This book had so many of the elements I love from Megan Derr—found family, fierce loyalty, powerful dragons, and the deep emotional pull of love hard-earned. And while Shield of the Dragon absolutely delivered on much of that, it also fumbled in places that felt unusually careless for an author who’s usually so precise.
🐀Let’s start with the good: Ken remains a standout. He’s endured betrayal, manipulation, and violence without losing his kindness or strength. His voice is quiet, but never weak; he’s resilient, observant, and always doing what’s needed, even when no one sees it. The quiet dignity of his suffering makes the moments of recognition and care hit all the harder. His friendship with Diamond is a highlight—genuine, unforced, and refreshingly devoid of trope. Diamond might be crass and chaotic, but he respects Ken deeply, and their growing bond is one of the most emotionally satisfying elements in the book.
🧌Diamond and York’s relationship also lands solidly. Their reconciliation scene is funny and true to character—“You say sorry for being an arsehole, I’ll say sorry for lying, we’ll kiss and make up”—and when Diamond finally blurts out an “I love you” without even realising it, it’s a genuinely earned moment.
🐲But the elephant in the room is the Victoria storyline. Ken bonding a second dragon—and going on to be claimed by her—just hours before he was rescued and reunited with Nev was one of the most emotionally jarring elements in the book. Not because the narrative can’t handle complicated dynamics, but because Ken wouldn’t do this.
The Ken we’ve come to know over the last two books is intensely careful with Nev’s feelings. He’s gentle with Nev’s vulnerability. He’s always attuned to how much their bond matters. And yet, in this book, Ken bonds Victoria without a single internal thought about Nev. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t question. There’s no moment of “what would Nev feel about this?” until right before the claiming—and even then, when he senses Nev’s pain through their connection, he still goes ahead. He was already thinking about Nev. He was only hours away from being rescued. And he still made that choice.
What makes it worse is that the books themselves previously established this isn’t just about jealousy. Dragons are explicitly noted to be unbothered by their owners having sex or relationships with humans—but other dragons are a different matter:
“So Erie was saying he was cool with all of it. Ken really had been right: dragons didn’t seem to care what he did with other humans; it was only other dragons that would cause a problem.”
— Sword of the King, Megan Derr
Ken knew this. He was the one who said it. So when the story expects us to accept that he went ahead and bonded and was claimed by another dragon without even thinking about Nev—without even considering the sanctity of that connection—it feels like the narrative threw out Ken’s core emotional intelligence for the sake of moving the plot.
And Victoria—while not the villain—also bears some weight here. Dragons choose their owners, yes. But are we really supposed to believe she didn’t know Ken already had a bonded dragon? That it wouldn’t be the right thing to wait, to meet Nev, to speak to the other half of the bond before making it something so permanent? The story doesn’t even ask these questions. It just rushes through the pain, gives us a few pages of reunion, and expects that to be enough.
It isn’t.
Because Nev was devastated. And we watched him suffer being apart from Ken and knowing he had done this, while Ken’s entire internal world was focused elsewhere. Their reunion is brief, rushed, and never truly reckons with the scale of what happened.
❤️ What Shield of the Dragon captures with painful clarity is the emotional distance between Ken and Amr—despite their physical closeness. Ken is in Amr’s home, but not in his life. He’s visible, but not seen. He’s useful, but not chosen. He stays quiet because he knows anything louder might give away that he’s still hoping—and he can’t afford to be that exposed again.
Amr, for all his power and care, nearly fumbles the relationship completely—not because he doesn’t love Ken, but because he misreads him. Ken does express himself, just not in the loud or obvious ways Amr expects. He mentions that no one seems to like him. He doesn’t enter Amr’s room when they move in together—not because he wants space, but because he’s waiting to be invited. He wears nice clothes, puts on aftershave, tries—subtly, consistently—to be noticed. But Amr doesn’t see it. Instead, he assumes Ken has moved on, that he’s found someone else. And in the silence that follows, clan elders and so-called allies continue to belittle Ken unchecked. Later, while Ken is gone, Amr’s own mother calls him a “street rat”—a vile, classist insult that almost goes unchallenged. Amr is clearly shocked, but he says nothing. What should have been said, what Ken never gets to hear, is: He may be a street rat, but a dragon chose him. What do you have? That silence echoes louder than any insult, and Ken feels it.
And yet—to his credit—Amr doesn’t let it end there. Once he realises the depth of Ken’s pain and how close he came to losing him, Amr starts making the right choices. He’s present. He’s gentle. He feeds Ken, clothes him, holds him, protects him—not as a responsibility, but as someone cherished. He vows to give Ken a quiet life, a safer future. And finally—finally—he learns how to show Ken what was always true: that Ken isn’t just his steward, but his equal, his love, and his home.
That’s the ache that sits under Shield of the Dragon. And it’s why this book, even with its missteps, still lands so powerfully by the end. Because despite the pain, despite the fumbled choices, Ken is finally seen. And that matters.