FORTY-SEVEN
SKYSIGNING
Many generations ago, a hereditary form of deafness was common in this region.
From it arose a language of the body, not spoken, but expressed through movement and gesture.
Rich and nuanced, it became so ingrained in the local culture that nearly everyone learned it, regardless of whether they could hear.
Dragon riders quickly recognized its value.
In flight, the wind drowns out speech, and while riders can communicate with their own dragons through their bond, speaking with other riders is far more difficult.
Over time, the language was adapted for use with the hands alone, allowing riders to communicate clearly in the sky.
Today, this form is known as Skysigning, the common language of dragon riders.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The next morning, Thane and I start our day running aerial formations. Garrick, Rian, and Jarek fly ahead, their dragons holding tight formation with the rest of the squad as we climb higher into the morning light.
I adjust my grip on the reins, the supple leather of my new gloves flexing with the movement. Part of the riding set Thane gave me last night.
A smile tugs at my lips at the memory.
A long black box had been waiting in our room after dinner, wrapped in soft cloth. Thane stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that quiet intensity that always makes my pulse skip.
“A gift?” I’d asked, one brow lifted. “Because I won the Firebrand?”
He’d laughed, a sound that no longer felt rare. “Sure, why not. It’s a good reason to celebrate with something you need anyway.”
Now, high above the training fields, I glance down at the leathers fitted to my frame. Obsidian-black, sleek and battle-ready. Reinforced seams. Segmented sleeves designed for incredible movement.
But it’s the detailing that stops me.
Crimson and ember-gold stitching trace the jacket’s edges, a nod to fire. Silver embroidery curls along my shoulders, a whisper of air. Green etching wraps my belt and knees, grounding me in earth. The gloves gleam with subtle blue inlays, rippling like water caught in motion.
Woven together, every thread speaks of the power I carry.
Of who I am.
Thane hadn’t said a word when I tried it on. But his gaze had lingered on the back, where an embossed pattern mirrors the tattoos along my spine.
Fire.
Water.
Earth.
Air.
Bound together in one form.
A sharp hand signal pulls me back to the present: Wedge Formation.
Another part of our aerial combat training involves Skysigning, a language built on motion and speed. One rider passes the message to the next, carrying it through the formation.
Thane leads. The signal ripples outward. Rian. Garrick. Me. I flash it to Jarek, who nods and shifts. Calryx responds instantly, her wings flexing with fluid strength as we slide into position.
The formation tightens around us.
Dragons carve across the sky, crimson, sapphire, emerald, and onyx flashing against the morning light like living banners. Wingbeats thunder through the air. Power gathers between riders and dragons alike, vibrant and alive.
But even among them, Calryx is unmatched.
Her silvery-white scales shimmer with an opalescent sheen, catching the sunlight in shifting shades of blue, green, and rose-gold. She doesn’t merely reflect the light. She transforms it, turning every movement into something luminous.
She’s never fixed in any one color. She is sky and starlight. Dawn and dusk. Contradiction and certainty woven together. She is everything that doesn’t make sense, and yet feels inevitable.
And she is mine. I am hers.
A gust rolls through the formation, sharp and sudden. One of the younger riders drifts slightly off-line before correcting. I lean forward instinctively, grounding myself through Calryx’s core. Her response is immediate. Strength flows through her wings as we stabilize the flank.
Wind tears past us. Dragons wheel through the open sky. Magics lingers at the edges of everything. My heart falls into step with the rhythm of her wings.
Ahead, Xaroth cuts through the sky like a blade.
Thane’s dragon is immense, his black scales swallowing the light until he looks less like a creature and more like a moving shadow. His wings stretch wide enough to eclipse the dragons nearest him.
If Calryx is moonlight made flesh, Xaroth is the storm itself. Unstoppable. Absolute.
We tighten into a V formation, dragons moving as one. Razor-sharp. Precise. Xaroth leads, the rest of us fanning out behind him in a living arrowhead.
Thane signals: Break. Spiral.
The order passes through the formation. Calryx doesn’t wait for the relay. She moves the instant the thought crosses my mind. We climb hard, then dive, banking into a tight spiral. The others follow, a cyclone of wings and scales.
Wind shears past my face. The tether magics pulls tight against my lap, anchoring me to Calryx’s back as we drop like a stone wrapped in flame. My stomach flips. My pulse hammers.
My hair whips wildly in the wind, but Calryx’s magics keeps an invisible shield over my eyes. Every dragon does the same for their rider, allowing us to see clearly even at these speeds.
The sky spins around us while the ground blurs far below.
We fall as one, but each dragon knows their part.
Below, Air Clan riders whip gales into the spiral, feeding the vortex. Fire Clan riders ignite the currents, flames twisting through the windstream until the entire formation becomes a blazing inferno suspended in the sky.
A new signal flashes through the formation: Pull Out.
Calryx explodes from the spiral, wings spreading wide as we arc upward. One by one, the others follow, breaking free into open sky like arrows loosed from a bow. Adrenaline races through me.
This isn’t training. This is warfare distilled to motion and instinct.
Ahead, Thane lifts his hand once more: Talon Strike.
The deadliest command in the aerial arsenal. We scatter, climbing higher and higher before dropping as one.
The world narrows to wind, speed, and the deafening scream of air tearing past. Dragons plunge like falling stars, each locked on its target. I press closer to Calryx’s neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath her scales, the heat of her core magics pulsing against mine.
We dive faster.
Not yet.
The targets below—wooden effigies blackened from countless drills—rush up to meet us.
Not yet.
The pressure builds, winding tighter and tighter in my chest.
Now!
I snap my fingers, summoning a burst of wind. It slows our descent just enough. Calryx flares her wings in a brutal arc, wrenching us out of freefall. I thrust my hand forward and release a stream of fire.
The targets explode into charred ash. We soar past it, already climbing again.
On either side of me, riders strike in flawless coordination. Fire roars. Earth shatters. Air slashes. Water veils the field in mist. Elemental magics tear across the sky, each attack landing exactly where it should.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Thane’s signal. His hand lifts for another sign: Shield Line.
Calryx pivots sharply, wings cutting through the wind as we snap into place. Dragons fall into formation, wingtip to wingtip, a living wall in the sky. Xaroth anchors the center, solid and immovable.
Below, Earth Clan riders raise stone barriers. Water Clan cloaks the field in dense mist. Fire and Air brace for impact.
The strike comes without warning.
A wave of force rushes upward from the mages below. Valen and ten others stand with their arms outstretched, lightning crackling between their hands. The blast slams into our shield line.
Calryx shudders beneath me, her wings straining. But she holds. We all do. The line remains intact.
A new command flashes through the formation: Firestorm.
The sky ignites.
Flame pours from Fire Clan riders, a synchronized inferno. We circle above, fanning it wider. Air Clan riders sweep through, driving the blaze forward in a relentless tide of destruction.
Below us, fire consumes everything in its path.
The mages have moved under the protected shelters across the training field.
Thane signals again and the Skysign moves down the line: Break.
The formation scatters upward, hovering above the smoke-choked field. Targets reduced to ash. Ground blackened and scarred.
My chest heaves, sweat slick beneath my leathers. Calryx’s flanks rise and fall beneath me, her breathing steady despite the effort. Beside us, Xaroth hovers, his wings beating in measured strokes.
Thane glances over, his gaze finding mine. A hint of amusement dances across his expression.
“Not bad,” he says in my mind.
I snort. “Not bad? We just turned the sky into a firestorm, and that’s all I get?”
Thane grins, rolling his shoulders. “We’re just getting started.”
He winks, and then Xaroth banks away.
I let out a breath, exhilaration still coursing through me. Calryx’s opalescent scales shift in the sunlight, blue, green, and rose-gold flashing like living crystal.
“You good?” I ask through the bond, remembering the impact she absorbed.
“I am a dragon.” She pauses, letting the truth of that land before adding a disdainful huff. “Why would you even ask?”
The offense that follows is immediate and profound.
I bite back a laugh.
“Of course. Silly me.”
Calryx snorts, her tail flicking behind us like a whip.
We train for another hour, running formation drills, dives, and elemental strikes until the signal comes to descend.
The ground thunders beneath us as dragons descend, the force of their landings sending tremors through the earth. Wings snap closed, and dust and loose dirt swirl into the air as massive claws bite into the landing field.
Some dragons touch down with fluid elegance, while Xaroth strikes the field like a meteor, the ground shuddering beneath his weight.
Calryx lands beside him in a smooth glide with no theatrics, only lethal grace.
I swing down from the saddle, my boots hitting packed dirt. My muscles still buzz from the flight, sweat clinging beneath my leathers.