Chapter 5
Chapter Five
My mouth goes dry as I peer into a pair of expressive brown eyes flecked with gold. His skin is a bronze hue, and shoulder-length black hair frames the bone structure of a face that could have been chiseled by an artist. High, proud cheekbones. Full, kissable lips. A strong, square jaw, featuring a thin scar along the jawline that enhances rather than detracts from the overall aesthetic.
When the sinfully attractive man clears his throat, I realize with a start that I’ve been staring. I release his arms as if his warm skin burned. Good gods, how long did I stand there gazing at him like some lovesick fool?
“Watch where you’re going.” He steps back in a fluid motion and studies me, his full lips thinning into a harsh line. “I didn’t realize Flighthaven was adding a fashion class to the schedule.”
His deep and throaty purr slides over me like velvet before his words sink in.
Warmth creeps up my neck. “Excuse me?”
In contrast to the alluring quality of his voice, his expression could cut glass. He folds muscled arms over a broad chest. “Do you need to work on your listening skills as well as your walking?”
A small throng of students gathers around us, whispering and snickering. Embarrassed heat spreads to my cheeks and chest. Once again, I fight the urge to once. I’m not used to being the center of attention—I’m barely used to leaving my castle—and can’t say I’m enjoying the experience. At all. Apparently, everything about this man is perfect…except his attitude.
Since running isn’t an option, I firm my shoulders, telling myself not to judge. I bet he didn’t mean to be so sharp. I’m on edge, too, which probably makes me more sensitive to discord than usual. Summoning a tentative smile, I attempt to smooth things over. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you. I don’t know what else I may have done to offend you, but I’m sure it was an accident.”
His icy gaze turns predatory as he crowds my personal space. “What offends me, Duchess, is the fact that you’ve just arrived and yet are already wasting my time.” He jerks his chin at my dress. “This is the royal flight academy, not a place for you to flounce around in your finery or nightwear in search of suitors.”
“I… what ?”
I track his attention to an ivory silk nightgown that’s peeking out of my satchel and pray for the ground to swallow me up as I hastily stuff the garment back inside.
His gaze travels my body in a slow, insolent sweep, as if recording every single weakness and flaw. When he finishes, the slight curl of his upper lip confirms I’ve been judged and found wanting. “The next time I see you, you’d better be dressed appropriately. We don’t have time for tea parties here.”
Nearby, someone laughs out loud, covering their outburst with a cough only when Mr. Hard-ass shoots a glacial glare in their direction.
Duchess? Tea parties?
Fire sparks in my veins, heating my blood and temporarily overriding my common sense. “It’s too bad about the tea parties,” I snap. “You could use a little sugar to sweeten your foul disposition.”
Remorse kicks in immediately. Shit. Did I really just say that out loud? I clap a hand over my mouth, but of course it’s too late. The words already escaped, and based on the shocked gasps, our audience heard them. I can’t recall the last time my temper ran away from me like this. I blame stress…and this aggravating man. Who knew such a beautiful face could be so damn punchable?
The slow grin spreading across those delectable lips holds all the warmth of a glacier. “Who am I? I’m your worst nightmare, Duchess. My job is to judge you, and I’ll do so whenever and however I see fit. You’d best pray my mood sweetens before I see you in training, because your. Ass. Is. Mine .”
He stalks toward the stable with all the grace of an angry jungle cat. A deep unease squeezes my ribs.
Showing the most animation since we met, Quinnelle shakes her head at me and gives a low whistle. “That was inadvisable.”
As we watch him retreat, the bad feeling in my chest grows. I dread asking my next question. “Who is that man?”
The flash of pity in her eyes warns me that I’m not going to like the answer. “That’s Sterling Thorne. Your flight trainer.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Of course it is.”
Sterling Thorne. Expert flyer. Refugee from a war-torn kingdom, though people debate which one. Worked his way up to join King Xenon’s guard and then saved the king from a rogue dragon attack. One of the best dragonriders around. Even I’m not living under a big enough rock not to recognize his name. His last name did come up in one of Leesa’s letters home, but I didn’t make the connection.
The ladies who periodically invaded our castle loved to titter about him. How the king rewarded Thorne with gold and his choice of position within the kingdom. How he was a common fixture in the palace. How incredibly handsome and virile he was, enticing women to flock to him like crows to breadcrumbs.
No one bothered to mention that he’s about as friendly as a hungry snow bear with a toothache, or that he could cut a person to the bone with a single icy glare.
Or that he’d left the palace for Flighthaven to act as a flying instructor. My flying instructor. Who apparently only needed one good look at me to confirm what I already know is true—that I don’t belong—and that’s before he’s even learned about my terror of flying.
I allow myself a few moments to wallow in self-pity before squaring my shoulders. I’m here now and committed to this course of action. Guess I’ll have to prove us both wrong.
Flyer Quinnelle leads me past a rectangular building and into a huge courtyard. Fluttering motion off in the distance draws my attention to a sprawling field. Within the bed of a dark, sand-like substance, orange-green tendrils wave in the salty ocean breeze. I count at least four guards stationed around the perimeter.
I point. “What’s that?”
“Eyril.”
Though I’ve never seen eyril in plant form before, I figured as much based on the guards. I wrinkle my nose at the odor emitting from that direction, like sugar mixed with a faint hint of decay. The scent both entices and repels.
“These are the dorms.” Quinnelle leads me inside the rectangular building, up a single flight of stairs, and strides past two doors before stopping in front of a third. “You’ll sleep here.”
She raps her knuckles on the door twice and pushes it open, revealing a cramped space filled with three narrow beds, armoires, and tiny nightstands constructed of dark wood. A single desk is pushed against the back wall between two windows, and in one corner, a wash basin sits beneath a mirror. The only splash of color comes from a red, blue, and gold rug—Aclaris colors—stretched across the wooden floor, and the matching curtains framing the windows.
The room isn’t much larger than the quarters shared by the scullery maids at my family’s castle and a far cry from my opulent chamber, but there’s something refreshing about the chamber’s simplicity.
The three beds are another story. I view the evidence of my future roommates with a mixture of trepidation and hope.
Quinnelle gestures to the one closest to the door. “The bed with the uniforms on it is yours. It was your sister’s until she…left.”
Left. Such an innocuous word to describe a person disappearing without a trace. Throat burning, I walk over to the bed and drag my fingers across the blue blanket, as if I can gather lingering traces of Leesa that cling to the wool. Not long ago, my sister stood here, in this very spot. Slept in this bed, stored her clothing in that dresser, washed her face in that basin, and presumably went about her life like every other Flighthaven student.
I open the armoire and peek in all three drawers. Empty. Just like the hanging space at the top. “Where are Leesa’s belongings?”
“Protocol when someone leaves without permission is to hold their belongings in the storage building until the investigation and ruling is complete.”
My shoulders slump. There goes my bright idea to search for clues among Leesa’s remaining possessions. Not that I expected to find much. With the exception of a cup on one nightstand and a book on the other, the room doesn’t boast any personal effects, despite the two other occupants.
“You have two minutes to change into your casual uniform, then I’ll take you to the mess hall. Oh, before I forget, here’s your two-month ration of eyril. Take three drops every morning. Do not take more than your allotment. Overdosing is dangerous and no refills are issued prior to the two-month marker, no exceptions.”
As she hands off the eyril, the hungry way her attention clings to the dark glass bottle makes me wonder if I’m already a few doses short. Not that I care. That nasty stuff isn’t getting anywhere near my mouth.
Quinnelle lingers a beat too long before exiting the room and closing the door. Hurrying, I strip off my gown and pull on the pants and top. I’m lacing up my boots when a roar shatters the air.
Rushing to the window, I peer into the early evening sky. The vanishing sun casts a soft glow on the giant shape that coasts across the horizon while flapping a massive pair of wings.
A tangle of awe and terror keeps me captive.
The mammoth, silvery-gray creature stands as high as the tallest trees, yet glides through the wind with a dancer’s grace. After a few moments, I spot the figure clinging to the dragon’s back. I gasp as the dragon tucks in its wings and the duo plummets toward the ground, plunging with heart-stopping speed. Just when I’m sure they’ll crash, the dragon pulls out of the dive, swooping inches from a cluster of treetops before executing a barrel roll and zooming toward the cliffs.
Goose bumps pebble my skin. I can only recall seeing a dragon in person once before, back before my fire magic manifested when I was nine or ten years old, but I still remember the exhilaration that swelled inside me, filling me up until I felt like I, too, was soaring with the birds. I could almost see the blue sky stretched out ahead of me…feel the wind brushing my wings. Savor the sweetness of freedom on my tongue. And then, when the rider yanked hard on the reins and altered my course, the frustration and rage as I fought for control and failed.
The experience left me dizzy and limp, with vivid hallucinations and a shock of pain in my head. Mother expressed concern at the time, but luckily, it never happened again.
Shaking off the past, I squint up at the sky. I’m too far away to recognize the rider, but I’m certain it’s Thorne. Who else would ride like that? He might possess the manners of a rampaging wildebeest, but at least now I can understand the arrogance. Watching him and the dragon chase the wind elicits a sharp pang in my chest—similar to when I tracked the birds flying free outside my window at home—along with the tiniest glimmer of hope.
Three sharp raps rattle the door. “Are you ready, Fledgling Axton?”
Turning from the window, I hurry to join Flyer Quinnelle, shivering with fear and excitement as I prepare to meet the other fledglings.