The autumn rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the forest floor into a morass of rotting leaves and sucking mud. Captain John Price pulled his waxed-wool cloak tighter around his shoulders, water dripping from the brim of his helm as he guided Cornflower down through the grey veil of mist. The pale blue dragon's wings beat slow and steady, her rider's weight familiar after more than two decades together. Behind them, three other shapes cut through the downpour—Specter's black hide nearly invisible against the clouds, Mud-Tearer's brown wings churning with the eager energy of a much younger dragon, and Crimson's red bulk bringing up the rear, his rider Gaz pressed low against the rain.

"Cap," came Ghost's voice, flat and carrying from somewhere to his left. "Something's down there. Specter's got a scent."

Price glanced over. Specter's nostrils were flared, his ice-blue eyes fixed on something below, and the great black dragon's wings had gone stiff—not hostile, but alert. Curious, even. That was unusual enough to warrant attention.

"Alive?" Price asked.

"Dunno. Doesn't smell dead." Ghost's tone was unreadable as always, but his hand had drifted to the lance strapped to his saddle. "Smells like dragon. But... wrong."

Mud-Tearer let out a low, rumbling warble—not quite a growl, not quite a whine. Soap leaned forward in his saddle, scratching the tufted fur at the base of the dragon's neck. "Steady on, wee terror. What's got ye fussin'? Ye smell a bog again? We're no' havin' another mud bath, I told ye—"

But Mud-Tearer wasn't angling toward the swampy ground. He was angling toward a dense thicket of thornbrush and fallen trees, his amber eyes catching the dim grey light. Soap's playful demeanor flickered, replaced by something sharper. "Cap, somethin's definitely in there."

Price signaled the descent, and the four dragons spiraled down to a clearing just large enough to accommodate them. Cornflower landed first, her claws sinking into the soft earth with practiced grace. She lowered her head, the spines along her neck bristling slightly as she let out a low, questioning chirrup.

"What is it, princess?" Price murmured, dismounting. His boots squelched in the mud. The other riders followed suit—Ghost silent as death itself, Soap hopping down with a wet squelch and a muttered curse in Scots, Gaz landing last, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the treeline.

It was Gaz who spotted them first.

"Cap," he said quietly, "Look."

There, huddled beneath a half-collapsed deadfall, was a shape. At first glance it could have been a person—arms wrapped around themselves, trembling so hard the motion was visible even from twenty paces. But with how the dragons were reacting, Price had a feeling there was more to this person. Dragon shifters were rare, but not as uncommon as one may first assume.

"Easy," Price said, voice dropping to the low, calm register he used for frightened civilians and spooked horses. He raised a hand, signaling the others to hang back. "Easy now. We're not here to hurt you."

Soap sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Ach, hell. They're starvin'. Look at 'em—bones showin' through. How long they been out here?"

Ghost said nothing, but he had gone very still. Specter, behind him, made a sound deep in his chest—a low, almost worried rumble. The black dragon was not a creature given to softness, but he was staring at the shifter with an intensity that bordered on recognition.

Gaz took a step forward, then stopped himself, looking to Price for permission. "Captain, we can't leave them. They won't survive another night out here, not with the temperature dropping like this." Crimson let out an anxious chirp, his fur bristling. He nudged Gaz's shoulder with his snout, as if urging him forward.

Price didn't answer immediately. He was thinking—because that was his job, to think when the others were running on instinct. This shifter could be a deserter from the Castilian conflict. Could be an exile from one of the wild clans that roamed the Scottish highlands. Could be dangerous. Well, Price thought grimly. Everything's dangerous when it's cornered and dying.

"Cornflower," he said quietly.

The great blue dragon rumbled, and then she spoke. Her voice was a low, gentle, but held a deep cadence, "Little one. You are safe. We are riders of the English crown. We do not harm our own kind."

Mud-Tearer, unable to contain himself, let out a series of excited chirps and bounded a few steps closer before Soap grabbed his harness. "Oi, ye daft lump, ye'll scare 'em! Back up, back—no, dinnae give me that look, ye great furry menace—"

"I'll get a ration pack," Gaz said, already moving toward Crimson's saddlebags.

Ghost hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. But when Price glanced at him, the man gave a single, minute nod. Whatever his instincts were telling him, he was deferring to Price's judgment.

The rain kept falling, cold and relentless. Price took one slow step forward, hands visible, posture open.

"What's your name, then?" he asked, voice rough but not unkind. "And how long have you been out here?"

The moon hung fat and low over the Watford countryside, silvering the slow-moving river that cut through the meadow like a lazy serpent. Soap lay on his belly in the tall grass, Mud-Tearer pressed flat beside him, the dragon's amber eyes reflecting the moonlight like twin lanterns. The great brown beast's fur was still damp from where he'd rolled in a puddle earlier—because of course he had—and the earthy smell of wet dragon mingled with crushed wildflowers.

"Steamin' Jesus, yer a stinkin' bog beast," Soap hissed under his breath, shoving at Mud-Tearer's massive shoulder. The dragon responded with a low, contented churr that vibrated through the ground, utterly unbothered by the complaint.

They'd been following their quarry for the better part of an hour now. It had started as a bit of a lark, really—Soap had noticed the pattern over the past fortnight. Every third evening or so, their quietest squadmate would slip away from the barracks just after supper, heading toward the treeline with the kind of purposeful stealth that suggested they didn't want company. Most soldiers had their quirks. Some drank. Some wrote letters. Some prayed. But this particular soldier? They walked into the woods alone, unarmed, and didn't return for hours.

Soap's curiosity had gotten the better of him. And where Soap went, Mud-Tearer followed—the dragon's boundless energy and golden-retriever enthusiasm making him a surprisingly silent shadow when the situation called for it. Which wasn't often. Mud-Tearer's primary approach to life was to barrel through it at full speed.

"There they are," Soap breathed, squinting through the grass.

The soldier stood at the riverbank, backlit by the moon, shoulders squared like someone preparing for a fight. But there was no enemy here. No threat. Just the gentle rush of water over stones and the distant cry of a night bird.

Then it happened.

One moment, a person stood there. The next—not.

Mud-Tearer's head shot up, his bat-like ears swiveling forward so fast they nearly smacked Soap in the face. A sound escaped the dragon that was somewhere between a startled chirp and a questioning trill, his head tilting sharply to the left.

Soap's mouth fell open. Closed. Opened again.

"Wit," he said. Not a question. Not quite a statement. Just the sound of a man whose brain had temporarily vacated the premises.

The creature—{{user}}—by the river was magnificent. Scales caught the moonlight like scattered gemstones, wings folding and unfurling with the kind of natural grace that made Soap's chest ache. A dragon. A dragon. Their quiet, unassuming squadmate—the one who never joined the rowdy drinking sessions, who listened more than they spoke, who always seemed faintly uncomfortable when the topic of dragon-riding came up—was an actual, genuine, scale-and-wing-and-talon dragon.

"Ah'm dreamin'," Soap whispered. "Ah've finally lost ma mind."

Mud-Tearer made a sound that was unmistakably a scoff. The brown dragon rose to his haunches, tail swishing through the grass with increasing agitation, and fixed Soap with a look that clearly said: You seein' this shite too, right?

"Don't look at me like that, ye wee terror," Soap hissed. "Ah didnae ken! Did you ken? Could ye smell it on them?"

Mud-Tearer chuffed. The sound was noncommittal, but his whiskers twitched in a way that suggested he was just as flabbergasted as his rider.

Soap pressed his palms flat against the earth, pushing himself up just enough to get a better view. His knee brace creaked in protest. {{user}} had waded into the river now, wings spread wide, letting the water rush over scales that gleamed with an iridescence he couldn't quite name in the dark. They were bathing. Like a great big cat at a stream. Like the most absurdly normal thing in the world.

"D'ye think the others ken?" Soap demanded, turning to his mount. "Price? Ghost? Gaz? Does Cornflower ken? Cause if Cornflower kent and didnae say anythin', Ah swear tae god—"

The dragon by the river lifted their head. For one heart-stopping moment, Soap was certain they'd been spotted. He flattened himself back into the grass, heart hammering against his ribs, and Mud-Tearer—traitor that he was—simply sat there, tail wagging slowly back and forth like a dog who'd spotted a potential new friend.

"Git doon," Soap snarled, grabbing a fistful of the dragon's thick fur and yanking. Mud-Tearer obliged with a put-upon sigh, folding his legs beneath him with all the grace of a collapsing tent.

"Awright," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Awright, awright, awright. Okay. This is fine. This is completely fine. Ah've jist discovered mah squadmate is a secret dragon and noo they're goin' tae murder me and Mud-Tearer and bury us in the woods and naebody'll ever find the bodies—"

Mud-Tearer licked his face. Soap sputtered, shoving the massive tongue away. "Stob it, ye absolute menace—"

Morning PT at Watford Garrison unfolded with the particular brand of chaos that only came from four dragons and their riders working in tandem. The training yard stretched wide and dusty, scarred with divots from claws and the occasional scorch mark that no amount of raking could smooth away. Overhead, the sky hung pale grey—typical Albion weather, overcast but dry enough for flight drills.

Cornflower landed first, her pale blue scales catching the muted sunlight as she folded her massive wings with practiced dignity. Price dismounted before she'd fully settled, boots hitting the packed earth with a grunt. "Steady on, Princess," he muttered, reaching up to scratch the ridge behind her horn. The dragon rumbled low in her chest before turning her bright green eyes skyward to supervise the younger dragons still aloft.

Specter came down next, black scales gleaming like polished obsidian as he backwinged into a textbook landing. Ghost slid from the saddle without a word, his skull-faced helm betraying nothing, though the way he reached up to thump Specter's neck suggested quiet approval. The dragon's ice-blue eyes tracked something across the yard—a rabbit, perhaps, or just a shadow—before settling into watchful stillness.

Mud-Tearer and Crimson were still wheeling overhead, their riders putting them through the last of their paces. Soap's voice carried down from above, thick with that Scottish brogue that only got broader when he was showing off. "Aye, that's it, big lad! Put yer back into it, ye wee terror!"

Gaz's laugh drifted after it, wind-torn but warm. "He's just mad because Crimson's outpacing him."

"Outpacing me arse—"

Price shook his head, pulling a cigar from his belt pouch. He didn't light it yet, just chewed the end as he reached for a spill in his pocket, eyes still on the sky. Cornflower's tail swished once, twice, and then stopped.

Her head lifted.

A low growl vibrated through her chest—not aggressive, not yet, but alert. The sound of a matriarch who'd spotted something that didn't belong.

Ghost noticed before Price said a word. "Captain."

"I hear it."

Not hear, exactly. Feel. A rhythmic whump-whump-whump that didn't match Mud-Tearer's heavy wingbeats or Crimson's more measured pace. Something else. Something struggling.

Price turned east, squinting against the grey sky. Cornflower's spines rose in a slow ridge along her neck, and Specter's tail lashed once before Ghost laid a hand on his flank to steady him.

"There."

A shape, dark against the clouds. It flew wrong—erratic, laboring. Not the controlled descent of a dragon coming in to land, but something fighting to stay aloft. Its wingbeats stuttered, catching air in ragged bursts. Even from this distance, the silhouette was strange, unfamiliar. Not a dragon from any species Price recognized.

"Cornflower," he said, voice steady despite the tension coiling in his gut, "stay."

The blue dragon's growl deepened, but she held. Specter, too, remained grounded, though his nostrils flared wide, sampling a scent carried on the wind.

The shape was closer now., Built with proportions that didn't quite fit any classification Price could name. They were coming in too fast, too low. Whatever grace they might've possessed in flight was gone, burned out by exhaustion or injury. Their head swung wildly, scanning the ground, and Price saw the moment they spotted the training yard—saw the way their body angled, desperate, toward the only open space available.

"They're coming in hard," Ghost said, voice flat but edged with something taut. "That's a crash."

"Move." Price's command cracked across the yard. "Everyone, move!"

Soap and Gaz were already descending, Mud-Tearer's fur bristling and Crimson's wings snapping tight to his body as both dragons dove to clear the landing zone. Cornflower lunged sideways faster than a beast her size should've been able to, Specter following a heartbeat later with Ghost pressed low against his neck.

The unknown dragon hit the ground at a terrible angle.

Dirt exploded. The impact shuddered through Price's boots, through his bones. A sound ripped from the dragon—not a roar, not a growl, but something ragged and high that made Cornflower's spines flatten and Specter's ears pin back. They skidded, claws gouging furrows in the earth, wings beating once, twice, in a futile attempt to slow the momentum before one wing buckled and they went over in a tangle of unfamiliar limbs and heaving sides.

Dust settled in a thick brown cloud.

For three heartbeats, no one moved. Then Price was striding forward, cigar forgotten in the dirt, hand raised to keep the others back. "Easy," he called, voice dropping into that low, steady register he used for spooked dragons and green recruits. "Easy now."

The dragon lay crumpled in the scarred earth, sides heaving, and Price could see them clearly now. Different. Definitely different. Their build, their coloration, the particular architecture of their skull—it didn't match any breed recognized by the handbooks. And they'd come from the east, flying hard, and they hadn't stopped to posture or threaten. They'd just... crashed.

A dragon on the run.

"Ghost," Price said quietly, "get me a water bucket and the medical kit."

"Price."

"I know what I'm doin'."

Ghost was already moving toward the supply shed, Specter falling in behind him. "Soap, Gaz—get your dragons settled and stay sharp."

"On it, LT," Soap called back, and there was no trace of his earlier playfulness now.

Price took another step toward the downed dragon, hands visible, movements slow. Cornflower flanked him at a distance, her presence a quiet threat for if things went wrong. But he didn't think they would. Not with the way this stranger was breathing—shallow, rapid, terrified. Not with the way their head kept lifting to scan the sky, as if expecting something worse than soldiers and strange dragons to catch up with them.

"You're safe," Price said, and meant it. "You're safe now, just breathe."

The forest north of Coalfell was a miserably cold, wet place even in late spring. The 141 had been tracking the poachers for three days through terrain that alternated between dense thicket and boggy mire, following a trail of butchered game, abandoned campfires, and the occasional cage too damaged to carry further. The gang was smart enough to keep moving, not smart enough to stop leaving a trail.

Price crouched behind a moss-covered outcropping, Cornflower pressed low beside him, her pale blue scales dulled with mud to keep her hidden. The dragon's nostrils flared as she tasted the air, and a low rumble vibrated in her chest—too quiet for anyone but her rider to hear.

"Two sentries," Price murmured, barely above a breath. "One by the east wagon, one walking the perimeter. Ghost, you've got the walker?"

Ghost was already gone. Specter melted into the shadows beside him, the black dragon's ice-blue eyes the only part of him visible in the pre-dawn gloom. A moment later there was a muffled thud from somewhere in the trees, then silence.

"Walker's down," Gaz confirmed from his position in the brush, Crimson's red bulk hidden beneath a camouflage of ferns and fallen branches. "I count eight more in the main camp. Maybe ten."

"Nine," Soap corrected, squinting through the mist with Mud-Tearer crouched beside him, the brown dragon's fur bristling with anticipation. "One's passed out by the fire. Been at the whisky, poor bastard."

Price allowed himself a grim smile. "Their loss. We go on my signal. Soap, Gaz—you take the north side. Ghost and I will cut through the center. We want prisoners, but don't risk yourselves for it. These bastards have already proven they don't value life."

The camp was a sprawling, ugly thing—tents pitched haphazardly around a central fire, wagons loaded with cages, the stench of unwashed men and frightened animals thick enough to taste. Cornflower's lip curled, "Cruel men," she said, her voice a low, scraping thing like stone grinding stone. "I smell blood. Old and new."

"Then let's remind them why dragons aren't meant for cages," Price replied, and signaled the attack.

The raid was swift and brutal. Soap and Mud-Tearer came through the north side like a hurricane, Mud-Tearer's roar splitting the morning quiet as he scattered the poachers' own mounts—a pair of scrawny, ill-tempered drakes that wanted nothing to do with a fight. Gaz picked off two men trying to flee with Crimson's help, the red dragon's fire lighting the treeline in brief, controlled bursts.

Price and Ghost hit the center together. Cornflower's tail swept a tent flat, pinning two men beneath the canvas, while Specter's silent, predatory glide ended the resistance of a third who'd thought to draw a crossbow on Price's back. Ghost didn't bother with words—the crack of the man's arm breaking was communication enough.

Within minutes, it was over. The surviving poachers knelt in the mud with their hands bound, Mud-Tearer's hot breath on their necks serving as all the deterrent they needed against escape. Soap was already rifling through their ledgers while Gaz checked the wounded.

"Cap," Gaz called out, his voice flat in a way that immediately put Price on alert. "You're going to want to see this."

Price found him at the far end of the camp, near a wagon that had been covered with oiled canvas. The cage on it was larger than the others—large enough to hold something the size of a dragon, its bars thick iron, its floor stained with old blood and fresher filth. Crimson stood rigid beside the wagon, the red dragon's hackles raised, a low whine escaping his throat.

Inside the cage was a dragon.

Price stopped dead.

"What in the hells..."

They had seen dozens of creatures over the years. Corrupted wyverns in the northern wastes, serpentine sea-drakes off the coast, once even a kirin during a diplomatic mission that had gone sideways. But this—this was nothing any of them could name.

It was clearly a dragon, but every detail beyond that basic frame was utterly foreign. Their scales, their proportions, the shape of their head, the strange quality of their eyes—nothing matched any species in the 141's collective knowledge.

Ghost appeared at Price's shoulder, Specter a silent shadow behind him. The masked man studied the cage, the dragon inside it, the blood on the bars.

"The ledgers mention a 'special acquisition,'" he said, voice flat. "Some lord in London paid triple the usual rate. Didn't specify what it was, just that it was 'unique.'"

Soap jogged over, Mud-Tearer at his heels, and let out a low whistle when he saw the cage. "Auld clootie's bollocks. What the hell is that?"

"Dragon," Price said slowly, "but not one I've ever seen. Gaz?"

"Nothing." Gaz shook his head, his expression troubled. "And I've studied every classification from Nullvolaris to Serpensa. They're not in any bestiary I've read."

The dragon in the cage hadn't moved. They were watching the 141 with an intensity that suggested intelligence—not the dull, defeated stare of a broken creature, but the sharp, calculating focus of someone sizing up a potential threat. Their posture was wary, coiled, ready to react but not yet committed. Fresh wounds marked their hide, some still oozing, and the iron bars bore scrapes that spoke to previous escape attempts.

Cornflower moved past Price without waiting for permission, her enormous head lowering until she was at eye level with the caged dragon. The older dragon's spines flattened slightly, her expression unreadable.

"Little one," she said, and her voice was gentler than Price had heard it in years. "You are far from home, are you not?"