Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~11 min read
Freya woke to pain and the sound of arguing.
She’d been unconscious for only moments—the combat had just ended, healers were rushing in, the crowd still roaring—but even those few seconds had been too long for Lysander’s panic.
“—needs a healer NOW—”
“She’s already being treated, Your Highness. Please step back—”
“I’m not stepping anywhere! That’s my mate—”
“Lysander.” Queen Seraphine’s voice, firm and commanding. “Let the healers work.”
Freya forced her eyes open, squinting against bright sunlight. She was still at the Neutral Stones, lying on something soft—blankets, she realized, hastily spread on the ground. A dragon healer worked over her injuries, magic flowing from gentle hands.
And Lysander hovered nearby, his silver eyes wild with concern, clearly being physically prevented from interfering by his mother and Theron.
“I’m alive,” Freya croaked.
Everyone froze. Then Lysander was beside her—the healer wisely stepping back—his hands cupping her face with desperate gentleness.
“You collapsed,” he said. “Used too much of the bond. Channeled more dragon magic than a human body should be able to handle.”
“Did I win?” She knew she had, but needed to hear it confirmed.
“You won.” His smile was fierce, proud, devastated. “You beat him, Freya. You actually beat him.”
Memory flooded back—the fight, the pain, opening the bond fully and feeling Lysander’s power flow through her. Standing over Viktor with her sword at his throat. His yielding.
“Where is he?” She tried to sit up, hissing at the pain in her shoulder.
“Being treated by human healers.” Queen Seraphine appeared in her field of vision. “He yielded. The combat is over. Under ancient law, his claim on you is void. You’re free, child.”
Free. The word felt foreign after months of being claimed, kidnapped, fought over. But she’d earned it. Bled for it. Nearly died for it.
“Help me up,” she said to Lysander. “I need to stand.”
“Freya, you’re injured—”
“Help. Me. Up.”
He did, supporting most of her weight as she got to her feet. Everything hurt, her vision swam, but she remained standing through sheer stubbornness.
The crowd was still there—thousands of witnesses, both human and dragon, all watching. Waiting to see what would happen next.
Viktor was on his feet too, surrounded by his soldiers, being tended by healers. He looked diminished somehow, his pride shattered along with his certainty that he’d win easily.
Freya met his eyes across the circle.
“I. Choose. Freedom.” Each word came out clear, carrying across the silent crowd. “I am not yours. I was never yours. And I never will be.”
Viktor’s face twisted with fury. “You choose the monster! That beast who kidnapped you, started a war, dragged you into his realm—”
“I choose the one who gave me choice.” She cut him off, her voice steady despite exhaustion. “You tried to own me. Lysander gave me agency. You would have broken me. He respects me. So yes, I choose the dragon over you. Every time. Forever.”
Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s overwhelming emotion—joy, pride, love so fierce it stole her breath.
“You’re making a mistake,” Viktor snarled. “He’s using you. Enchanting you—”
“I beat you in single combat. Ancient law says no enchantment can stand against that.” Freya’s smile was sharp despite her pain. “I won, Viktor. I chose my own fate. And my fate doesn’t include you.”
She turned away from him then—the ultimate dismissal. Turned toward Lysander, toward the dragon who’d crashed her wedding and given her the most terrifying, wonderful chaos of her life.
“Take me home,” she said softly.
Home. The Drakemyr Court. Not her family’s estate, not the Northern Kingdom. Home was wherever Lysander was.
Through the bond, his joy was blinding.
But before he could move, before he could sweep her into his arms and fly her away from this place—
Viktor moved.
Something had broken in him—she could see it in his wild eyes, the way all reason had fled in the face of absolute humiliation. He’d lost everything: title, honor, the woman he’d considered his property, his pride shattered before thousands of witnesses. In that moment of complete madness, rationality abandoned him entirely.
A flash of steel. A desperate, unhinged lunge. Honor abandoned in defeat, he grabbed a fallen sword and charged at Freya’s unprotected back. Guards shouted. The crowd screamed. But he was too close, moving too fast, driven by fury and wounded pride.
The sword came down toward her spine.
Lysander shifted mid-air.
One moment human, the next a massive black dragon throwing himself between Viktor and Freya. The sword—meant for her heart—plunged into dragon scales instead.
Into Lysander.
Time stopped.
The blade pierced between his scales, finding the vulnerable flesh beneath. Dragon blood—darker than human blood, steaming in the air—poured from the wound. Lysander’s roar of pain shook the very stones, made the earth tremble.
Viktor stumbled back, shock replacing fury. “I didn’t—I was aiming for her—”
“You violated the terms of combat!” Queen Seraphine’s voice carried across the chaos, magic amplifying her fury. “Attacked after yielding! You’ve dishonored yourself and your kingdom!”
But Freya barely heard. She was scrambling toward Lysander as he shifted back to human form, his hand pressed to the wound in his side, blood seeping through his fingers.
“No, no, no—” She caught him as he fell, dragon strength failing. “Lysander, you idiot, why—”
“You.” The word came out pained but certain. “Always you. Worth any wound.”
Through the bond, she felt it—his life force draining, the injury severe, pain that would have killed a human instantly. But he was a dragon, stronger, more resilient. He’d survive.
He had to survive.
“Healers!” She screamed it, her voice breaking. “Someone help him!”
Dragon healers rushed forward, their magic already glowing. But the wound was deep, the blade had been enchanted—she could see dark magic curling around the edges, fighting against healing.
“Viktor tried to kill me after yielding,” Freya said, her voice cold with fury. “He dishonored the combat. Ancient law—”
“Ancient law is clear.” King Aldric stood before Viktor, magic crackling around him with barely contained rage. “You yielded. The combat was over. Your attack after yield is attempted murder. You’ve violated every law, human and dragon alike.”
Viktor’s face had gone pale. “I didn’t mean—it was reflex—”
“You tried to murder the victor of a sacred combat.” Queen Seraphine’s eyes blazed. “Your life is forfeit. Your claim is void. Your kingdom will pay reparations for this violation.”
“Mother,” Lysander gasped from where healers worked over him. “Don’t kill him. Don’t give him martyr status.”
“What then?”
“Strip his title. Exile him. Let him live knowing he lost to someone he thought was weak, then dishonored himself trying to murder her after defeat.” Despite his pain, Lysander’s smile was sharp. “Death is mercy. Let him live with shame instead.”
Through the bond, Freya felt his reasoning. Viktor dead would make him a tragic figure, potentially rallying more humans against dragons. Viktor alive and dishonored was just pathetic.
The healers had stopped the bleeding, were working on the dark magic still clinging to the wound. “He’ll recover,” the head healer announced. “But he needs rest. And his mate—” She looked at Freya pointedly. “Their bond is partially complete but unstable. Completing it fully would help his healing.”
Heat flooded Freya’s face. “Right here? In front of everyone?”
“Gods, no.” Theron appeared, looking shaken. “We’ll take him back to Drakemyr. You can complete the bond there. Preferably in private.”
Lysander was already being lifted onto a stretcher, healers maintaining their magic. Freya stayed close, her hand gripping his, the bond pulsing between them with his pain and her terror.
“I’m not dying,” he said, reading her emotions. “Takes more than a sword to kill a dragon. But Freya—” His hand tightened on hers. “That was too close. He almost killed you.”
“But he didn’t. You saved me.”
“Always.” His eyes were already closing, exhaustion and healing magic pulling him under. “Will always save you. My mate. My choice. Mine.”
“Yours,” she agreed softly. “And you’re mine. You took a sword meant for me. That’s…” Her voice broke. “You could have died.”
“Worth it. You’re worth everything.”
The dragon healers transported him back to the Drakemyr Court via magic portal—faster than flying, necessary for his condition. Freya went with him, refusing to leave his side despite her own injuries.
Behind them, the Neutral Stones erupted into chaos. Viktor being arrested by his own soldiers, too ashamed to protest. The human army withdrawing in disgrace. The dragon forces celebrating victory while mourning their prince’s injury.
But Freya barely noticed. She was focused on Lysander, on keeping him conscious through the bond, on promising him over and over that she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Stay with me,” she whispered as they traveled. “We just figured this out. You don’t get to die now.”
“Not dying.” His voice was barely audible. “Just tired. And in pain. And wondering if this counts as romantic or if I’ve added ‘got stabbed’ to my list of courtship disasters.”
Despite everything, she almost laughed. “It counts as stupidly brave. And terrifying. And exactly the kind of dramatic gesture I should have expected from you.”
“Dramatic is my specialty.” His eyes opened slightly, finding hers. “Did you mean it? What you said to Viktor?”
“Mean what?”
“That you choose me. That your fate includes me.”
Through the bond, she felt his vulnerability. Even now, injured and exhausted, he needed to hear it confirmed. Needed to know that her victory meant choosing him, not just rejecting Viktor.
“I meant it,” she said firmly. “I fought for freedom. Freedom to choose you. To accept the bond willingly. To spend centuries with a dragon who hoards books and brings dead sheep as romantic gestures.”
“One time with the sheep—”
“Once was enough.”
His laugh turned into a wince. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts.”
“Then stop being ridiculous and heal.”
“Working on it.”
They arrived at the palace, healers rushing them to Lysander’s chambers. The head healer pulled Freya aside while others worked.
“The wound will heal,” she said quietly. “But the dark magic slows the process. Completing the mate bond would help—bonded mates heal faster, draw strength from each other.”
“You want us to—”
“I’m suggesting you consider it. Tonight, when he’s stable. The bond is already partially there. Completing it is just… finishing what you’ve already started.”
Freya looked at where Lysander lay on his massive bed, healers hovering with glowing hands, his face pale with pain despite his attempts to hide it.
He’d taken a sword for her. Without hesitation. Without question. Had thrown himself into danger because her life mattered more than his own.
That was love. Not the bond forcing devotion, but genuine love that acted without thinking.
She’d been so focused on questioning whether her feelings were real, she’d forgotten to notice—his feelings were absolutely, devastatingly real.
“I’ll do it,” she decided. “Tonight. When he’s stable. I’ll complete the bond.”
Through their connection, she felt Lysander’s awareness of her words. Felt his hope, his joy, his desperate love even through the haze of pain.
“Not just to help you heal,” she added, moving to sit beside the bed. “But because I choose you. Choose us. Choose this terrifying, wonderful future we’re building together.”
His hand found hers, squeezing weakly. “Promise?”
“I promise.” She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Rest. Heal. And tonight, I make you mine the way you’ve been trying to make me yours since the moment you crashed my wedding.”
“Best. Day. Ever.” His words were slurring now, healing magic pulling him under. “Except the stabbing part.”
“Except that part,” she agreed.
And as healers worked and magic hummed and Lysander finally, finally slept—Freya made herself a promise.
Tonight, she would complete the bond.
Choose the dragon willingly.
Accept her fate freely.
And prove that being kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to her.
Even if it almost got them both killed in the process.
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