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Clay had never been able to fly fast enough.
He wasn’t built for it. Not like Tsunami, who cut through air like water. Not like Peril, who didn’t so much fly as burn her way through the sky, trailing sparks and recklessness and unspoken pain. She had always been the flame that refused to be extinguished, even when the world held its breath around her.
She wasn’t supposed to die like this.
He saw it before she did — the glint of metal, arcing like a shooting star. An impossible thing: a spear thrown with such hate and such precision that the fire didn’t even have time to melt it on contact. Not this time. Not fast enough. Not even for her.
Peril turned, one eye catching his, and it hit.
Not the spear. Not yet.
Her expression—confused, not afraid—just that little flicker of did you see that? like it might miss. Like she still believed she was untouchable.
And then the sound. The sickening crack of impact, the way her body jolted midair, wings faltering.
The spear lodged deep, buried in the fragile seam between scale and joint. It didn’t melt. It didn’t hiss. It just stuck.
Her mouth opened.
No scream. Just a breath that didn’t finish.
Clay was already flying toward her. Not thinking. Not processing. Just moving, because that’s what he’d always done. He moved for his friends. For his family. For Peril.
But his wings might as well have been made of stone.
She fell like a comet. A burning one, yes, but one that couldn’t carry itself anymore. Flames sputtered. Sparks spiraled. And when she hit the ground, the fire finally stopped.
She didn’t move.
The world didn’t either.
Clay landed beside her, legs folding before he meant to. The ground beneath her scorched and blackened — but not as much as usual. She hadn’t burned with her usual fury. The heat was fading.
Her eyes were open. Glassy. Still.
He touched her snout.
She had told him once that he was the only one who could. That his touch didn’t hurt.
Now, nothing hurt her anymore.
They came later. The others. Tsunami with rage, Sunny with tears, Starflight with questions.
But Clay didn’t speak.
He stood beside what was left of Peril — the dragon everyone feared, who once melted iron with a glance — and thought about how quiet it was.
No crackling.
No hissing.
No heartbeat.
He remembered something Kestrel had said a long time ago, when he’d helped hatch one of his siblings. When he hadn’t known what he was doing, just that something in him said protect. And Kestrel had looked at him with disgust and said:
“You’re not a dragon. You’re a monster.”
Maybe she had been right.
Because what kind of dragon lets this happen?
What kind of dragon doesn’t get there in time?
Clay stared at the body. At the once-invincible girl who had called herself a weapon and learned how to love anyway.
And somewhere in the warm, soft place inside him — the place that had always insisted there had to be a way to make things better — something cracked.
Then splintered.
Then broke.
He felt it go.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. There was no roar. No vow of vengeance. Just… silence.
And the weight of ash settling on his shoulders.
Peril had once said he was the only one who could hold her.
Now, no one would ever have to again.
Clay stood.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t speak.
He just turned,
one slow step
at a time,
and walked
toward
the dragon
who had thrown
the spear.
Because
if he couldn’t save her—