Chapter 14 Raven
Raven
Archery—the bane of my existence.
Green fletchings and a blue background create a visual nightmare I can’t escape.
For whatever reason, when those two colors are combined, I can’t see them with either my human or dragon eyes.
It’s like trying to spot shadows in absolute darkness.
The arrows might as well be invisible, and the targets blur into meaningless smears of color.
Thorne and Orpheus are the only ones who know about my issue—and that I’m mostly deaf on my right side. The silence in that ear is a constant companion, like having cotton stuffed permanently in place. Sounds from that direction come muffled and distant, if they come at all.
I can’t let anyone else know there’s something wrong with me.
A huffing laugh escapes my lips, bitter, and self-deprecating, as I move to the far right of the gathering.
This position lets me hear everything Abraxis says through my good ear, his gruff voice carrying clearly across the stone courtyard.
“We’ve switched it up today. We will be using moving targets and alternating colors.” The announcement sends ice through my veins. I catch the moment Abraxis’s scarred face turns toward Corvis, and when Corvis nods in understanding, my stomach drops like a stone.
Fuck. He would be the one to catch on about the color issue.
His silver eyes are too observant, too knowing.
I look down and away, drawing in a deep breath that tastes of autumn air and my growing panic.
The familiar scent of bowstring wax and leather fills my nostrils as I try to steady my fraying nerves.
My eyes search the courtyard desperately, and there’s Mom sitting on a beam of the vertical training gauntlet like a statue of judgment. Her golden eyes track every movement below with predatory focus. Son of a bitch. At least my birth father isn’t here to witness my inevitable humiliation.
I glance toward the academy entrance, and my heart sinks further. Well, fuck me running—he’s here too. Thauglor’s massive frame fills the doorway, his sapphire eyes so like mine already focused on the archery range with paternal concern.
Per usual, as soon as you shoot, you can leave and go to lunch.
The rule that usually feels like freedom now feels like a countdown to execution.
I watch the other students take their turns, their arrows singing through the air with confident whistles.
I tally their mental scores as the session progresses, each successful shot a reminder of what I can’t do.
My stomach knots tighter with each passing minute, the anxiety building like pressure in a sealed vessel.
The courtyard smells of nervous sweat and determination, but all I can smell is my fear.
Thankfully, we have twenty-four first years this year, so I can hang back and delay the inevitable for a while longer.
When the last students leave with confident strides and satisfied expressions, the courtyard falls eerily quiet except for the soft whisper of wind through the stone archways.
I string my bow with hands that tremble slightly, the familiar action providing little comfort.
The bowstring settles into the nocking point with a soft snap that sounds unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Are you okay?” Abraxis asks, his voice gentle despite his intimidating appearance. The concern in his tone makes my chest tight with emotion.
Sadly, I glance up at him and shake my head. The movement feels like admitting defeat before the battle has even begun. My biggest secret is about to be exposed to everyone who matters, and there’s nowhere left to hide.
The first target pops up with a mechanical whir—white against the stone backdrop. I nail the bullseye with authority; the arrow burying itself in the center with a satisfying thunk. For a moment, hope flickers in my chest like a candle flame.
The second target rises, and my world tilts sideways.
Green fletching against a blue background—my personal nightmare made manifest. I hesitate, squinting and trying to focus on where the center should be.
The colors blur together like watercolors in rain, indistinguishable and mocking.
I hear my arrow hit something. The impact is hollow and wrong, but I have no clue where it landed.
The third target appears—red against white. I strike the center without hesitation, muscle memory and training taking over where vision serves me well. The arrow flies true and strong, embedding itself with precision that proves my skill when I can actually see what I’m aiming at.
The fourth and final target rises, and I know it’s over.
Blue—that cursed color that turns my world into impressionist chaos.
Closing my sapphire eyes, I shift my vision to my dragon’s sight, desperate for any advantage.
It’s still no help. The enhanced predator vision that should give me every advantage fails me completely when confronted with this specific combination.
I aim the best I can, using memory and instinct rather than sight, and let the arrow fly. The string snaps against my leather bracer with finality.
I’m fighting the tears that want to roll down my cheeks, hot and shameful.
My disability has been exposed like a festering wound laid bare for all to see.
The shame almost consumes me, a black tide of self-loathing that threatens to pull me under.
I lower my head and close my eyes, hearing my heartbeat thunder in my chest like war drums.
The sound of approaching footsteps comes from my left side—the only direction I can hear them from. It’s not until I feel a warm hand on my right shoulder that I turn to face them, finally catching the words they’ve been saying to my deaf ear.
Fuck. Both secrets exposed in one devastating moment.
Corvis’s silver eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Without warning, he pulls me into a hug, his arms strong and warm around my trembling frame. His scent surrounds me—baked bread and ancient stone and something uniquely him that makes my dragon purr despite my misery.
That simple act of acceptance makes the dam break free.
I cry against his shoulder, my tears soaking into his shirt as weeks of fear and shame pour out of me.
The sobs wrack my body like physical blows, releasing everything I’ve been holding back.
Between the terror of being discovered, the crushing shame of not being perfect like Mom, and now everyone knowing I have disabilities, I don’t feel fit to have a mate.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Corvis whispers next to my good ear, his breath warm against my skin. His voice carries hurt and concern in equal measure.
“I may as well be euthanized. I’m damaged.
” The words taste like ashes in my mouth as I pull away from his comforting embrace.
I look into my mother’s golden eyes, expecting to see disappointment but finding something else entirely.
“I can’t see blues and greens in combination.
I’m deaf on my right side. I don’t deserve to have a mate or the crown. ”
My eyes find Klauth as he steps closer, his massive frame moving with careful grace. The afternoon light catches the silver threading through his dark hair.
“I can’t see oranges and yellows,” my birth father says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of shared understanding.
“I’ve been deaf on my left side since I hatched,” Klauth adds, and it’s only now that I realize he does what I do—positions himself so his good ear faces the crowds. The revelation hits me like a physical blow.
“How long?” Mom asks as she moves closer, her movements predatory grace disguised as maternal concern.
“Always. Orpheus figured it out first when we were children.” The memory is bittersweet, of my brother’s patient understanding when I didn’t respond to calls from my right side.
“Then Thorne, when I didn’t hear her approach from my right side during training.
The color thing has been just as long.” I glance down at the stone beneath my feet and exhale roughly, the sound scraping raw in my throat.
“She can’t be sent to a fort with her disabilities,” Abraxis says, and the words hit like a death sentence. I wrap my wings tighter around myself, creating a cocoon of black membrane and despair.
The practical implications crash over me like an icy wave. No military service means no honor, no purpose, no way to prove my worth. I’m a dragon princess who can’t fight properly, an heir who’s fundamentally flawed.
I turn to my birth father and take his large hands in mine, feeling the calluses from decades of sword work. “Tell my mate he deserves better than me.” The words break something inside my chest as I speak them. I kiss his bearded cheek, tasting salt and sorrow, then launch up into the air.
My wings carry me higher and higher, each powerful beat taking me further from the shame and judgment below.
When I’m high enough that I’m just a speck against the clouds, I shift.
My skull dragon explodes into existence, black scales gleaming in the afternoon sun.
I roar my pain into the sky, the sound echoing across the landscape like thunder.
The raw anguish pours out of me in waves of sound that speak to every heartbreak I’ve ever known.
I didn’t tell anyone, but weeks ago I dug myself a den behind the oasis Dad gifted Mom. It’s my secret sanctuary, carved into the rock where no one thinks to look.
It feels like forever to reach my hidden refuge, my dragon form cutting through the air with desperate speed.
I shift before landing so I touch down gently on human feet, my boots silent against the sandy ground.
The oasis blooms around me in a riot of colors and scents—jasmine and honeysuckle masking any trace of my presence.