Brennan #2
I turn toward the center of the forest, steady my breathing and my racing heart, then roll my shoulders.
Let’s go.
Autumn leaves crunch under my feet as I move among the trees, listening for that little voice Kaori mentioned, waiting for my instincts to direct me. Overhead, brown fills the air as a dragon launches skyward. Guess that one isn’t mine.
“I’m telling you, I saw a blue this way!” someone shouts.
“No blues are on Kaori’s list,” someone else argues.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to warn them to split up when fire erupts through the trees to my left. I leap behind the trunk of a giant pine, my heart thundering as the voices fall silent. A Red Scorpiontail swishes into view, and I hold my breath, instinctively knowing that one is not mine.
I wait until the dragon clears the nearby space, then glance up at the sprawling branches of the tree I’ve taken shelter under. Now this is a tree Violet would love to climb.
And it will give me the best vantage point.
Branch by branch, I scale the tree as quietly as possible, careful not to catch the sword I keep sheathed at my side on any of the rough bark.
A dragon roars in the distance, followed by a scream, but I climb with single-minded focus.
If I give in to the fear knocking at my heart with all the subtlety of a battering ram, the dragons will be able to smell it.
Dragons don’t bond cowards.
The branches above me turn sparse and gangly with new growth, but none of them look capable of holding my weight, so I plant my feet right where they are, grasp the thinner branch above with both hands, and peer across the forest.
A kaleidoscope of colors fills my vision.
The tops of the trees are a myriad of fall tones, the leaves providing camouflage for every color of dragon besides the blues and blacks that have abstained from this year’s Threshing.
Branches sway at various locations in the forest, no doubt propelled by the dragons that stalk beneath the canopy.
There are three—make that four—plumes of smoke and one concerning fire to the east that surely deserves the attention of a water wielder.
A Green Daggertail splits the air to the west, a rider clinging to her seat as the dragon beats its wings for altitude.
Mine is out there somewhere.
I close my eyes and listen to my pounding heart, hoping it will tug me in the direction of the dragon I’m meant to bond, but there’s nothing. No tug. No pull. Not even a whisper of a twitch. Just a hot breeze against my face.
My brilliant plan might not be so brilliant after all. Would have been nice if Mom had given me some guidance or warned me about…anything. Parapet. Gauntlet. Presentation. The futility of climbing trees. I should write all this shit down so Mira doesn’t have to figure it out on her own.
The heat suddenly intensifies, and my eyes pop open.
My heart lurches into my throat.
A scaly, burnt-orange snout hovers six feet from my face, huffing steam through enormous nostrils half as tall as I am.
The cloud of heated air hits my face a second before the dragon tilts its head, pinning me in place with inquisitive golden eyes.
Its horns sweep back from its face, but I can’t see their tips—or the rest of its body—with its head wedged in the branches of a tree.
I’m supposed to look away, to lower my eyes in supplication, to retreat without intruding on the dragon’s field of vision, but I can’t. My feet may as well be glued to the branch beneath me. For the first time in my life, I do the opposite of what I’m supposed to and stare.
“Only birds belong in the tops of trees.” A raspy, masculine voice fills my head. “Are you a bird, Sorrengail?”
“What the fuck?” I blurt, and my hands jolt, letting go of the branch. My feet slip, my stomach abandons me, and gravity claims her prize as I fall right off the damned branch.
I smack into the limb below and scramble for a grip, hooking my arms over the steam-slicked place my boots had previously occupied and scraping the bare skin of my forearm.
My feet kick beneath me, searching for a foothold, as the dragon pushes his head through the leaves, beating his wings slowly to maintain a hover.
“Precisely why humans should not climb trees.”
“I don’t usually fall out of them!” I shout back illogically as my feet finally find a lower branch. “And you aren’t supposed to talk to humans who aren’t yours.”
“You’re not supposed to look a dragon in the eye, yet here we are.” He tilts his head as if examining me. “Shall we play a game, eldest Sorrengail?”
“No,” I answer instantly, but I still can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him even as my pride prickles. “And it’s Brennan.” Where is the predictable green I’m meant for? Or the subtly sly brown I’ve imagined?
“You have yet to earn a first name while your last overpowers it. Why would you seek a dragon as boring as you are?” he questions.
Holy shit, did he just nail every problem in my fucking life. Wait…boring?
“I’m not boring,” I argue, lowering my hand from the branch above and cursing at the bloody scrape that runs the length of my forearm. “I’m loyal, and smart, and the best tactician of my year—”
“And boring.” His nostrils flare in a deep inhale before huffing another breath of steam. “You need not tell me all the things I already know about you to prove that point. Are you so burdened by your mother’s shadow that you desire the same breed that bonded her?”
My mouth opens and shuts like a fucking fish.
“Do you not yearn for a challenge? For someone who challenges you? Or is my instinct misguided? Have I found a docile robin in the place of the sharp-minded hawk I sought?” The orange narrows his eyes, continuing to hover in place.
Instinct? Hold on. Is this orange choosing me?
“If you have to ask, perhaps you should rethink your prior claim on intelligence.”
But oranges are erratic, finicky, and—worst of all—unpredictable.
“Thank you, Sorrengail,” he responds.
I ignore the prick to my pride and snort a laugh, which is undoubtedly an inappropriate response to Threshing.
A dragon is surely the greatest gift a god can give.
That’s what Dad said. If this is the dragon I’m meant to dedicate my life to, who am I to deny such a monumental gift?
And how ironic that the best piece of advice I’ve been given when it comes to Threshing came from my scribe father?
I take a fortifying breath and then nod, wiping all expectations of how I thought this day would go from my mind. “I’ll play your game.”
“What if I’ve changed my mind about you already?” He bares sharp, pointed teeth.
My pulse stutters, but I hold my ground. “You haven’t, or you would have flown off or torched me by now.”
“Think of all the battles we will win with that bird-size brain of yours.” There’s an edge of excitement in his tone, making me question the insult. “If you can find your seat without touching the ground, I’ll accept you as mine.”
“And if I can’t?” I ask, already mentally calculating the distance from the end of this branch to the nostrils he keeps flaring.
“I do not want a rider who cannot adapt to my unpredictable nature. Either you’ll fall to your death in the attempt or I’ll see if your curly red feathers burn.”
“So less like a game and more like an ultimatum?” I question, bouncing lightly on the branch to test the movement where it thins out about three feet from his nose.
“Everything is a game if you’re smart enough to see the board.”
Truer words have never been spoken.