Nyx's POV

As the unmistakable sound of wings slicing through the air reaches my ears, I am jolted from my serene moment of peace. My heart leaps into my throat—not from fear, mind you, but from the sheer audacity of him. I glance up just in time to see Nightstrike descending with the kind of flair that suggests he thinks he's gracing the world with his presence. The earth beneath us groans softly under his weight, and the rabbits who had been contentedly nibbling in the clearing scatter like leaves in a gale. Their fluffy tails vanish into the undergrowth faster than I can muster my irritation.

"What is it this time?" I snap, the words leaving my mouth as sharp as my claws. My tail lashes against the ground for emphasis. "I told you your grand entrances are not welcome here."

Nightstrike, the picture of calm arrogance, folds his wings neatly against his back and tilts his massive head toward me. His emerald eyes gleam with an intensity that might impress me if I wasn't so annoyed. "Yes, Nyx," he begins, his voice a deep rumble that always manages to sound like it's delivering some prophecy. "I know you've made your feelings... abundantly clear. However, I find myself in a predicament that requires your particular talents." He pauses, clearly expecting me to leap at the opportunity to solve his problems. I stare at him flatly, and he presses on. "I cannot find my human companion."

I blink. Then blink again. "You're kidding."

"I assure you, I am not," he replies, managing to sound both grave and slightly insulted.

"Well," I say, arching a brow, "considering most dragons would rather barbecue a human than bond with one, you can see why I'm struggling to muster sympathy."

Nightstrike exhales sharply through his nostrils, a sound that could be a dragon sigh—or a prelude to torching me on the spot. "I belong to a society of dragons and humans who work together for mutual benefit. Surely you've heard of the Targaryens?"

Oh, here we go. "Ah, yes," I drawl, flicking an ear in mock recognition. "The illustrious family of Westeros, famous for their dragon-riding and their complete disregard for personal boundaries. Let me guess, your rider thinks they're a Targaryen reincarnated?"

Nightstrike's tail swishes irritably. "It's not like that," he says, his voice strained with patience. "Our bond is one of respect. Equal partnership. We are not tools or pets—we're allies."

"How heartwarming," I deadpan. "Still not my problem."

But then he looks at me, really looks at me, his emerald gaze shimmering with genuine worry. "Please, Nyx," he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I need your sharp eyes and tracking skills. I fear for their safety."

I should say no. I want to say no. Instead, I find my resolve wobbling like a hatchling on its first flight. My thoughts wander to my den, where my sister is probably watching over my son—my almost grown, almost capable, but still-my-responsibility son.

"No," I say firmly. "I have my own to care for."

Nightstrike's wings shift, the faintest ripple of frustration passing through them. "Isn't that why you have your sister?" he counters. "You've said yourself she's more than capable."

I narrow my eyes. "And you think leaving him for your little scavenger hunt is a good idea?"

"I think the fate of my bond depends on this," he says, meeting my gaze unflinchingly. "And if it were your son, wouldn't you want someone to help you?"

Low blow. "You're lucky I have a conscience," I mutter, flaring my wings. "But make no mistake: if this takes longer than a day, I'm coming back, and you're on your own."

A grin flashes across his maw—a grin! "I knew I could count on you."

"Oh, don't start," I grumble, but my wings are already propelling me into the air, the wind rushing past us in a mighty roar.

As we ascend, I shoot him a sidelong glance. "For the record," I call out, "if your rider turns out to be some self-proclaimed 'Dragon King,' I'm dropping them in the nearest lake."

His laughter echoes through the sky, deep and resonant. "Fair enough."

And with that, we soar toward the horizon, two unlikely allies in pursuit of a human who had better be worth the trouble—or they might end up learning the hard way that dragons don't suffer fools lightly.

SCHENE BREAK

Soaring above the rugged coastline, the salty tang of the sea fills my senses as the waves crash violently against the cliffs below. It's a symphony of chaos: winds that howl mournfully, tugging at our wings, and the relentless roar of the ocean beneath us. From above, the world looks both desolate and defiant, the kind of place where secrets linger in every shadow and the land itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for discovery.

Nightstrike descends first, his landing as impeccable as ever. His great wings fold with the grace of a dancer's final bow, his clawed feet touching the sands as softly as falling feathers. His shadow stretches across the beach, vast and imposing, and I can't help but roll my eyes at his usual flair for the dramatic. He twists his neck to regard me, his obsidian scales catching the moonlight in a way that almost makes him look ethereal. Almost. His voice is a rich baritone that carries a curious edge. "During our last visit here, I caught a glimpse of something unusual, something worth investigating."

I land less delicately, because, unlike Nightstrike, I don't live for theatrics. My claws dig into the sand with a satisfying crunch, and I regard him with a mix of skepticism and mild amusement. "Unusual? Or are you just seeing shapes in the mist again? Last time, your 'peculiarity' was a particularly reflective rock."

He narrows his glowing green eyes, but there's a flicker of humor in them. "True, but even you must admit that our flights of fancy often lead to important discoveries."

"Or wild goose chases," I counter, but I follow him regardless. He's not entirely wrong—our whims have, on occasion, uncovered things worth knowing. Even so, my expectations for tonight remain firmly anchored in the realm of "disappointing."

Nightstrike gazes out at the jagged cliffs that loom above us, their tops obscured by mist and moonlight. "I have always believed that we are the last true heirs of the Targaryen legacy," he muses, his tone pensive. "Yet, in this place, I sense something different—like a whisper in the air, a thread of familiarity I cannot ignore."

"Well, let's hope it's not another reflective rock," I mutter, though his words stir a faint curiosity in me.

We make our way to the cliffs, their darkened faces riddled with caves that yawn open like the mouths of sleeping giants. Inside, the damp air clings to us, and the distant crash of waves creates an eerie, rhythmic backdrop. The caves yield little—just the indignant screeches of displaced seagulls and the scurrying of rats. Nightstrike presses on, undeterred, and I can't decide if his persistence is admirable or exhausting.

And then, as we emerge from the largest cave, we see it: the unmistakable imprint of dragon talons etched into the sand, clear and sharp. Nightstrike lowers his head, studying the marks with an intensity that makes me wonder if he's deciphering an ancient prophecy. A low growl of recognition rumbles in his chest. "Syrax," he murmurs, reverence in his voice. "Rhaenyra's dragon. Our queen."

The weight of his words settles over me like a shroud. Syrax. Rhaenyra Targaryen. A name steeped in legend and longing. If her dragon is here, it means she's near. A flicker of hope ignites within me, tempered by the knowledge of the dangers that always seem to follow Targaryens like a persistent storm cloud.

"If Syrax is here," I say slowly, "then she must be seeking refuge. Perhaps she, too, is running—from enemies, from loss, from whatever has driven us to these desolate lands."

Nightstrike lifts his gaze to the heavens, his wings unfurling in preparation for flight. "If she is here, we must find her. Rhaenyra holds the key to our kind's resurgence. With her, there is hope for dragons and riders to rise again."

"And if she isn't here?" I ask, unwilling to entertain blind optimism.

"Then we continue to search," he replies firmly, taking to the skies with a powerful leap. "But I believe she is. And I believe we'll find her."

I hesitate for a moment, staring at the talon marks as if they might impart some hidden wisdom. Then, with a resigned sigh, I follow him into the air. The wind tears at my wings as we ascend, the moon casting a silvery glow across the ocean. Below us, the coastline stretches endlessly, its mysteries beckoning.

As we soar, I allow myself to imagine it—a future where dragons no longer hide, where we reclaim the skies and our rightful place in the world. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying, but tonight, it feels just a little closer. The hunt is on, and the promise of what lies ahead propels us forward into the unknown.