FORTY-EIGHT
WIND-CARVER
One of the first lessons we’re taught as Air Clan scholars is this: nothing is created without intent.
Especially in design. Form must serve function.
Art is never just decoration—it carries meaning, message, purpose.
Nothing is wasted. We study the quiet power of subtlety, knowing that the most effective espionage lies in what goes unnoticed.
A curve, a color, a pattern—all can conceal or convey.
We are trained to look deeper, to question every detail.
Design becomes an elegant way to send a message—covert, clever, and precise.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
We step into the dining hall, and the scent hits me all at once—smoked bacon, fresh bread, spiced tea. My stomach clenches in response, a sharp reminder of how hard we pushed this morning.
The hall is alive with dragon riders spilling in from the fields, sweat-slick and starving, laughter and exhaustion threading through the air. Thane had us up at dawn, drilling formation runs, dives, and endurance flights until every muscle burned.
And never at the same time.
He changes the schedule constantly—early mornings, late nights, midday drills that bleed into dusk. Nothing predictable. Nothing comfortable. Because in war, there’s no waiting until you’re ready. No promise of sleep. No guarantee of a next meal.
You fight when you have to. Simple as that.
I glance toward the long wooden tables, already crowded with platters of eggs, thick-cut bacon, and grilled sausages.
Crusty hearth-baked bread steams beside bowls of berries and sliced citrus.
Aged cheese sits beneath the golden light, nestled beside dishes of honeycomb.
Riders pass mugs of black tea and dark coffee hand to hand, the scent of spice drifting through the room.
Despite the fatigue dragging at my limbs, the sight alone sends a fresh surge of energy through me. We drop onto an empty bench, our squad gathering naturally. Around us, plates clatter, boots scrape against stone, and conversations overlap in the easy rhythm of warriors sharing a meal.
My plate is piled high with eggs, bacon, and bread still warm from the oven. My stomach tightens, grateful and greedy all at once.
We never went hungry back in the village. There was always enough.
But enough was different from this.
I grew up measuring meals by what could be spared, not by what I needed. Second helpings were rare, and taking one meant wondering who might go without.
Here, the tables are always full.
After hours of flying, sparring, and channeling until my body trembles, I eat until I’m satisfied instead of stopping when I think I should.
Thane settles on my left, Garrick on my right. Rian and Jarek slide in across from us, already reaching for the nearest platters. The rest of the squad follows, slipping in with the same bone-deep exhaustion and easy camaraderie.
I lift my fork.
Arms wrap tight around my neck. A loud, sloppy kiss lands on my cheek, and a tumble of red hair falls into my face.
Lyra.
“Good morning!” Lyra says cheerily, her voice bright and unapologetic.
She wedges herself between Garrick and me, utterly unfazed by the lack of space, and immediately starts stealing from his plate.
In between bites, she leans over and plants a quick kiss on his lips before nabbing a piece of bacon.
Garrick just huffs a laugh and shakes his head as though this is the most normal thing in the world.
“How were flight maneuvers?” she asks, popping another piece of bacon into her mouth.
Across the table, Rian exhales through his nose.
“Well, Thane had us run the Wedge Formation right out of the gate. No warm-up. Just, ‘Get in position or die.’”
He deepens his voice in a grim parody of Thane’s tone.
Jarek chuckles. “Some of us were still half-asleep.”
“Jarek definitely was,” Garrick grumbles, reaching for his mug.
“I was adjusting to the wind current,” Jarek replies flatly.
“You were drifting out of formation.”
“Minor details.”
Rian ignores them. “Then came the Spiral, which should have been smooth, but someone—” he glances at Garrick “—overshot his arc and nearly crashed into Roran.”
“That was not my fault,” Garrick says, pointing with his fork. “Roran veered left when he was supposed to hold the line.”
Jarek lets out a short bark of laughter. “So, naturally, your solution was to dive straight at him?”
“I was improvising.”
“You were barreling toward disaster,” Rian deadpans.
Garrick shrugs, unfazed. “And yet, no disaster.”
Jarek turns to Lyra. “See? This is why we all need to eat before training. A starving Garrick is a reckless Garrick.”
Lyra laughs, propping her chin on her hand. “So what I’m hearing is the squad’s sharpening up, except Garrick, who’s a danger to everyone when he’s hungry.”
Garrick jabs his fork into his scrambled eggs. “Sounds accurate.”
I hide a smile behind my cup, listening as their voices overlap, sharp jabs softened by laughter. This kind of teasing can’t be manufactured. It’s earned through shared hardship, trust, and time.
These bonds aren’t just forged on the battlefield.
They’re built here too, in stolen food, sarcasm, and the quiet moments between the war.
I glance to my left.
Thane is watching them. His shoulders are relaxed, his attention drifting easily between conversations.
He notices me watching.
“What?” The word drifts through our bond.
“I like seeing you smile,” I answer, the thought slipping from my mind to his like a breath.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand slips through my hair before trailing down my back, the touch so familiar it steals my breath. Then, without ceremony, he picks up his fork, spears a piece of fruit, pops it into his mouth, and smiles.
“Morning!”
I glance to my right and see Kieran approach the table. Rian and Jarek shift over, making space. Kieran carefully sets a blade on the table, then places a plate in front of him and drops onto the bench across from Lyra, like he’s always belonged here.
The blade is smaller than the ones Thane, Garrick, and Rian carry. Slender, curved, and built for speed rather than brute force. I haven’t seen it before. It looks out of place beside the heavier longswords and broad blades favored by the Fire Clan.
Kieran notices me studying it and raises a brow. He taps the hilt with two fingers before drawing it in a single smooth motion.
“Wind-carver,” he says. “That’s what the Air Clan calls it.”
His fingers trace the blade’s edge.
“Short. Curved. Made for quick, precise strikes. It’s not about strength. It’s about speed, agility . . . knowing where to cut.”
He picks it up, spinning it once between his fingers with fluid ease. The motion looks casual even though it isn’t.
“The Fire Clan likes to crush their enemies.” His blue-silver eyes glint. “We prefer to cut them down before they see us coming.”
The blade flashes in the light before settling back onto the table.
“A longsword will wear you out in a drawn-out fight. This?” He gestures toward the weapon. “This keeps you moving.”
Garrick shakes his head. “So you’re saying you all carry tiny swords because you don’t have the stamina for a real fight?”
Kieran doesn’t miss a beat. “No. We just prefer to win before we start sweating.”
Jarek laughs, clapping Kieran on the shoulder. “Careful, Garrick. He might cut you down before you see it coming.”
Their banter continues, easy and familiar. I hide a smile behind my cup, letting the sound of it settle around me.
Having never seen a blade like this, my attention returns to it. It glints in the morning light, catching something just beneath the curve of the hilt. An engraving.
I lean in, frowning, to get a better look.
A swirling gust of wind encircles an open book, a quill suspended in midair. Beneath it, almost hidden within the design, I catch something else.
A flicker of flame, subtle and nearly concealed within the swirling etches of wind.
Kieran’s family crest, most likely.
But a strange sense of familiarity washes over me.
The flame. The shape of it. The way it’s folded into the design, not as decoration, but as something meant to be overlooked.
I’ve seen it before. I brush my fingers over the engraving, my pulse quickening.
Where?
A thread of unease winds through me. Thane feels it immediately and his eyes cut to me.
“What is it?” His voice slips through the bond, quiet but firm.
I glance at him, then back at the blade resting on the table. “This crest. It’s familiar. I’ve seen it before.”
His gaze drops to the engraving, his expression unreadable, but I feel his attention sharpen through the bond.
“Yes,” he says, certainty threading through his mind-voice. “That’s Kieran’s family crest. He comes from one of the oldest families in the realm.”
Curiosity brushes through our connection.
“Why?”
I stare at the blade. The swirling gust of wind encircling the open book. The poised quill. And there, nearly hidden within the design, a flicker of flame.
A shiver curls through me. Recognition presses at the edges of my thoughts. Thane doesn’t press, but I feel him holding space, waiting.
I close my eyes and search the recesses of my mind. A shadow lingers at the edge of my thoughts. A book. A flame. A shape I shouldn’t recognize, and yet somehow do.
The memory doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in fragments, each piece tugging at the next. A whisper of knowing. The sense that I’m standing on the edge of something important.
I exhale, my pulse quickening. Thane remains beside me, unwavering. His presence through the bond is quiet and patient, the question still lingering between us.
I close my eyes and search the recesses of my mind. At first, there’s nothing.
Then the scent of strong tea drifts through my memory, earthy and familiar. The soft rasp of parchment turning. Page after page. A man muttering under his breath as he worked.
Valen.
The image sharpens. Stacks of notes spread across his desk. Family names. Dates. Crests sketched in hurried ink along the margins.