Chapter 12 #5
He glances back out toward the empty field where the dragons had launched.
“Each rider learns to read hand signals—some universal, others unique to their flight group. Once the general gives the command—usually Thane, in this case—it passes from one rider to the next down the line. Like ripples across the sky.”
“That’s kind of amazing,” I say, brow furrowing as I imagine it. “Like a silent language.”
Darius nods. “Exactly. Fast, efficient. And in the air, sometimes a single gesture means the difference between a clean strike and a fatal mistake.”
Lyra whistles low. “So basically . . . don’t miss the signal, or you’re dragon food.”
Darius nods his head, picking up where he left off. “It’s called Skysigning, officially. Every rider is trained in it—it’s one of the first things they drill into you before you’re ever allowed to fly in formation.”
“Skysigning,” I repeat, testing the word. It feels right—efficient, sharp, but somehow elegant too.
“Think of it like a language made of motion,” he says. “Each signal has to be clear and fast. There’s no time for confusion when you’re dodging an attack or flanking an enemy line. One rider passes it to the next, all the way down the formation, like a spark catching through dry grass.”
Taila nods. “It’s kind of beautiful, actually. Watching a whole unit move like one body, just from a single hand signal.”
“It’s like choreography,” Lyra adds. “Only if you mess it up, people die.”
Fenric stretches lazily, hands behind his head. “No pressure, then.”
One morning, as the first light spills through the tall windows of Valen’s study, I sit across from him, inking notes onto parchment, trying to hold onto my thoughts through the fog of exhaustion.
Today’s lesson isn’t about battle tactics or magics control. It’s about blood. The Clans, their people, and how the world has changed.
Valen traces his fingers along a faded map of the realm, the parchment worn at the edges from years of study.
“The Clans are no longer as distinct as they once were,” he says. “Once, fire wielders only married other fire wielders. Water stayed with water. Air stayed with air. It was tradition—one meant to preserve their elemental strength.”
I glance at the map, where the ancient borders of the Clans are outlined—divisions that once separated them but now feel little more than history.
“But that isn’t the case anymore,” Valen continues, shifting his gaze to me. “The world has changed. People travel, mix, intermarry. There is Fire in the Earth Clan, Earth in the Water Clan. The bloodlines are no longer exclusive.”
I frown. “So why don’t people wield all the elements? If the bloodlines are mixed—shouldn’t the magics be mixed too?”
Valen shakes his head. “Magics follows dominance, not dilution.”
I pause, considering. “The strongest blood determines the magics,” I murmur, half to myself.
“Exactly,” Valen nods. “If someone has Fire and Water ancestry, but their Fire lineage is stronger, then Fire is what manifests. The other remains dormant. It exists in them, but it does not answer them.”
I grip my quill a little tighter, the ink staining the tip of my finger as I let his words settle. What does that mean for me? The logic is clear. Magics choose the strongest blood. And yet, I wield all four elements.
Valen watches me for a moment before adding, “This is why elemental wielders always reflect their lineage. A Fire Clan warrior will never suddenly command Water. An Earth-blooded merchant won’t wake up and control the wind.
” He pauses, his silver eyes gleaming. “Unless something unnatural has happened.”
The words dig into my ribs, settling heavy in my chest.
Unnatural.
I don’t say anything. I just keep writing, my fingers gripping the parchment a little too tightly. What am I?
That afternoon, the training room is quiet, the only sounds are the squeak of our boots against the mats and the steady rhythm of my own breathing.
I stand across from Thane, my muscles already burning from hours of training, my body aching from being thrown to the mats more times than I can count—even with the protective enchantments.
Except now, the enchantments are weaker because Thane has lessened their effect. Apparently, I’m progressing. Not enough to win, but enough that hits will now leave a mark.
“You’re relying too much on force,” Thane says. “And you’re going to lose if you keep trying to overpower someone bigger than you.”
I scowl, adjusting my stance. “So, what? I just let them hit me?”
One of his brows lifts. “No. You use their own attack against them.”
“If your opponent is stronger, don’t fight them head-on. Redirect their attack. Let their own movement work against them.”
I shake my head. “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘don’t get hit.’”
The corner of Thane’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Then don’t get hit.”
I exhale sharply, cracking my knuckles in annoyance. “Oh, sure. Easy.”
“Not yet,” he says, stepping forward. “But it will be.”
Before I can argue, he moves. It happens so fast that I barely have time to process it—a step forward, a feint, then a controlled strike aimed at my ribs.
I tense, bracing for the impact, preparing to meet it with resistance, but that’s exactly what he wants me to do. Before I know it, I’m on my back again, staring up at the ceiling, the breath knocked from my lungs.
Thane stands over me, arms still loose at his sides, expression unbothered, as if he already knew exactly how this would end.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says, offering me a hand. “Get up.”
I take it, letting him haul me to my feet. My entire body aches, but the frustration outweighs the pain.
“This isn’t about blocking,” Thane explains, stepping back into position. “It’s about flow. Matching the movement and guiding it somewhere else.”
I breathe out hard. “Alright. Show me again.”
This time, when he moves, I try to see what he’s doing instead of just reacting. His strike comes toward my ribs again, fast and deliberate.
I shift, not away, but with him, catching his wrist at just the right angle—for half a second, I think I have it—the movement feels natural, like stepping into a current instead of fighting against it. But then Thane corrects me in the most Thane-way possible.
By knocking me onto the mat. Again.
I land hard, cursing under my breath.
“Better,” he says—like I didn’t just eat the mat for the hundredth time. “But you hesitated.”
I push myself up, breathing hard. “Because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“You will,” Thane says simply. “Again.”
I grit my teeth and reset.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I strike. He blocks. I twist. He redirects. The rhythm builds—measured, merciless.
Suddenly, the floor rushes up to meet me. Hard. Pain shoots through my back, the air knocked from my lungs.
Thane steps back, watching, waiting.
I grit my teeth and push myself up.
“You’re still trying to stop me,” he says, arms still loose at his sides, stance perfectly steady. “You’re thinking about resistance. Don’t.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, chest heaving, hands flexing at my sides. “Then what the hell am I supposed to be thinking about?”
Thane tilts his head slightly. “Not thinking,” he says. “Feeling.”
I let out a sharp breath. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”
“You rely too much on force. Too much on trying to meet strength with strength.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “You won’t be the strongest opponent on the battlefield. Not physically. So stop fighting like someone who is.”
I glare at him, but he’s already shifting into position again.
“Again,” he says.
I breathe out, setting my feet, pushing through the ache of my muscles. This time, when he strikes, I let the motion carry through me, past me, redirecting instead of stopping.
Thane adjusts at the last second, his body twisting to keep himself from losing his footing. It’s slight, but I see the weight shift, the barest misstep. It’s progress.
I don’t have time to feel satisfied before he moves again, faster this time.
I try to anticipate, to adjust, to flow with it, but he’s already correcting, already shifting the momentum, already sending me straight to the mat.
Again.
I let out a frustrated growl, pushing up onto my elbows. “I swear to the gods, you enjoy this.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—but this time, it doesn’t stop there. It curves, just slightly, into something rarely seen on Thane’s face.
A smile. A real one.
I blink, momentarily forgetting the ache in my back. “The Warlord smiles. Who knew?”
His amusement lingers. “I enjoy watching you improve,” he says.
I roll my eyes, pushing myself the rest of the way up. “That makes one of us.”
Thane extends a hand down to me, still measuring.
I hesitate for half a second—just long enough to remind myself that I’ll probably end up on the ground again soon—before gripping his forearm.
His hand is warm, steady, calloused from years of wielding weapons. He pulls me up with effortless strength, like helping me stand is no different from lifting a blade. His cedar-smokey aroma drifts to me.
My eyes linger on his arm a moment too long.
For all the Elemental gods—I need to shake this off!
I shake out shoulders, already feeling the soreness creeping in.
“Again?” I ask dryly.
His lips twitch again, almost another smile. “Again,” he says.
Each time, I get a little closer. A little faster. A little more fluid. Until, finally, I guide the motion away, redirecting his force instead of trying to stop it. And for the first time, Thane stumbles. Barely more than a shift in his footing.
But I see it. And so does he. I blink at him, breathing hard, waiting for his reaction.
“Good,” he says. “Again.”
This time, I don’t argue.
A few days later, I’m sparring with Jarek, sweat stinging my eyes as I block another strike.