Chapter 7 Rhianelle #2
“I need to show you something. Something you can’t understand from the ground.” He moves to Sunstorm’s side, checking the harness. “If you’re going to defend your kingdom against what’s coming, you need to see it the way they’ll see it. From above.”
My heart hammers. I glance at Coral, who has settled near the platform edge, watching us with those soulful eyes.
“I can’t leave her.”
“She’ll be here when you return.” Landon’s voice softens slightly. “I promise.”
I know he is right. But the thought of soaring into the sky while Coral remains earthbound feels like betrayal.
“Rhianelle.” He steps closer, and the mate bond pulses between us. It’s warm and encouraging. “Your people need you to do this.”
I close my eyes, take a breath and nod.
Sunstorm lowers himself obligingly, and Landon helps me into the saddle. His hands are efficient as he secures the harness around my waist and thighs, checking each strap. The leather feels foreign against my skin, and the height is dizzying even before we’ve left the ground.
“Hold here.” He guides my hands to the grips on either side of the saddle. “Knees tight against his sides. Lean with his movements, not against them. He’ll do most of the work. You just need to stay balanced.”
“That’s all?” I look down at the ground, which already feels too far away.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s all.”
He swings onto his own wyvern, settling into the saddle as though he’d been born there. “Sunstorm responds to verbal commands. I’ll give them until you’re comfortable. Ready?”
“No.”
He actually smiles. The first real smile since we left his quarters. “Sunstorm, ascend.”
The world drops away.
One moment I am on solid ground. The next, I am climbing higher and higher, Sunstorm’s powerful wings beating in a steady rhythm that I feel through my entire body. My stomach lurches, and my hands grip the saddle tightly.
Far below, Coral races after us, growing smaller with every beat of Sunstorm’s wings.
My little wyvern runs along the training cliff, her stubby wings spread wide, trying desperately to follow. She reaches the edge and jumps. Her wings flap frantically, her feet churning the air before gravity claims her and she tumbles back onto the platform.
“Coral!” The wind tears her name from my lips.
She gets up and tries again, racing back and forth along the platform, jumping, reaching and falling.
“Focus up here,” Landon calls, his wyvern gliding beside mine. “She’s safe on the training ground. Look forward.”
But I can’t stop watching her. Even as we climb higher, even as she becomes a pale dot on the training field below, I can see her jumping. My heart cracks with each attempt.
“Rhianelle.” Landon’s voice is sharper now, cutting through my spiraling guilt. “Look at me.”
I tear my eyes away from Coral and find him watching me. His expression is understanding but firm.
“This is how wyvern riders see the world,” he says quietly.
Despite the ache in my heart, the fear and the guilt, I finally see it.
The world spreads below us like a tapestry woven by gods.
Green and gold forests stretch toward the horizon, divided by rivers that catch the fading light like silver threads.
I can see the curve of mountains in the distance and the sprawl of Volundr’s white buildings glowing in the sunset.
Tiny figures move through the streets, unaware of us soaring above.
The wind rushes past, cool and clean. It smells of pine and distance and freedom.
“Move with him,” Landon instructs, demonstrating on his own wyvern. “Feel the rhythm. When he banks left, you lean left. When he climbs, shift your weight forward slightly.”
I try my best.
My body is stiff with fear at first, fighting every movement. But Sunstorm is patient, his flight steady and even. Gradually, I begin to understand the rhythm Landon describes. I feel the rise and fall, the subtle shifts, the way the wind catches and releases beneath his wings.
“Good,” Landon says, and I hear approval in his voice. “You’re a natural. It’s funny that you’re not even afraid of the height.”
“Should I be?” I ask.
It’s true. The height doesn’t frighten me at all. If anything, it feels familiar.
“I feel like I’ve flown before,” I mutter.
I mean, I have. Back in Astefar, I used to hide in Sadie’s pocket while she collected nectar, tucked small and safe against her leg. Never at this height. I remember being terrified throughout every flight.
When did that fear disappear?
The thought nags at me, a missing piece I can’t quite grasp.
We fly in formation, Landon demonstrating turns and climbs. Nothing too extreme, but enough to show me the basics. Sunstorm responds to my tentative commands with patience, rewarding my small successes with steady, reliable flight.
“You’re doing well,” Landon says, bringing his wyvern closer. “Better than most first-timers. Some people freeze up completely, and others get sick.”
I manage a weak smile, though my arms are already aching from gripping the saddle.
“Come,” Landon says, noticing my distraction. “There’s something I need to show you.”
He banks his wyvern east, toward the horizon where the sun hangs low and bleeding. Sunstorm follows without needing my command, falling into formation beside Landon’s mount.
We fly toward the dying light, and I try not to think about the earthbound wyvern I’m leaving behind. But the guilt follows anyway, heavy as stone. I should be beside Coral instead of taking the sky she’ll never touch. Every stretch of distance between us feels wrong.
The sun bleeds across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of copper and gold.
We’ve been flying for nearly an hour, and my body has finally stopped fighting the rhythm of Sunstorm’s wings.
Somewhere along the way, my fear has softened into awe.
From this height, the world seems impossibly vast and beautiful.
“You’re good at this,” Landon calls over the wind. His wyvern glides beside mine, close enough that I can see the sunset catching in his red hair, turning it to flame. “Most people don’t find their balance this quickly.”
I adjust my grip on the saddle. “I don’t know why.”