Dragon Wings of Destruction

Chapter 1

One

Morgan

Adragon’s roar spells doom—

Depending on your perspective. You’re either in the air with them, wing to wing, loyal to the cause … or you’re not. And if you’re not, then you’re a tasty snack. There and gone with a flash of sun on white fangs.

It’s a hard lesson learned.

Today, great droves of unicorns clog the open grassy plains of Fallkirk field, nostrils flared and red, panicky. Two agitated males clash their horns together and the bell clang of their meeting lands like a death knell inside of me.

Their whinnies are rallying cries.

Early autumn has yet to change the shivering aspen leaves to pure gold and it’s hot enough to force moisture along my skin. Sweat plasters my forest green and oak brown tunic to my back. I turn away from the field, my lungs straining.

My insides throb a horrible beat and my blood crests to a boiling point.

Does advance warning mean anything if your opponents are the size of mountains?

Will Fallkirk still stand by the end of the day?

“To the armory! Outfit the first wave!” The call of the armorer snaps my head to the left.

Ether take me.

Too many of the people I love will be resigned to the darkness between stars before the day is done. I know it, I feel it, in my blood, and singing in my bones.

The crest of the field rolls toward distant mountain peaks and craggy, wooded hills. Nestled in grass and trees are the carefully crafted log cabins of the village, and in the space between neighbors—

It’s bedlam. Humans don their armor, sliding sharpened swords into sheaths. The chink of metal mingles with the trumpeting blasts of unicorns preparing to defend their homes.

We have no hope of winning this.

Am I the only one who sees it?

“Morgan! Out of the way, girl. Or are you planning on growing roots to match your stubbornness?”

The armorer elbows me, his face shadowed, his eyes like twin pools of water churned by rapids.

I step dutifully to the side but pause there. “Where’s my mother?”

“Somewhere in this melting pot of madness,” he replies, on edge. “She has no time for you. Go be useful somewhere else.”

Neither does the armorer. He hooks a finger through the knife band around his wrist and jogs off, belting out orders like he’s the chief of Fallkirk instead of my mother, his scent of metal and leather and solvent lingering.

Most of the herd are deep in preparation, but newly hammered armor outfits the unicorns near me. The delicate-looking hooks and chains keep the plates secure and glint beneath the blazing sun in a cloudless sky.

It feels like a bad omen.

A metal-plated shoulder knocks against my back in a silent bid for me to move faster and I break into a run. The unicorns race into battle. Tension clots the air until it’s dense enough to choke.

The dragons are coming.

I shake my head, turning against the tide and struggling forward. An uprising. That’s the official word from the palace. What a joke. My features twist into a disgusted sneer too easily for it to be anything but a habit.

We’ve done nothing against the empire of Manifest, certainly nothing large enough for the king to take notice.

I pump my arms for more speed, my sprinting swallowed beneath the thunder of a thousand stampeding hooves.

General Ryson is a nightmare made of flesh and known for his brutality.

It’s only a miracle from the Ether that got us the message in time, a message to warn, to prepare, to evacuate. Roman Ryson and his armies are coming to quell an uprising from a community of cheats and thieves and liars.

We’re none of those things.

The unicorns in our herd are no innocent creatures content to wait for a virgin maiden to find them in a forest. These are bred for battle, bred for the fight, their whirled horns topped with a killing point to spear through our enemies. In this case, the king’s men.

Or any dragons he chooses to send with his favorite general.

We’ll do whatever it takes to defend the village with homes crafted of living wood, the stables for the unicorns bonded to riders.

Steeds flow around me like water, mounts of all colors, their riders wearing matching armor and swords strapped to their backs and saddles. There are lances, flails, and most of all, savagery.

An answering sensation crawls up my throat and my teeth flash.

There is no uprising in Fallkirk. There’s only a proud herd, a village of peace and prosperity far outside the capital, and those who are not willing to triple our taxes to the crown. The moment Mom and the rest of the village council decided to take a stand against the unjust… look what happened?

It hasn’t happened yet, Morgan.

I tell myself it’s the voice of reason yammering like a lost sheep in my head. But I know it’s a lie.

I stumble toward a house perched on a crest, my boots skipping over small stones nestled in the grass. My ankle twists and the muscles in my legs flex to accommodate the strain.

Grunting against the pain, I limp, because this is not how I saw today going. Today was supposed to be a celebration.

I’d been accepted to DragonSpear Academy, the best graduate program in Manifest, our world. There, I’d train to be a warrior and learn to be a scholar. I’d be chosen by one of the strongest mounts possible and join my herd in a place of honor.

My stomach lurches and goes soft.

I’d make my mother proud.

She had the celebration dinner planned for the night. Now—

How many people will be left alive to see me off to military academy?

“Morgan, Ether take me. Get out of the way before you’re trampled!” Mother’s words cut through the blur in my head.

A stampede of hooves thunders against the solid, dried ground and Illonia Whyte pulls up short with inches to spare before collision. Her mount, a gilded stallion radiant enough to rival the sun, stares me down with obvious dismissal. He’s never cared for me.

Not when my mother is the leader of our herd and I’m a dismal failure, too angry, too hungry, too everything to be chosen by a unicorn.

Mother shifts with her mount’s movements, her sword already drawn.

“Well?” she asks with a hint of bitten off ferocity. “What are you doing? Get out before you find yourself impaled on the wrong end of a sword.”

Her mount paces, furious at being kept from the trenches for the duration of this conversation.

“I want to help. I’m ready to go.” I straighten and stand my ground. “I came to find you.”

“Absolutely not.”

Her eyes are emeralds. But her discordant laughter is anything but beautiful.

My sister has already raced past to protect our town from the invaders. Isn’t it my right, too? My mouth is dry, my tongue tasting acrid and coppery like I’ve already given myself a bloody lip.

I step toward Mother on light feet, like I’m picking my way through broken glass.

“I’m ready to go,” I repeat. “Give me the order and I’ll move into place.”

I throw away the niceties. Manners and battle don’t mix. I’ve never used them with my mother anyway, so she’s used to my forked tongue now.

Illonia Whyte is Fallkirk’s leader by might and right and as proud as the unicorn who chose her. Worse. Her armored helmet is connected by intricate whirls of gold and silver and the metal crests over her skull like the banner of the unicorn’s tail. Spirited. Lifted.

She stares me down through slits in the armor. “You’re not fighting today. I’ve already told you.”

Illonia’s word is law.

I rear back like she slapped me straight across the face. “You need every able-bodied fighter to stand against—”

“I said no,” she interrupts, tightening her grip on her reins.

In a thousand years, I never expected her to actually shackle me to the village, not when I’m ready to join her on the field. I’ve trained, taken precautions. I’m ready. No only means I haven’t tried hard enough to convince her.

Mother tightens her knees on her mount’s torso, the unicorn referred to as Himself. She’s the only one who knows his real name.

Right now, both of them are frustrated with me.

“Go get the children and the elderly and hide,” she insists. “That’s where I need you. They can’t protect themselves and I’m counting on you to evacuate them.”

We’re much too late to evacuate.

“I can be of service.” I grind my teeth and widen my stance, prepared to dig in and be just as stubborn as the woman who birthed me. “I might not have my own unicorn—”

“No, you don’t,” she interrupts a second time.

Her irritation isn’t easily disguised. “You haven’t been chosen and you haven’t been trained. You’ll be a liability. Do you really think I’ll be able to do what I need to do if I’m worrying about you?”

I lift my chin. “It doesn’t matter. I know how to wield a sword and I won’t hesitate.”

She knows this about me. Only one other person in Manifest knows me as well as her. Knew me, I mentally correct. My father is gone.

“And you have your orders.”

She and I double down, pitted against each other, neither one of us willing to crack.

“Father would allow it.” I wield the words like a final, terrible blow.

“You have my bravery,” Mother accedes, “but your father’s temper, too, and it’s gotten you into trouble more often than not.”

“You say it like it’s something awful.”

She glares. “It can be, in the wrong circumstances.”

“Like now?”

“Absolutely.”

How many times has she called me out for my stubborn streak, one that life hasn’t managed to beat out of me yet?

“If Elspeth is out there—” I start, pointing.

Mother hops off her mount and lands with a clink of metal on metal, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong moment.

She stalks toward me, tearing off her helmet in one smooth movement and tucking it beneath her arm.

Yards of blonde hair fall from where she’d coiled it beneath the helmet and the eyes boring through me are the same color as mine, a rich seething green with a star of brown.

For a moment, she’s no longer the leader preparing for war, she’s Mother. She’s the one who tucked me into bed at night tighter than warranted so I wouldn’t toss around with bad dreams.

Like the storm in me can’t rest when I do.

“Morgan, this isn’t up for debate.” She tries to soften her voice and fails. “You’re not trained and I’m not risking you. Get the others to safety.”

In other words, she won’t repeat herself a third time. Or fourth.

“I’m risking me,” I insist. “I want to ride and I want to fight.”

I’ll never forgive myself if I run and hide like a coward. If I retreat without trying. I’m the youngest of the family. I’d never been treated like a baby, particularly, more like this creature in a fragile state of balance whose family had to tiptoe around me to make sure I didn’t explode.

Today, Mother is done tiptoeing. Today, it matters the most.

“Oh, honey.”

She reaches out to push a lock of hair behind my ear. She’s done the same gesture thousands of times in my life.

Why does it feel different now?

I’m geared for an argument I refuse to lose. That’s why.

“Your job is far more important than being another soldier on foot,” she says. “I can’t fight unless I know the children are safe.”

My heartbeat lurches against the bony cage of my ribs like it’s trying to get out there and accomplish both jobs.

“Father would never have run away from a fight.”

He was a soldier, like her, like Elspeth. I come from a family of fighters who more often than not tries to do the right thing and ends up broken. We all have our secrets and our traumas.

If I retreat today, I’ll scar.

“Your father—” Illonia severs the words, gnashing her teeth. “I trust you to keep our people safe.”

Her insistence falls flat but it’s not her, it’s me. I’m torn.

“Please.” I don’t know what I’m trying to accomplish, but I know I’m failing. “I want to help.”

“Then help me by doing as I’ve asked.”

Her eyes go as hard as iron and Himself stamps his foot behind her in a clear bid for us to end this maddening discussion. Illonia is needed elsewhere. She certainly doesn’t have time to waste convincing me to execute her will.

A unicorn screams from the plains above and Mother’s gaze narrows further. Her lips are bloodless as she thins them into a line, and I halfway wonder if this is the last time I’ll see my mother alive.

“The dragons are coming,” she murmurs. “It’s nearly time.”

A part of me wants to grip her by the shoulders and insist she be the one to protect the elderly and the children instead of me.

But it’s impossible.

She’d never agree even if I voiced those feelings out loud.

My skin strangles me. There’s no relief. Nothing when my insides feel too hot and squirmy and even my best insistence falls short.

“Morgan, I need you to do this for me.” Her tone brooks no further argument. “Do you understand?”

She manages to keep the helmet tucked beneath her arm while she reaches up for the clasp of the chain around her neck. With controlled grace, she takes off the necklace I’ve never seen her without and holds it out to me.

“Here. Take it.”

Emotions clog my throat and make it impossible to breathe. I back up a step, shaking my head, as terrified as any mount who refuses to accept a bit in their mouth.

“I don’t want it.” My words are garbled. “It’s yours.”

The gold is rubbed thin from generations of Whyte women keeping it safe. The necklace and the sapphire pendant, a blue oval, have been in the family for generations and is passed down when the next generation takes their place leading the herd.

It’s supposed to go to Elspeth.

“And now it’s yours.” Mother dangles the chain. “Morgan?”

“Please, no,” I insist.

Eyes burning, tears pushing their way out, I stare at her.

The sounds of the battle are louder now, and the combined cries of the herd reaching their peak. Metal clashes, weapon on weapon, and Mother is distant. Her focus, her responsibility, is to the herd and to Fallkirk.

Himself snorts in another clear command for them to move.

She thrusts the necklace at me despite my clear hesitation. “Keep this safe. Get the people somewhere far from the field, Morgan. I’m counting on you.”

There’s an emotion in her eyes I can’t ignore. I have to take the necklace. There’s no other choice. But what does she mean by giving it to me? My mind circles uselessly to find some sort of deeper explanation for what’s going on and comes up blank each time.

The sapphire, warmed from her skin, is heavy in my palm and the moment the chain drops from her fingertips, Mother turns.

She strides back to her mount, and Himself bends his front legs to allow her an easier mount. Once she settles, they turn as a singular unit, and she thrusts her helmet back into place. Her features immediately distort.

“I love you, honey.”

Then she’s gone, as though she’d never stopped in the first place, the last scents of her disappearing in the wind.

Himself takes off faster than lightning until the only thing left is the screams in the distance. The screams that grow louder with every pulsing heartbeat. The ache in my chest deepens, and I press my palm to it. A fat load of good it does.

There’s nothing left.

Nothing except this necklace and a legacy I don’t understand.