Chapter 3
Three
Kieran
The scars on my knuckles crack as I grip the pommel of the black leather saddle, adjusting forward against the battering wind. Knees bent, perching slightly above the saddle, the leather braces tighten around my legs through circular maneuvers in the sky.
The chill air at this altitude blurs my eyes.
I cling to Mozi, the black dragon racing behind my father toward another slaughter.
That’s what this is. It’s always the same no matter what pretty phrase Roman Ryson uses to justify his, our, involvement. This time, he’d doubled down against my slightly probing hesitation.
Fallkirk’s leaders refuse to pay their fair share of taxes, he’d told me as his steward finished adjusting the armor across my father’s broad shoulders. Now they’re plotting against us. Against the crown.
Do I believe him?
Do I have a choice?
Regret twists my gut, the sentiment echoed by the fire breathing lizard beneath me.
This is wrong, and we both know it.
Innocent people are going to die on my blade.
Kieran, stop. You’re making it impossible to think through your worry. Mozi’s voice fills my head through our bond.
He cuts sharply to the left to avoid the tip of Omram’s wing. My father’s dragon cranes his head slightly in our direction without losing speed, his lips peeling back in a bloodless snarl.
Mozi’s focus filters through me like the darkest truth. Don’t make him mad.
I close my eyes, my mouth forming words no one will hear but Mozi. He’s always furious. Probably why the two of them are the perfect pair.
Roman Ryson sits atop his dragon’s spine like a monarch on his throne, and the glint of the sun sparkles across his spotless armor. It will stay immaculate. He won’t need to dirty himself to accomplish his goal today.
That’s why he has me.
Nerves grip my throat like a noose.
Tell me you’re prepared. Mozi tenses in my head despite the seamless way his wings continue to beat the open air to keep us this high. I need to hear you say it.
The air thins, and my lungs struggle. Prepared to fight alone? Is that what you mean?
You know it’s a test. His claws tense in my head, the image undeniable.
A punishment, I correct.
My own hands flex against the saddle pommel as Mozi cuts sharply to the left to once again avoid Omram’s wing, which keeps purposely dipping directly into our flight path.
Dragons communicate with their riders through telepathic communication. It’s said that dragons, more than any other mount, can see the intent of their riders and will only choose one whose ambitions match their own.
Right now, the only thing Mozi sees in me is the crushing guilt of what I have to do. There’s anger, plenty of it, the majority directed at the man in front of me. The sweep of dragons in a triangle formation behind us all caves to his will too. I’m not alone.
I might as well be.
Mozi’s scales warm beneath me, and his thoughts are a clear arrow shooting ahead, distinctly different than my jumbled, tangled knot.
Stop fretting and focus, he adds. We have to do this. If there were any other choice—
I know, I cut him off.
Wind whips hair away from my forehead and tangles the strands. I blink, tears in my eyes, and my lips cracked.
Today, Fallkirk will fall, wiped from the map.
Certain responsibilities fall to me through blood. For the simple fact of being the great General Ryson’s son and needing to maintain an image, he’ll send me down with the land mounts to obliterate the opposition.
I’m his sword.
Those facts have haunted me my entire life, and I trail his dragon with awful speed. Roman insists the raid is necessary to crush the lawlessness in the land and ensure King Lochlain’s will be done.
Is it, though?
Necessary?
Is it truly the King’s will?
I understand why my father is doing this, which doesn’t negate the hesitation. Murder shouldn’t be necessary.
The realization leaves an awful taste coating the back of my throat which lingers no matter how many times I swallow. Reluctance lumps together, growing with every swallow, blocking my air.
If we don’t do this, if we don’t act against these people today, then we will die, and no one can save the others. The death of these riders is tragic. Brutal. But they are merely a drop of blood; if we don’t stay the course, the entire kingdom will be bathed in death.
Yes, I know, I fire back at Mozi. You’ve explained it to me many times.
And it seems I have to repeat myself once again. The good of the many must outweigh the lives of a few.
It’s a terrible balance and an even more terrible reckoning.
My brow twists. I stare at the ground below, a blur of green and brown and gray, my head tilting to take it all in. Mozi puts on a burst of speed, forcing me to adjust across his spine. I roll with the sinuous undulations of his body as his wings work to shoot us forward like some black comet.
My mother would be heartbroken if she saw the shackles around me and the iron rope dragging me into this destiny of Ryson’s choosing. Good thing the dead don’t have eyes.
They’re far beyond the worries of Manifest. If they’re looking down on us, if they see the horrors of the world left behind, they have no energy to connect or to show they still care.
And I learned a valuable lesson.
I grip the saddle pommel hard enough to leave permanent grooves in my palms. It’s prudent, smart, required, to do everything Roman asks and more.
A dull roar sounds, and the sound throbs through my body. Ahead of us, Omram stalls, forcing us to pull up short before we collide. Mozi stiffens beneath me as his great lungs work hard to expand his ribcage with each exhalation.
I’ve excelled with my private tutors. I’ve become a fighter who people fear and a strategist the scribes respect. A leader who inspires people.
Now, I’ll be a murderer as well.
We’re here.
Mozi’s ominous tone scrapes through my insides and my heart flutters. Below us, trees and mountains have given way to a wide stretch of lush field. I barely make out the pointed roofs of the village nestled between the landscape naturally, hidden in plain sight.
It’s a unicorn’s playground.
There aren’t many unicorn riders left in our armies. It almost seems that my father has systematically gotten rid of the unicorns although it’s never been explicitly mentioned out loud or in any of his written declarations.
My gut twists with disgust.
Why leave a trace when the power moves are made in silence?
I stifle my last bit of sympathy for the village as General Ryson pulls his dragon parallel to me.
It’s either Fallkirk or it’s the kingdom of Manifest, and in the great scheme of life, the scales must be balanced. As Mozi says, the good of the many outweighs the good of the few. Or in this case, the lives of a small, fairly peaceful village far outside the capital.
The great shadow of General Ryson’s mount darkens the entire mountain ridge below. Omram the Pale is a massive beast of a creature.
I refuse to look him in the eye.
My father sits straight on the beast’s back without a helmet, his dark hair waving behind him and his gaze trained on the battle below. The wind steals away any words he might have said.
Lucky for both of us, there’s no need to speak, because my gut tells me it will stage a full-scale revolt if Roman so much as opens his lips. One word out of him, and I’ll lose it entirely.
Then he’ll toss me in the same mass grave as the rest.
Omram peels his lizard lips further back from impossibly sharp fangs, growling low in his throat at Mozi. A quick snap of those teeth and Mozi flares his wings to take us a few feet away and out of reach.
The general is a good match for his mount. They both have incredible anger issues and an ego the size of the continent.
Roman jerks his head toward the field. He lifts a single arm to point in the direction and shoots me off like an arrow. In the next beat, I swoop down into the heart of his ground soldiers.
Remember to keep your head. Do not let yourself get swayed by sympathy, Mozi reminds me. Try not to see them as people. They are each a step, a forward movement, and when we finish today, we execute the next phase of our plan.
Through the connection, it’s impossible for Mozi to hide his own slightly rattled nerves. Omram does that to everyone, including other dragons.
Every bit of sweat has cooled on my skin like a second layer of armor.
Flimsy armor, Mozi hisses.
I nod. My narrowed eyes dart across the field and spot an opening where our troops meet the villagers. Until now, it appears the unicorns have held their ground and kept our people from reaching the boundary of the village proper.
Fallkirk Field has become a killing zone.
I reach behind me for the holster across my spine and the two swords crossed there. They release smoothly from the leather and swing free as Mozi swoops into a steep dive. I squeeze my legs tighter.
I know what I’m doing. Your warnings are annoying, I retort. Why don’t you have anything productive to say?
Don’t die, comes his answer. Productive enough for you?
Sarcastic lizard.
The grasslands are painted in crimson. Taking it in steals the life out of me.
The basilisk and hydras have done their duty and cut a wedge-shaped advance into the unicorn herd.
Several fallen steeds lie in the clover with their eyes open, their limbs bent at unnatural broken angles.
Others are frozen in place with their coats the same matching stone gray.
From life to garden ornaments in a blink.
Their riders are shattered dolls with their pieces strewn around awkwardly.
Before my heart breaks any more, Mozi lets out a roar, ducking low enough for the bony tips of his leathery wings to skim the grass. The other dragons remain in the air, suspended, watching. We’re the only ones at ground level.
I join him in a yell until my throat burns and meet the oncoming slice of a horn with a thrust of sword. Steel meets horn with a clang. The unicorn’s rider is decked in gold-plated armor.
I should be riding high with my father. Instead—
Punishment.