“You’re welcome,” I said, my answer soft but not small. “Though next time, maybe we could skip the part where you nearly get yourself killed?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Now sit down. Right now.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He was swaying. His face had gone too pale. The wound in his shoulder was bleeding more than I’d thought.

  “For fuck’s sake, Lincatheron.” I threw my hands up. “Sit. Before you die out of sheer spite.”

  Lincatheron’s jaw tensed, ready to argue, like it physically pained him to be told what to do. But then he sighed through his nose and sat down anyway, grumbling the entire time.

  “This is going to hurt,” I warned. I knelt in front of him, fingers already working to peel away the shredded fabric around his shoulder wound. “So sit still.”

  Blood was still oozing, sluggish but steady, staining his leathers. But that wasn’t the only stain. My eyes tracked across his chest, the way dark crimson had soaked into the leather at his ribs, his forearm. Too much blood for one wound.

  Lincatheron caught me looking. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not mine.”

  “All of it?”

  “I’m fine.” The words came out rough, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

  I pressed against the wound to make a point. Lincatheron hissed as I did so, his muscles tensing beneath my hands.

  I smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

  He let out a low groan, tipping his head back. “If I die, I’m haunting your bedroom first. No peace. No sleep. Only annoying ghost shit.” A smirk twitched at his lips. “I’ll whisper Isaraaaa into your ear at night just to piss you off.”

  I snorted. “You’re not dying.” I reached for the dagger at my belt and began cutting away more of the torn fabric. “But if you do, I’ll have Fenric throw your ghost into the most annoying corner of the realm. Somewhere really awful. Maybe a bakery, so you can be stuck smelling fresh bread but never eating it.”

  “That’s cruel.”

  “You’re right,” I said solemnly, tearing strips from the cleanest part of my shirt. The fabric came away in long, steady ribbons—not ideal, but it would have to do until we could get him to a proper healer. “Though Fenric’s bedroom would be worse.”

  That earned me a full chuckle, before he winced. “Stars, Isara, don’t make me laugh.”

  “Stop being weak then.” I wrapped the binding tight enough to hold but not so tight it would cut off circulation. “It’s not even that bad.”

  “You really do have a terrible bedside manner.”

  “Oh, horrible,” I agreed, smirking. “But you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  Lincatheron shook his head, a genuine grin breaking through the exhaustion on his face. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Lincatheron was always composed, always the stoic commander, his presence a constant force of steady strength. But here he was different. Looser. Warmer. As though I was seeing him for the first time, past the armour, past the battlefield.

  “I mean it,” I said after a moment, wiping away some of the dried blood. “You’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  His teal eyes softened, a fondness shimmering there. “I know,” he said, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard it.

  For a second, neither of us said anything.

  “You’re actually good at this.” He tilted his head as I worked. “Are you sure you’re not a healer?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Shame. I was going to start demanding you patch me up after every battle.”

  I pressed my hand into his wound just to hear him curse again.

  “Sadistic little thing,” he muttered.

  “Whiny little fae,” I shot back.

  Lincatheron let out a breath, shaking his head. “Fenric’s going to lose his mind when he sees this.”

  “Will he?” I tied off the makeshift bandage, testing the knots.

  Lincatheron flexed his shoulder experimentally, testing the range of motion. He winced only slightly when he pushed too far.

  “Yeah,” he said, the word carrying a note of resignation mixed with something warmer. “He does that.”

  I raised a brow, unable to resist the opening he’d just handed me. “How strange of him to care about the man he loves. How absolutely terrible your life must be, having someone worry when you come home bloody and half-dead.”

  The words dripped with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.

  Lincatheron’s jaw dropped for a split second before snapping shut, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with blood loss. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

  “There we go,” I said, grinning wickedly. “Much more honest than all that stoic commander nonsense.”

  “Gods, you’re a nightmare.”

  “And you’re bleeding on my nice clean bandages.” I pinched his uninjured arm. Hard.

  The sound he made was a thing of beauty. A full-on, betrayed, utterly undignified yelp that I would keep in my memory forever. His eyes went wide, as if I’d just committed the gravest breach of military protocol imaginable.

  “Did you just—” He stared at me in outraged disbelief. “I’m wounded!”

  “You deserved it.”

  He grumbled under his breath about sadistic humans and power complexes.

  I was already tugging him to his feet, enjoying the way he had to scramble to keep his balance. “Now come on, we’re getting you home before you pass out and I have to explain to Fenric why I let his boyfriend bleed to death in a field.”

  Lincatheron opened his mouth—probably to argue about his ability to remain conscious—but I was already hauling him toward Kaelen with zero patience for masculine pride. Though I was careful not to jostle his wounded shoulder more than necessary. The man was stubborn enough to collapse out of spite if I pushed too hard.

  “Front or back?” I asked when we reached Kaelen’s side, though I already knew what his answer would be.

  Lincatheron paused, clearly weighing his options. I could see the internal struggle playing out across his features, wounded pride versus practical concerns about staying conscious during flight.

  “Front,” he said finally, and I heard the effort it took him to keep his voice steady.

  Smart choice. It would let him maintain some semblance of control, some dignity in this thoroughly undignified situation. And more importantly, it meant I could keep an eye on him if he started swaying.

  “Good call,” I said, already positioning myself to give him a boost up into the front of the saddle. “Means you can pretend you’re still in charge.”

  “I am in charge,” he muttered, but he didn’t resist when I steadied him as he hauled himself into position with his good arm.

  The movement cost him, his face went a shade paler, jaw clenched against what had to be considerable pain. But he managed it with something approaching grace, settling into the familiar leather with practiced ease.

  I swung up behind him, careful not to crowd him but close enough to catch him if he started to slide sideways. The warmth of his back pressed against my chest, and I could feel the slight tremor running through his frame. Whether from pain, blood loss, or sheer stubborn determination to stay upright, I couldn’t tell.

  “Comfortable?” I asked, checking that the safety straps were properly secured.

  “Perfect,” Lincatheron replied through gritted teeth, his hands finding position on the saddle’s front grips.

  “Liar.” But I kept my voice light as Kaelen prepared for take-off. “Just don’t bleed all over the saddle. Kaelen takes pride in his tack.”

  His shoulders shook with laughter. “I make no promises.”

  “Wonderful. Kaelen, take us home. And try not to rattle our wounded warrior too badly.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Kaelen rumbled in my mind. “Though I make no promises about his pride surviving the journey intact.”

  The ground fell away beneath us in a dizzying rush of green and brown, the wind immediately whipping through my hair with enough force to make my eyes water.

  But even as we climbed higher, banking toward home, I could feel Lincatheron’s restlessness radiating through the air like heat from a forge. He kept shifting, subtle movements at first, then more pronounced ones as his warrior’s instincts clashed with his body’s limitations.

  A slight turn to scan the horizon. A flex of his shoulders that made him suck in a sharp breath. Another shift as he tried to get a better view of something below.

  Each movement sent a tremor of pain through him that I could feel echoed in the tension of his frame, the hitches in his breathing.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, as he craned his neck to peer over Kaelen’s wing. “Sit still, Linc.”

  Lincatheron froze. Actually froze, going so rigid in the saddle that for a moment I wondered if he’d passed out entirely.

  Then he twisted to face me, the movement sending another visible wave of pain across his features that he tried and failed to hide.

  His brows lifted, mouth parting slightly as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “What...” His voice came out rougher than usual, threaded with something I couldn’t quite identify. “What did you just say?”

  I blinked at him, confused by the intensity of his reaction. “I said sit still, Linc.”

  He pointed at me, eyes narrowing in exaggerated betrayal. “You did it again.”

  I frowned. “What? It’s your name.”

  “No, that—” He waved vaguely, as if the word had personally offended him. “That is a nickname.”

  I winced. I hadn’t even thought about it. The name had slipped out. But from the way Lincatheron was looking at me, you’d think I’d rewritten the laws of the universe.

  “Uh…” Heat crept up my neck. “I—shit. I didn’t mean to. I⁠—”

  “No,” he cut in.

  I blinked, mouth open mid-apology.

  Lincatheron sucked in a breath through his teeth, his eyes darting away for a second as if he needed to gather the nerve to say whatever was sitting on his tongue.

  “I like it.”

  My words stalled.

  He glanced at me, the smallest shrug rolling through his shoulders. “It caught me off guard. That’s all. No one’s ever called me that before.”

  “Oh,” I breathed out. The heat in my face doubled. “I mean, I can stop. If you want me to, I will. I wasn’t trying to⁠—”

  “I said,” he interrupted again, quieter now, steadier, “no one has before.” Something soft settled in his expression. “But you can.”

  I bit my lip, watching for any hint of discomfort. “Are you sure?”

  A warm, boyish grin split his face, and gods, it made him look so much younger.

  “Definitely.”

  I laughed then, quick and startled, but real. “Okay. Good luck getting me to stop.”

  He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exaggerated despair. “I’ve just made a mistake, haven’t I?”

  “Absolutely.” I grinned, sitting back with a smug little hum. “Monumental, really. You’ll never live this down.”

  Linc shook his head, still smiling. “I can already hear Fenric’s voice in my nightmares.”

  “Is that so?” I raised a brow, teasing.

  “Yes. If he hears you call me that.” He glared at me, faux-serious. “I’ll never know peace again.”

  “Oh, we’re definitely telling Fenric,” I said, unable to suppress the wicked glee in my voice. “In fact, I think I’ll make it a point to use your new nickname exclusively in his presence.”

  “You’re evil,” Linc muttered, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. “Pure evil.”

  “I prefer ‘strategically vindictive,’” I corrected primly. “It sounds more sophisticated.”

  “That’s not better.”

  “Wait. What does your boyfriend call you?” I raised a brow. “Something romantic?”

  Linc’s entire body went rigid. “Absolutely not.”

  “Come on.” I leaned forward slightly, close enough that my whisper would carry over the wind. “What is it? Darling? Sweetheart?”

  “I will throw myself off this dragon before I ever tell you that,” he said through gritted teeth, though I caught the way his ears had gone pink at the tips.

  “You’re wounded, remember? You’d never survive the fall.” I was practically purring with amusement now. “Besides, Kaelen would just catch you and put you right back up here with me. Wouldn’t you, Kaelen?”

  Lincatheron muttered what sounded distinctly like a prayer for divine intervention.

  “Without hesitation,” Kaelen rumbled in response. “I’m rather invested in this conversation now.”

  “Is it something embarrassingly sweet?” I pressed. “Something that makes you blush every time he says it? Oh gods, does he call you honey? Baby? My fierce little warrior?”

  “I’m going to murder you both,” Linc said, but his voice cracked slightly on the words. “Slowly. Painfully. With great satisfaction.”

  “You’re deflecting,” I pointed out. “Which means it’s definitely something mortifying. This is even better than I hoped.”

  He twisted in the saddle again to glare at me properly, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. “You are a menace. An absolute plague upon my existence.”

  “And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” I shot back with a grin.

  “You know what?” he said, settling back in the saddle with a rueful shake of his head. “You’re absolutely right. Gods help me, but I actually enjoy having someone around who’s not afraid to give me shit.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” I said cheerfully. “I have an endless supply of shit to give.”

  “Wonderful,” he muttered, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Just what my life was missing. A friend with no sense of self-preservation and a complete disregard for military hierarchy.”

  “Best kind of friend to have,” I said. “The kind who’ll patch you up after battle and mock you relentlessly while doing it.”

  “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

  The flight passed quicker than I’d expected, filled with easy conversation. Every time Lincatheron started to go quiet for more than a few minutes, I’d poke at him with another question or observation. Partly because I wanted to make sure he stayed conscious, but mostly because I genuinely enjoyed talking to him.

  Without the weight of command or the formality of court between us, he was surprisingly good company. Quick-witted, sarcastic when he forgot to be diplomatic, and possessed of a dry sense of humour that matched my own. We argued about everything from military tactics to the stupidity of formal dining customs, his responses growing more animated as the miles passed beneath us.

  “And that’s why,” he was saying, gesturing with his good arm. “Formal state dinners are just elaborate torture devices designed to⁠—”

  He cut off abruptly as the castle came into view ahead of us, its familiar towers rising from the mountainside like something out of legend. But it wasn’t the sight of home that made him curse under his breath.

  It was the courtyard.

  Even from this distance, I could see figures moving with urgent purpose below. Servants scurried between the buildings, guards forming up in hasty formations, healers rushing toward what was clearly a hastily assembled triage area. Someone had arrived before us, and clearly word had spread through the castle.

  “Fuck,” Lincatheron muttered, his shoulders sagging with resignation. “This is going to be a complete shitshow.”

  I followed his gaze down to the organised chaos below, watching as more people poured into the courtyard. Among them, I spotted a familiar figure—Fenric, striding across the stones. As we descended, I could see the way he held himself, the deliberate distance he maintained from the other courtiers gathering to witness our arrival.

  He looked like a man caught between overwhelming relief and the desperate need to appear professionally concerned rather than personally devastated.

  “He can’t exactly run over and kiss you better in front of the entire court,” I observed quietly.

  Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “No. He can’t.” The words came out flat, laced with a frustration that had nothing to do with his wounds. “He’ll have to stand there and watch the healers work and pretend his heart isn’t trying to beat out of his chest.”

  Fenric paced the edge of the courtyard. “That must be hell,” I said softly. “For both of you.”

  “We’ll manage,” Lincatheron admitted, his voice rough around the edges. “It’s the only way we can—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “This is going to be torture. Watching him pretend he doesn’t care while I pretend I don’t notice how badly he wants to touch me to make sure I’m really alive.”

  The frustration bleeding through Lincatheron’s words made something twist in my chest. I wished there was anything I could do, some way to shield him from the performance he’d have to put on, some magic that would let Fenric be what he needed to be instead of what duty demanded.

  But there wasn’t. All I could do was sit behind him and watch the rigid line of his shoulders as he prepared to play his part.

  Kaelen hit the ground with enough force to rattle my teeth, his claws carving furrows in the stone as he skidded to a halt. The impact sent a jolt through Lincatheron that made his good hand go white-knuckled on the saddle grip.

  I swung down from the saddle first, landing hard enough that my knees protested. Behind me, Linc started to dismount, and I grabbed his good arm before he could topple face-first into the courtyard stones.

  “Easy,” I muttered, steadying him. “You’ve already bled all over Kaelen. Let’s not add concussion to the list.”

  He grunted what might have been agreement or might have been an insult, hard to tell with the way his face had gone grey beneath all that blood.

  The healers converged on us before we’d even fully stopped moving. A swarm of purposeful figures in white robes, their hands already glowing with the golden light of healing magic. Behind them, came Fenric.