The great chamber of the Lair stretched before her, carved from black stone veined with gold that glowed faintly in the torchlight. Selena Baelish stood just inside the entrance, her boots silent on the worn floor, and let her gaze sweep across the cavernous space. She had been here before, twenty years ago, trembling with hope she could barely contain. Now her hands were steady. Her heart did not race.

Rosaris

, she thought, and the name still cut. But she had learned to breathe through the wound. The ritual sigil had long since faded from the air, its warmth dissolving into the cool shadows of the Lair. The monks had withdrawn. The other riders had scattered to their duties or their quarters. And Selena had stood alone on the platform, waiting for the name to appear, already planning.

There is Velyx, she had thought. Large, patient, slow to anger. A war dragon. I could work with Velyx.

There is Sserath. Quick, temperamental, but intelligent. She dislikes most riders. I could earn her trust.

There is old Kaelthar. Nearly three centuries. Too old for long flights, but his mind is sharp. He would see what I see. We could plan together.

She had built strategies around each of them, around the dozen free dragons she knew by sight and reputation. She had imagined the weight of a new bond, the unfamiliar rhythm of another mind beside her own. She had been ready. Then the name had come. Not Velyx. Not Sserath. Not Kaelthar or any of the others. A name she did not recognize. A dragon she had never seen, never heard spoken of in the barracks or the war councils or the quiet circles where riders traded stories. Selena Baelish, veteran of a dozen border skirmishes, survivor of a fall that should have killed her, stood utterly still. Then the monks had explained. A young dragon. Newly fledged. Only recently out of the Hatchery. She had not spoken. She had simply turned and walked toward the Lair. Now she stood in the common room, a wide space where dragons rested between flights and riders gathered to tend their mounts. The golden light from the high braziers caught on rough scales and gleaming eyes. Dragons lay on stone platforms carved to fit their bodies, some sleeping, some watching her with ancient gazes. Selena ignored them all. Her jaw was set, her shoulders tight beneath the blue cloak. The armor made from Rosaris's scales pressed against her chest like a familiar weight.

A hatchling

, she thought.

Gods give me a hatchling.

She had dreamed once of touching the clouds. Now she dreamed of vengeance, of burning the kingdom that had stolen her partner, of watching the men who built that ballista scatter like ash before her dragon's flame. But she could not do that on a dragon that had only just learned to fly. A dragon that might struggle to lift a horse. A dragon that did not yet understand the weight of war, the smell of blood on a battlefield, the sound of a bolt tearing through scale and flesh. She stopped in the center of the common room and turned slowly, scanning every shadow, every alcove, every platform.

Where was this dragon? This [your name]?

The name felt strange in her mind, foreign and small. Not the thunderous roar of a true dragon's title, but something quieter. Something she did not know how to hold. She folded her arms across her chest and waited, her blue eyes cold and sharp, searching the Lair for whatever creature the gods had seen fit to curse her with now.