Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
The Royal Flight Path had been cleared by dawn.
Pale light stretched across the cobblestones, painting the stones in hues of silver and ash.
Mist clung low to the ground, stirring like breath around the boots of cadets and dragons alike.
Thorne stood near Vornokh, silent as he adjusted the twin sheaths strapped to his back, the hilts of both swords glinting dully in the muted light.
Thorne’s face was unreadable, but there was something in his posture that was too rigid and too still.
Whatever the Queen had said to him and Commander Dareth before their departure, it lingered like smoke in his mind.
The air was too quiet. No laughter, no chatter among the group.
Even Brynnek, usually too loud for morning hours, was silent as he checked the stirrups fastened to Tieren’s flank.
Sorren stood apart with Mirra, his blue-scaled dragon rippling with tension, her wings tucked tight and her eyes flicking to the sky as if waiting for something to strike.
Garric muttered a few quiet commands to Tarken, his water-bonded dragon standing perfectly still in the shadows.
Darian stood beside Kaeroth, staring at the ground.
The red dragon was alert but subdued, head lowered as if mirroring his rider’s mood.
Darian was not bothered by the conversation he and Thaelyn had earlier, in which they agreed to just be friends.
It was best for everyone. Unrelated to their conversation, Darian seemed different.
The healers had done their work. The dark magic wound that had torn through Darian’s side was sealed.
The damage ran deeper, Thaelyn could feel it.
Something shifted in him. The light in his eyes was dimmed, replaced by something quieter and colder.
“Ready yourselves,” Commander Dareth’s voice rang low and clipped as he crossed the courtyard, his black cloak snapping behind him. “We fly for the Asgar Training Academy within the hour. Flight pattern as discussed. Cadets in formation. Stay alert. I want eyes on the horizon and no drifting off.”
A few nods and murmurs of "yes, sir" passed between the cadets.
Thaelyn tightened her gloves as she approached Nyxariel.
The dragon lowered slightly to allow her rider to mount.
The cool blue scales shimmered faintly in the morning light, and as Thaelyn pressed her palm to the sigil at the dragon’s neck, she felt it again, that sense of being watched from beyond.
Not by soldiers. Not by spies. By something older. Hungrier.
“Storms don’t always roar when they come,” Nyxariel murmured into her thoughts. “Some arrive as silence first. That is what we ride through now.”
Thaelyn mounted smoothly, securing her boots to the saddle and glancing up at Thorne. He was already astride Vornokh, his hair caught in the breeze, his eyes flickering toward her, constantly checking that she was ready. She nodded.
A single long note sounded, a signal from the tower horn.
Commander Dareth turned back toward the Queen, who stood near the highest archway of the palace wall, wrapped in layered sapphire robes with her hair braided high.
Her face was calm, but her hands were clasped tightly before her.
Her eyes found Commander Dareth’s. He bowed once. Then he turned to the group.
“Mount up.”
In a rush of wind and thunder, the dragons took to the air.
Wings beat in unison as they rose into the grey morning sky, the mist breaking around them.
Thaelyn gripped the edge of Nyxariel’s saddle and looked back only once, just long enough to see Queen Elyria watching them from the edge of the tower, one hand pressed to her chest. A silent farewell. A warning unspoken.
The wind grew colder as they rose. Clouds hung low, thick, and unmoving. Every breath tasted like the storm that hadn’t come yet.
Thorne and Vornokh flew beside her, the massive black dragon gliding effortlessly through the currents.
Vornokh’s wings cast long shadows across the clouds, and as the dragons slipped into formation, the silence among them deepened.
Even from across the sky, she could feel Thorne’s tension coiled like wire beneath his skin.
They flew for hours, the mountains rising and falling beneath them. The sun tried to break through once or twice, but never succeeded. The light was strange, dimmed, muted, like flying through a dream that resisted waking.
Sorren flew slightly ahead, his dragon Mirra streaking through the clouds like a silent knife.
Garric and Tarken took the rear, casting iceward shields with subtle flicks of power that danced like light over their wings.
Brynnek kept close to Darian, whose posture remained closed, his gaze never lifting to the sky.
“Darian hasn’t said a word since we took off,” Thaelyn said over the bond to Thorne.
“He’s not ready,” Thorne answered. “He’s changed. But it hasn’t claimed him fully, not yet.”
“Something’s following,” Nyxariel whispered to her and Vornokh, the echo of her voice a ripple of thunder threading the bond. “Too far to see. But I feel it.”
Thaelyn’s fingers tightened on the reins, her knuckles pale against the leather. She glanced over her shoulder, squinting into the mass of clouds. Nothing but shifting veils of grey and white, yet her pulse quickened. Her instincts twisted like a gathering storm.
“Trust your storm,” Nyxariel murmured, her mind-voice a low hum of ancient power. “Even when it is silent.”
A growl rumbled through the air as Vornokh’s shadow swept close, his vast wings stirring the currents. “Your instincts are sharpened by fear, girl. Do not let it master you. Fear feeds what lurks in the dark.”
Thaelyn swallowed hard. “Then what is it?” she whispered, as though the wind stole her voice.
Vornokh’s mind coiled like smoke, heavy and gruff. “Not prey. Not wind. The air tastes wrong. Metallic, like blood not yet spilled”.
Nyxariel hissed, a sound that thrummed like lightning before a strike. “It presses against the Veil, seeking cracks. I know the rhythm of such steps. Shadows hunt.”
“Shadows,” Vornokh repeated, the word like stone grinding against stone. “Then it comes for me. For what I carry. And for you, storm-child.”
Thaelyn’s chest tightened. “Why me?”
“Because you burn brighter than you know,” Nyxariel answered softly. “And light calls to hunger.”
Vornokh snorted, his eyes flashing molten gold through the mist. “Let it come, then. Let it bleed on my claws and scatter beneath my fire.”
“Not fire alone will guard her,” Nyxariel cut back sharply, her storm-voice alive with tension. “The enemy has learned flame, has stolen it. They wear the ashes of what they’ve slain.”
Vornokh growled, lowering his body slightly in the air, wings adjusting to cut through the thickening clouds. “No shadow stands when I strike.”
Thaelyn pressed herself against Nyxariel’s scales, feeling the tremor of her dragon’s breath beneath her legs. “Then we fight together,” she whispered.
Nyxariel’s laughter was soft lightning, reverent and dangerous. “Together is the only way. But remember, storms are patient. They strike only when the world dares believe the sky has calmed.”
Vornokh rumbled, the sound low as distant thunder. “Patience is a blade that rusts. When I scent blood, I strike.”
Their voices clashed like storm and fire, until the bond between them thrummed so fiercely it made Thaelyn’s breath falter. She could feel them both in her chest, opposites, colliding, neither yielding.
She swallowed and spoke, her words thin but steady. “Then listen to me. We wait, but are ready. Not one, not the other. Both.”
Nyxariel’s wings cut the air clean. She felt another change. The Rift stirs, the dragon murmured through the bond, her tone sharp with unease. Something old has awakened beneath the stone.
They pressed forward. The air grew heavier the farther they flew, pressing against skin, armor, and magic. Like flying through memory itself. Or grief.
At last, the familiar peaks of Asgar came into view, distant spires of the Asgar Training Academy rising through the clouds, dragon banners fluttering in the wind. The academy looked different in this light, more ancient, almost foreign, like a keep pulled from myth.
Their descent was swift and coordinated. Commander Dareth led them in with a circling pass above the flight field, banners whipping against the stone walls, guards stationed in formation. As the first dragon touched down, Vornokh, black wings folding in behind him, the others followed.
Thaelyn dismounted, boots hitting the stone hard. The air on the ground was warmer, but the tension had not lifted. As her companions landed one by one, the same quiet hung over them all. No cheers. No calls. No laughter.
Commander Dareth stepped forward, his cloak billowing around him.
“You’ve done well,” he said, voice loud enough to carry but still edged in steel.
“But this is only the beginning. The King has advanced the Kaelthir ceremony. It will happen in two days. There will be training. Preparation. Everyone must be ready. The skies are no longer a place for observation. You will patrol. You will defend.”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“There are reports of movements along the western and eastern borders. Villages reporting stolen livestock, dark creatures in the woods. It reeks of necromancy.”
Silence.
“Rest tonight,” Commander Dareth finished. “But be ready for tomorrow.”
Thaelyn felt the weight of the words settle in her chest like stone. As she moved toward Nyxariel’s side, unbuckling the saddlebags, she felt Thorne’s presence behind her.
“They’re watching us,” he murmured, low. “The shadows aren’t just gathering. They’re shifting. Planning.”
She turned to him, her voice quiet. “Then we stay close. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early. ” She gave him a soft kiss and headed toward the dorms.
The clouds churned, too still. Too silent. Not yet storm. But close.