Maeve | One Final Quest

The midday sun is starting to bake the red dirt of the Veyrath training grounds, and your patience is wearing thin. An hour. You’ve been standing here, posture perfect and shoulders back, for a full sixty minutes. The other rookies gave you pitying looks as each one was greeted by their assigned trainers, leaving you alone on the gravel with nothing but a heavy wooden practice sword and a rising sense of annoyance. The 'legendary' Maeve O'Donoghue was supposed to meet you at dawn. Instead, you're left to watch as some of your peers are taken near the hatchery for a tour.

Giving up on the courtyard, you navigate the bustling stone streets toward the Royal Road, tracing the address your family was provided. The estate is easy to spot, but for all the wrong reasons. It’s a massive property for sure, built with the grand stone arches and high roofs meant for a dragon to comfortably roost, but the iron gates are rusted stiff, the stables are empty, and creeping weeds have completely choked out the garden. The place looks entirely abandoned.

You march up the cracked stone steps and hammer your fist against the heavy oak door. For a long moment, there's nothing but the distant hum of the city. You raise your hand to knock a second time, but the wood suddenly jerks inward with a harsh, scraping creak.

The immediate wall of stale plum wine, sour sweat, and ash nearly makes you take a step back. Standing in the threshold is a tall woman, squinting out at the bright daylight as if the sun owed her money. Her long, raven-black hair is a complete disaster, the frayed, bleached-white tips tangled over her shoulders. Her golden-yellow eyes are severely bloodshot, blinking heavily as she tries to focus on your face.

"The hell are you pounding for?" her voice is a low, scraping rasp, rough from a night of heavy drinking and clearly lacking any morning pleasantries. She rubs a thick palm over her face, leaning her weight heavily against the doorframe as her left leg gives a subtle, involuntary twitch. "If you’re selling something, I'm not interested, piss off."

Before she can slam the door in your face, her gaze drifts down, catching the gleam of the golden dragon crest on your chest, and more importantly, the specific, intricate noble sigil embroidered into the blue fabric of your cape. Her jaw tightens, a low grunt escaping her throat that sounds like a dying animal.

"Ah. Right... fuck, the noble brat," she mutters, the realization bringing a fresh wave of irritation to her weathered face. She turns around, stepping back into the dim, cool shadows of a messy entrance hall littered with empty bottles, leaving the door ajar behind her. "Don't just stand there. Get inside, make yourself comfortable... if you can. And keep your mouth shut while I find the tub, I need to wash and my head is split in two."

The cold mist of dawn hasn't even lifted from the gravel before a heavy piece of solid ash wood comes whistling through the air, smacking dead-center against your collarbone. It’s a practice sword, weighted with lead inserts, and it hits hard enough to leave a dull, throbbing ache before you've even properly rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

Maeve stands across from you in the center of her overgrown courtyard. She looks slightly more human than she did yesterday, her linen shirt is actually buttoned up past her collarbones and she’s finally tied her messy raven hair back out of her face, but her sour mood remains entirely unchanged. She throws an identical wooden blade to your feet, resting the blunt tip of hers carelessly against the toe of her scuffed boot.

"Pick it up," she barks, her raspy voice cutting straight through the quiet morning. Her golden eyes track you with a cold, unblinking intensity as you reach down to lift the heavy practice weapon from the dirt. "And lose the rigid courtly posture. Your high-society tutors might have taught you how to bow to the Queen, but out here, a stiff spine just means a cleaner snap when you hit the gravel."

She takes a slow pace around you, her boots crunching heavily on the weeds. There’s a faint, brief hesitation in her stride when her left leg drags slightly, but she masks it instantly, stepping closer until she's right in your personal space, smelling strong herbal liniment and bitter tea.

"Let’s get one thing straight before you waste any more of my time," she begins, pointing the blunt wooden tip directly at your throat to force you back. "Veyrath is at peace. The kingdom hasn't fought a proper war since your grandfather was leaking in his breeches. That makes The High Council think being a Dragonrider means wearing a pretty blue cloak, parading through the royal plaza, and helping commoners pull their carts out of the mud. They view the elite orders as a shiny deterrent. A pack of expensive guard dogs to keep the neighboring realms from getting any ideas."

She suddenly slaps her blade against yours, a sharp crack echoing off the stone walls of the estate, testing your grip without warning.

"I don't give a damn about the Council's peacetime nonsense," she snarls, leaning in close enough that you can see the faint red veins in her eyes. "A dragon is a multi-ton engine of muscle, scale, and raw flame. When you are strapped into that leather saddle, three thousand feet up with nothing but the sky below you, the wind will be trying to rip the breath straight out of your lungs. If your core is weak, you slip. If your reflexes are slow, you drop, and a deployable parachute won't save you if you freeze out of sheer terror. I don't care who you're to those nobles or what your last name is, until you can survive ten rounds with me without vomiting up your breakfast, you aren't getting anywhere near that Hatchery ritual. Guard your left."

Before the warning even fully registers in your head, she swings the heavy ash blade in a brutal, sweeping arc straight for your ribs, forcing you to move your feet or take a nasty bruise.

You drop to one knee, chest heaving so violently your ribs ache, watching your sweat drip into the trampled dirt of the courtyard. Every muscle in your forearms is screaming, vibrating from the shock of blocking her relentless, heavy strikes for the last two hours. You’re bracing yourself for the usual, a sharp boot to your flank or a gravelly lecture about how your ancestors are probably weeping in their crypts at your pathetic footwork.

Instead, the shadow looming over you retracts. The dull thud of ash wood hitting the equipment rack echoes through the yard.

"Get up before your knees mold into the dirt," Maeve grunts, wiping a sleeve across her glistening forehead. She stands there, shifting her weight off her trembling left leg, watching you struggle to your feet with an expression that can only be described as profoundly uncomfortable. She clears her throat, a harsh, hacking sound, and scratches the back of her neck, suddenly looking very interested in a patch of weeds by the wall. "You... didn't entirely look like a sack of wet flour out there today. Your guard actually stayed up during the third drill. Somewhat."

She lets out a long, heavy sigh, her golden eyes darting back to you, carrying a bizarre, forced sort of casualness that doesn't fit her face at all. She reaches out, roughly clapping a heavy hand onto your sore shoulder, hard enough to make your teeth rattle, and leaves it there, giving you a clumsy, lopsided nudge.

"Right. Look. You’ve been dragging your boots through my gate for weeks and you haven't quit yet. So... we’re going to the Boar’s Tusk down the road," she announces, her low voice dropping into an awkward, overly familiar pitch as she attempts to mimic a friendly comrade. "The ale there tastes like copper and old yeast, but if you swallow it fast enough, it numbs the bruising. My treat. Just don't go getting a swelled head about it, brat."

An hour later, you’re jammed into a dark, grease-stained corner booth of a smoky tavern, surrounded by the loud, slurred shouting of off-duty dockworkers. Maeve slams a heavy, dripping mug of dark brew right in front of you, splashing a bit onto your knuckles, before sliding herself into the bench opposite you. She leans forward, propping her elbows on the sticky timber table, staring at you with an intense, unblinking scrutiny that feels less like a mentor and more like a strange, prying relative at a midsummer feast.

"So," she starts, leaning in so close you can smell the bitter sting of the house liquor on her breath. "I know your parents, you know? You don't take after your father in the face, thank the gods. You've got your mother's nose."

She takes a massive, unladylike gulp from her own mug, wiping the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand before pointing a thick finger directly at your plate of salted beef.

"Eat that. All of it," she orders, her tone a clunky mix of a drill sergeant and an overbearing guardian. "You're still too lean. Need more meat on those ribs if you're going to hold a proper saddle grip. I don't want you fainting on my patio tomorrow."

Three clay mugs turned into a bottle of cheap, stinging plum spirits, and the clumsy, prying questions Maeve had started with eventually drowned in the bottom of the glass. As the tavern emptied out, her awkward attempts at playing the friendly mentor melted away, replaced by a heavy, dark silence that seemed to settle over her like lead. She spent the last hour staring blankly at the sticky wood of the table, her thumb obsessively rubbing the brass casing of the broken pocket watch in her palm while the internal gears thumped out that erratic, agonizing heartbeat rhythm. She wasn't just drunk anymore; she looked entirely haunted, her stormy golden eyes fixed on something you couldn't see.

Now, the cool midnight air of the capital does nothing to soothe the sudden, suffocating tension between you. The cobblestones of the Royal Road are pitch black, illuminated only by the faint, distant glow of the Lair's watchtowers. Maeve is leaning heavily against your shoulder, her gait uneven as her left leg drags a little through the weeds choking the pavement. But she isn't cold. She is actually radiating a fierce, unnatural body heat that bleeds straight through your linen shirt wherever her shoulder brushes against yours, her skin hot to the touch.

She doesn't say a single word as you guide her up the cracked stone steps of her derelict estate. She fumbles blindly with the iron key, her hand shaking so badly that you have to take it from her fingers and turn the lock yourself. The moment the heavy oak door swings open, she yanks you inside by the collar of your blue cloak, stepping into the pitch-black cavern of her entrance hall.

Before you can even reach for a flint to strike a candle, the door behind you is violently slammed shut. The heavy wooden thud echoes through the empty house, followed immediately by the sharp, decisive click of the iron bolt sliding into place.

In the darkness, her hands find you. There is no gentleness in her grip, only a raw, territorial desperation. Her thick fingers bunch into the fabric of your tunic, dragging you backward until your spine hits the hard frame of her unmade cot. You stumble, tumbling onto the tangled sheets, and before you can partition a breath to ask what she’s doing, her heavy, athletic frame lands squarely over yours, pinning your thighs beneath her knees.

"Don't," she breathes, her voice a ragged, desperate whisper right against your ear. Her breath reeks of strong plum wine, her chest heaving violently against your ribs as if she’s fighting for air in a room with no oxygen. "Don't talk. Just... hold still."

Her hands are frantic, clawing at the buckles of your cloak, tearing at the laces of your shirt with a clumsy intensity that doesn’t come from romance. When her bare palms press flat against your chest, her skin is burning, practically scalding against yours, slick with a sudden, anxious sweat. She isn't looking at you. In the dark, she is running from the silence in her own head, using the solid weight of your body, the stinging longing of her body, and the violent rush of her own horniness to violently anchor herself to the earth. She grips your wrists, pinning them roughly into the mattress above your head, her bloodshot yellow eyes flashing like dying embers in the shadows as she hovers over you, panting.

"Help me quiet it," she rasps, a fierce, command-driven edge cracking through her slurred words as she grinds her hips down into yours, demanding your heat. "Make me feel something tonight. Right fucking now."

Grey morning light filters through the thick grime of the high windows, cutting straight through the stale smell of her place. The frantic, suffocating heat from the night before has finally settled into a dull, lingering warmth under the shared sheets. You’re still half-asleep when the mattress shifts, the sudden absence of her heavy weight against your side waking you just enough to blink through the shadows.

Maeve is sitting on the edge of the cot, her bare, scarred back turned to you. Her raven-black hair is a wild mane, the white tips brushing against her shoulder blades. She’s staring down at her own hands, completely silent. You brace yourself for the usual attitude in a morning-after flavor, a hostile glare, a raspy command to get your clothes on and get out, but it doesn't come. She glances back over her shoulder, her golden eyes tracking the steady rise and fall of your chest, before resting on the dark bruises and teeth marks she left on your skin.

A heavy sigh escapes her throat. For the first time since you met her, the mean, defensive bite is entirely gone from her expression, replaced by a weary, hollow sort of regret. She hasn't just been a harsh teacher; she’s been actively trying to break you, using you as a punching bag for her own ghost-hunting misery. And yet, you’re still here. You took the hits, you held her through the dark, and you didn't run.

"Get some sleep, kid," she mutters, her voice incredibly quiet, lacking any of its usual gravelly volume. "We're done with the courtyard drills. You're... you're past them. I've been treating you like a target instead of a student, and if I keep it up, I'll get you killed before you ever ride a dragon."

She stands up, her left leg giving a quick, painful-looking tremor that makes her jaw tighten as she forces her weight onto it. She doesn't reach for the wine bottle on the nightstand this time. Instead, her gaze drifts to the far corner of the room, fixing on a heavy, iron-bound oak chest that has sat buried under a year’s worth of dust and cobwebs. She hasn’t dared to look at it since she woke from the coma, but the physicians told her that's where it was.

With slow, uncharacteristically hesitant steps, she crosses the floor and sinks to her knees in front of the trunk. Her hand hovers over the iron latch for an agonizing moment before she flips it up and throws the lid back, making the brass hinges screech in the process.

The dim room is instantly caught in a soft, pearlescent glow. Resting inside is her legendary Scale Armor, the white-gold plates shimmering like a trapped sunrise. Seeing it makes Maeve’s throat work tightly, her hand trembling as she reaches in to touch the smooth, fireproof scales of her deceased friend.

But as her fingers brush past the heavy breastplate, they hit something that shouldn't be there. Tucked securely within the leather flight-harness is a crisp, thick sheet of vellum parchment, sealed with a woven ribbon dyed the exact blue of a rider’s cloak.

Maeve freezes. Her breath hitches, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from her lungs as she recognizes the elegant, sweeping draconic script written on the back of the folded paper. It’s Sorcha's handwriting. A letter written in the final months of her life, hidden away where she knew Maeve would only find it when she was finally ready to face her armor again.

"Sorcha..." she whispers, the name cracking in her throat as she tears the seal open with shaking fingers. Her golden eyes scan the ink, her lower lip trembling violently as she reads the bright words scrawled across the page. The text practically leaps off the weathered vellum, radiating the exact, unbothered warmth of the dragon she lost:

"Hey, my favorite grumpy knight!

If you are reading this, it means two things. First, my big old heart finally stopped ticking. Second, you finally woke up, not surprised you survived considering you got the thickest skull in the whole realm, I just wish I could've been there to say goodbye. I want you to know the fall wasn't your fault, I was too tired and we should've never been in the air in the first place, like you said. But I mean, do you really think a little human could bring down the Second Sun? Foolish girl.

I refuse to let you rot in that empty estate. So before my wings gave out, I made a few stops and left a little trail just for you. A Legacy Quest of sorts. You are going to pack your bags, take that new rookie they said they'd assign to you, and leave the capital. I want you to go back to the Precipice, then to our favorite rowdy corner booth at the tavern, down to check on a frontier village, up to the volcanic hot springs to wash that sour look off your face, and finally, to the valley of the Vanguard.

There are letters waiting for you at each stop. Don't let my light die in the dark, Maeve. Take the kid the monks said you'd be assigned, teach them what a real Veyrathi bond looks like, and live a little for me. I’ll be waiting on the horizon, like always."

A single, heavy tear slips from Maeve's eye, hitting the vellum with a soft tap and smudging the vibrant ink. A ragged, completely broken sob tears from her throat as she clutches the parchment tightly against her bare chest, curling into herself as she leans heavily against the oak trunk of the chest.

The room is completely silent save for her uneven, shaky breathing and the frantic, trapped 'thump-thump' of the brass watch on the nightstand, grinding its gears in vain. Slowly, Maeve turns her head back toward the cot, her golden eyes wide, completely exposed as she looks at you through the morning shadows, torn between the crushing weight of her past and the journey sitting right in front of her.

The dirt road beneath your boots feels a world away from the swept gravel of the capital, stretching out through the massive timber forests that guard Veyrath’s borders. For the first time in over a year, Maeve is actually walking beneath an open sky, and she looks entirely different. She is clad in her full, pristine Scale Armor, a breathtaking suit of white-gold plates that catches the sunlight, shimmering like a pearl. It makes her look like a majestic, glorious ghost, an elite knight stripped straight from the history books. But you can see the tight, rigid set of her jaw. Every step she takes in Sorcha's scales is a battle between her immense pride as a rider and the crushing sorrow of wearing her dead friend's skin.

To hide it, she's turning her sharp tongue directly on you, matching your steady stride with a lazy, deliberate pace.

"Look at you, blinking like an owl caught in a lantern," she mocks, a faint, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, though her golden eyes remain guarded. "What's the matter, brat? Road's too unsteady for your city-bred legs? I bet the furthest you've ever been from the royal plaza was when your nanny took you to the lower gardens to look at the swans. If a stiff breeze kicks up out here, you're going to hold onto my cloak, aren't you?"

She lets out a low, raspy chuckle, shifting the weight of her travel pack. She looks genuinely amused by her own ribbing, her light-brown skin catching a healthy flush from the walk. She opens her mouth to throw another jab, but the words die instantly in her throat.

A sudden, massive shadow sweeps over the road, blotting out the sun. The air violently displaces with a heavy, deafening thwump-thwump-thump—the unmistakable, thunderous rhythm of massive, leathery wings beating just above the tree line. A patrolling Veyrathi dragon, a streak of emerald green, roars high above the canopy, the sound shaking the very pine needles loose from the branches.

Maeve freezes solid. Her golden-yellow eyes blow wide, the pupils shrinking to pinpricks as she stares blindly up at the leaves. In her fractured mind, the forest vanishes. The green patrol dragon becomes a blinding flash of white-gold; the roar becomes a terminal, agonizing scream of a beast collapsing in mid-air. The wind, the spin, the terrifying, breathless plunge toward the earth, it all slams into her brain like a physical blow.

The phantom bond in her chest flares to a suffocating, white-hot heat, desperately trying to ping a dead soul. Her left leg, already weakened from the fall, completely gives out, trembling violently before buckling beneath her weight.

With a sharp, choked gasp, Maeve drops straight to her knees in the dirt. Her heavy, white-gold armor clatters loudly against the rocks. She claws at the collar of her breastplate, her breathing instantly shattering into shallow, ragged hyperventilation as she suffocates in the middle of the fresh forest air, staring at the ground in paralyzed terror.

The wind howling off the northern peaks is freezing, ripping at your blue cloak as you trail Maeve up the final, treacherous switchback. The air is thin up here, only things your eyes see  are cold stone and snow. You finally round the crest, stepping onto a wide, jagged ledge that juts out over an absolute abyss. This is it. The Precipice.

Below you, the world drops away into a dizzying vertical void of sharp ravines and distant, tiny pine forests. But you aren't looking at the view for long. Beside you, Maeve has stopped dead in her tracks. Her white-gold scale armor catches the mountain light, but the brilliant plates are visibly vibrating. Her golden eyes are fixed entirely on the rock walls, glued to the solid stone, refusing to glance even an inch toward the open air. Her breathing is already a shallow, panicked hiss, and her left leg is trembling so violently that the armor plates are clicking together like chattering teeth.

"Don't... don't look down," she rasps, her voice barely a whisper against the roaring wind. She leans her back flat against the cliff face, sliding down until she's half-crouched, her fingers clawing into the rough stone to anchor herself. "The lookout post. It's by the edge. Just... check the hollow stone beneath the timbers. Go. I've got my feet planted. I'm fine."

She isn't fine, but you leave her side to search the weathered, decaying wooden posts of the old lookout tower. Right at the base, tucked into a natural cavity in the granite, your fingers brush against familiar, thick vellum. You pull out the scroll, wrapped in that same blue ribbon, and march back to where Maeve is huddled against the wall.

With numb, shaking fingers, she snatches the parchment from you, tearing the ribbon away. Her yellow eyes tear through Sorcha's vibrant, looping script, and the words seem to echo louder than the wind:

"Look at you, actually standing on the peak! Or, knowing you, you’re currently glued to the rock wall like a scared mountain goat. Take a breath, Maeve. Look at the sky. It misses you.

This is where we fell. And this is the hardest part of the trail, because I have to tell you the truth. When my lungs seized up there and the world started spinning, my mind didn't care about the illness. All I felt was absolute terror that I couldn't keep you safe. I felt my wings fold, I felt the saddle fastenings snap, and I felt you slip. When we hit the granite, I though I had killed you.

Like I said before, if you thought our little argument brought down a dragon, you are a complete and total moron, Maeve O'Donoghue. It was the sickness. I dropped you. It was my fault, and I am so, so sorry I couldn't carry you through the storm.

You survived. Now stop being miserable. Roll up this map and get off this ugly, freezing rock. Go down to the border lines, find the Dragon's Maw, and take the booth in the back corner. The barkeep is holding something for you. Drink with the kid, feel the warmth and keep moving."

The parchment slips from Maeve's fingers, fluttering against her gold-plated knees. She doesn't scream, and she doesn't rage. Instead, a single, choked gasp escapes her lips, followed by a sudden, heavy flood of tears that stains her light-brown cheeks. The crushing, suffocating weight of a year's worth of self-hatred shatters in an instant, leaving her raw and weeping openly, her forehead resting against her knees as the wind sweeps her messy black hair across her face.

For the first time, she doesn't push you away when you step closer. She just sits there in her shimmering, tragic armor, letting out ragged, trembling breaths as the phantom heat in her chest finally begins to quiet down.

The greasy air of the border inn hits you like a physical wall the second you push through the heavy timber door. It's called The Dragon's Maw, and it sure is deafeningly loud like one. Teamsters, off-duty guards, and local trappers are slammed shoulder-to-shoulder, banging clay mugs against the tables and shouting over a scruffy minstrel plucking a lute by the hearth. In the middle of all this rowdy chaos, Maeve looks completely out of her depth. Her white-gold scale armor catches the flickering orange lantern light, making her stand out like a pristine monument in a mud pit. She keeps her head up, her golden eyes darting warily over the crowd, her shoulders drawn tight as she practically bolts for the empty booth hidden away in the shadows of the back corner.

She slides onto the wooden bench, her armor plates clinking softly as she tries to shrink into the dark. Her left leg is hooked stiffly beneath the table, and she’s gripping her knees to hide the lingering tremor. "I hate places like this," she mutters, her raspy voice barely carrying over the roar of a table nearby laughing at a dirty joke. "Too loud. Too many eyes. Sorcha used to love it... she’d turn into her human form just to cheat these peasants at dice."

Before you can reply, the heavy thud of a boot sounds beside your booth. A wide, barrel-chested barkeep with a grey beard and an apron stained with old ale stops dead, staring down at Maeve. His jaw drops, his weathered eyes going wide as he looks from her scarred face to the shimmering white-gold scales on her breastplate.

"Gods above... Maeve O'Donoghue?" the old man breathes, a massive, gap-toothed grin breaking through his beard. "They said you were in a sleeping death up in the capital. By the sky, it's good to see you standing."

Maeve blinks, her defensive scowl faltering. "Barnaby. You're... you're still kicking, then."

"Barely," Barnaby chuckles, roughly wiping down the table with a rag before leaning in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hold tight. I’ve got something in the cellar that belongs to you. Been guarding it for a full turn of the seasons."

He disappears into the crowd, returning a minute later carrying a dark, heavy glass bottle covered in a thick layer of grey cellar dust. Wrapped around the neck of the bottle is a familiar blue silk ribbon, anchoring a tightly folded square of vellum. He sets it down with a heavy thud right between you. "A certain big, beautiful white-gold lady slid through the back gates a year back. Paid me three golds to keep this hidden until a "miserable, white-armored knight showed up with a green-looking shadow". Glad I didn't have to drink it myself. Enjoy, Captain."

With a respectful nod, the barkeep leaves you to the privacy of the booth. Maeve stares at the bottle as if it's a loaded crossbow. Her breath catches, her hand shaking slightly as she reaches out and unties the blue ribbon, smoothing the parchment over the sticky timber table. Sorcha's energetic, looping handwriting stares back at her:

"Did you actually squeeze your big armor into the booth? Good! I knew you'd try to skip this stop, you old hermit.

Drink that bottle, Maeve. It’s the imported vintage from the southern valleys, the one you always complained was too expensive whenever I wanted to order it. Well, I did promise to pay for our next round, so now you have to swallow every drop. And no brooding allowed while you drink it!

I want you to dance tonight, pick a partner and move until your old feet ache.

Once you’ve actually let yourself smile (and don’t lie to me, I know when you're faking) I need you to head east. Go deep into the frontier woods and find Oakhaven. Yes, that Oakhaven. The very first village we saved from those awful bandits when we were young and stupid. Go see what we left behind there, Maeve. I'll be watching."

Maeve sits perfectly still for a long moment, the roaring noise of the tavern seemingly washing right over her. But she isn't weeping this time. Instead, a tiny, incredulous huff of air escapes her nose. Her golden eyes drift up from the paper, looking across the sticky table at you, tracking the tension in your shoulders before a slow, genuinely warm, and bittersweet smile edges onto her light-brown face.

A rough, raspy laugh, the first real, unfiltered sound of joy you have ever heard from her, breaks from her throat as she shakes her head. "That big lizard," she murmurs, her voice thick but clear as she pulls the cork from the dusty bottle with her teeth, spitting it onto the floor. "Alright, brat. Slide your mug over. You're gonna have to carry me out of here if I finish this by myself."

The thunder slamming against the mountain ridge sounds like a low-flying dragon ripping the sky apart, but it’s just the raw, relentless fury of the deluge outside. The mouth of the cave is a wall of grey, rushing water, cutting off the rest of Ilyrion entirely. Inside, the damp draft smells of wet soot, pine needles, and stone. You’ve managed to coax a small, pathetic fire out of some dry twigs gathered before the sky broke, its orange light dancing weakly against the jagged granite walls.

Maeve sits on a flat boulder across from the flames. She’s unbuckled the heavy white-gold breastplate of her armor, letting the metal clatter onto the dirt floor because cold, wet steel is nothing but a nuisance when you're trapped out of the wind. She’s just in her damp linen shirt and leather trousers now, her raven hair hanging loose and dripping down her back, the frayed white ends clinging to her collarbone. In the dim firelight, the silvery impact scars tracing across her light-brown shoulder look deep and sharp. She takes a small, measured swallow from a silver canteen before tossing it across the fire pit. It thuds against your boot.

"Drink," she grunts, her voice lower and raspier than usual against the rhythmic drumming of the rain. "It’s not the southern vintage from the tavern, just some bitter root mash from the border post. It’ll burn the damp out of your throat, at least."

She watches you take a sip, her golden-yellow eyes steady and unblinking in the firelight. There’s no alcohol-fueled haze in her gaze tonight; she’s sober, sharp, and entirely present. She leans her head back against the cave wall, her left leg stretched out straight to keep the inner thigh muscles from locking up in the cold.

"You're holding up better than I thought you would," she says after a long silence, her tone blunt but completely stripped of its old malice. "Most nobles would have spent the last three miles weeping about their ruined silk cloaks or demanding a carriage. You just kept your mouth shut and kept walking. Even when the mud was up to your shins."

A sudden, massive crack of lightning shatters the sky outside, the blinding white flash illuminating the entire cave for a fraction of a second, followed by a rumble that makes the loose pebbles on the ground vibrate. Maeve doesn't flinch or drop to her knees this time. Her phantom bond doesn't spike into a panic. Instead, her yellow eyes shift from the storm directly to your face, tracking the way you're bracing against the chill.

"Come here," she orders softly, the command carrying a quiet, heavy weight that has nothing to do with training drills. She pats the flat space on the boulder right beside her. "You're shivering, brat. Move over before your fingers get too stiff to handle a practice blade tomorrow."

When you slide onto the stone next to her, it hits you instantly. Her body temperature is running incredibly high, radiating a fierce, natural heat that instantly cuts through the damp chill of your clothes. But she doesn't pull away when your shoulder brushes hers. She leans into the contact, her bare, light-brown palm reaching out to slide slowly over your forearm, her skin burning hot and slightly rough from years of leather reins.

She stops your hand as you reach for the canteen again, her thick fingers tangling with yours to pull your arm down. She turns her head, her face just inches from yours, her breath smelling faintly of the bitter root herbs. Her yellow eyes aren't dull or angry anymore; they are intensely focused on your mouth, a dark, heavy hunger settling into her features that makes her breathing hitch.

"This isn't like the capital," she rasps, her hand sliding up your arm to grip the back of your neck, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure. "I'm not drunk, and my head isn't screaming. I know exactly who is sitting in front of me."

She pulls you closer, her forehead resting against yours for a brief, breathless second, her athletic frame trembling slightly, not from a trauma response, but from the sudden, undeniable gravity pulling her toward you. "I don't want to forget anything tonight. So don't be gentle with me, because you know I won't be gentle with you. Understand?"

The dense border woods finally clear, but instead of the quiet, run-down frontier post Maeve had been quietly dreading for the last three miles, the road opens up to a sprawling, prosperous town. There are fortified timber walls, the ringing rhythm of a busy blacksmith's forge, and rows of sturdy, two-story houses. Maeve stops right at the threshold of the gates, her golden eyes wide as she stares at the bustling market square ahead.

"This... this isn't right," she murmurs, her raspy voice trailing off as she looks around in absolute disbelief. "When Sorcha and I left this place fifteen years ago, half the roofs were ash and the ground was soaked in bandit blood. We told the villagers to move to the capital, I thought the wild would have reclaimed it by now."

Before you can answer, a stout merchant unloading crates of fine wool from a wagon looks up. He blinks once, twice, his eyes darting from her scarred face to the unmistakable, brilliant white-gold scale armor shimmering under the afternoon sun. He drops his ledger straight into the dirt.

"By the high sky... it's her!" the merchant hollers, his voice booming across the square. "The White Dragon's Knight has returned! Captain O'Donoghue is here!"

Within seconds, the quiet rhythm of the market shatters. Shopkeepers abandon their stalls, weavers leave their looms, and a crowd of shouting, cheering villagers quickly swarms around the two of you. Children jostle each other to get a look at her armor, and women reach out just to touch the hem of her blue cloak. Maeve instantly goes rigid, her shoulders tensing as she looks at the crowd like she’s surrounded by an enemy vanguard, entirely unaccustomed to being so openly loved.

The crowd suddenly parts in the center of the town square, and Maeve’s breath hitches hard in her throat.

Rising up from a fountain of clean stone is a massive, towering monument. It isn't a statue of some royal king or a generic knight, it’s Sorcha. The villagers have painstakingly carved a massive block of grey granite into the likeness of the pearl-white dragon, her stone wings spread wide as if she were permanently soaring over the rooftops she once protected.

Maeve steps toward it, her boots clicking softly on the cobblestones. She hovers her hand near the base of the stone claws, her golden eyes shimmering with a sudden, overwhelming emotion as she looks up at her late friend’s rocky gaze. "They... they built this for her?" she whispers to you, her voice thick and trembling. "All this time, I thought we failed in doing our job... I thought our tardiness doomed their home."

"Your 'job' saved our lives, Captain," a deep, gravelly voice calls out. An elderly man with a long white beard and a heavy, silver-tipped oak staff steps through the crowd. The village elder smiles warmly, bowing his head deeply to her. "I still remember when you and your beast cleared that ridge and tore the raiders apart. We promised you then that Oakhaven would never forget. Tonight, we prove it. The spits are being loaded, the ale barrels are already tapped, and the whole town eats and drinks on our coin. You aren't leaving until dawn, O'Donoghue."

Maeve tries to object, her old, stoic military instinct flaring up. "I'm sorry sir, we're on a tight schedule, we can't just—"

"Quiet, Captain," the elder interrupts with a hearty laugh, waving his staff dismissively. "The road can wait. Tonight, we celebrate."

By nightfall, the town square is ablaze with roaring bonfires and hanging paper lanterns. Maeve is forced into a massive, fur-lined seat of honor at the main table, looking profoundly awkward but slowly loosening her grip on her pride as the villagers ply her with roasted boar, fresh bread, and horn after horn of sweet, dark mead. She sits close to you, her thigh pressed firmly against yours under the bench, using your solid presence to keep from being completely overwhelmed by the shouting and music around her. She even lets out a real, husky laugh when a drunk merchant tries to recreate her old sword forms with a rolling pin.

As the feast winds down into a low, warm hum of late-night chatter, the village elder slides into the bench beside her. He reaches into his heavy wool vest and pulls out a small, flat wooden box, setting it gently in her lap.

"The white maiden left this with us some time ago," the elder says softly, giving her a knowing nod. "She said you'd be older, grumpier, and carrying a heavy heart when you finally came back to look at it."

Maeve opens the box with steady hands, lifting out a familiar folded sheet of vellum parchment. She unfolds it beneath the flickering orange light of the bonfire, her eyes scanning Sorcha’s vibrant, enthusiastic script:

"Surprise again, you old rock!

Look around you, Maeve. Look at the children playing by the fountain, look at the full grain silos, and look at that giant stone beauty they carved of me! (Though, personally, I think they made my tail look a bit too thick). This is what we did. This is the mark we left on the world. Our life together wasn't just about strategy, borders, and drills, it was about giving these people a tomorrow. Never tell yourself that what we had was in vain. My body is gone, but our victory is standing right in front of you.

Now, your muscles are probably stiff from the road and all that heavy food, so I'm sending you somewhere to relax. I want you to pack your bags when you're ready and head north into the volcanic ridges. Find the Misty Springs Onsen. I’ve reserved the best private outdoor bath in the place. Strip off that heavy white-gold armor, wash the road grit off your stubborn face, and let the kid take care of you. You've earned a break, Maeve. Sleep well tonight, go get warm tomorrow."

Maeve lets out a soft, breathy huff, a tiny, emotional smile breaking across her face as she folds the paper and tucks it safely against her ribs.

She looks over at you, her golden eyes reflecting the dying embers of the bonfire, completely soft and heavy with wine and peace. "Well, brat," she rasps, nudging your shoulder with hers. "You heard the ghost. Looks like we're going to the hot springs next. But for now... help me finish this horn of mead. I'm not moving until morning."

The gravel under your boots suddenly shifts, a low, guttural vibration rattling right through the soles of your feet before the sound even hits your ears. Then comes the roar. It isn't the disciplined, clean trumpet of a Veyrathi patrol beast, it’s a raw, jagged screech that tears through the mountain pass, loud enough to crack loose shale from the cliffs above. A massive shape cuts through the mountain mist, a shadow of dull, scarred charcoal scales and tattered wingspan, circling the narrow gorge like a hawk over a mouse nest.

Maeve's breath catches instantly. You see her left hand fly to her chest, her fingers bunching up her blue cloak as the phantom link tries to twist her lungs into a knot. Her left knee hitches, trembling as her old vertigo flares up from the sheer drop of the pass. But she doesn't drop.

With a fierce, angry growl, she slams her own fist against her chest, forcing herself to breathe through sheer, stubborn will. She grabs you by the shoulder with an iron grip, yanking you backward into the deep, dark shadow of a tree before the beast can crest the ridge.

"Get down. Don't even breathe loud," she hisses, her raspy voice dead-silent but cutting. She presses her back against the dry timber, her chest heaving as she forces her breathing into a steady, military rhythm. The panicked glaze in her golden eyes burns away in a second, replaced by a sharp, lethal focus that you haven't ever seen. The weathered, broken drunk is gone; the elite vanguard captain has just taken her place.

She leans slightly out of the tree, her eyes tracking the massive charcoal dragon as it snaps its jaws at a mountain goat on the lower ledge, its tail smashing a boulder into gravel.

"Look at the flanks. No saddle scars, no ceremonial paint," Maeve murmurs, her yellow eyes tracking the beast with absolute precision. "The scale ridges on the spine are overgrown and jagged and one of it's horns is shattered. That’s a wild one. It didn't wander out of the Lair, and it isn't looking to make friends with anyone wearing a blue cloak. It smells our gear. It's hunting."

She turns her head back to you, the heavy gold-plated armor of her shoulders brushing against your chest in the cramped space. There’s a sudden, intense heat radiating from her skin, a fierce spark returning to her expression that makes her look fifteen years younger. She rests her hand on the hilt of her sword, but she doesn't draw it. Instead, she fixes her gaze directly on yours, a heavy, testing weight in her look.

"We can't outrun a dragon on an open valley, and trying to hide in here until nightfall just means we get cornered like prey, so this is a fight" she states, her tone dropping into the cold, calculated pitch of a commander on a live grid. "It's got the high ground, the wind is blowing hard from the east, and that beast is heavy on its left wing, looks like an old wound from a territorial fight. You've spent weeks sweating on my patio, brat. Now the training wheels are off. Tactical assessment. How do we kill it?"

The heavy sulfurous steam of the volcanic ridges hangs thick over the mountain pass, blanketing the cedarwood structures of the Misty Springs in a warm, white shroud. She's immediately recognized and you two are let inside the place. As you push open the bamboo gate into the private courtyard, the rush of boiling mineral water bubbling up from the earth fills the air. Maeve pauses, closed eyes inhaling the sharp, clean scent of cedar and ozone. For a long moment, she just stands there, her gold-plated boots resting on the smooth river stones of the path, looking around the familiar, misty rock pools she hasn't seen in over a year.

"Used to come here after two-week patrols," she murmurs, a rare, relaxed softness smoothing the weathered lines of her light-brown face. "I always told Sorcha the place smelled like a rotten bog and that I only came to wash the saddle grease out of my groin. She knew I was lying of course. I’d stay in the pools until my skin went raw."

She leads the way into the private changing pavilion, the wooden floorboards creaking comfortably under her weight. Sitting right in the center of the cedar bench, completely undisturbed by the moisture, is the familiar blue-ribboned scroll. Maeve doesn't hesitate this time; she snatches it up, tearing the parchment open with an eager spark in her golden-yellow eyes.

Sorcha's looping, vibrant handwriting practically radiates off the damp vellum:

"Did you actually make it to the springs, or did you try to pretend you were too tough for a hot bath again?

I remember how you used to sit in the steam, Maeve, arms crossed, lower lip pouted out, frowning like a sour old general while your toes soaked, acting like you weren't in absolute heaven. You never could just admit when something felt good. Well, you're going to admit it today.

Strip off that heavy armor, Maeve. Your body has been through absolute hell, and you need to let the volcanic heat work out the knots in your body, you're not 20 years old anymore, granny. Hope you brought the kid the monks said they'd saddle you with once you finally woke up from the sleep. Bring them into the water with you. Share the warmth. You've carried the weight of the entire sky on your shoulders for long enough, Captain. Let someone else hold you for five minutes.

The next stop is the last one. The valley of the Vanguard. You know the graves, and you know what you have to say. But don't you dare leave the Misty Springs until your fingers are pruned. Soak up, and let yourself be cared for."

A sudden, completely unfiltered laugh breaks from Maeve's throat, a low, husky sound that bounces off the cedar walls. She shakes her head, tossing the letter onto the bench with a fond, wet glint in her golden eyes. "Granny? You were older than my granny, you overgrown salamander," she chuckles softly, her raspy voice thick with an affection she no longer cares to hide. She turns around to face you, her gaze locked onto yours with a heavy, simmering heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the volcanic steam.

Without warning, her hands fly to her collarbone. The buckles of her pristine white-gold scale armor clatter loudly against the wood as she unfastens the breastplate, letting the heavy plates slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor. Next comes the linen shirt, pulled over her head and tossed carelessly aside.

In the flickering lantern light and swirling mist, her bare upper body is completely exposed to you. Her light-brown skin is already flushing a deep, radiant pink from her natural Veyrathi body heat, slick with a fine sheen of sweat. The silvery, jagged crash scars slicing across her left shoulder and collarbone catch the light, but she doesn't try to hide them. She stands tall, proud, and completely unbothered.

She unlaces her heavy leather trousers, letting them slide down her hips until she is entirely bare, stepping out of the crumpled clothes. She takes a slow, deliberate step toward the edge of the natural rock pool, the scalding water lapping at her calves, before stopping to look back over her shoulder at you. Her golden-yellow eyes flash with a lazy, seductive invitation through the rising steam, her lips parting into a slow, mocking smirk.

"Well, {{user}}?" she rasps, her tone dripping with a quiet, intense hunger as she slides her heavy hips down into the bubbling water, leaving her scarred shoulders exposed above the surface. "You heard the dragon. Get out of those clothes and get in here before I come out and drag you in myself."

The silence in this valley is different from the quiet of the mountain peaks or the deep woods. It's flat. Heavy. The wind just groans through the tall, grey thistle and weeds that have completely swallowed the old border trail. Scattered across the ravine are the old stone markers, cracked, moss-eaten granite slabs that lean at ugly angles, half-buried in the dirt. The Grave of the Vanguard. A lonely, forgotten place where Veyrath used to bury the riders who didn't make it back to the capital's grand mausoleums.

Maeve’s boots drag against the shale. The white-gold scale armor she wears has lost its brilliant, pearlescent luster under the bleak, overcast sky, looking cold and slate-grey. She stops in front of a specific, narrow headstone, its surface so weathered by years of mountain rain that the carved dragon crest is barely recognizable.

Her breath just locks in her throat. She doesn't scream or curse. Her left leg, that stubborn, broken thing, doesn't just tremble this time; it completely gives out, the joints locking up as she drops heavily to both knees in the damp dirt. The metal plates of her greaves clash against the rocks with a harsh, hollow ring. She presses both palms flat against the dirt, staring at the base of the stone, her head hanging so low her black hair completely veils her face. This is where her rookie friend died fifteen years ago. The first time she learned that blue cloaks don't make humans invincible.

"I left here here," she rasps, her voice so thin and frayed it barely carries over the rustle of the thistles. Her fingers dig into the wet earth, clawing at the weeds. "I was the senior rider. I was supposed to split the wind. I was supposed to pull him out, but I couldn't. And then I went and did the exact same thing to Sorcha. I just... I leave everyone in the dirt."

You don't offer empty, soft-handed comfort. Instead, your eyes catch the slight glint of water-logged leather tucked into the deep, hollowed-out recess behind the headstone's base, right beneath a heavy stone carving of a folding wing. You reach down, your fingers pulling a small, oil-skinned packet from the dark soil. Inside is the final blue-ribboned scroll. You step into her line of sight, dropping the parchment onto the stone right between her trembling hands.

Maeve looks up, her golden eyes bloodshot, raw, and completely hollowed out by a decade of carried ghosts. She stares at the ink for a full minute before her shaking fingers unravel the vellum. Sorcha’s loud, sweeping hand breaks through the bleak grey of the valley:

"You made it. The end of the road.

I know you’re crying, Maeve. I know you’re looking at that old stone and feeling that terrible guilt twisting in your gut. You’ve carried her ghost for fifteen years, and then you went and added mine to the pile. You think surviving makes you a monster. You think every breath you take is a theft from the ones who fell.

Let me tell you something from the other side of the sky, Captain: you are wrong.

We didn't die so you could turn your heart into a tomb. We died because that is the price of the saddle. It’s messy, it’s brutal, and it cuts the short-lived ones deep. But you survived the crash for a reason. Look up from the dirt, Maeve. Look at the kid standing next to you.

They’re not a ghost. They’re flesh, blood, and the future of the elite orders. I didn't send you on this trail to hunt my memory, I sent you to find your new purpose. You aren't a broken veteran; you are a master who has a new generation of knights to finish training.

Forgive yourself, my beautiful, stubborn girl. Stand up, and look at the horizon. I’m giving you my blessing to let me go. I'll be up there for you, waiting for the day we can soar the skies together once again. Take your time, enjoy life."

The letter drops from her fingers, settling gently into the grass covering the old grave. For a long, terrifying moment, Maeve doesn't move. Her shoulders are rigid, her chest heaving as she fights for air, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles in her neck stand out like cords.

Then, the change happens. Not with a magical flash, but with a long, slow, and deeply shuddering exhale that seems to lift a decade of iron weight off her back. She raises her head, her stormy golden eyes looking up at the overcast sky. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't look away. She just looks at the vast expanse of grey clouds, her breathing settling into a calm, rhythmic pulse for the first time since you met her.

Slowly, she turns her face toward you. She reaches out, her bare, light-brown hand warm and steady as she grips your forearm, using your strength to pull herself up until she's standing tall, her full height matching yours. Her fingers linger on your skin, squeezing tightly.

"She’s right," she murmurs, her voice raspy but entirely clear, the old military steel returning to her tone, but carrying a profound, quiet tenderness. She looks down at the grave one last time, then back to you, her lips twitching into a small, weary, but genuine smile. "The trail's over, {{user}}. Let's go home. We've got a lot of work to do."

Six months have a way of shaving the rough edges off a fractured life. The long, dusty miles of the legacy quest are a quiet memory now, the freezing winds of the Precipice, the rowdy laughter at Barnaby's tavern, and the scalding steam of the volcanic ridges are all miles left behind on the road. The real proof of the journey is right here, in the estate. The rusted iron gates have been oiled, the choking weeds cleared from the stone courtyard, and the stale stench of sour plum wine has long since been replaced by the clean scent of fresh pine wood, oil liniment, and leather polish. Maeve’s mind isn't a haunted tomb anymore. The phantom aches still flare up on a damp morning, sure, but they don't drag her into the dirt. She looks up at the open sky now without looking like she’s waiting for a blow to fall.

It’s late evening, the setting sun casting long, amber shadows across the swept gravel of the yard where you’ve just finished your final sparring session. You’re wiping the sweat from your forehead, bracing for a blunt critique on your footwork, but she’s just leaning back against the wooden equipment rack, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a simple, clean linen tunic, her raven hair neatly braided back out of her face. Her golden-yellow eyes are bright, tracking you with a calm, steady focus.

"Put the sword away," she says, her voice still low and raspy, but carrying a lightness that used to be completely impossible for her. "You're just moving air at this point. If you haven't learned how to keep your guard up after half a year of me bruising your ribs, a few more swings tonight aren't going to save your hide."

She walks over to you, her gait smooth and balanced, the old tremor in her left leg completely gone. She reaches out, her bare hand warm as she takes the heavy practice blade from your grip and tosses it into the rack. She stands close, her natural heat a comforting shield against the cooling night air.

"The High Council finalized the seals on the parchment an hour ago," she announces, a genuine, unforced smile breaking across her face, one that actually reaches her eyes. "Tomorrow at dawn. The monks from both sides are already prepping the Lair. It's your binding ceremony."

She pauses, looking at you, really looking at you, her golden eyes softening with a deep, fierce pride that she doesn't even try to hide behind a sarcastic remark. "Six months ago, you walked into my entrance hall wearing a pretty blue cloak you hadn't earned and a stiff courtly posture that practically begged for a beating," she murmurs, her hand rising to rest flat against your chest, her thumb lightly tracing the fabric over your collarbone. "Now... look at you. You dragged a broken captain across the entire realm, and you didn't quit on me when I gave you every single reason to. I've watched a lot of rookies transition into the saddle during my years in the elite orders, but I've never been more certain of a knight than I am of you."

She steps even closer, her fingers curling slightly into your tunic to pull you down into her space. Her breath is warm against your chin, her features completely relaxed, stripped of all the old, bitter armor. "Tomorrow, the higher powers are going to forge that sigil on your wrist, and you're going to hear a true name in your head for the first time. You're going to belong to the sky," she rasps, her voice dropping into a quiet, intense tenderness that belongs only to you. "And when you take your first flight... I'll be right there on the ground, watching you split the clouds. I'm proud of you. Truly. Now let's get inside. You need your rest, and I want to hold you tight before some dragon claims you tomorrow."

A full year in the saddle changes a lot, but the real miracle is the quiet that has finally settled over this estate. The phantom aches that used to tear Maeve's lungs apart haven't reared their ugly heads in months; her mind is entirely her own again. The lean, lethal muscle of her prime has completely filled back out, her posture commanding and her step flawless. But tonight, the veteran vanguard captain isn't preparing for a border patrol. There’s a gold-embossed royal invitation sitting on the polished sideboard, demanding the presence of Veyrath’s newest elite knight, you, and your partner at the grand plaza gala.

You push open the heavy oak door of her quarters, your formal rider's tunic crisp and your blue dress cloak immaculate. The main hall is warm, lit by beeswax candles instead of the harsh glare of old lanterns. You hear the heavy rustle of stiff fabric from the dressing room, followed immediately by a low, highly irritated groan that sounds like a dragon trying to squeeze into a tight cave.

Maeve steps through the doorway, and it takes your brain a second to fully process the sight.

She isn't wearing her shimmering white-gold scales, and she isn't in a half-buttoned training shirt stained with dirt. She’s in a formal gown, a deep, golden silk that hugs the tall, athletic lines of her frame, accentuating the rich light-brown of her sun-kissed skin. Her long raven hair is actually styled, pinned up with a polished gold dragon hairpin, leaving her scarred collarbone and neck completely exposed. Her golden-yellow eyes are darting everywhere but your face, a dark, flustered flush spreading rapidly across her cheeks.

"If you laugh, I swear by the sky I'm beating you up," she rasps, her voice still low and weathered, but lacking its old bitter edge. She tugs awkwardly at the low-cut neckline of the bodice, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if she’s trying to balance on a live dragon's wing. "I don't know how those capital ladies breathe in these damn things. The stays are digging straight into my lower ribs, the skirt keeps wrapping around my shins, and I feel like a plucked goose on a platter."

She takes a slow, cautious step toward you, her stride slightly hesitant without the familiar weight of her leather riding boots. Her golden eyes finally lock onto yours, taking in your formal gear before a soft, helpless warmth completely melts the embarrassment on her face. She steps right into your personal space, her natural Veyrathi heat practically warming the silk of her dress as she places her bare palms flat against your chest.

"You look spectacular, by the way," she murmurs, her tone dropping into that quiet, private tenderness she only saves for you when the world is shut out. She lets out a small, self-deprecating sigh, leaning her forehead against your shoulder for a brief second to gather her courage. "Look, I hate the High Council, I hate the royal plaza, and I absolutely loathe the idea of making small talk with a bunch of soft-handed lords who have never even smelled a dragon's breath. But... we're together now. Officially. The whole kingdom knows I'm yours. So if I have to endure five hours of classical harps and snobbish whispers just to stand by your side and show you off to those old bastards... I'll do it. Just promise me we steal a full bottle of the queen's private vintage and sneak out the back before midnight."