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“Name?” the rider at the edge asks as his partner holds a cloak over the scroll in a pointless attempt to keep the paper dry. “Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting.
You want a dragon? Earn one.”
“Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?”
“You’d rather I die, no doubt,” I fire back, the side of my face pressed into the mat. This isn’t just painful, it’s humiliating. “And be denied the pleasure of your company?” he mocks. “I fucking hate you.” The words are past my lips before I can shut my mouth. “That doesn’t make you special.”
Heat rushes up my neck and flames lick my cheeks as he lowers his face so his lips are only inches away from mine. I can make out every speck of gold in his onyx eyes, every bump and ridge of his scar. Beautiful. Fucking. Asshole.
October first is always Threshing.
Oh. Shit. He’s choosing…me. “Get on your back?” I repeat like a fucking parrot. “Have you seen you? Do you have any idea how huge you are?” I’d need a damned ladder to get up there. The look he gives me can only be described as annoyance. “One does not live a century without being well aware of the space one takes up. Now get on.”
“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil, descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.”
“You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.” I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider. “You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.”
This kind of desperation isn’t natural; it’s a wildfire that’s likely to burn us both to the ground if we let it.
There’s nowhere in existence you could go that I wouldn’t find you, Violence.”
“I’m just…his.”

