The Dragon's Dilemma

Lyraella IV

Lyraella

The ground trembled as Blackfyre landed heavily in Dragonmount, his massive black wings folding with a resounding thud that echoed off the stone walls. His landing was rough, his exhaustion palpable after the ferocity of the battle. Lyraella, Vaelora, and Jace were still perched on his broad back, each swaying slightly as the great dragon's enormous muscles relaxed beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt wood, the stench of battle clinging to everything.

Whitefyre landed beside them in a graceful descent, her white scales streaked with ash and blood, gleaming faintly in the fading light. The sharp contrast between her snow-white hide and the black, scarred stone of Dragonmount was almost surreal, as if she were an apparition from another world. Lyraella's heart seized at the sight of her dragon's injury, a scorpion bolt wound still seeping warm blood from her flank. Without thinking, she moved to dismount, but Vaelora's steady hand helped guide her down from Blackfyre's massive form. The ground felt uneven beneath her feet, but Lyraella barely noticed, her focus entirely on Whitefyre.

Without a word, she ran to her dragon, throwing her arms around Whitefyre's great neck. The warmth of her scales was comforting, a lifeline in the aftermath of chaos. Whitefyre rumbled softly in response, her massive head lowering to nuzzle Lyraella as if to tell her not to worry. But Lyraella couldn't shake the image of the scorpion bolt tearing through the air, striking her dragon's flank. The bolt had been dislodged mid-flight, but the hole it left behind still bled slowly, staining Whitefyre's pristine scales.

Lyraella walked to her side, fingers brushing the wound gently. Warm blood slicked her palm, and she winced. Whitefyre's eyes, bright and sharp, met hers, filled with a mixture of pain and relief. She nudged Lyraella again, a soft, insistent gesture that was almost playful, as if to remind her that they had both survived. For now, that was enough.

Lyraella exhaled a long breath and turned to where Vaelora sat beside Jace. He had been quiet since they had landed, his face pale and drawn, his eyes still red from the tears he had shed over Vermax. Her heart ached for him, for the bond he had lost. Dragons were not just beasts to them; they were companions, extensions of their souls. Losing one was like losing a piece of themselves.

As Lyraella stepped away from Whitefyre, Blackfyre paced over, his hulking form blocking out the dim sunlight. His acid-green eyes glowed with intensity, his snout flaring as he approached Whitefyre. The great black dragon lowered his head, sniffing the wound with a low, rumbling growl. It was a sound that reverberated through Lyraella's bones, primal and protective. Whitefyre murmured softly, a reassurance that she was fine. The two dragons touched their heads together, a quiet exchange that spoke of their bond.

The sight of them nudging each other brought a warmth to Lyraella's chest, and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. Despite the horrors they had faced, there was still love, still connection. It was a small comfort in the midst of their grief.

Vaelora approached Lyraella, pulling her into a tight embrace. Her sister's arms were strong and sure, grounding her. "Are you hurt?" Vaelora asked, pulling back to inspect her closely, her eyes full of concern.

Lyraella shook her head, though she still felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry."

By now, Silverwing and Vermithor had landed behind them, their riders—Ulf and Hugh—dismounting shakily. Vaelora's expression darkened instantly as she strode toward them, her voice like a whip. "If I ever catch you two flying drunk again, it will be the last time you mount a dragon," she hissed. Her anger was palpable, her authority unquestionable.