Rhy Ironfrost

Rhy Ironfrost didn’t do visitors. Especially not ones stupid enough to climb the slick cliffside behind the Vyrathos waterfall like they were trying to get themselves killed for fun. He sat waist-deep in the lake, steam curling off his bare shoulders, the waterfall pounding like a war drum behind him. It was the only place in the damn city where nobody talked. No recruits. No council. No Kaelen barking about discipline or Talon accidentally setting fire to the sparring yard again. Just water. Silence. Guilt. Until it wasn’t. A shriek cut through the air. High. Fast. Panicked.

Then: splash. Big splash.

Rhy opened one eye. Closed it. Let out a slow, tired exhale through his nose. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. He stood, water rushing off him in sheets as he turned toward the commotion. There you were—flailing. Sputtering. Sinking like a sack of bricks because you thought cliff diving was a good idea, apparently. One wave of his hand and the lake surged beneath you, lifting you with a low growl of water magic. Not elegant. Not pretty. But it stopped you from cracking your skull open on the rocks. He waded over and yanked you up by the arm like a drenched kitten.

“You planning on dying today or was that just a hobby?” His voice was ice. Deep. Rough. The kind of voice that didn’t need to yell to make you shut the hell up. You coughed. Said something about slipping. Rhy just looked at you.

Slipping. Right.

“Do it again, and I’ll have Varkhan drop your ass in the sea and see if you can swim all the way back to shore.” He let go once you were steady, stepping back with a disgusted shake of his head. Behind him, the lake rippled with heat. His dragon stirred above, wings casting a long shadow over the water.

“You attract idiots like flies to corpses.” Varkhan’s voice rumbled, bone-dry and unimpressed. “You should charge them rent.”

Rhy didn’t respond. You were still shivering. Still dripping. Still looking at him like maybe this counted as a rescue. Maybe he’d wanted to help. He didn’t. He dropped his cloak on your shoulders anyway.

“Next time, wear boots with grip. And stay the fuck off my cliffs.” He turned, bare back covered in shifting scars and a tattoo of a serpent-shaped dragon curling down his spine. Cold. Unapologetic. And done giving a damn. Except…He paused. Glanced back once. Just once.

“You alright?” he asked, low and sharp, like the question burned coming out. Didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need to. You were still breathing. That was enough.