Training ends late afternoon, which is just another way of saying everyone’s too tired to keep bleeding.

  Most Hunters stick around to drink, compare wounds, or aggressively sharpen their weapons like it’s a competition. I mutter something about needing to “check on gear”—which is technically not a lie—and slip away.

  Through the ruins. Past the cliffs. Past common sense.

  Into the wild.

  Tiny’s cave isn’t far, but it might as well be on another planet. It’s nestled near the edge of Velmire Forest, which means it’s also dangerously close to Scribe territory—aka “let’s walk into an illusion and die politely.”

  But I don’t have a choice.

  The brush parts. Mana-thick air hits me like a damp slap. And then I see him.

  Massive. Dark-scaled. Coiled in the shadows of the cave like a living mountain.

  His chest rises, falls. Slow. Calm. Dangerous in that you-forgot-he-could-kill-you way.

  [Tiny – 86% Compatibility]

  Still the highest I’ve ever seen. Still makes zero sense.

  I exhale.

  “Hey, idiot,” I mutter, stepping closer. “Still breathing?”

  Tiny cracks one eye open. Golden. Reptilian. Judging. He huffs, and the cave floor vibrates like it’s agreeing with him.

  Yeah. Still alive.

  I drop down on a rock near the entrance and just… watch him.

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  This is reckless. Dumb. Definitely against like seven guild laws.

  But I can’t stop coming back.

  I don’t know if it’s the compatibility or something worse.

  Like curiosity. Or guilt.

  Both are equally fatal.

  By the time I get back to Ashen Hold, the sky’s dripping orange and the whole place is alive with its usual evening chaos.

  Sparks flying from the Weapon Hall. Someone yelling from the training yard.

  And the distant sound of a fist connecting with a jaw—followed by laughter. Classic.

  I make my way into the Mess Hall, which smells like someone tried to cook shame and protein at the same time.

  And there he is.

  Tipo, lying across a bench like he’s been mortally wounded in battle.

  He’s got a thick bandage around his arm and the dramatics of a dying opera singer.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I ask, dropping onto the bench across from him.

  Tipo groans. “Fought a Rathian. Barely made it out.”

  Across the table, Pleit is chewing on something unidentifiable and trying very hard to look like he doesn’t know this man.

  “He tripped on his own spear,” Pleit says flatly.

  I blink. “What?”

  Tipo lifts his uninjured arm and points vaguely. “The ground. It was uneven.”

  Pleit rolls his eyes. “He was running, tripped, his spear bounced off a rock, and he stabbed himself in the arm. I had to stop the bleeding while listening to him scream like he was dying.”

  “I was dying.”

  “You got a surface wound and bruised your pride.”

  “Same thing.”

  I stare at Tipo.

  Tipo stares back, completely unashamed.

  I sigh and reach for the food tray nearest me.

  Tonight’s special? Something that might’ve once been meat and a piece of bread doing its best impression of a rock.

  “Are you even allowed to hold weapons?” I ask, chewing with the kind of caution usually reserved for suspicious mushrooms.

  Tipo dramatically adjusts his bandage. “I’ll have you know my combat instincts saved me from a fatal wound.”

  Pleit snorts. “Yeah. Because I was there to heal your fatal ego.”

  Tipo waves a hand. “Minor detail.”

  I shake my head and keep eating.

  By the time the noise dies down, most of the B-Ranks are either passed out, sharpening their blades, or bragging about kills they definitely didn’t land. Tipo’s already snoring again, heroic arm draped across his face like he’s the tragic lead in some battlefield romance.

  I sit on the edge of my bunk, stretching out sore arms and trying not to think about how many days I’ve gotten away with this.

  Dragons. Compatibility. Secrets I’m not built to keep.

  Outside, a wyvern screams into the night. Somewhere in the Wastes, someone’s not going to make it home.

  I lie back, eyes on the ceiling, muscles twitching from hours of training.

  But my brain’s already ahead of me—planning the route back to the forest, checking for patrol gaps, thinking of excuses.

  Because no matter how much I try to ignore it…

  Tiny is still out there.

  And eventually?

  Someone else is going to find him.