FSE

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Pain was the first to greet him.

It throbbed through his skull in slow, pulsing waves, keeping time with the beat of his heart. His face ached—his lip split and swelling, a sharp reminder of how he'd gotten here. Then the memories came. Fractured. Flickering. But vivid enough to jolt him fully awake.

The fight. The soldiers. The gryphon.

Gradyn tried to rise, instinct kicking in before thought. But his body refused him. Cold steel rattled around him, and he realized the truth—he was bound. Heavy chains coiled around his wrists and ankles, cinched cruelly behind his back, forcing his shoulders into an aching twist.

“Damn it," he muttered, his voice raw and brittle.

He twisted against the chains. No give. The iron links bit deep. His only small victory was managing to roll onto his side and push up to his knees—the only position the chains would allow besides lying flat on the cold wooden floor.

That's when he saw the bars.

Iron, thick, and close together. A cage. Cramped enough that standing was impossible, even if he were free. A tarp draped across the top and sides let in just enough filtered light to reveal crates, coiled rope, and little else.

But sound carried better than sight. Hooves clopped beneath him. Wooden wheels creaked in rhythm. He was in a cart, and moving. Beyond that he could hear muffled voices—men talking, laughing, shouting. Their words bled together, indistinct.

He exhaled slowly, bitterly. Tried the chains again. Nothing. Just the grating rasp of iron against raw skin. Fury sparked in his chest, but rage alone couldn't break metal. So he breathed. Waited. Let silence stretch thin around him. He needed to think and plan. Find some way out of this.

The worst part wasn't the pain. Or even the cage. It was not knowing what came next.

Why had Vartis let him go—only to recapture him? What game was he playing?

If the dragon slayer had wanted him dead, he could've ended it at the inn. Or let the gryphon tear him apart midair. Instead, he gave him a head start.

A gesture of cruelty? Or something more?

Gradyn's jaw clenched. He could still hear Vartis's voice, calm and cutting: "Your kind tends to be prone to that." What had he meant? What did he know?

Gradyn closed his eyes. His thoughts circled back to the tavern, the way Vartis had looked at him like prey already caught. Had he known then? How long had he known?

Outside, the cart slowed. The voices grew louder. The wheels stopped. So did the hooves. Footsteps crunched in gravel. Then the creak of weight on wood. Someone climbing up. Gradyn stilled and prepared himself for whatever may come.

The tarp pulled back, flooding the cage with afternoon sun. It stabbed his eyes, but he blinked through it. Vartis stood there, in full armor, the same self-assured smirk carved across his face.

Behind him, soldiers. And two gryphons—one of them the blond bastard from the tavern. “You're awake. Good," Vartis said. “Let's get to it. I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you are going to answer them."

Gradyn shifted to face him. The cart elevated him just enough to meet the man's gaze. “And if I don't?" he rasped.

Vartis stepped closer. “Then I return to Radhilt and burn it to ash."

Gradyn's fists clenched in their bonds. He tried not to react, but the flare in Vartis's smile said he'd already seen too much.

“Now," Vartis said, starting to pace, “I know you're connected to a dragon. What I want to know is why you were in Radhilt, working in a tavern, instead of by its side."

Gradyn stared down at the floor of his cage. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost distant. “I guess I'll start at the beginning." His throat tightened—not from the strain of chains, but the weight of memory.

“I was born to a pair of traveling merchants. We worked the southern border of Marseleth. When I was about seven, we traveled through the Wildlands. I don't remember why."

A pause.

“But I remember what happened. Bandits hit our convoy. Slaughtered everyone. My father tried to run with me in his arms. But he didn't get very far. Thought I'd be next. But then Cyvass came."

Vartis stopped pacing. “Cyvass," he repeated. The name stirred something in his eyes. Recognition maybe. But it vanished behind his smile. “Continue."

Gradyn did. Slowly. Carefully. “He wasn't like the dragons I'd heard of in stories. He was small, young, and curious. But powerful, even then. He killed all the bandits in seconds. But he didn't hurt me. He kept me alive. Promised to protect me."

Gradyn swallowed. “If only he had kept that promise." He thought bitterly to himself.

“He became… everything. Friend. Protector. Family."

The words clung to him like a second skin, heavy with dust and grief.

“We traveled. Just the two of us. East, toward the mountains. I used to race him, even wrestle sometimes," he said, a faint smile twitching at his lips. “Never won once." The smile faded just as quickly as it came.

“We found a cave near the Stone Forest Mountains. Lived there for eight years. Hunting and exploring. It was peaceful."

Gradyn's eyes glazed as memories turned darker.

“But he started changing. He said his tail blade had fallen off so fins could grow in. Said his magic was developing. He got quieter. Short-tempered. Distant."

“I think I know where this is going," Vartis said with a chuckle.

He looked at Vartis, but ignored his interruption. “I gave him space. Thought he just needed time. But then…" Gradyn's voice dropped.

“Then the soldiers came. Soldiers wearing the same symbol that you do. They found me first. Said they were saving me. I tried to warn them—beg them to leave. They wouldn't listen."

A breath.

“Then Cyvass returned. He didn't speak. He didn't even hesitate. Just… attacked. I'd seen him use a little magic before but this was something else. His body grew in size. Tendrils of black magic burst from him. Tore through the men like paper."

Gradyn watched as some of the soldiers shifted uncomfortably. However, Vartis continued to stand there confident and unfazed.

Gradyn's voice cracked. “I didn't know what to do. Two gryphons joined the fight and began driving Cyvass into a corner. I couldn't watch anymore. I picked up a sword. Found the one barking orders and… ran him through."

He paused. Let the weight of that moment settle. It was the first time he had killed someone. But unlike the other times this one still hunted him. He could still see it, feel it. The way the blade caught in his spine. It made his skin crawl.

He looked down at his knees, avoiding eye contact. “Cyvass killed the rest. Then turned to me."

His voice went hollow. “His eyes weren't blue anymore. Just black. Empty. I called his name. Nothing. I begged. Nothing. He just kept slowly stalking toward me. I tried to run."

He closed his eyes. The memory was still very clear. “He was upon me instantly. His claws ripped into my back and threw me to the ground. The last thing I remember was him standing over me with those cold and lifeless eyes."

“And then I woke up in Radhilt." He looked up again, jaw tight. “That was six years ago."

Vartis was quiet. Then he chuckled. “Well. That explains a lot." He resumed pacing. “When a dragon first gains its magic it can be hard to control. A dragons' magic is connected to their emotions. Too much of a negative emotion—fear, grief, anger—it causes the magic to flare uncontrollably. They rampage."

Gradyn looked away. He knew there had to have been something that drove Cyvass to attack him. But it didn't make it easier knowing. He was his friend. His only one. And he left him. No explanation. No apology. He just disappeared. That was why Gradyn never truly forgave him. Why he never even bothered to try looking for the dragon.

Vartis had paused, studying him. “As for why you're still alive…" He stepped forward. “That's because he bonded his soul to yours."

Gradyn blinked. “What?"

“Dragons can share pieces of their soul. Creates a bond that can only be broken by death. Not much is known about how it works with humans. But my family… we've seen it before. No one really kept them alive to study, but they did record some of what they found. And all of them claimed what they found wasn't human any more."

Vartis taped his chest over his heart. “That bond is why you have that scar on your chest." He explained. “The process, at least when it involves two dragons, requires both participants to cut open their chests. When the process is complete, the newly bonded souls will create an overflow of magic that heals the dragons' wounds."

Gradyn nodded slowly. That explained why he was alive. But if he was truly bonded to Cyvass. That just made it harder to believe that the dragon had abandoned him.

Vartis raised his hand to the sky. A light flared in his palm, then shot upward in a piercing beam.

“I have magic of my own," he said, lowering his hand. “I can see his magic in you. Dormant. Waiting."

Gradyn stared, hollowed out. “So what, I'm your lure?"

Vartis smiled. “In a way. I have a theory: when bonded dragons are separated, the link dims. It can cause them a bit of discomfort but it's nothing they can't live with. When the bond reawakens however, it hurts like hell. The longer apart, the worse it is. So we wait. Six years is more than enough to get a reaction out of you. So when you start screaming… we'll know he's close."

Gradyn's gut twisted. He knew that pain. The piercing headache. The fire under his skin. He had experienced it a month ago. Although it didn't seem that Vartis knew that.

“And when he comes," Vartis said, “he'll know you're not here by choice. Dragons don't like losing what they see as theirs."

He turned to the guards. “Get him out of the cage."

One last glance at Gradyn. “Before we finish, one more question. Cyvass was young. He'd have parents with him at that age. Do you know what happened to them?"

Gradyn shook his head. “No. We never talked about our parents. Ever."

The soldiers opened the cage. Chains clinked as they dragged him forward.

Vartis approached, shadow falling across his face.

“You gave us a lot," he said. “More than you should have."

He grabbed Gradyn's shirt, voice suddenly cold.

“Now I know what happened to my son." The smirk was gone. All that remained was hate. “And who killed him."

The next second, Gradyn was flying through the air.

He didn't know how it happened—just the sudden wrench of motion, the rush of wind past his ears, and then the brutal impact as he hit the ground, spine-first, several yards from the cart. The breath tore from his lungs in a hoarse gasp, and for a moment, he couldn't move. Pain blossomed across his back, his skull ringing from the landing.

He tried to rise—instinct over reason—but the chains pulled tight, dragging him down like anchors. His limbs scrambled against the dirt, but the weight of iron and the searing pain in his ribs stole whatever fight he had left.

Then he saw the boots.

Vartis stood over him, shadow slicing across Gradyn's face. The dragon slayer's expression was twisted—rage barely restrained, burning beneath his eyes.

Hope vanished. There would be no escape. Not this time.

Gradyn turned his head and spat blood into the dust. Then he looked up—jaw clenched, defiant.

Come on then, he thought bitterly. Get it over with.

Vartis crouched down. With one hand, he seized Gradyn by the throat and lifted him clean off the ground—effortless, like he weighed nothing. Fingers dug into his windpipe. Gradyn clawed at the air, legs thrashing as the world blurred.

Then the fist came.

It crashed into his face with the weight of iron and fury, snapping his head sideways and sending him crashing back to the ground like a broken doll. He didn't have time to groan before a boot slammed into his ribs.

Something cracked. Maybe more than one.

Another kick. He folded around it, coughing blood into the dirt. Then a punch—straight into the side of his jaw. His ears rang. Stars danced in his vision. He tasted copper and dirt and something sharp and hot behind his teeth.

The blows didn't stop.

They came faster now—fists, boots, elbows—merciless and methodical. Each strike landed with purpose and precision. There was no shouting, no threats. Just the sound of breath, of metal on flesh, of his own body betraying him.

He stopped resisting.

Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't. The pain was too much. His body sagged, limp in the chains. His thoughts turned sluggish, drifting in and out like tides.

Somewhere, faintly, he thought of Cyvass. Of the mountains. For a moment he was sitting in the woods. Reclining on black scales. He longed for that peace again.

Then another blow landed.

And everything went dark.

---

The days blurred.

Pain was a constant companion. It lived in every breath, every twitch of muscle, every jolt of the cart beneath him. The world outside moved—wheels creaked, hooves clopped, voices murmured—but for Gradyn, time crawled in jagged, uneven steps.

He lay crumpled in the cage, wrists and ankles bound behind him, his face a swollen map of bruises. Every inch of his body ached. His ribs screamed with each breath, and something deep in his side shifted when he moved—cracked bone, maybe. Or worse.

The cart trundled ever eastward, winding through the rugged paths that veined the Wildlands. The air grew colder. The wind, sharper. Pine replaced scrub. Rock replaced soil. The smell of damp stone and sap clung to the wind.

They were drawing closer.

The mountains rose like jagged sentinels on the horizon, growing taller each day. By the seventh morning, they were close enough that he could see snow dusting the highest peaks. He could smell the stone in the air.

The army made camp at the foothills, a wide clearing ringed in pine. Fires crackled. Tents sprang up across the valley like fungus. Gryphons wheeled high above or perched like statues on rocky outcrops. There was a quiet tension everywhere. low and taut, like a drawn bowstring waiting for release.

They were waiting. And so was he.

No one spoke to him. No one dared. His meals came cold and late, tossed through the bars by a sullen young recruit who never met his eyes. His wounds were left to fester, and he learned quickly to lie still, to move only when absolutely necessary. Every breath was a test. Every moment, a slow burn.

But worse than the pain was the silence inside. No whisper of Cyvass. No flicker of presence. No echo of thought. The bond remained dormant.

Gradyn stared through the bars at the distant firelight, wondering if the dragon felt anything. Did some part of him sense the danger? The closeness? Or would he abandon him, again?

He didn't know what scared him more: the thought that Cyvass wouldn't come… Or that he would. Because if he did—if the bond truly reopened—it wouldn't end well.

Still, there was hope. Vartis believed the bond had been cut off for six years. But Gradyn knew better. He remembered the voice, the pressure, the unbearable fire behind his eyes that had left him screaming on the tavern floor. That had to have been the bond opening up.

And it had been only a month ago. That changed things. If the bond had only been dormant for a shorter time, Gradyn might still have a chance to suppress it. To endure the pain. To keep it quiet.

But it wasn't a perfect plan. Vartis had some kind of magic. Something that let him see the bond. Even if Gradyn managed to hold his screams, to keep still through the fire, Vartis might still sense it.

Yet Gradyn clung to the hope that, just maybe, he could buy them time. That the awakening would slip beneath the slayer's notice. That Cyvass, wherever he was, would feel the pull… and come. If he could hold out long enough, the dragon might have the element of surprise. And that—that—might be enough.

So Gradyn lay in silence, every breath a quiet war, and waited for the pain to return.

It came just after sunset. A pressure, low and coiling, bloomed behind his ribs—not sharp, but insistent, like something waking inside him. His breath hitched.

Then came the heat. Not searing. Not like before. It was warm, and intense—a hum that threaded through his veins and set his teeth on edge. Gradyn clenched his jaw and forced himself still. The pain was dull this time, manageable—but it carried weight. A presence.

Then, like a door creaking open—

“Gradyn…?"

The voice resonated through his head. A deep tenor that was familiar and foreign all at once. He flinched. His thoughts scattered.

“I—what? Cyvass?"

The presence sharpened at the name.

“Yes. It's me… I— Wait… your thoughts—they're—"

Cyvass's voice wavered, confused now. Gradyn tried to focus, but his mind raced, leaking thoughts like a cracked jug: the cold iron of the cage, the cracked rib, the taste of blood, Vartis's face above him like a noose tightening—

“You're hurt," Cyvass said, stunned. “You're... imprisoned?"

Gradyn winced, tried to push the thoughts down, to block them, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with bare hands.

“Stop digging through my head." The words came out rough in his mind, sharper than he meant them to. “Just—stay out unless I let you in."

Silence.

The dragon's voice came softer: “I'm not digging. You're just projecting everything that comes to your mind. You need to focus. Only project what you want me to hear. Try picturing a wall in your mind that separates me from you. When you speak, do so by creating gaps in the wall to force the words through"

Gradyn didn't answer. He curled tighter in the cage, wincing as pain lanced through his side. He tried to do as Cyvass instructed but found it easier said than done. “They're using me," he thought, trying to focus now, to speak deliberately. “Waiting for the bond to open again. Vartis wants you to come."

Another long pause. “Vartis," Cyvass said finally. The name struck something in him. His voice tightened. “That name… I know it."

A flicker of something, rage maybe, flared through the bond, then vanished as quickly as it came.

“He's the one who took you," Cyvass continued, his tone low, uncertain. “But I don't understand why. Why him? Why now?"

Gradyn's fingers clenched. “He was hunting you. Found me instead."

A beat of silence.

“I didn't know," Cyvass said. “Not until now."

Gradyn turned his face away from the bars. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know if he wanted to say anything at all.

“I'm sorry," Cyvass said. “If I had known…"

“You didn't, “Gradyn cut in. “So don't pretend like you could've done anything."

The bond pulsed faintly. Not pain—just emotion, filtered and muted. Guilt. Sadness. Regret. Then Cyvass's voice steadied. “I'm coming for you."

Gradyn shook his head. “Don't rush in. They're watching for you. Gryphons. Ballistas. Vartis has something—some way of seeing the bond. He'll know if you get too close."

“Then I'll be careful. But I will come. I swear it."

Gradyn didn't respond right away. He didn't know if he believed it. He wanted to—but hope was a fragile thing, and too much of it could get you killed.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath. “Just don't get caught."

A pulse of warmth answered—quieter now, more controlled. The bond began to draw inward, Cyvass pulling himself back. Not vanishing, but retreating. It was as if Cyvass had built his own wall, but much thicker and more sturdy than anything Gradyn had managed. His presence was still there, in the distance, no longer pressing at the edges of Gradyn's mind. Watchful. Waiting.

And for the first time in what felt like days, Gradyn let his eyes drift shut. Sleep came, shallow and restless. But not alone.

---

The first thing Gradyn heard was shouting.

It dragged him out of sleep like a drowning man pulled from water. His eyes snapped open. For a second, he couldn't remember where he was.

Then the pain returned. His body felt like it had been dragged through gravel and glass. He groaned and pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and trembling. His vision swam. The air was heavy with smoke.

Above him, clouds smothered the stars. There was no moonlight, only the glow of fire licking at canvas and spilling shadows across the camp.

He blinked the blur from his eyes. Around him, soldiers were running—shouting to one another, clutching weapons, racing through the maze of tents. Their movements were frantic, chaotic. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Five soldiers broke from the confusion and formed a loose ring around Gradyn's cart, spears leveled outward. They weren't looking at him—at least, not directly. But every few seconds, one of them would flick a glance toward the cage. Uneasy and suspicious.

Gradyn stayed still, forcing his expression into something confused and concerned. He couldn't afford to let them see the truth in his eyes.

A flash of light drew his attention. Through a gap in the tents, he caught sight of a tower of fire rising high into the night. It had to be near the perimeter of the camp—far enough that he couldn't see what had caused it.

But then, as if the sky itself had split open, fire fell again. A curtain of flame ignited another edge of the camp, engulfing tents in an instant. Men screamed. Horses panicked. Something dark and massive moved in the air—just at the edge of his vision. A black blur, gone before he could make sense of it.

His chest tightened. There was only one answer.

He didn't know how long he waited. Minutes stretched, warped by adrenaline. His heart beat against the bruises on his ribs. Around him, soldiers continued to pour past. Most were headed toward the new fires.

The guards by his cart held their ground.

Until something shifted in his mind. It was like a breeze brushing against him.

“I'm close."

The voice was a whisper, soft but undeniable. It echoed through his skull, threading into the edges of his consciousness.

“I can see you. Try to shift your chains closer to the crates behind you."

Gradyn's mouth went dry. He moved slowly, subtly. Every small shift felt like it took an eternity, the chains dragging softly over wood. He swallowed hard. “Where are you?"

A beat of silence.

“Hold still. I'm right behind you."

He froze. He couldn't help it—his breath caught in his throat.

He didn't turn. But his thoughts still wondered. How had he gotten there?

There was a faint click behind him. Metal loosening.

“Keep still," Cyvass murmured. “Let them think you're still bound."

Another click. Then another. One by one, the chains fell away. He could feel the weight lift from his ankles, wrists. His arms ached from being held in that position too long. He kept his gaze down, pretending.

“I'm going to deal with the guards," Cyvass said. “I'll open the cage when it's done."

Gradyn nodded once, ever so slightly, and looked up just enough to track the soldiers.

Five still stood. All tense and on edge.

Then—four. Gradyn blinked. Wait…

One was gone. The others hadn't noticed. Not yet. Gradyn spotted the missing man's position—he'd been standing with his back to a tent. The canvas now rippled gently, a subtle disturbance in the shadows.

Then it moved again. Black tendrils, long and unnatural, slid out from behind the tent like smoke with purpose. They curled around another guard's ankles, then yanked.

No scream. Just silence.

Then chaos.

The other three whirled around, weapons up. One tried to run. A tendril swept his legs out from beneath him and pulled him into the shadows.

Two left. One dropped his spear and bolted while the last spun in place, blade drawn, wild-eyed. A shadow moved behind him.

And then Cyvass leapt from the dark.

Gradyn watched, breath caught in his throat, as the creature struck. He was small, no larger than a hound, but the force of his leap toppled the man easily. Fangs flashed in the firelight, and then there was only stillness.

Cyvass raised his head and for the first time in six years, their eyes met.

Gradyn felt the world narrow to a pinpoint. The dragon's eyes were not empty and black as they had been the last time he saw them. Now they were a deep, calm midnight blue. Familiar. Gentle.

Gradyn didn't know what to feel. Grief. Relief. Fear. All of it swirled in his chest. There was shame there too. But not his. The bond shivered with it. Cyvass was feeling it too. Remembering the same day. The same pain.

Gradyn scrambled to pull up the mental wall he'd had before. He hadn't even realized it had fallen. Had Cyvass seen—?

The dragon turned away without a word. He padded toward the cart, and with every step, he grew. Limbs lengthened. Wings spread. Shadows peeled away like water running off armor.

By the time he reached the cage, he loomed above it.

Eight feet tall at the shoulder. Maybe twelve at the head if he were extending fully. He was towering and imposing.

Gradyn stared up at him, struck silent. Cyvass had changed.

He was still the same creature Gradyn had once known—but now, time had carved him into something more refined. His scales were mostly black, but along his underside ran a smooth, dark midnight-blue belly that caught the firelight in dull, oily ripples. From his nostrils, beneath his eyes, and trailing back toward his horns were two parallel lines of blue scales—thin at first, thickening briefly beneath his eyes, then tapering again as they vanished into the shadows behind his skull.

His back was lined with flexible spines, more fluid now than jagged, swaying slightly as he moved. The fins at the end of his tail were fully grown, flaring subtly with each breath—helping him balance even while still. His wings remained furled at his sides, but the edges were firm and clean, sleek as blades.

He looked strong. Quietly so. Not built for brute force, but for precision. For flight. For slipping through the dark.

A single claw rose. A tendril uncoiled and slid into the lock. It clicked open and the door swung wide. Cyvass stepped back, lowering his massive head slightly. “Come on," he said softly, his real voice now rough with emotion. “We don't have much time."

Gradyn didn't move right away. He wasn't sure if he could. Was it the pain? The fear? Or the awe?

Finally he crawled forward, gripping the edge of the cart, and slowly lowered himself to the ground. His feet had barely touched earth when a shriek tore the night apart.

Gradyn hit the ground hard and rolled beneath the cart, pain lighting every nerve. He scrambled around, panting.

The air split. A blur of feathers and talons crashed down where he'd stood. A gryphon stalked slowly in a circle around Cyvass, claws digging furrows in the dirt.

“You will not leave here alive," she growled. Gradyn recognized the voice as Sharthal's.

Cyvass didn't answer. He lunged. They collided in a thunderclap of claws, wings, and snapping teeth. Sharthal slashed across his shoulder, blood spraying. Cyvass hissed and spun. Tendrils burst from the gryphon's own shadow and wrapped around her legs, anchoring her to the ground.

Cyvass struck like lightning. They fell in a heap. He clamped his jaws around her neck. Sharthal tried to scream in panic, but it was cut off as the dragon jerked. Breaking her neck.

The dragon rose slowly. Blood trickled from his mouth. “You should have just let us go," he said solemnly.

Gradyn crawled free from beneath the cart, struggling to stand. “We need to move," he said, glancing around. “They'll be coming."

As if summoned by his words, the sound of boots thundered through the camp. Dozens of soldiers began to surround them. And at their front was Vartis.

His eyes locked onto the dragon. His face twisted into fury. He bellowed something—orders, maybe—but Gradyn didn't hear them.

He was too busy watching Cyvass. The dragon didn't move. He stood rooted, frozen. The bond flooded with emotion—raw and overwhelming.

Fear. Rage. Guilt.

“Cyvass!" Gradyn shouted. “Snap out of it! we need to go!"

It broke the spell. Cyvass blinked, then reared back. Smoke built in his throat. The soldiers braced.

But no fire came. Instead there was only smoke. Black and thick, it poured from his jaws and spread like a living thing. Cyvass spun, wings slicing the air, blanketing the world in shadow.

Gradyn stumbled, coughing. He couldn't see. Couldn't breathe.

Then he was lifted. Wrapped in claws, pulled tight against scales as they rose. They burst from the smoke like a stone flung from a catapult. Air rushed past. Gradyn gasped, clutching the dragon's chest.

Below them, the camp shrank, vanishing beneath the smoke and fire.

A ballista loosed.

Cyvass dove, wings tucking tight. The bolt screamed past, missing by inches.

Then they leveled out, soaring toward the burned edge of camp. Gradyn looked down. The ballistas there were gone. Nothing but scorched ruins.

Gradyn could not see behind them but he also could not hear the calls of gryphons as they gave chase. He didn't know if they were free—or just running toward something worse. But for the first time in six years, he was with Cyvass again. And that would have to be enough.