Riven didn't leave the cave for a long time.
He sat beside his father's body in the dim light, listening to the quiet drip of water somewhere deep inside the stone. Hours passed without him noticing. The dragon stayed near the entrance, curled like a silent guardian, tail twitching every now and then as if sensing the heaviness in the air.
Riven kept expecting his father to breathe again. To cough. To shift. To do anything other than lie there motionless.
He had imagined meeting his father again thousands of times growing up. None of those stories ended like this.
Eventually, the cold crept into his bones, reminding him that time was still moving, whether he wanted it to or not.
Riven swallowed hard and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. "You said not to let them make me a weapon," he whispered to the still form beside him. "But I think you knew… I can't just walk away from this."
His voice cracked.
"This was all I ever wanted—just to ask you why you left. And I get my answer in the same day I lose you again."
The words hung there, small and weak in the cavern.
Riven rose slowly to his feet. His legs trembled from exhaustion, but he didn't sit back down. He couldn't. He bent down and placed a hand over his father's chest one last time.
"Thank you for saving me," he whispered. "I'll make sure your death isn't forgotten."
Outside, the wind howled across the mountains, almost like an echo of his own grief.
He stepped into the cold morning light.
The dragon lifted its head at his approach, frost curling from its nostrils. Its blue scales shimmered like ice catching the sun.
"I don't know how to do this," Riven admitted quietly.
"I don't know anything about you. Or… about what I'm supposed to be."
The dragon blinked, slow and deliberate.
Riven hesitated, then reached out again. His fingers touched the edge of the dragon's snout—cool, almost freezing. The creature didn't pull away.
That small acceptance steadied him more than he expected.
"I need to bury him," Riven whispered. "Will you wait?"
The dragon lowered its head, as if giving permission.
So Riven returned inside the cave one last time. He gathered stones, dug into the frozen earth with his bare, injured hands until they burned. It took far too long, and his fingers bled, but he didn't stop.
When it was done, he laid his father gently into the shallow grave, placed his cloak over him, and covered him with stones until the mound stood firm.
Riven stood in front of it for a long moment.
He didn't pray.
He didn't know how.
Instead he murmured something his mother once said about the dead:
"Rest where their hands can't reach you anymore."
His voice shook.
He walked out of the cave again, and this time, he didn't look back.
⸻
Outside, the mountain air felt sharper. Cleaner. Almost cruel in how alive it was.
The dragon straightened as Riven approached, towering over him with its wings folded tight. A single, low rumble left its throat.
"I don't even know your name," Riven said softly. "Do dragons have names? Do you understand me?"
The dragon tilted its head. A crackle of frost shimmered around its claws.
Riven let out a tired breath. "Right. I guess we'll figure it out as we go."
At that moment, the dragon moved.
Not toward him, not away—just a single step, a shift, like it had made a decision. Its wings unfurled slightly, then settled again. It lowered its body, a slow, deliberate motion.
An invitation.
Riven hesitated. He didn't ask where it intended to go, or why. He didn't have the strength to question anything anymore. His legs felt heavy, like grief was dragging at his knees.
Still… he approached.
The dragon didn't speak, didn't gesture beyond that simple lowering of its massive form. But something about it felt sure—like the creature already knew what needed to happen.
Riven climbed onto its back.
The dragon rose with a smooth, powerful motion and, without warning, leapt into the air.
The wind tore past him.
The mountains shrank.
The sky opened.
Riven held tight as the dragon glided between peaks, moving with quiet purpose. It didn't fly high where it could be seen. It didn't roar. It didn't circle.
It moved like it understood danger.
Like it understood people.
Riven realized then that this wasn't some beast that needed to be tamed.
It was a creature that made its own choices.
And right now, its choice was taking him home.
Hours passed in silence.
Riven didn't speak—not to himself, not to the wind, not to the creature carrying him. He was too lost in the ache of everything he'd just lost… and everything he'd become.
When the edges of Halstar finally appeared in the distance, his breath caught.
The walls.
The towers.
The river winding around the farmland.
The smoke curling from chimneys he recognized from childhood.
Home.
Though it no longer felt like it.
The dragon slowed, gliding low over the treetops. It never once turned toward the walls. It never approached the fields. Every movement was carefully measured, looping wide around any path soldiers might patrol.
It settled in a thick forest several miles away—far enough to avoid scouts, close enough that Riven could walk the rest of the way.
The landing was soft, cautious.
Riven slid off.
The dragon lifted its head, sniffed the air, and stepped back into the deeper shadows between the pines. It didn't need words to say what it intended.
This was where they separated—at least for now.
Riven watched as the creature folded its wings tightly, almost disappearing into the darkness of the forest. A guardian hiding itself before anyone could lay eyes on it.
Not because he instructed it.
Not because he warned it.
But because it already knew.
Dragons had survived longer than kingdoms, after all.
Riven let out a long breath. The cold air burned his lungs.
He looked toward the distant gates—silent and familiar.
He left the dragon behind and began walking.
Each step felt heavier.
Harsher.
More real.
He wasn't returning as a soldier.
He wasn't returning as a failure.
He wasn't returning as the boy who used to dream of glory with a sword.
He was returning as someone the kingdom would fear if they ever truly saw him.
Someone still weak…
but no longer helpless.
There was only one path forward now:
grow stronger.
Grow far beyond what Halstar expected of him.
Far beyond what it allowed.
The forest thinned.
The road appeared.
The shadows of the city walls stretched long across the frost-covered ground.
Riven pulled his hood low and stepped onto the path.
He would live quietly.
Train quietly.
Become something quietly.
Until the day quiet was no longer needed.