Thæon understands now, that the gods have been preparing him.
Every downfall he feels he has faced, every trial set before him, every challenge he must overcome has been for the sake of preparing him for something. He understands that now, tucked into the curve of Anther’s neck, fingers twisted into the folds of his cloak and around his dragon’s horns in the same white-knuckle grip as they flew through the evening rain.
Anther had woken him from the peace of sleep with worry in his hum and an urgency to the nudging of his nose to rouse Thæon, wings peeling back from the nest of wings to invite in the cold air.
He had grumbled at first; confused, annoyed really, because the others would know that they’d return soon enough; that there was no reason to hurry back when it was more than a little obvious that they were clearing the air between them.
And yet Anther had been insisting; nudging him petulantly, like a child, Thæon making to shove back.
Until he saw Gryka perched on a nearby root, reeking of Shadow magic.
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