“I never thought reading could be boring,” I said when I came into the dining area for lunch, “but this textbook is so dry, I should try reading it before bedtime. It would put me to sleep instantly.”

Tavarian raised his eyebrows as I dumped the heavy black book on the table, right next to a bowl full of salad. “That textbook is a classic,” he said mildly. “I believe my great-grandfather was the one who added it to my family library. You should be more careful with it.”

“Did he buy it to use as a doorstop?” I asked crossly as I forked salad onto my plate. Tavarian gave me a look, and I grudgingly nudged the book a few more inches away, safely out of range. “Really, Tavarian, I already know most of the history surrounding these battles. I have no plans to be an officer, and the actual drills and exercises we do should be more than sufficient to help me through my military service. I don’t need a blow-by-blow account of every single battle in Elantia’s illustrious war career.”

“Be sure to tell the examiners that when you go back to the academy for testing,” Tavarian said, his voice even drier than the despised textbook. “I’m sure they’ll be very understanding.”

I was about to fire back with a brilliant retort when a sharp pain sliced into my…wing? I cried out, jerking in my chair, terror ballooning inside me so fast and hard I could barely breathe. My heart was pounding, my face covered in sweat—

“Zara!” Tavarian was next to me, gripping my face in his hands. “Zara, snap out of it! It’s not yours!”

His words were like an anchor, and I latched onto them, focusing on the deep silver of his irises to pull myself back. Not yours, I told myself, trying to separate from Lessie’s feelings. I managed to pull away from her agony, reducing it from a sharp stab to a dull throb.

“Lessie?” I called out to her, my heart still pounding frantically. “Lessie, what happened?”

“I tore my wing,” she wailed. “On a tree branch!”

“Shit.” I batted Tavarian’s hands away from me. “We have to go get her.”

“Muza tells me the injury is not life-threatening,” Tavarian said calmly. “They are three miles away—at that distance, it would be better to wait for Muza to bring her back.”

“Can he do that?” I asked. Muza was much larger than Lessie, but she was no hatchling anymore.

“He is strong enough to manage the distance.”

The two of us waited outside the entrance to the dragon stable, and sure enough, Muza arrived a few minutes later with a bedraggled Lessie in tow, gently held in his clutches. She whined pitifully as he deposited her on the ground, and sure enough, her left wing dangled limply, a bloody tear the size of my arm in the upper part of the membrane.

“Oh, you poor thing,” I crooned aloud, wrapping my arms around her neck. “What happened?”

But Lessie only buried her face in my neck, refusing to say a word. From the intense embarrassment I felt through our bond, I imagined that she’d done something foolish and was too ashamed to relive the incident.

“Muza?” I asked the silver dragon.

“He says that they were hunting trozla on the eastern side of the valley,” Tavarian answered, referring to the graceful, four-legged animals with long necks, antlers, and purplish-grey fur that liked to roam these areas. “Lessie decided to go for a larger specimen, but she misjudged the descent and tore her wing on a tree branch. She was, ah, showing off a bit.”

“I really thought I could do it,” Lessie sniffled. “I’m so stupid, and I’ve made a fool of myself in front of Muza!”

“Oh stop,” I said, stroking the side of her neck as I switched to mental speech. “Muza isn’t going to think less of you just because you made a mistake. You’re still a dragonling, Lessie. Making mistakes is part of growing up, part of learning. You can’t be perfect all the time.”

She gave a deep sigh. “I’ve spent hundreds of years dreaming of this moment,” she said. “Of flying through the air with my kind and impressing the others with my speed and agility and hunting prowess. I suppose I became so good at it in my dreams that it didn’t occur to me that reality wouldn’t be as effortless as I thought.”

I smiled. "Believe me, everyone goes through this. I'm sure if you asked Muza, he'd tell you that he's seen dozens of baby dragons make mistakes or hurt themselves while learning how to fly. He's probably done it himself."

She was silent for a long moment. “He says that when he was two years old, he was play-wrestling in the sky with another dragon and accidentally fell into a tree. He had dozens of cuts on his wings and broke two bones. It took two weeks to heal,” she added smugly.

I laughed, feeling most of her embarrassment fade away. "See?" I said aloud, patting her neck. "This isn't so bad. You'll only need a few days."

“Let’s get her to the stables,” Tavarian suggested. “I might be able to reduce that time a bit.”

“You can?” I blinked. “How?”

But Tavarian was already moving inside, his dragon following after him. Sighing, I led Lessie into the stable, which was really just a large, circular room with cushy hay piles for the dragons to sit on. There weren’t even food or watering troughs, since the dragons hunted daily for their food and they drank from a small pond not far away.

I guided Lessie toward her hay pile, supporting her wing so it wouldn’t drag as she walked. Tavarian had left the room, but he came back shortly with a bucket of water, a small bottle containing a pungent poultice, and a few rags.

“Here,” he said, handing them to me. “Let’s get that wound clean.”

I did as he said, using the water and rag to dab the blood away. Lessie hissed the first time I touched the wound, but gradually she relaxed, and I was able to get it all clean.

“Good.” Tavarian gestured for me to move aside, then he knelt in the hay next to Lessie. He dabbed some of the poultice into the wound, and Lessie moaned pitifully. “To prevent infection,” he explained, then laid his thumb directly on top of the gash, at the end farthest from him.

I gasped as energy crackled from his hand, and Lessie yelped. But it was more from the surprise than the pain, and I watched in astonishment as Tavarian sealed the wound inch by inch, moving his thumb across the gash until all that was left was a raised scar.

“She’ll need a day or two to heal completely,” Tavarian said when it was done, “but this should get her back into the air much quicker.”

I frowned, remembering the mage who had healed my broken rib. He’d completed the procedure in less than ten minutes. “You’re not trained,” I realized.

Tavarian gave me a wry smile. “I am self-taught out of necessity,” he said. “Ideally, I would have been able to apprentice under a mage, but my mother only carried the bloodline—she had no magic herself, and while she was able to teach me exercises to get control of my abilities, she could not teach me the art, and had no surviving relatives. Going to a master would have risked exposing myself, so I tried to learn as much as I could through the magic texts I was able to get my hands on. Unfortunately, textbook learning can only get you so far when it comes to magic. There are many things I do not know.”

“I wonder how many others are like you out there,” I mused aloud. “Mages who don’t have family or friends to teach them to use their abilities.”

“There are secret communities where mages come together and pool their resources to learn from one another,” Tavarian said. “There is at least one in Zuar City. But there is a rigorous screening process to get in, and there was no way to apply without revealing myself.”

I pursed my lips. "Surely you could bribe some mage into teaching you," I said. "Can't you use a blood oath to make sure they don't tell anyone else, as you did to me?"

He smiled. “I could try that, but by all accounts, mages are tricky folk. I don’t know enough about magic to feel confident about using it to bind someone who is far more practiced than me. They could just as easily figure out a way to twist the magic around on me or use a loophole of some kind that I did not foresee.”

I thought about that as I got ready for bed that night, tying my long, curly red hair into a pineapple bun so it wouldn’t look like a total nightmare the next morning. It seemed like Tavarian and I had something in common—both of us had one foot in the dragon rider world, and another foot in a world that didn’t quite fit with the first one. I wondered if that was one of the reasons he’d treated me with kindness, if perhaps it wasn’t just his investment in Lessie that spurred him to look out for my well-being.

Why does it have to be any of those things? a voice in my head argued. Can’t it just be that Tavarian decided to look out for you because he has a conscience? You help others all the time, Zara, with no thought for yourself. Isn’t it possible someone might do that for you?

But that wasn't my experience. I'd had few friends I could rely on in my life—Carina was one of them, but she was usually too busy wrangling her feckless brother, Brolian, to be a good shoulder to lean on. I’d learned about human nature at Salcombe’s knee—that everyone was out for themselves, and you should never help someone unless there was a good chance you would benefit in some way, because when the time came to return the favor, there was always a risk that the person you’d helped wouldn’t be able to deliver.

I’d taken great pleasure in breaking all those rules. Because the truth was, even though Salcombe’s philosophy ensured he was wealthy and secure, it also cut him off from society. I didn’t want to be like him, holed up in his mansion with only his books and treasures for company. I wanted to live, to be surrounded by people I cared about, to laugh and dance and savor everything this world had on offer.

And I couldn’t do that if I built an iron cage around my heart, as Salcombe had. A heart that was now so withered and twisted, so disconnected from humanity, he was willing to sacrifice the entire world for the sake of power.

The next afternoon, I half-expected Tavarian to let me ride Muza instead of Lessie, since she was still healing. Instead, he called me to the training room, which I'd only used a handful of times since arriving.

I walked into the room dressed in comfortable training clothes, expecting Tavarian to spend the hour running me through various self-defense techniques and weapons drills. But when I walked in and saw him standing in the center of the training ring wearing nothing but a pair of loose trousers, I stumbled over the threshold and nearly planted my face into the ground.

"Miss Kenrook?" Tavarian spun around to face me, his brow furrowed in concern. He'd been studying the weapons mounted on the wall when I walked in, giving me a view of his very well-muscled back, but his front was even better. Pale skin poured over a broad chest and trim waist, every single dip and ridge of muscle on display. I'd seen my fair share of naked men before, but most of the guys I'd slept with were on the bulky side. Tavarian, however, was lean, his compact build designed to house his sheer power and masculinity as efficiently as possible. And he wasn't just well built—he was practically a work of art, perfectly proportioned. The only interruption across that smooth expanse of skin was the trail of black hair that went from his belly button and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. It might as well have been a flaming red arrow that said, “THIS WAY TO PARADISE.”

“Sorry.” I picked myself up off the ground, my cheeks warm, and cleared my throat. “I didn’t realize we were training half-naked today. Do I need to take my shirt off too?”

I expected Tavarian to show some measure of humility, but he only smirked. “If that makes you more comfortable.”

Dammit. My face felt like it was wreathed in flames. I wasn't used to someone turning my snarky comments on me like that, especially not a guy like Tavarian. And since I damn well couldn't admit it would not, in fact, make me more comfortable if I took my shirt off, I folded my arms and said nothing.

“Now,” Tavarian said, business-like. “You’ve spent a great deal of time on academics and flying lessons because those are the two areas you need most catching up on based on the testing we’ve done. However, it is important that we practice combat training, as it is not at all unusual for a dragon rider to be unseated during warfare. The last thing your dragon needs is for you to get skewered on an enemy’s sword because you could not defend yourself properly.”

I nodded, remembering the brief battle Lessie and I had engaged in on Salcombe’s secondary estate. I’d jumped from her back to tackle and kill one of the guards while Lessie had gone after the other. I was already fairly well-trained in combat thanks to Salcombe’s tutors, but I wasn’t a master by any means, even though I’d trained at the academy as well. If something had gone wrong, if one of those men had killed me before I’d killed them, Lessie would have been dead.

“Okay,” I said, glancing toward the weapons rack. “So, what are we training with, then? Can we practice with my dragon blade?” I flipped open the sheath hanging from the belt on my waist and pulled out the double-bladed knife.

Tavarian’s silver eyes gleamed as I spun the weapon in my hand, extending the blades to six inches on either side with a mere thought. Jallis had told me the weapon was tied to my bloodline when he’d given it to me, and that was why I was able to control it. I knew it was a clue to my heritage, but since the sigil that had once been affixed to the handle was long gone, I had no idea which house it belonged to.

“No,” he said. “We won’t be using weapons at all today.”

“Hand to hand, then?” I brightened right up at that. I was pretty handy with my daggers, and the dragon blade seemed to come naturally to me, but most other weapons were hit-and-miss. Empty-handed combat, on the other hand, was right up my alley.

“Yes.” Tavarian assumed a boxer’s stance, his feet level and his hands close by his head. “Your task for today is simple—try to hit me.”

“My pleasure.”

I assumed a stance of my own, a little more fluid—hands out in front of me to strike and parry, front foot pointed at him, back foot angled a little to the side. Part of me wanted to jump in, to strike hard and fast, but I knew Tavarian expected that. So instead I threw a few test jabs, trying to gauge his rhythm. He parried each one with a small flick of his wrist, barely moving at all.

“I said try to hit me, not tap me,” Tavarian said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Is this what you normally try to do when an opponent is trying to hurt you?”

“No,” I said, and brought my back foot up, lightning-quick, in a crescent kick. Tavarian blocked, and I pivoted to the side, snapping out my leg once more. He jumped back with a mere millimeter of space between us, then grabbed my leg and yanked it out from under me.

“Hey!” I cried as I fell. I would have landed on my back, maybe even my head, but Tavarian yanked me flush against him, his pelvis meshing right up against my inner thigh.

“Don’t ever leave your leg out like that again,” he said, eyes flashing. He released me before I could react, and I stumbled backward. “Your retractions must be as fast as your strikes.”

Rather than wasting my breath on a reply, I struck again, this time for the ribs. Tavarian blocked with his elbow. I unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, aiming for the face, the abdomen, the kidneys, but nothing landed. Even more infuriating, he was parrying and dodging with minimal effort, using the most miniscule motions to evade my blows. He was ridiculously fast, his footwork far superior to anyone I'd ever fought before.

Well then, I thought, I’ll just have to take his footwork out of the equation.

I feinted left to distract him, then dropped to the ground and kicked my leg out. Tavarian went down in an instant, but before I could gloat, he hooked one foot around the back of my ankle and the other one in front. The next thing I knew I was on top of him, then beneath him, his hard frame pressing me into the ground.

"Very good," he said, his breath warm on my face. His nose was barely an inch from mine, and I could feel every ridge of muscle through the thin cotton top I wore. "I told you to hit me, not take me down, but I'll give you credit for ingenuity anyway. However," he said, clamping his thighs around my hips tight enough to make me squirm, "if you are going to take someone down, you must be prepared to either finish him off or run away. Staying within striking range was a big mistake."

Tavarian spent the rest of the lesson adjusting what he called my "bad habits"—forcing me into tighter stances and using controlled motions to parry and evade. The new style he was teaching me went against years of training and made me grit my teeth—but he had a point. The sweeping motions and wider stances were pretty and graceful, but I'd never used them outside of sparring. On the streets, faced with someone who was trying to rob or rape or kill you, the best course of action was to get out of there as fast as possible. My instructor had always told me running was the best option, and my agility had usually been enough to get me out of most situations without having to engage. Anything else was quickly solved with a dagger or a smoke bomb.

But as I’d learned recently, I wouldn’t always have my bag of tricks or my weapons on me. And relying on my dragon to swoop in wasn’t a solution—not when my failure to defend myself could mean death for both of us.