The Wings That Bind (Bloodwing Academy #3)

Prologue

NEVILLE

A heavy snow was falling, whirling outside the windows and lashing the panes, blocking out light and making it seem closer to midnight than a mere four o’clock in the afternoon.

Along the stone corridor, a small creature padded along, their little frame replete with self-assurance.

The air carried the scent of sausages and cinnamon, both flavors they were rather fond of.

The smells of cooking were good ones. They helped to cover over the scent of fear.

Fear had been thick in the halls of Bloodwing these past few days.

Not merely the sharp, panicked fear of students who had forgotten to study for exams, but a deeper kind.

Closer to terror. The kind that tasted like blood and heartbreak.

Neville had known that kind of fear before. He didn’t like it.

Continuing on towards the kitchen, he passed unnoticed—as he always did unless he decided it should be otherwise. Professors glanced past him. Students stepped around him, almost without realizing it.

Leaping onto a polished wooden banister, he scampered down its slope—half sliding, half running—before jumping onto the ancient flagstone floor at the bottom.

From there it was a short jaunt into the kitchens.

They were busy at this time of night. Preparations were well underway for supper, which would be carried up to the students in the refectory hall.

Professors had their own table in the refectory, but many preferred to dine in their chambers.

Trays would be carried up to them. Dozens and dozens of servants all working in harmony three times a day to bring food to the denizens of the academy.

Ignoring a pair of undercooks arguing at one of the hearths about whether or not the beef was properly cooked, the fluffin approached the spot where a tall thin woman was stirring a pot with a grim expression.

Her eyes were narrowed as she watched the undercooks quarrel.

In another moment, Neville knew she would lose her temper and snap at them.

He made a low chirping noise, with just the hint of a purr, and the woman turned around instantly, looking down at him, the expression of annoyance falling off her face to be replaced by one of pleasure.

“Ah, the little lord has arrived for his supper.” She was already reaching for a plate behind her. “Well, here you go, milord. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

Neville gave another chirp of appreciation before turning his full attention to the plate. Slices of sausage. A butter biscuit. Some greens—which he disliked. Still, he ate them with dignity, knowing they held necessary nutrition.

He held very still as he sensed the woman look around carefully, then drop to her knees as he finished licking the plate. Reaching out a hand, she gently ran it over his head.

She really was a soft-hearted human, despite her tendency to snap at her underlings.

Neville licked her wrist in thanks, looking up at her and meeting her gaze, letting his eyes shine wide with his appreciation.

The cook’s lips parted slowly, and a small smile appeared.

Thus the exchange was concluded. The cook would have a more peaceful evening.

She would be less bothered by the silly mistakes made by those around her. A little more inclined towards grace.

As for all those around her? Neville slipped out of the kitchen. For the rest of them, it was as if he had never been there at all.

While he was in the lower recesses of the castle, he decided to explore.

There were deeper areas, below the kitchens.

Areas which frightened him and over which he had no purview.

Then there were areas riskier to visit, farther afield from the hub of academy life, but which he nevertheless knew fell within the boundaries of his domain.

And as with all domains, inspections must be conducted.

Back through the kitchen door. Down another corridor.

A turn, then another. The walk became monotonous.

The passages were unlit. Few came this way.

Another turn and he was in an area of the castle few knew even existed.

A shortcut. There was a prickle behind his ears.

He didn’t wish to go this way, to visit this part of his kingdom.

Bad things lay this way. But it was his responsibility.

Sometimes not even the darkest shadows could be turned away from. The light must go everywhere.

Another prickle. His fur twitched. A slight pressure. A nudge.

Nyxaris. The dragon’s presence poked—like a cool nose touching his. An almost teasing gesture. The dragon was bored. Lonely. Morose. Not for the first time, nor probably the last.

The little fluffin gave his fur a shake. There was a dilemma there, a puzzle to be solved. But first, the shadows called, and he would answer.

A mouse scrambled by, and the fluffin gave a playful pounce.

The mouse ran on, shaking, but intact as it reached a crack in the wall and skittered inside.

Neville snuffled, twitching his nose. On a different occasion, the mouse might have been a tasty snack, but he had been well-fed too recently.

He felt a kindness towards the humble little creature and let it go on its way.

The air chilled. A shift. There were places on the border of his realm where the stones felt colder than the rest. Where there was a wrongness. The Black Keep was one of these.

He walked for a while, then entered a space behind a cracked column and vanished into a narrow, dark place no map remembered and no blightborn or highblood had walked.

Eventually, there was light, a shard of warmth peeking out from behind a tapestry.

Neville nudged his nose against the hanging, moving forward for a better look.

There, sitting on the edge of the bed. The girl was there again. The one with the broken heart. Her hair gleamed dully in the firelight, unwashed and uncombed. Her eyes were listless, but she did not weep.

Neville hesitated. The urge to enter and go to her was very strong.

There was something there. Something that had been, something that would be.

He felt it very powerfully. Then a voice, coming from just outside the room.

Harsh, guttural, yet still smooth as poisoned honey. Everything about it was wrong.

Neville growled, a faint sound low in his throat.

He knew it was only a small indulgence. He would not engage the wrongness.

He could not. He knew the extent of his own abilities too well for that.

He had done enough to ease his own mind, simply by confirming it was still indeed there.

Existing where it had no right to. But there were many things wrong that still endured.

This was a time when fluffins were needed in abundance.

Yet as far as he knew, he was the only one.

The nudge came again. Nyxaris. The dragon had no idea where Neville was, yet he sensed … something. Enough to send a warning. Neville backed up, the tapestry swinging back into place, the girl disappearing.

His fur bristled. He turned. Not from fear, no. He really feared very little. He had been afraid once, very afraid. Then the red girl had come. She had found him on the beach. She had brought him home.

Still, some ancient instinct—a kind of animal wisdom—told him this was neither the place nor the time for fluffins.

Neville vanished into the dark, paws silent on the stone, the taste of sausage still sweet on his sandpaper pink tongue, and the feeling of the girl’s sorrow still lingering behind him.