The Rider's Truth.

The curious case of the vanishing Vidalin.

Unedited.

Chapter 34: The curious case of the vanishing Vidalin.

There was barely time for me to gloat over the sight of Damien standing there ashamed and drenched in water before a shuddering crash ripped attention towards the second fight unfolding in the arena.

My smile died, the shadows stilling as they twisted around my hands. It was a clash of fire and shadow, light and darkness between Ashlar and Nethore. I took an unconscious step forward as if my tiny frame would be any good in that fight, before Dem grabbed my shoulder.

"No." He shook his head as I looked back, his smile tiny but comforting.

My stomach clenched as I watched them, and the bond pulsed between us. I couldn't focus completely on the dragons sparring, too wired to let Damien out of my sight in case he tried to incinerate me again. Buzz was watching him with a terrible fury, her dark brows knotted, and I wanted to laugh at the tongue lashing he was going to get from her.

Bodies of scaled muscle and flame collided again, and I winced as most of the onlooking crowd did at the sound. Dragons fighting was undeniably vicious – a whirlwind of snapping jaws and the flash of ivory claws as they tried to sink their serrated teeth into their opponent's throat.

It was awful.

Yet, I found it oddly beautiful.

I still worried for Nethore, and I always would but watching the two dragons fight made me want to pull out my easel and try and capture the fluidity of their movements. Centuries of instinct, and training had honed them to fight like this and they did it with such elegant savagery that it deserved to be painted.

A cry rang out like a swelling wave, and the students scrambled back as molten fire spewed from Ashlar's maw. The shadows clinging to the corners of the pit shifted as Nethore snarled, his snout curled as it stuck to his scales.

Darkness curled around my wrist, a ready weapon as I stepped forward again, wanting to do something. Dem's fingers tightened on my shoulder.

"Neely. No. You'll ruin his pride if you interfere."

Dem was always right, but I couldn't curb the protective instincts broiling inside of me. I wondered if it was worse for Nethore- to have to be the stronger one of a pair and watching over a flesh-bag who was decidedly more vulnerable than him.

Nethore lunged, jerking up his head so his horns caught onto the underside of Ashlar's jaw. Muscles heaved, his body rippling as he pushed, his thick legs locking, then inching forward. Ashlar ripped his head away with a yelp, as the sharp ends of Nethore's horns cut into the sensitive scales at the underside.

They grappled again, and sand was thrown up in the maddened frenzy. I caught sight of a flickering barbed tail seconds before Ashlar gave a violent cry and scrabbled back, a deep flesh wound dug into his neck. There was blood dripping from Nethore's maw, a wound cut below his snout but it would heal.

Nethore watched Ashlar retreated with an unwavering gaze, and his barbed tail, bloodied from Ashlar, whipped out behind him. Pride churned in my chest as I watched him face down Ashlar with the confidence of an ancient being. It was in moments like this – where Nethore was roused from his usually stoic self when I felt the deepness to his soul. Like an ancient being was encased in obsidian, with centuries of knowledge born again when he hatched.

There was no seed of doubt in the bond between us – he was dominance embroiled in obsidian and he would fight until he could move no more.

The Vidalin didn't concede.