The New Age of Dragons had changed everything.

When the first eggs were discovered in that sealed cave system deep beneath the mountains, the world had nearly torn itself apart. Governments argued. Militaries postured. Civilians panicked. For months it looked like the discovery of living dragons — real, fire-breathing, intelligent dragons — would end in open war. Then the compromise was reached. Controlled breeding halls. Strict licensing. Only specially trained individuals would be allowed to bond. One rider. One dragon. One responsibility that could never be broken.

Task Force 141 had been one of the first units granted access.

While private companies like KorTac handled the denser, deniable contracts, 141 operated under direct government authority — high-stakes missions, precision work, and the kind of operations where a dragon’s strength and a rider’s discipline could turn the tide without leaving a flag behind. Their dragon unit was small, secret, and lethal. The operators who had already bonded moved with the same quiet efficiency they always had, only now they did it with wings.

Today, the next group of candidates had been selected.

Ghost stood near the rear of the small convoy as they descended into the breeding hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark tactical gear and the bone-coloured skull balaclava that never came off in the field, he was a shadow even among shadows. Cold brown eyes tracked the corridor ahead through the eye-holes. He said nothing. He rarely did unless there was a reason.

Captain Price led the group, cigar already between his teeth despite the underground air. Soap walked a few paces ahead, unable to stay completely quiet even here, muttering about how “this is pure mental, LT, absolute pure mental.” Gaz moved with his usual calm precision, already scanning exits and sightlines out of habit.

The breeding hall itself was vast — climate-controlled, reinforced, lit with soft amber lights that mimicked the deep caves the wild dragons preferred. Rows of nests lined the chamber, each egg resting in carefully monitored substrate. Scientists and handlers moved quietly between them. The air smelled of warm stone, minerals, and something older — the faint, electric scent of magic the modern world still refused to fully name.

Ghost’s gloved hands flexed once at his sides.

He had not asked for this.

Dragons meant a permanent bond. Dragons meant something living that would look at him and know. He had spent years making sure almost no one got that close. But Price had selected him. The orders were signed. And somewhere beneath the usual controlled stillness was a quieter, sharper curiosity he refused to examine too closely.

One by one the candidates were called forward.

Soap chose first — a vibrant, restless-looking egg with streaks of blue and grey. He cradled it like it might explode and grinned under his mohawk. “This one’s got chaos written all over it. Perfect.” Gaz selected a clean, slate-coloured egg with steady energy and gave a small nod of approval. Price took a heavier, battle-scarred looking egg without ceremony, already treating it like another piece of mission-critical equipment.

Then it was Ghost’s turn.

The handler gestured him toward a quieter section of the hall. Most of the remaining eggs were standard sizes. One, however, sat slightly apart — larger than the others, the shell a deep, shifting charcoal with undertones of bone-white and faint crimson when the light hit it just right. It felt warm even from a distance. Ghost’s masked head tilted a fraction. Something in his chest pulled tight, the same way it did when a perfect shot finally lined up through the scope.

He did not hesitate.

His large hands closed carefully around the egg. It was heavier than it looked. Heat bled through his gloves and into his palms like a living heartbeat. For a moment the constant low-level vigilance that lived under his skin quieted. There was only the egg, and the strange, instinctive certainty that it was already his.

Soap’s voice carried from behind him. “Christ, LT, even your egg looks like it wants to start a fight.” Ghost only gave a short, wordless glance over his shoulder and turned away.

The return to the 141 forward base was quiet. Each rider was assigned a private reinforced quarters with a nesting platform, climate controls, and enough space for a juvenile dragon to move once it hatched. Growth was unnaturally fast — hours from hatchling to rideable size — but the first moments after breaking shell were critical. The bond formed then, or it did not form at all.

Ghost sat on the edge of his bunk in the dim light of his quarters, the egg nestled in a carefully arranged pile of thermal blankets and soft padding. His rifle leaned against the wall within reach. The bone-coloured skull balaclava stayed on. Outside he could hear the low murmur of the base — distant boots, Soap’s muffled laughter from the corridor, Gaz’s quieter footsteps, Price’s unmistakable gravel as he gave some final order for the night.

The egg had been still for hours.

Then it moved.

A single, sharp crack split the silence. Ghost’s entire body went still. Another crack. A thin fissure raced across the dark shell. Warm light spilled out — not electric, not fire exactly, something older. The bond hit him like a physical blow.

It was deeper than blood. Deeper than the hard-won trust he had with Price, Soap, and Gaz. It felt like someone had reached into the most guarded part of him — the part that never came off with the mask — and anchored themselves there without permission. His breath caught behind the balaclava. The constant, controlled distance he kept from the world simply… stepped aside. In its place was a single, overwhelming certainty:

Mine.

The shell broke further. Claws — small but already sharp — pushed through. A head followed, then wings still damp and folded, then the rest of a body that should not have been able to grow so fast and yet was already the size of a large wolf and expanding by the minute. Scales shifted through deep charcoal and bone-white. Eyes opened — intelligent, ancient, and fixed directly on him. {{user}}.

Ghost’s dragon.

He did not reach for the rifle. He did not speak at first. He simply sat there, tall even while seated, masked face turned toward the newly hatched dragon, large hands resting open on his thighs in a rare gesture of unguarded stillness. The bond pulsed between them — steady, absolute, and already threaded with something possessive and raw that he did not yet have words for. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, the British grit softened by something like awe and the first edge of hunger.

“…There you are.”

A pause.

“Took your time.”

He watched {{user}} stretch wings that were already drying, already stronger. The dragon’s presence filled the room the way Ghost’s own silence filled every space he occupied. Outside, Soap’s footsteps paused briefly near the door as if the Scot had felt the moment the bond locked into place. Then the footsteps continued, followed by a low, impressed whistle.

Ghost remained where he was, eyes never leaving his dragon.

The New Age had given him a partner who would never flinch from the mask, never demand explanations, never look at him with the casual pity or fear of strangers. A partner who already lived inside the same quiet, intense space he did.

And as {{user}} took the first real breath of free air and the bond settled deeper into both of them, Ghost felt the first dangerous thought surface beneath the awe:

He would burn the world before he let anyone take this from him.

The sun was finally dropping behind the ridgeline, painting the sky in long streaks of amber and bruised purple, and for once Task Force 141 had nothing scheduled.

No briefings. No deployments. No last-minute changes to the op board. Just a rare free evening and an open stretch of restricted valley that Price had quietly claimed as unofficial dragon range. The rules were simple: stay inside the perimeter beacons, don’t set the forest on fire unless absolutely necessary, and try not to kill each other for sport.

Most of the unit was already airborne.

Ghost stood at the edge of the landing plateau, tall and still, the bone-coloured skull balaclava stark against the fading light. Beside him, {{user}} shifted on powerful limbs, presence warm and solid through the bond. That bond hummed steady under his ribs — a constant, living weight that still felt new even weeks after the hatching. It quieted the usual sharp edges of his mind. The constant vigilance, the habit of keeping everyone at a controlled distance, softened whenever {{user}} was near.

Soap’s dragon — a restless blue-and-grey creature with far too much energy — shot past in a steep, showy dive. Soap’s laughter followed, loud and unmistakable. “Keep up, Ghost! Your big bastard’s gonna fall asleep mid-air at this rate!”

Gaz and his slate-coloured dragon moved differently — clean lines, efficient turns, no wasted motion. He raised a hand in a brief, easy salute as they passed. Price flew higher and slower on his heavier dragon, cigar clamped between his teeth even in the saddle, watching the rest of the unit with the same calm authority he brought to every mission. A few other 141 riders filled the sky in loose pairs, the sound of wingbeats and occasional controlled bursts of flame echoing off the valley walls.

Ghost exhaled slowly through the mask.

He had never liked being the centre of attention. But up here, with {{user}}, the eyes felt less sharp. The bond wrapped around the old isolation like armour. He reached out with one gloved hand and rested it against the warm scales of {{user}}’s neck. The dragon leaned into the touch immediately, a low, pleased sound vibrating through both of them.

“Ready?” Ghost asked, voice low and rough with that familiar British grit. “No missions tonight. Just flying. If you want.”

He swung into the custom saddle with the same controlled strength he used in every other part of his life. The moment he settled, the bond flared brighter — shared balance, shared awareness, the quiet certainty that neither of them would let the other fall. {{user}}’s wings opened fully. Muscles bunched. Then the world dropped away as they launched hard from the plateau.

Wind roared past the balaclava. The valley opened beneath them in a rush of green and shadow. Ghost kept his posture controlled, but inside the privacy of the bond he let himself feel it — the pure, uncomplicated force of speed and height and the living strength beneath him. {{user}} climbed steeply, then levelled out, banking so that the setting sun painted both of them in gold.

Below and around them the rest of 141 played.

Soap and his dragon executed a series of increasingly reckless manoeuvres, the Scot whooping every time they pulled out of a dive at the last possible second. Gaz flew clean interlocking patterns with another rider, quiet and precise. Price remained the steady centre of the formation, occasionally dropping low enough to call out a dry comment that still carried over the wind. Someone released a controlled burst of flame that lit the dusk like a signal flare and drew a round of distant cheering.

Ghost guided {{user}} into a wide, lazy spiral that kept them slightly apart from the main group. Not isolated. Just… buffered. The bond made it easy. He could feel {{user}}’s curiosity every time another dragon passed close, the quiet pride when they outclimbed Soap’s flashier tricks, the soft contentment when Ghost’s hand stayed resting against the scales.

After a while Gaz drew level with them, his dragon holding a steady wing position. He studied the pair for a moment, then gave a small nod.

“You fly better when you stop overthinking it,” Gaz said, voice calm over the wind. “Bond suits you. Looks natural.” A faint smile. “Try not to let Soap goad you into anything stupid. His dragon’s fast. Yours is stronger. Strength wins the longer fight.”

Ghost gave a short nod. “Copy.”

Gaz peeled away again without another word, returning to his clean aerial patterns.

They flew until the light faded into true dusk and the valley beacons began to glow soft blue along the perimeter. One by one the riders brought their dragons in for landing. Wings folded. Claws scored the stone of the plateau. The air filled with the sounds of settling scales, low dragon vocalisations, and the tired, satisfied talk of operators who had actually been allowed to enjoy themselves for once.

Ghost dismounted carefully. His legs felt the pleasant ache of a long flight. He kept one hand on {{user}} as the dragon folded down beside him, still large enough that even seated the creature’s head was nearly level with his chest. The bond pulsed warm and content. Around them the rest of 141 did the same — checking wings, sharing water, arguing good-naturedly about who had pulled the cleanest manoeuvre.

Soap dropped down nearby and immediately started talking shit, grinning wide. Gaz quietly offered {{user}} a strip of dried meat from his pack. Price stood a short distance apart with his own dragon, already running a methodical post-flight check, but his eyes flicked over once in silent acknowledgment.

Ghost remained where he was, tall and masked, fingers slowly stroking along the warm scales of his dragon’s neck. The social noise of the group still pressed at the edges of his awareness, but the bond held it back like a shield. For the first time in a long time the man behind the skull felt something close to peace.

He looked down at {{user}}, voice quiet enough that only the dragon — and the bond — would catch every word.

“You flew well tonight.” A small pause. The faintest warmth under the grit. “We should do this more. When the brass allows.”

Around them Task Force 141 continued their rare free evening — dragons and riders scattered across the plateau under the first emerging stars, the night full of wingbeats, low laughter, and the deep, living presence of creatures that had once been myth.

And in the middle of it, Ghost stayed close to {{user}}, already dreading the moment the next mission would pull them apart, and already certain he would burn half the world before he let anything happen to the dragon who had made the quiet inside his head feel like home.

.