave,” you sneer.

He plucks a stray strand of hair from your shoulder, slow and deliberate, and lets it fall between his fingers. “I’m being a perfect gentleman,” he says under his breath. “You’re the one imagining things.”

You step on his foot.

Lando hisses, pulls his hand away. “Ow. Romantic violence.”

“You started it.”

Alex is still talking. Something about saddle quality. You’re trying to pay attention. Really. But then Lando’s fingers find your pinky. Just the lightest brush. Testing, teasing, yearning..

You brush back.

It lasts all of two seconds before Oscar strolls around the corner, a brow arched so high it practically detaches from his forehead. “You two good? Or should we leave you alone in the hay for a minute?”

You jerk your hand back. Lando coughs. Alex, oblivious, says something about waterproof armor to George and Yuki who seem very engrossed in all the useless tidbits.

“All good!” you chirp. “Very educational. So many dragon facts.”

Oscar snorts but lets it slide. You mouth a silent traitor to Lando. He winks, unrepentant.

Dinner at Formulae is grander than expected. Golden lanterns sway from polished beams, casting warm halos over silver dishes and roasted meats. Everything smells of clove and charred rosemary. There are gilded goblets for each of you, and too many forks to understand without a lesson.

You sit across from Lando again, this time with a clearer view of his mischievous smirk and the ridiculous way his curls catch the light like he’s in a bard’s ballad. Underneath the linen-covered table, there’s a very real problem brewing.

His boot taps yours. You tap back. His knee slides over. Yours doesn’t flinch.

He raises an eyebrow over his wine. You take a deliberately slow sip, then lean over to speak with George, pretending not to notice the way Lando has now somehow managed to press his entire leg along yours. At one point, his fingers graze the back of your knee. You choke on your drink.

“You alright?” Max asks, distracted mid-conversation with Lewis.

“Fine,” you croak, smiling through a throat that feels like it just swallowed a pinecone.

You kick Lando. He has the audacity to look innocent.

By the time dessert arrives—some poached fig and cream thing you don’t even taste—you can’t take it anymore. You rise abruptly, pushing your chair back with a screech.

“Excuse me. I need to find the latrine.”

“I’ll go with,” Lando says far too quickly, already halfway out of his seat.

George snorts into his napkin. Max doesn’t even blink.

You make it out the hall and around the side of the building before Lando has you backed against the stone wall, mouth already finding yours like it’s a homecoming. The air is cool, damp with sea breeze, but his hands are warm at your hips, anchoring you.

“You’re reckless,” you murmur, pulling back only slightly.

“You love that about me,” he replies, mouth chasing yours again.

You try to glare. It lasts all of two seconds before you’re kissing him again, hard and unthinking. The stone digs into your back, but his hands move to your face, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something precious.

You hate how good he is at this. You hate even more how good it feels to be wanted like this, without hesitation or apology.

“Wear that kirtle for me again,” he begs in between kisses. “I want to take it off.”

“Madness,” you groan as he dips his head to latch his mouth on the side of your neck. “This is madness.”

You don’t see him grinning, but you do hear it. “Then let’s go mad together.”

For once, you don’t fight it. Not when his smile feels like sunlight. Not when his touch makes you forget which side of the war you’re supposed to be on.

You’re only halfway listening. The war room is stifling, walls sweating under the afternoon heat, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and half-eaten provisions.

Max paces in front of the war map, droning on about strategic fronts and defense vectors, but your mind has already slipped out through the narrow window and gone sprinting across the island. You’re thinking of the rendezvous you and Lando planned for later that day. Somewhere near the falls, where the air smells like moss and crushed strawberries, and everything feels a little less like treason.

Maybe he’d bring that silly little compass he found and act like it held the secrets of the universe. Maybe you’ll kiss him first this time instead of waiting for him to do it. Maybe, if you let yourself dream, you’d stay longer than just a couple stolen hours.

The words are background noise until they’re not.

George leans forward suddenly, the wood of his chair creaking beneath him, fingers interlaced and jaw tight. “The island’s defenses are thinner than they let on. North ridge has blind spots—bad ones. If we approach at nightfall, we can cut across undetected.”

Yuki nods, a little too eagerly. “And there’s a shipping schedule. They only run day patrols. No one watches the docks after sundown.”

Something hard and cold settles in your gut. You turn your head, staring at your friends like they’ve started speaking another language. “What?”

George gives you a glance that’s too casual. Then he turns to Max. “You said to gather intel. We did. The Isle of Formulae is vulnerable. Now’s the time.”

“Time for what?” you ask, even though you already know.

Max finally stops pacing. His eyes find yours, sharp and bright with something dangerous. “An assault.”

The breath leaves your lungs like you’ve been socked in the ribs. You stand, your chair scraping against stone like a scream. “You can’t be serious,” you stammer. “Lewis welcomed us. He agreed to peace talks. They’re not enemies.”

Max’s expression hardens. “They’re dragon sympathizers. They pretend they’re taming those beasts, but they’re training them. They’re preparing for war, whether they say so or not.”

“That’s not true,” you say, even though your voice shakes. “You don’t know that.”

Max raises his chin. “And what exactly do you know? You think I haven’t noticed your sudden interest in solo missions? Your mysterious detours? You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

The room stills. The world tilts. Your heart thump, thump, thumps in your chest.

George straightens in his seat. Yuki stiffens beside him.

Max’s voice goes quieter, colder. “What would you do, huh? Warn your lover? Send a raven, or maybe meet him at your little hideout? I’m not a fool, soldier.”

You try to keep your voice level. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Max.”

But Max only nods at Yuki, who shifts beside you. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. And I can’t have you interfering.”

“Max—”

“I’m sorry,” Yuki murmurs.

You whirl, but not fast enough. Something hard cracks against the side of your temple. Light explodes across your vision. The war room swims, stone and parchment swimming together into a blur. The last thing you see is Max, standing there like he’s already made peace with betrayal. Like it’s easier when it comes from someone else.

The floor rushes up to meet you, and everything goes black.

You wake up on cold stone, cheek pressed to the floor, head pounding with a low, dull ache. For a moment, you think you’re in the cove. You half expect to hear the Triple Stryke snoring beside you, or Lando humming some out-of-tune tune under his breath. But then the iron tang in the air creeps into your nose, and you open your eyes to the damp grey of the island’s prison.

This cell is nothing like the rickety wood-slatted one in Formulae. This one is sophisticated. Carved deep into the mountainside, the walls are smooth-cut stone reinforced with grates that glint with metal laced through. The door isn’t even barred. It’s solid, with only a narrow slit at eye level and a little grate at the bottom for food. You’re not getting out of here without help. Max made sure of that.

You groan, shifting to sit up, and that’s when you spot George. He’s slumped on a stool just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” you croak. “Babysitting duty. Bet this wasn’t in the war hero job description.”

George doesn’t flinch. “You should be lucky I volunteered. Max was ready to tie you up and leave you in the dark.”

You pull yourself up, pacing to the door, pressing your forehead to the cold metal. “George, this is insane. You know this is insane. I’m not a traitor.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “Then what are you?”

You try pleading. You try logic. You try reminding him of all the times you fought beside him, bled beside him. “You know me,” you say at the end of it all. “You know I wouldn’t throw everything away for—”

He cuts you off. “For Lando?”

Your silence is answer enough.

George sighs. “You’re not thinking clearly. He’s the enemy.”

“He’s not—” You slam your hand against the door. “He’s not the one planning to ambush a peaceful island! You were there, George. You saw their dragons. They were... named Prada, for gods’ sake. That was your home once.”

George winces but doesn’t budge. That hurts worse than anything.

When the pleading doesn’t work, you switch tactics. “You’re a coward,” you spit. “You’re just following orders, like you always do. You’re Max’s good little soldier. He says jump, and you hold the rope.”

He doesn’t flinch this time. “Better than being a fool,” he snipes, and like a fool, you try every trick in your book to change your fate.

Eventually, your words run dry. You slump down to the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up. Your head throbs. Your chest aches.

Of all the horrible, aching thoughts gnawing at you, the worst one rises to the surface like rot: Lando will think you ran. That you chose a side. That you lied when you kissed him and promised you’d be back.

You close your eyes and let your head thump back against the stone. The cell is quiet except for your breath and George’s distant shifting.

You whisper to no one, “He’s going to think I left him.”

And there’s no one to answer you.

Time moves differently in the jail cell.

Sometimes it’s a drip of water from the ceiling that keeps the hours, sometimes it’s the way your stomach clenches into itself, reminding you you’ve missed a meal again. It’s colder than you remember it being when George first shut the door. Or maybe that’s just you, getting smaller.

You think about the way Lando looked the last time you saw him. All sun-warmed curls and that ridiculous grin as he kissed you behind the latrine stalls like a schoolboy. He probably thinks you’re running. That you got scared and left. That maybe none of it meant anything.

You groan and flop back onto the stone floor, exhaling at the impact. It knocks the air from your lungs and your pride from your chest.

Then, the sound of boots. Shuffling, uneven. You sit up, blinking in the dim torchlight.

“Back for another round of emotional torment, George?” you call, voice raspy but still flavored with bite.

The key clinks in the lock. The hinges groan. And there, framed in the doorway, is not George.

It’s Lando. Perched on your Triple Stryke like he owns it, the smug bastard. His curls are wind-whipped, and his cheeks are flushed like he flew through a storm to get here. His prosthetic glints silver in the flickering torchlight, and there’s dirt smudged along his jaw.

“Oh, thank gods,” he breathes, sliding off the dragon before you even think to move. He doesn’t say anything else. Just pulls you into his arms as if it’s muscle memory.

You freeze for half a heartbeat before melting into it. He smells like ash and spring and a little bit like strawberries—like maybe he had brought some to your rendezvous, after all.

“I had a feeling something was wrong,” he murmurs into your hair. “You’re stubborn, but you’re not cruel. And then I got a raven. No name, just a message. Saying you were in jail.”

You pull back to look at him. “Who sent it?”

“I think I have a guess.”

Behind him, a familiar figure emerges from the shadows. George. He doesn’t look at you directly, but he tosses a coil of rope onto the floor between you.

“Tie me up,” he says gruffly. “Make it look good. If Max asks, you broke out and took me hostage.”

Lando whistles low. “I owe you one, Georgie.”

George finally meets your eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You nod. Lando starts wrapping the rope around George’s wrists with a wink. “Now, how tight do you want it, darling hostage?”

In less than seven minutes, the ropes are snug around George’s wrists, his expression one of long-suffering patience as you adjust the knot with unnecessarily dramatic flair. “You could at least pretend this is uncomfortable,” you mutter, tugging one final loop tight.

George raises an unimpressed brow. “Oh no. Whatever will I do. I’ve been bested by a criminal mastermind and her dragon-taming rogue of a boyfriend.”

Lando snorts from where he’s swinging a leg over the Triple Stryke, the beast flicking one tail lazily like it's already bored of the jailbreak. You glance over your shoulder, the low lantern light catching the shine of Lando’s curls, the slight grin tucked into his cheek.

But then you turn back to George, hand hovering over the last knot. The question’s already in your mouth before you can stop it. “Why?” you ask.

George exhales through his nose, gaze fixed on the stone wall for a moment. Then, quietly: “Because I don’t really care about the dragons.”

That throws you off-kilter. “What?”

“This war—it was never really about dragons. Not for me. It’s always been about control. Politics. Territory.” He shifts his shoulders, the ropes creaking. “We painted it in honor and survival, but deep down, we just wanted to be the ones on top.”

His voice softens, a thread of something like regret winding through it. “You’re right. Formulae was my home once, too. Before Max. Before all this. I made my choice, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch it burn.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words pressing down heavy on your chest. There’s no time to respond properly—not with the shouts already echoing from somewhere above—but your fingers squeeze his shoulder once before you leap back.

Lando’s hand is waiting, and you grab it without hesitation, letting him pull you up onto the Triple Stryke’s back. The saddle creaks under your combined weight, and the dragon snarls low before launching into the night with a gust of wind that whips through your hair.

Below, George slumps convincingly against the wall, the ropes neat and tidy. Above, the stars are wide and blinking, the horizon just beginning to bruise with dawn. You grip Lando’s waist tighter and breathe deep.

You’re flying toward your rendezvous point. Toward whatever comes next. Toward Lando, always.

The sky is ink and indigo when you land in the cove, the Triple Stryke spiraling down with practiced grace. Lando slides off behind you, boots crunching against gravel as Lucky bounds forward, letting out a chirp that rumbles like a purr.

“Someone missed you,” Lando says, grinning. Lucky nudges at your shoulder, then snorts and goes bounding off toward the shallows, tail flicking like an overgrown cat.

You barely register it. Lando’s hands are already on you, brushing leaves from your hair, fingertips lingering at your cheekbone where Yuki’s strike left the faintest bruise. His brow furrows. “You okay?”

Your breath catches. Something wild and feral stirs inside you, something that wants to devour the ache and the fear and the betrayal all at once. “Clean me up later.”

“Wha—?”

You kiss him hard, teeth knocking into his. It’s graceless, a little frantic, but he groans against your mouth all the same. The tension breaks in the warmth of his touch, in the press of his body against yours as your back meets the mossy cave wall. He tastes like brine and berries, like flight and risk and something far too precious to lose.

Lucky and the Triple Stryke disappear up into the rocks, perhaps sensing the heat rolling off you both. Maybe dragons are smarter than humans.

Later, you’re tangled in the blankets Lando laid out, his arm draped over your waist, your fingers brushing over Lucky’s prosthetic fin. The water outside laps softly, like the cove is breathing along with you.

You tell Lando.

About Max. About the raid. About the fact that your home is plotting to burn his.

Lando doesn’t interrupt. He only turns onto his side, curls brushing your shoulder, eyes unreadable in the dim.

“You’re coming with me, right?” he asks.

The question slices clean through the quiet.

Your throat tightens. You stare up at the cave ceiling like the answer might be written there, etched into the stone with all the old gods and foolish lovers before you. You say nothing.

In that silence, Lando doesn’t press. He only laces your fingers with his, and waits.

The fire has long since dwindled to glowing embers, but you’re still curled beside Lando, your fingers absently tracing the edge of a half-healed scar over his ribs. The cove is hushed, save for the gentle tide and the slow, sleepy breathing of two dragons lying not far off.

Lucky’s snores are soft puffs, like bellows sighing. The Triple Stryke—still unnamed, still stubborn—rests its braided tail in the water, letting the current comb through it. Salt lingers in the air, clings to your skin, and the sand beneath you is still faintly warm from the day.

You haven’t said anything in a while.

Lando watches you, propped up on an elbow, curls a halo of wild gold around his head in the moonlight. He breaks the silence gently. “You haven’t answered me yet,” he says, and you close your eyes as if you might be able to close yourself to the question. It clutches at your spine anyway.

“Because I don’t know,” you say eventually, voice low. “I’ve seen what dragons can do. I’ve seen fire swallow homes. Seen bones in the wreckage. I’ve seen mothers cry over blackened cradles. I’ve seen a child with skin like scorched parchment, and I had no answer for her pain.”

Lando doesn’t interrupt. He waits, eyes soft, unreadable in the low light but never unkind.

You inhale through your nose, trying to find balance between what you’ve lived and what you’ve come to believe. “But I’ve also seen Lucky nudge you awake like a dog wanting breakfast. I’ve seen the Triple Stryke hold its tail still so I could pull a thorn from it. I’ve seen peace between human and beast. And I… I believe in that. I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest. The wind combs through the trees above the cove, the leaves rustling like distant applause. Somewhere in the distance, a seabird calls, long and plaintive.

“It doesn’t erase the deaths. Doesn’t undo the grief. How do I tell someone like Max that dragons can be gentle when he’s seen his family burned alive?” You laugh, bitter and small. “How do I tell myself that, when I’ve buried friends of my own? When I still dream of teeth and smoke and wings that block out the sun?”

Lando shifts beside you, brushing his hand along your back. “Then don’t choose a side,” he says. “Choose a life. With me. We don’t need an island. Not if we’ve got each other. We’ll make our lives on the go.”

You stare at him, something breaking wide open in your chest. The kind of break that makes space. For hope. For madness.

“Run away with me,” he says into your shoulder, so softly you almost don’t hear it. “We can fly until we’re free.”

You don’t answer with words. You just lean in, kiss him slow, one hand curled in the fabric of his tunic, the other pressed to the warm, strong line of his jaw. He kisses you back like a promise. Like a start.

Then, before dawn, he mounts Lucky. The Night Fury’s prosthetic fin gleams faintly in the moonlight, mirroring the glint of Lando’s leg. He looks back at you only once, his face unreadable but his eyes burning. It feels like something sacred, that glance. You’ve made your choice. He makes his.

And then he’s gone—swallowed by the sky.

You’re left with the Triple Stryke, who grumbles and noses your shoulder like it’s annoyed he didn’t say goodbye to it, too. You scratch under its chin, smiling faintly. “What do you think?” you murmur. “Am I a fool? Or just the brave kind of stupid?”

The dragon flops dramatically onto the sand, its tail flaring like a fan, spraying a bit of water onto your leg. You yelp and swat at it.

You huff a quiet laugh and lie down beside it, eyes fixed on the stars. They blur slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s the mist or your own eyes betraying you.

You still don’t know where you stand.

But dawn is coming fast, and you’ll have to choose something. Even if it’s just which way to run.

The return is not triumphant.

You land on the edge of camp just after midday, the sun high and unflinching as a blade overhead. The Triple Stryke, whose name you still haven’t spoken aloud, snorts once as you dismount, and disappears into the trees with an annoyed flick of its tail, like it wants no part of the drama about to unfold. Fair.

Max is the first to spot you, arms crossed so tight his shoulders look like they might snap off. Yuki stands just behind him, squinting at you like he isn’t sure if you’re real or a hallucination born of heatstroke. George, who was midway through cleaning a blade, just… drops it.

“Bold of you to come back here,” Max says. No greeting. No pleasantries. Just cool suspicion in his voice.

“I brought gifts,” you say, reaching into the satchel slung over your shoulder.

Max doesn’t look amused, but his eyes flick toward the bag.

You pull out a small pouch first. Inside, a clump of dark, glassy scales. Iridescent black with a blue shimmer when the light catches right. Night Fury scales. Rare. Impossible, unless you’ve been close. You hold them out.

Max doesn’t take them right away. Yuki steps forward first, lifting one delicately between his fingers. “You’re not lying,” the barbarian gapes. “These are real.”

“Told you,” you say, tone deliberately breezy, even as your pulse thuds against your spine. “I know where it is. I know how to get close. I can help you bring it down.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “And why would you do that? Didn’t seem so eager to follow orders before.”

“Because,” you say, lifting your chin, “if my grief is going to be a weapon, I’d rather it be aimed at something that earns it. You want the Night Fury dead? Fine. Then let me be the one to do it.”

There’s a long silence. Wind rushes through the trees behind you. Somewhere in the distance, someone hammers metal. Sharp, angry, fast.

Max looks at you as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t like the shape of. Then, finally, with a voice cold as steel: “Yuki watches you,” he proclaims. “Every breath, every blink. You so much as flinch wrong, and he’ll put you down.”

Yuki gives a little wave. “Hi again.”

George still hasn’t said anything. He looks a little green.

You pocket the pouch of scales again and let yourself exhale slowly.

You don’t expect George to corner you, not on the eve of the raid. But sure enough, while you’re fitting your bracers and checking the sharpness of your blade, he sidles in like a shadow made of stone and suspicion. “Funny,” he says, voice low, arms crossed against his chest. “I thought traitors didn’t have a conscience.”

You don’t look up right away. Instead, you give your blade one last inspection, catching the glint of torchlight down its edge. You say, as evenly as you can, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

George doesn’t flinch. “You escaped with him. With Lando. You ran.”

You slide the blade into its sheath with a clean, decisive snap. “I came back. That’s what matters.”

He stares at you, and for a moment you think he’ll call for Max, haul you back into that cell, this time without the leniency of rope tricks and sympathetic shrugs. Instead, he says, almost like an afterthought, “You love him.”

Your jaw tightens. You shrug. “Maybe. Doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?”

You meet his gaze now. “You know what this war is, George. It’s grief in armor. I’m just putting mine to work.”

He exhales, slow. There’s a beat where you both just stand there, surrounded by clinking metal and the scent of oil and leather. “It just doesn’t make sense to me,” he says, “how you could turn on him so easily.”

“We’re nothing but pawns in this, George,” you answer, and he leaves you alone after that.

The sky above the island is gray and heavy with promise, the kind of pre-storm stillness that makes even the wind second guess itself. You find Yuki perched on a crate, threading small knives into hidden loops on his vest. He gives you a long, unreadable look when you approach.

“You’re not going to cry again, are you?” he says casually.

You bite back a grin. “That was once, and it was wind in my eye.”

“Suuure it was.”

Max appears, all grim posture and command, and the joking evaporates like breath on cold glass. He surveys the three of you—his closest fighters, his most trusted—before speaking.

“We strike before sunrise. Quiet. Fast. No survivors unless I say so.”

The map unfurls across the table like a wound. Formulae’s shoreline, its towers, its cove. You don’t look too hard at the place you know Lando might be. You don’t let your fingers hover near it. You just nod along with the rest.

And when Max says, “Everyone clear?”

You say, “Crystal.”

Even as your heart mutters Lando’s name like a secret prayer, you strap your helmet tight and prepare to burn through his defenses.

The boats slice through the mist like knives through silk. The sea is dark and churning, the moonlight fractured across the waves. Spray kisses your cheeks, cold and salty, and you press your hood closer around your face, stealing one last glance at the quiet silhouette of Formulae rising like a fortress from the sea.

No dragons. No wings in the sky. No rumbling roars. That was part of Max’s plan: to make a statement. The dragons were to be kept behind, replaced with stealth and force. You arrive not with fire, but with steel and silence.

Max stands tall at the prow, wind snapping his cloak like a banner. He points to the cliffs ahead, voice cutting through the hush.

“We land by the east ridge, where the rocks keep the surf low. George, you’ll take two squads up the trail toward the stables. Hit them where they nest. Yuki, keep eyes on our flanks. I want the cove sealed and their dragons trapped.”

He doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t need to. Yuki is already planted beside you like a shadow. George hasn’t spoken since you boarded, but his glances are much like blades flicking under your skin.

Formulae looms closer. The jagged cliffs are laced with flame-lit watchtowers, orange light bleeding into the fog. Your warning has done its job. Defenses are doubled, maybe tripled. Ballistae dot the ridge like skeletal teeth, and even in the gloom, you see silhouettes moving fast, stringing bows, oiling fire.

You breathe in, grounding yourself in the the creak of oars and the rhythm of your own pulse. You can almost feel Lando’s breath against your ear again, soft and pleading: Run away with me.

Instead, you tighten your grip on the hilt of your blade.

“You ready?” Yuki grunts, not unkindly.

You nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

Because this is the part you chose. The part where you play your role.

The boats bump softly against stone. Max is first to leap out, boots hitting wet rock. The others follow, swift and silent. Yuki grabs your arm when you hesitate, but you shake him off with a thin smile. “I’m not running.”

You step onto Formulae soil.

The raid begins, and the sky becomes like fire and shadow.

Smoke curls upward like dark ribbon, snaking into the clouds that have turned the same dull color as ash. The clang of metal rings out across the cliffs of Formulae, pierced by the shriek of dragons and the war-cries of men. Everything smells of smoke and brine, blood and burning leather. The sea crashes violently against the island’s edge, tossing foam and bodies onto black sand.

You sprint through the outer defenses with Max’s hunters, your boots pounding against the stone, throat raw with the smoke you keep inhaling. You catch glimpses of movement above.

Oscar’s orange-winged Monstrous Nightmare streaks through the sky like a comet. Alex, steady as ever, commands his Timberjack to shield a cluster of younger riders behind the treeline.

But it’s Lando who draws your eye.

He appears over the ridge, silhouetted against the sky with Lucky beneath him. The Night Fury cuts a smooth, beautiful arc across the battlefield, its prosthetic fin gleaming even in the haze. Lando’s curls are soaked to his neck from sea spray and sweat. He’s scanning the chaos, jaw tight, eyes sharp—until they find you.

The flicker is immediate.

Betrayal. Recognition. Something softer, immediately shuttered.

You hold your ground as Lucky lands in a spray of gravel and dust. Lando dismounts with practiced ease, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the battle falls away, tucked behind the roar in your ears.

“Really?” Lando calls out, advancing. His voice cuts through the din, hoarse but strong. “You brought them here? After everything?”

You keep your shoulders square. Yuki is somewhere behind you, George to your left, but neither steps in.

“I warned you,” you say. “You had time to prepare. Consider that mercy.”

He snorts. “Mercy? Is that what you call this? Bringing Max’s glorified butcher squad to our door?”

You step closer. The heat between you two is not entirely from the fire. “Don’t act like you didn’t know this was coming. You told me to run. I didn’t,” you say, fingers sneaking into your pocket. “That doesn’t mean I chose you.”

“No,” Lando says, bitterly. “You just chose the ones who would kill everything I care about.”

Lucky shifts behind him, snarling low. The dragon’s pupils narrow, locked on your figure. Not with hatred, but confusion. Its claws knead the dirt. It edges sideways, almost as if trying to get between you and Lando. The Night Fury hasn’t yet registered that this is not play time.

You see the moment Lando notices.

“He remembers you,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “Even now. You really think you can fool both of us?”

You draw your weapon. The one that’s yet to have a drop of blood—dragon or human—on it. Lando doesn’t flinch. Lucky growls again, but doesn’t move. The wind shifts the hair from your face.

“Then don’t let me fool you,” you call out, just loud enough for Lando to hear. “Fight me. Like you mean it.”

“What if I don’t want to hurt you?”

You flick your blade up, catch the light on the edge. “Then you better aim for my heart, because that’s the one part of me you’ve already got.”

Lucky bucks between you both, letting out a conflicted snarl. For a split second, it all stalls. A brief, uncanny quiet that seems to settle between one heartbeat and the next.

Lando stares at you from astride Lucky, his expression shifting from betrayal to uncertainty. Before he can make a move, you slip your free hand into your cloak and pull out the carved wooden whistle. It’s barely the size of your thumb, etched with crude swirls you’d scratched yourself. You lift it to your lips and blow.

The shrill note pierces through the chaos, cutting across the clang of steel and the shriek of dragons overhead. For a second, nothing.

Then, the sound of thrashing leaves and snarled branches explodes behind you. The earth practically trembles.

Your Triple Stryke bursts through the edge of the jungle, hissing and gleaming in the firelight like a polished onyx trident come alive. You catch it mid-charge, scrambling onto its back, your limbs awkward and graceless. It grumbles beneath you, impatient. You're still not quite used to this. The way the saddle tilts, the way its body moves in lurches and slithers, the way its barbed tail coils possessively.

You find Lando’s gaze again across the field. Max is already shouting something, likely a mix of disbelief and profanity. Yuki just whistles lowly. George has this strange smile on his face, like he’d always known.

Lando arches a brow at you. He is trying so hard not to smile, and he’s failing spectacularly. “Finally picked a side, huh?”

You tug the reins, still too tight. Your dragon, ever dramatic, flicks its tail like it’s flipping its hair. “Figured I might as well make an entrance,” you shoot back, wind whipping your hair, cutting your vision into strips.

Lando lets out a startled laugh. His face lights up, tension bleeding from his shoulders like it’s nothing. “Her name?”

You nod, patting the Triple Stryke's scaled neck. “Meet Charm. Suits, right? A little vain. A lot of flair. Not unlike a certain someone I know who named his Night Fury ‘Lucky’.”

“Lucky and Charm,” Lando says, grinning wider. “We sound like a tavern act.”

“Or a bad omen,” you mutter, though you’re smiling too.

Somewhere behind you, Max bellows your name, fury crackling in every syllable. Charm hisses back, teeth gleaming. Yuki watches the whole thing unfold, idly spinning a blade in one hand.

You and Lando keep staring at each other from across the battleground, your dragons circling, coiling, daring the war to reach them. And maybe it will.

But right now, it feels like the fight has only just begun.

Max charges like a bull, all fury and grit, and it takes every ounce of control to keep Charm from reacting on instinct. The Triple Stryke arches up like a scorpion, tail weaving with the dangerous intent of a predator protecting its own. You squeeze your knees against its sides, urging calm.

“Not yet,” you tell it. “Don’t kill him. Just scare him a little.”

The air is thick with fire-smoke and brine. Wind gusts off the cliffs, catching on the ragged edges of sails and torn banners, sweeping through the battlefield with the cries of dragons and men. Behind you, Lucky dives and spins in the sky above the burning coastline, Lando and Yuki locked in a clash of flame and agility.

Max barrels toward you, axe raised, his eyes blazing. “Traitor!”

Charm rears again, hissing, and you twist the reins just enough to avoid a direct hit. Max swings and catches the edge of Charm’s saddle, his blade sparking against the iron buckles. He lands hard on the rocky shore but rolls up like it’s nothing.

“I should’ve drowned you the second I saw you looking soft!” Max hisses.

You wince, mostly from the accuracy of it. “Max, I didn’t betray our people. I just stopped believing that revenge is the only way forward,” you try to reason, but there is only so much pain a man can take before reason falls flat.

He laughs, bitter and wild. “You didn’t stop anything. You just picked a prettier enemy to kiss.”

Charm snaps its tail, coiling it between you and Max like a wall of gleaming red. Still, Max presses on, and you're quickly realizing that no dragon will stop him from getting to you. Only you can.

You throw your leg over the saddle and dismount, boots crunching onto the dark wet rock of the shore. Alex swoops down almost instantly, skidding through ash to take Charm’s reins.

“I’ve got him! Go!” Alex shouts.

You nod, eyes never leaving Max. He’s panting, already singed around the edges, his armor dented and blackened. The fire in him burns too hot to feel it. You draw your blade.

“Fine,” you say, lifting your weapon between you. “No dragons. Just us.”

The fearless Max Verstappen squares his shoulders. “Good. Let’s see what all that love has taught you about war.”

You don’t bother replying. The ash swirls between you. The cliffs stand high above, scorched and watching. You duck a swing from Max’s sword, the steel hissing through the air where your head used to be. He’s relentless. Rage burns in the whites of his eyes, and you feel every ounce of your betrayal pressed into each strike.

You’re not fast enough. Not good enough. Not when your muscles are already trembling, lungs burning, arms heavy from deflecting blow after blow. He catches you with the flat of his blade and sends you sprawling into the dirt, your kirtle ripped, your shoulder screaming in pain.

“You think you’re a hero now?” Max snarls, looming over you. “You think naming a dragon makes you one of them?”

You spit blood to the side and scramble up to your knees. “No,” you rasp. “But I’d rather fight for something alive than die for your ghosts.”

He swings again.

And then Lando is there.

He bursts through the haze like a reckless gust of wind, no dragon in sight, just him and a dagger in each hand. He intercepts Max’s blade with a clang, their weapons locking.

“Thought you might need backup,” he grunts, glancing sideways at you, a flash of teeth in a wild grin.

“You couldn’t have brought Lucky?” you groan, dragging yourself to your feet.

“He’s busy being dramatic.”

Max is quicker than either of you expect. He shifts his weight, knocks Lando off balance with a swipe of the leg. The prosthetic gives under the force. Lando hits the ground with a grunt and rolls away just before Max brings his sword down where his chest had been.

“Stay out of this, Norris,” Max barks. “This is a family matter.”

“No,” Lando spits, pushing himself back up with a grimace. “You said it yourself. This is about love.”

Max is already swinging again, and this time it’s at both of you. You parry with everything you’ve got, the vibration of the impact rattling up your arms. Lando flanks to the side, slashing with quick, fluid strikes, but Max is a wall of anger, solid and immovable. He backhands Lando hard enough to send him sprawling again.

You barely duck in time to avoid a follow-up.

Your heart pounds. The sounds of dragons screeching and swords clashing echo all around. You catch a glimpse of Oscar locked in battle with George, Alex soaring overhead with Yuki in pursuit.

And here you are, teeth gritted, bloodied, back-to-back with Lando, staring down the man you once called your commander.

“Any brilliant ideas?” Lando pants.

You glance down at the dirt, the blood, the mess. Then up at Max, who never hesitates, who never breaks.

“Just one,” you mutter. “Don’t die. Yet.”

“That’s the plan.”

You both know plans don’t mean much when Max is swinging like he’s ready to bury the past and you along with it.

The ground shakes beneath his charge. Dirt kicks up, sharp with the scent of ash and blood. You and Lando scramble, but you’re both slower now. Bruised and battered. Your limbs scream with every movement, your back slick with sweat and the faint sting of torn skin. Lando grits his teeth, a cut blooming across his cheek, and pushes himself up again.

Max is unrelenting. His blade gleams crimson under the war-lit sky, the fire from a nearby blaze catching on the edge. “You think this makes you noble?” he snarls, swinging down.

Lando throws his prosthetic leg up to block the strike, but it knocks him to the ground with a dull thud. You dive, grab a rock—anything—but Max kicks you back. Pain flares through your ribs. You taste blood.

“You’ve betrayed your people,” Max spits, standing over you now, towering and furious. “Over a boy. Over a beast. You’ve forgotten our dead.”

Your fingers scrabble for your whistle. You blow, and the shrill note cuts through the chaos.

Charm answers with a roar, streaking in from above like a meteor. It lands between you and Max with a crash that sends the ground rippling. One braid of its tail lashes out, and Max’s weapon goes spinning into the dirt.

Charm pins Max with a clawed foot, a low growl reverberating through its chest. Max thrashes beneath it, kicking up dirt and rage. “You don’t have the stomach to finish me,” he spits up at you. “You never did.”

You limp toward him, the whistle still in your grip, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth. Charm huffs, still holding Max down. Lando groans somewhere behind you, breathing hard through his nose.

“You’re right,” you say, crouching beside Max, your voice like flint. “I’m not going to burn you. Not going to let Charm crush you either.”

Max glares up at you, sneering. “Then what? Going to talk me to death?”

You smile, slow and sharp.

“I’m going to prove you wrong.”

Then you kick him in the face. Hard enough that his head snaps sideways and he slumps, out cold in the dirt.

Charm grumbles approvingly, lifting its foot. Lando drags himself to your side, breath ragged.

You meet his eyes. He grins, bruised and crooked. “Remind me never to piss you off," he croaks. The cliche of all cliches.

Just because you can, you grab a fistful of his tunic and pull him in for a blistering kiss.

You taste blood. It could be his. It could be yours. Either way, it reminds you that you’re still both alive, alive, alive.

The wood walls are as cold and familiar as ever.

Damp moss curls between the panels, and the faint trickle of water echoes through the chamber like a lazy clock. The cell is smaller than you remember, or maybe you’re just more tired than you’ve ever been. Charm had nuzzled your hand before you were taken away, one last huff of warm breath on your palm before you were led back here in chains.

Lando leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a crooked smile on his lips. His cheeks still flushed from the aftermath of battle. There’s soot along his jawline. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” he sing-songs.

You roll your eyes and flop down on the wooden bench with a groan. “What, not charmed to see me?”

“Oh, utterly. Nothing like a bit of treason and light jail time to keep the romance alive.”

You laugh, too tired to muster anything biting. Outside the cell, someone coughs. A sharp, annoyed sound. George, in the neighboring cell, pacing like a restless dog. Yuki lounges in his own corner, chewing on what looks like a dried mango slice he probably stole off someone’s plate. Max is somewhere else entirely; last you saw him, he had a purple bruise flowering across his cheek.

It all comes back in flashes: the clang of steel, the shriek of dragons, the moment Max had you and Lando cornered before you managed your whistle. Charm, swooping in like a vengeful star. The satisfying crunch of your boot against Max’s jaw.

And then, the riders rallying. Alex and Oscar flanking you, dragons circling like sentinels. Lewis descending from the ridge, cloak billowing like a verdict. He looked at the four of you, wounded and defiant, and gave the order: “Take them to the cells. The council will decide what to do with them.”

Now, here you are. Again.

“So,” Lando says, dragging the stool closer to your bars, “any chance you’ll finally tell me if you picked our side for the dragons or for me?”

“You’re assuming I picked your side at all.”

“You named your dragon Charm to match Lucky.”

“That’s circumstantial evidence.”

He grins, eyes glinting. “Sure. And me sleeping in this dungeon instead of my own bed is just me exploring alternative lodging.”

You bump your head lightly against the bars and sigh. “What happens now?”

Lando’s smile fades a little. “Depends on the council. They’re deciding whether you all deserve mercy, or if this truce was just another battlefield.”

You meet his eyes. “And what do you think?”

He reaches through the bars and takes your hand. “I think mercy deserves a chance,” he says, his fingers finding the spaces between yours. “For all of us.”

The days bleed into each other. Your comrades disappear one by one to face their juries. They don’t come back, and you’re left with Lando’s visits, with the faint roar of Formulae spinning madly on beyond you.

You’re picking at the frayed hem of your tunic when the door creaks open. Light spills in, along with a familiar silhouette and an all-too-familiar smirk.

“You know,” Lando drawls, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame, “you could’ve escaped by now. I left that lock practically begging to be picked.”

You glance up at him, eyes narrow. “Maybe I was waiting for someone to bust me out. Preferably someone pretty.”

He scoffs and walks in, keys jingling on his hip. “Flattery. Gonna add that to your list of crimes.”

Formulae really knows how to standardize incarceration. You stand as Lando reaches for the lock, his fingers brushing yours a moment too long before the cell door swings open with a satisfying clunk.

“Your comrades have been sentenced,” he says, his voice lighter than the words themselves. “Max is exiled here. Lewis says if he’s going to be trouble, at least we’ll know where to find him.”

You snort. “That’s not exile, that’s surveillance.”

“Potato, potato,” Lando shrugs. “Georgie, meanwhile, has inherited your island. Lewis calls it a punishment, but George looked vaguely thrilled. Something about finally getting the good tea imported.”

A smile almost breaks out on your face. The man who cared not for the dragons, but only about politics. “I always knew he had delusions of grandeur,” you say, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly.

“Yuki’s now our shared defense minister,” Lago goes on. “He complained until Lewis said he’d get to yell at everyone in both places. Then he seemed oddly pleased.”

You stretch your arms over your head, wincing at a sore muscle. “And me? What wonderful future awaits the great traitor?”

Lando clicks his tongue. “You got off easy. I may have… testified that you warned us before the raid. Which, by the way, is the only reason Lewis didn’t have you thrown to the dragons.”

“And here I thought he liked me.”

“He does. In a bureaucratic, suspicious sort of way. So he’s giving you community service. You’re to report to the dragon academy.”

You blink. “To do what?”

Lando grins. “Help train the recruits. Muck the stables. Feed the dragons. Try not to get singed.”

You stare at him. “You mean I go from traitor to dragon wrangler?”

“Exactly. Full circle.”

There are worse things to be.

“This better come with hazard pay,” you huff.

Lando presses his lips to your forehead. “You’ll be paid in dragon breath and adolescent chaos,” he coos.

You follow him out of the jail. The sunlight hits you like a slap and a kiss all at once. Too bright after the jail’s damp dimness, but still welcome, warm on your cheeks and shoulders. You blink against it, stretch, and hear the clang of the outer gates closing behind you. Lando waits there, arms folded, curls a little wilder than usual. His mouth twitching around something he can’t quite say.

“You look like a bat who just saw its first sunrise,” he says, tone light but eyes watchful.

“You try living in a box that smells like wet leather and regret,” you mutter, rubbing at your temple.

He walks beside you as you descend the steps into the village square. The stones are warm underfoot. Formulae’s dragons wheel lazily in the sky above, casting shadows over the thatched rooftops. Children laugh in the distance, somewhere near the training cliffs. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

Lando clears his throat.

You glance at him. “You’re nervous,” you say, eyes narrowed. “You never get nervous. What’s going on?”

He scratches the back of his neck, then shoves his hands in his pockets. “Technically, you don’t have to stay here,” he says. “You could just… do your sentence, sleep on the ship, and head back home. Y’know. If you wanted.”

You squint at him, bemused. “Why do you sound like you’re trying to break up with me at my parole hearing?”

“I’m not. I’m not!” he exclaims, flustered. “It’s just… you haven’t really said—I mean, we haven’t said…”

He trails off, then tries again. “I know you fought with me. That was huge. That meant something. But you still haven’t… said it.”

A pause.

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to say it.”

He looks at his boots. “Only if you mean it.”

You snort. “Norris,” you say slowly, enunciating each word. “I committed minor treason for you. I defected mid-battle. I rode a dragon I didn’t know how to steer just to name it something to match yours.”

He gives you a sheepish grin. “Lucky and Charm. We’re about to be the most annoying riders ever,” he says, aiming for nonchalance. You don’t let him hide behind it.

You step in close. Take his face in your hands, the heat of his skin, the freckle at the edge of his cheekbone. You kiss him slow, and when you pull back, your lips brush against his as you do it. As you say it.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His breath catches like he forgot how to breathe.

Then he whoops, loud and gleeful, and lifts you off your feet in a wild, spinning hug that makes your ribs ache from smiling.

Lucky has snuck in behind him, tail twitching like a cat’s, eyes bright. Charm is at his side, swinging its tail idly. Knocking over a stack of gear you hadn’t even noticed. Clearly, the dragons are in on this.

“You hear that, Lucky?” Lando giggles to his dragon, arms still wrapped around your shoulders. “She loves me. She loves me!”

Lucky snorts. It doesn’t roll its eyes, but it’s a close thing.

You swat Lando’s chest, and he puts you finally puts you down. “I’m so happy, I could fly,” Lando says giddily, face buried in the crook of your neck.

“That’s what dragons are for.”

“Says the one who has avoided flying more than five feet off the ground.”

You squint up at the sky. The clouds are wispy today, stretching like pulled cotton. The sun is high, casting everything in gold. The wind lifts the edges of your tunic, tickling your skin. It’s a perfect day for flight. If only you weren’t still convinced you’d end up as a splatter on some cliff face.

“I’m not avoiding,” you mutter. “I’m strategically delaying.”

Lando snorts. “That’s called fear.”

You elbow him lightly in the ribs. “It’s called trauma, actually. Some of us didn’t grow up launching ourselves off ledges for fun.”

Lando turns toward you, expression softening. “Hey. I get it. Really. But you’ve got Charm now. And me. And you’re already halfway in love with the sky, I can tell. You just need a little push.”

He walks over to the Triple Stryke, running a hand affectionately along the dragon’s segmented side. “Let me teach you.”

Charm rumbles, like it’s also suggesting you quit being a coward.

You exhale, nervous and warm all at once. “If I die, I’m haunting you,” you grumble, the hammering in your chest only secondary to the affection you have for both this man, these dragons.

Lando grins. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He mounts Lucky with practiced ease, and you climb onto Charm’s back with considerably less grace, gripping the ridges of the dragon’s spine like a lifeline. The dragon is hot beneath you, muscle and sinew shifting as it adjusts to your weight.

“Ease into it,” Lando calls from a few feet away. “Charm’s sensitive to tension. You tense, it tenses. Just breathe with him.”

You close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

The scent of sea spray and dragon oil and sun-warmed leather fills your nose. Then, with a surge of wings and wind, you launch.

The world falls away.

Your stomach drops, but Charm steadies you, wings catching the currents with instinctual ease. You cling tighter. Lando whoops beside you, carving circles through the sky. The wind screams past your ears, but there’s laughter there too. Your own.

You shout into the sky, wild and breathless. Below, the ocean gleams like glass. Lucky flanks you on one side, Lando grinning like he’s just won the world.

And maybe, maybe you’re starting to understand the feeling.

EPILOGUE.

The cove is quiet this time of year, the water as smooth as oil and just as dark, curling gently along the shore like it knows not to interrupt. The air smells of sea salt and dried herbs from the dragon academy garden. The long grasses near the tree line wave lazily in the breeze, and the clouds roll slow and low across the sky, like they’re too tired to rain.

Somewhere behind you, Lucky gives a contented snort, the Night Fury lounging in a sun-dappled patch of grass like royalty, his tail twitching just slightly with every breath. Charm, naturally, has taken up three times more space than necessary, sprawled on the warm sand with its tail coiled protectively over a cache of shiny rocks it’s deemed treasure.

You hear the sound of boots on stone before you see anyone. Lando spots them first, narrowing his eyes with a playful squint as he shades his brow with one hand. “Visitors,” he says gruffly. “Seems like Georgie brought backup, too.”

You squint into the sunlight. Sure enough, George is descending the winding path toward the cove, his coat slightly windswept and dusty. Two unfamiliar figures flank him. The first is tall and curly-haired, all effortless charm and sun-bright confidence, with a grin that suggests mischief is a part of his daily routine. The second is buffer, paler, with the kind of stare that reads through your thoughts like an open book and dares you to lie.

George raises a hand in greeting. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

“You? Always,” you call back wryly, “but we’re learning to live with disappointment.”

Lando chuckles beside you, nudging your shoulder. “Be nice, honey. He’s technically a guest.”

“Technically,” you repeat with a smirk.

Introductions come easily enough. George gestures to his team. “This is Isack,” he says about the buff one. “He’s studying diplomacy, unfortunately. And this is Kimi. He’s mostly here to make sure Isack doesn’t start a war with a smile.”

Isack grins like he’s absolutely going to start a war with a smile. “So you’re the dragon tamer turned almost-traitor turned academy assistant,” he says without preamble.

“Only on weekdays,” you reply. “Weekends, I moonlight as Lando’s handler.”

Lando slips an arm around your waist with absolutely no shame. “She means to say wife,” he says, as if it’s a title he’s been dying to throw around.

You elbow him, though it’s half-hearted. “Wife-to-be,” you amend.

“Still counts.”

Kimi arches a brow. “Marriage of political convenience?”

You pretend to think about it. “Something like that,” you scoff. “He offered a dragon, a roof over my head, and a lifetime supply of sarcastic commentary. I figured, why not?”

“Excuse you,” Lando cuts in, clearly wounded. “I also offer excellent foot rubs, dramatic sky picnics, and weekly serenades Lucky tries to sleep through.”

“He does,” you admit fondly, glancing at your fiance sideways. “He’s very committed to the theatrics.”

Charm lets out a low, pleased trill like it’s claiming credit for all of it. Lucky, not one to be outdone, lets loose a sharp, melodic whistle before flopping over and pretending he doesn't care.

Kimi watches the dragons with a thoughtful expression. You get the sense he’s taking notes, mental or otherwise. Isack, meanwhile, points to the gleam at your hip. “No ring?”

You draw your hand to the sword sheathed at your side, the hilt polished and gleaming under the afternoon sun. “Formulae tradition. We carry what protects us, not what decorates us.”

“Romantic,” Kimi deadpans.

“It is,” Lando says without missing a beat. He looks at you with something soft and secretive. “Just not in the way you’d expect.”

George sighs with the long-suffering air of a man who’s endured one too many of your shared jokes. “You two are insufferable.”

“And you,” Lando replies, already grinning, “need to get laid.”

You laugh as George sputters excuses. You lean your head against Lando’s shoulder, letting his warmth soak into your skin. The sea laps gently at the shore, rhythm steady and sure. Charm shuffles in the sand, tucking one wing over its back. Lucky yawns, baring rows of sharp teeth and letting out a soft whuff that ruffles your hair.

George’s diplomatic mission is quick and efficient. Isack and Kimi are already leagues better than you could ever be for the island that you left behind. You and Lando stand on the dock, waving them off as they sail back home.

You and Lando don’t speak for a while after the ship vanishes behind the curve of the horizon. The silence isn’t heavy; it settles between you like a familiar cloak, worn soft over time. He wraps his arms around you from behind, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. The wind plays with the ends of your hair.

“So,” your husband-to-be murmurs, “think they’ll be fine?”

“They’ll be alright,” you say, hand resting over his. “George knows how to pick his battles. And his people.”

Lando hums his agreement, the sound low and content. You both stay like that, looking out over the water, until the clouds break just enough to spill a swath of golden light across the sea.

Behind you, the dragons stir. Charm rolls dramatically onto its back, demanding attention. Lucky stretches his wings, letting out a soft croon as he ambles toward the edge of the cove, eyes fixed on the sun.

You turn in Lando’s arms and rest your forehead against his. “You know,” you say, voice low, “we could leave the academy. Disappear into the mountains. Or the coast. Raise baby dragons. Raise hell.”

He grins like you just handed him the world. “Tempting. But you’d miss bossing the recruits around.”

“Not if I get to boss you around instead.”

He laughs, full and warm. “Deal.”

The sun dips lower, brushing the sky in hues of apricot and rose. You walk back up the slope together, his fingers laced with yours, the path dappled with shadows of swaying grass and flickering dragon wings.

Back in the cove, Lando’s sketchbook lies open on one of the rocks. Half-full and smudged. The charcoal, catching every line of movement like wind caught in a sail. Lando picks it up and goes back to what he’d been doing before being interrupted.

His fingers move slower now. More sure. The page in front of him is almost finished. A dragon perched on the lip of a cliff, wings furled tight, gaze locked on something unseen. The figure beside it is small, hooded, posture unyielding.

“You made me look brooding,” you complain as you lean down to peer at the parchment.

“You are brooding,” he replies without looking up.

“I’m thoughtful.”

“You’re a menace,” he says fondly, “but I like drawing you like this. The still moments.”

You don’t have anything to say to that.

You just drop down beside Lando, shoulder against his, engagement sword clanking on the stone floor. The warm hush of almost-summer settles into your bones as you stare at his sketches.

The drawing really does look like you. Not in the features, but in the way the figure is braced for something, even at rest. It’s a piece of you, the way he sees you. You wonder, briefly, if you will always have fire and war in your veins.

But then Lando draws a clumsy, anatomically incorrect heart right next to his charcoal version of you, and you know you’re more than grief and fight.

You’re love, too.

You’re loved.

“You do that all the time,” you say affectionately, resting your cheek against Lando’s shoulder.

He smiles and leans in close, as if he’s about to tell you a secret.

“I’ve done it since the very first one.” ⛐

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