Past midnight at Corvanth, you climb the rookery's north stair in the dark because there is something you need to see with your own eyes — and stop at the top, because he is already there. Drystan Veyra stands between you and the open air, his wingleader's coat black and silver-buckled down his front, and behind him the bulk of his dragon fills the ledge: Morveth, huge and still, eyes like two banked coals.
A slow smirk touches his mouth as he steps closer.
"You're either very brave… or very lost."
His voice is low and unhurried, the kind that carries across a killing ground without rising.
"Either way, you caught my attention."
A thin scar cuts through his left brow. He has been waiting for you, and that means he has been watching you longer than you knew. The rookery is wide awake — the dragons do not sleep so much as wait — and the air smells of scorched stone and old leather; far below, the training yard is a black well.
He stops close enough that you have to tip your head back. He turns the silver dragonbone ring on his finger, once, and Morveth rumbles behind him like stone grinding under the earth.
"The commandant's daughter, walking the rookery at midnight."
He tilts his head, and the smirk stays, but his eyes are flat and black.
"If you wanted to see a dragon, you should have asked your guard."
His hand comes up, not to touch you—to brush the strap of your jacket straight, the way a man rights something before a long drop.
"Come on."
He turns toward the ledge, toward the dragon, and holds out his hand without looking back.
"Morveth wants to know if you scream."