Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~10 min read
Six days of training blurred together into one continuous nightmare of sweat, pain, and relentless repetition.
Freya woke before dawn each day, her body screaming in protest. Lysander would be there, helping her through stretches that hurt almost as much as the training itself. Then breakfast—more food than she’d ever eaten, protein and nutrients to fuel her recovering muscles. Then the training yard, where Theron waited with practice swords and a grim determination to keep her alive.
Day two, she learned footwork. How to move without telegraphing her intentions. How to make Viktor work for every strike instead of standing still like a target.
“You’re small,” Theron said, demonstrating for the hundredth time. “That’s an advantage if you use it right. You can move faster, change direction quicker. Make him chase you. Tire him out.”
“And then what?”
“Then you strike when he’s exhausted and you still have energy.” Theron’s practice sword came at her again. “Move!”
She moved, barely dodging, her body protesting the motion. But she was getting faster. Learning to read his body language, to anticipate strikes before they came.
Lysander watched from the sidelines, his presence constant through the bond. She could feel him—his pride when she succeeded, his terror when she failed, his desperate love underlying every moment.
Day three, they worked on defense. Specifically, how to defend against someone bigger and stronger.
“Never try to block his full strength,” Lysander instructed, finally able to demonstrate without his dragon losing its mind. “Deflect. Redirect. Use his momentum against him.” He showed her how, his movements precise and controlled. “Like this. See? His force goes past you instead of through you.”
Freya tried. Failed. Tried again. Her arms burned from the effort, but slowly—so slowly—she began to understand. Began to feel the rhythm of combat, the dance of strike and counter.
Day four, Theron stopped holding back as much.
“Viktor won’t pull his punches,” he said, and proceeded to prove it by knocking her down repeatedly. “You need to learn to take hits and keep fighting.”
She learned. Got up every time she was knocked down. Ignored the bruises blooming across her ribs, her arms, her legs. Pushed through the pain because the alternative was death.
Through it all, Lysander was there. Not fighting—he still couldn’t bring himself to strike her—but coaching, encouraging, his presence wrapped around her through the bond like armor.
Day five, something clicked.
Freya found herself moving without thinking, her body responding to Theron’s attacks instinctively. She was still losing more than winning, still getting knocked down. But occasionally—just occasionally—she landed a hit. Saw an opening and exploited it.
“There!” Lysander’s voice was excited. “Did you feel that? That’s what we’ve been working toward. Trust your instincts. Trust the training.”
She did. And for brief moments, she felt dangerous. Like maybe this wasn’t completely impossible.
Day six, they worked on the mate bond.
“Open yourself to me,” Lysander said, standing close while Theron circled them both. “Feel what I’m feeling. Let my combat instincts guide you through our connection.”
“How?”
“Stop blocking me out. The bond is always there, but you keep it at arm’s length. Let it in. Fully.” His eyes glowed silver. “Trust me.”
Freya took a breath and did something she’d been avoiding—she opened the bond completely. Let Lysander flood through, his presence overwhelming, his emotions and instincts and centuries of combat experience suddenly available.
When Theron attacked, she moved before thinking. Faster than she’d ever moved before. Her body borrowed from Lysander’s knowledge, moved with grace she didn’t naturally possess.
She actually landed a solid hit on Theron, who looked shocked.
“Holy gods,” he breathed. “That’s what a fully open mate bond looks like.”
Freya gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. It was like having Lysander inside her mind, his warrior instincts guiding her movements. It was intimate and powerful and terrifying.
“I can’t maintain this,” she said, the bond already exhausting her. “It’s too much.”
“You don’t need to maintain it the whole fight,” Lysander said. “Save it for when you need it most. When Viktor thinks he’s won and you need one final push—that’s when you open the bond fully. Draw on my strength. Move like a dragon even though you’re human.”
It was a strategy. A desperate one, but a strategy nonetheless.
Between training sessions, their relationship deepened in ways Freya hadn’t expected. The physical exhaustion stripped away pretense, left them both raw and honest. They talked about everything—his centuries of loneliness, her years of suffocation, what they wanted from a future if she survived long enough to have one.
“What do you want?” she asked one evening, soaking in yet another hot bath while he tended her bruises with careful hands. “After all this. If I win, if we complete the bond—what does your perfect future look like?”
“You,” he said simply. “Alive. Happy. Choosing to stay because you want to, not because you have to.” His fingers traced a particularly bad bruise on her shoulder. “Everything else is negotiable. We can live in the dragon court or travel the realms or build a cottage in the middle of nowhere. As long as you’re there, as long as you choose to be there—that’s perfect.”
“That’s it? Just me?”
“Just you has been the dream for one hundred twenty-seven years. Everything else is bonus.”
Freya’s chest tightened with emotion. “What if I’m not enough? What if you complete the bond and realize I’m ordinary, boring, not worth the wait?”
“Then I’ll spend eternity grateful for ordinary.” He pressed a kiss to her bruised shoulder. “But Freya? You’re not ordinary. You’re fighting a trained warrior to choose your own fate. You’re training with dragons and opening mate bonds and refusing to quit even when every rational person says you should. That’s extraordinary.”
Princess Lyssa appeared on day five, watching Freya train with an expression that was both proud and sad.
“You’re getting better,” she said when they took a break. “Still not good enough to beat Viktor outright, but better.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Freya muttered, drinking water gratefully.
“I’m being honest. Viktor has trained his whole life. You’ve had six days.” Lyssa’s expression grew serious. “But you have something he doesn’t.”
“What?”
“Desperation. Purpose. You’re not just fighting Viktor—you’re fighting for the right to choose Lysander. To choose your own future. That’s powerful motivation.”
Freya glanced at where Lysander was talking strategy with Theron, his silver eyes constantly checking on her even while distracted.
“He’s terrified,” Lyssa continued. “Absolutely losing his mind that he’s about to watch you fight for your life and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. But he’s respecting your choice. Letting you claim your own fate even though it’s destroying him.”
“This is me claiming him back,” Freya realized suddenly. “Isn’t it? He kidnapped me, claimed me as his mate. And now I’m fighting to choose him on my own terms. To prove it’s not just the bond or magic—it’s me, choosing him freely.”
“Exactly.” Lyssa smiled. “You’re not fighting Viktor for your freedom. You’re fighting him for the right to choose your own captivity.”
“That’s a depressing way to put it.”
“Or romantic. Depends on perspective.” Lyssa stood. “For what it’s worth? I think you’ll win. Not because you’re the better fighter, but because you have more to fight for. Viktor wants to own you. You want to choose your own future. Motivation matters.”
The night before the combat, Freya couldn’t sleep.
She lay in Lysander’s bed, feeling him beside her, both of them pretending to rest. Tomorrow, she would face Viktor. Would either win her freedom to choose or lose everything trying.
“If I lose tomorrow—” she started.
“You won’t.” His voice was firm.
“Lysander, if I do—”
“Then I follow you into death.” He rolled to face her, silver eyes glowing in the darkness. “A dragon without his mate is no dragon at all. If Viktor kills you, I’ll lose my dragon. And once that happens, I won’t want to live anyway.”
“That’s not—you can’t—”
“I can and I will.” His hand cupped her face. “Do you think I could watch you die and then just… continue existing? Pretend to care about ruling or politics or anything else? You’re it, Freya. You’re everything. If you die, the best parts of me die with you.”
Through the bond, she felt the absolute truth of his words. The bone-deep certainty that without her, he had no reason to continue.
It should have been pressure. Should have made her feel guilty for risking his life along with hers.
Instead, it felt like the most honest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Then I guess I’d better win,” she whispered.
“You’d better.” He pulled her close, and she could feel his heart racing beneath her palm. “Because I’m not ready to die. I’m ready to live. With you. For centuries. Showing you every beautiful place in this realm. Filling a library with books we both love. Arguing about whether my courting attempts were romantic or disasters.”
“They were disasters,” she said, smiling despite everything.
“Romantic disasters.”
“Still disasters.”
“But you fell for me anyway.”
“I did.” The admission came easier now. “I’m still scared. Still not entirely sure what’s the bond and what’s me. But I’m falling, Lysander. Maybe I’ve been falling since you crashed through that cathedral roof looking at me like I was salvation.”
Through the bond, his hope blazed bright. “Say that again. After you beat Viktor tomorrow. When there’s no deadline hanging over us, no war threatening, no combat looming. Say it again and mean it forever.”
“I’ll say it,” she promised. “After I win.”
“When you win.”
“When I win,” she corrected.
They lay in silence, wrapped around each other, the bond humming between them with desperate hope and terrible fear. Tomorrow would decide everything. Her freedom. Their future. Whether love chosen was stronger than love forced.
“I’m proud of you,” Lysander said eventually. “I know I’m terrified and probably being overbearing about the training. But Freya—I’m so proud. You could have let me fight for you. Could have started a war and hidden while dragons died. Instead, you’re facing your demons head-on. That takes courage I don’t think I fully understood until now.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“Terror and courage aren’t opposites. Courage is being terrified and doing it anyway.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
“Even though I might lose?”
“Win or lose, you chose to fight. That’s what matters.” His arms tightened around her. “But please don’t lose. Please. I’m not ready to die yet.”
“I’m not ready either.” She buried her face against his chest, breathing in his scent. “So I’ll win. Because the alternative is unacceptable.”
Through the bond, his love wrapped around her like a shield. He would give her every advantage tomorrow. Would be there in spirit if not physically present. Would lend her his strength through their connection when she needed it most.
And maybe—just maybe—it would be enough.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, you fight for your freedom.”
“Tomorrow, I fight for us,” she corrected.
And finally—exhausted beyond measure but somehow at peace—Freya slept.
In the morning, she would face Viktor.
Would fight for the right to choose her own fate.
Would prove that being kidnapped by a dragon was the beginning of her story, not the end.
And if she survived—when she survived—she would finally, freely, willingly accept the mate bond.
Choose the dragon who’d chosen her.
Claim her kidnapper as her own.
On her terms.
In her time.
As herself.
Just one more day.
One more fight.
And then—finally—freedom.
Or death.
Either way, it would be her choice.
And that was worth fighting for.
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