Chapter 28
Ahorn blast tears through the night sky as we approach the imperial palace: three sharp notes that cut through the wind's howl. I feel Zeriel’s muscles tense around me.
“What's happening?” I ask, craning my neck to look at him.
“The Imperial Approach,” he says tightly. “Stay low and follow my instructions exactly.”
Before I can ask what he means, the dragons around us break formation, scattering like startled birds. Blaise's black drake shoots upward in a vertical climb that seems to defy gravity, while another dragon spirals into a dizzying corkscrew.
“Hold on,” Zeriel commands, his voice suddenly hard with concentration. His thighs tighten against the drake's sides, and the creature responds instantly, plunging into a steep dive that makes my stomach lurch into my throat.
The ground rushes toward us at sickening speed.
I clutch the saddle's edge, knuckles white, certain we're about to crash.
But at the last possible moment, Zeriel shifts his weight, and our drake pulls up sharply, wings snapping wide to catch the air.
We skim so close to the treetops that I feel leaves brush against my feet.
“What in the hells—” I gasp, but my words are stolen by the wind as Zeriel banks hard right, sending us into a tight spiral.
Around us, the other champions execute equally impossible maneuvers.
The woman in the silver gown clings to her champion as their blue drake performs a backward somersault that seems to hang suspended at its apex.
Another drake, emerald green, weaves through a series of stone columns that I hadn't even noticed rising from the imperial gardens below.
This isn't just travel—it's a competition. A deadly aerial dance where one misstep means a fatal plunge.
“Emperor's test,” Zeriel says in my ear, his breath hot against my neck as he leans forward to adjust our trajectory. “Impress him or risk insult.”
A cascade of light bursts overhead: luminous petals of gold and violet unfolding against the dark.
The explosions come in slow, blooming waves, each one trailing a shimmer of stardust that drifts and lingers.
Crimson flares from the spires of the palace spiral like flaming comets, chased by threads of silver that crackle and split into branching trees of light.
The air hums with the orchestration of it, too precise to be mere celebration, too breathtaking to be anything but a display of control.
A flash of movement to our left snatches my attention. Blaise's black drake dives toward us, wings tucked close to its body like a predatory bird stooping to strike. For a terrifying moment, I think he means to ram us, to knock us from the sky in a fatal collision.
Zeriel sees it too. His body tenses, and he yanks the reins hard.
Our drake rolls sideways—a complete barrel roll that would have thrown me clear if not for Zeriel's arm locked around my waist. The world spins, stars and earth trading places in a nauseating blur.
My stomach heaves, but I swallow hard, determined not to embarrass myself or him.
Blaise's drake misses us by inches, the rush of air from its passage buffeting us as it streaks past.
“He's trying to kill us!” I gasp when we level out.
“No,” Zeriel says grimly. “He's trying to make me look weak. Different objective, same result if I fail.”
I glimpse Blaise's face as he banks his drake for another pass. He wears a predatory smile, cold as winter frost. This isn't just ceremony to him. It's a chance to eliminate a rival before the tournament even begins.
The other champions have noticed the deadly game unfolding. Some pull away, focusing on their own displays. Others watch with calculating eyes, assessing strengths and weaknesses like wolves sizing up prey.
“We need to respond,” Zeriel says, his voice low and controlled despite the danger. “Silence will be seen as weakness.”
He guides our drake higher, climbing until the air grows thin and cold. My fingers are numb, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Below us, the imperial palace gleams like a jewel set in black velvet, its towers and courtyards laid out in geometric precision.
“When I say now,” Zeriel murmurs, “lean back against me and don't fight what happens next.”
I nod, too breathless for words. Our drake hovers for a moment, wings beating steadily against the thin air.
“Now!”
I press back against Zeriel's chest just as he physically signals to the drake. The creature tucks its wings and plummets like a stone.
The world becomes a blur of rushing air and screaming wind. My heart hammers against my ribs, certain that this time we've gone too far, pushed too hard. We're falling faster than seems possible, the palace growing larger with terrifying speed.
But Zeriel remains steady behind me, his body tense but controlled.
One arm holds me securely while the other guides the drake with subtle pressure.
I feel the connection between them—champion and mount, moving as one, not through magic, but through brutal conditioning.
The dragon is trained to obey, to respond without resistance.
A creature mastered by physicality, not joined by will.
At what seems like the last possible second, Zeriel issues another command.
Our drake's wings snap open with a sound like canvas tearing.
The sudden deceleration is brutal, pressing me back against Zeriel with crushing force.
But instead of simply pulling out of the dive, the drake continues the movement into something else entirely—a complex spiral that carries us between two palace spires with barely inches to spare.
The maneuver is so precise, so perfectly executed, that even through my terror I recognize its brilliance. Not just skill, but artistry: a deadly ballet performed with a six-ton predator as partner.
I find myself wondering if Zeriel could have once pulled off such an impressive maneuver with his own wings.
We emerge from between the spires into open air above the main courtyard, where imperial guards stand at attention in precise rows. As we level out, Zeriel suddenly releases the reins. “My turn,” he growls, and I feel a change ripple through him, something coiled and dangerous unfurling.
My heart stops as his hand leaves the controls completely, reaching instead for something at his belt.
Below us, I realize Blaise's black drake circles, waiting. Like a predator anticipating easy prey.
In one fluid motion, Zeriel produces what I now see is a long blade, its edge gleaming in the light of the fireworks. As we hurtle downward, he extends his arm outward. Our drake's wings snap partially open, converting our freefall into a spiral that tightens around Blaise's position.
Closer. Closer. The black drake looms larger, Blaise's face contorting.
Zeriel executes the maneuver with surgical precision.
Our drake rolls clean beneath Blaise’s mount, the air between them razor-thin.
In that instant, Zeriel strikes, his blade flashing upward to slice through one of the ornamental bindings securing Blaise’s saddle. The strap flutters away, severed clean.
Not a wound. Not a fall. Just a warning. A reminder, sharp as steel: I could’ve taken more.
Our drake completes the roll and rights itself, wings snapping fully open to arrest our descent. The sudden deceleration forces the air from my lungs, but I’m too stunned to care.
Blaise's face is a mask of cold fury as he regains control of his startled mount. The black drake thrashes, disoriented by our near-miss and the flash of steel.
Zeriel doesn't pause to savor his victory.
He sheathes the blade and takes up the reins again, guiding our drake in a smooth ascent that carries us away from Blaise's position.
His breathing remains steady, controlled, as if he hadn't just performed an impossible aerial sword strike while flying inverted at breakneck speed.
“Are you insane?” I manage to gasp once I can speak again.
“Probably,” he replies, but there's a note of grim satisfaction in his voice. “But effective.”
The other champions complete their aerial displays, each trying to outdo the last. One in purple guides her golden drake through a series of tight loops that end with a flourish directly above the emperor's private balcony.
A champion from the Eastern Isles performs a maneuver where his pale drake seems to dissolve into mist before reforming with a thunderclap that echoes across the palace grounds.
But none match the lethal precision of what Zeriel just accomplished: evading a direct challenge while demonstrating superior control and finesse.
As we circle for landing, I notice imperial courtiers lining the balconies, their faces upturned to watch our arrival. Among them stand figures in elaborate masks of beaten gold and silver: members of the emperor's inner circle, permitted to observe but never to be fully seen.
One by one, the dragons descend toward a massive landing platform that extends from the palace's eastern wing.
Servants rush about with torches, illuminating landing markers carved into the stone.
The champions execute their final approaches, their mounts settling onto designated positions with barely a sound.
Zeriel brings us down last, our drake landing with surprising gentleness despite its size. As the creature folds its wings, I feel a subtle tremor run through its frame. The same resigned settling I've felt from the Ironhold's captive beasts. The moment of flight-born freedom is over.
Servants appear immediately, rushing forward with lacquered mounting blocks and ceremonial attendants. Every gesture rehearsed, every step part of the spectacle.
Zeriel slides down first, then turns and raises his arms to assist me.
I place my hands on his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath the formal attire as he lifts me down.
His hands at my waist are steady, impersonal, but I catch something in his eyes—a flicker of the wildness that had emerged during our aerial duel.
It's fading, but not before I notice how his pupils remain slightly dilated, his breathing still elevated from more than just physical exertion.
“Well done,” he murmurs, steadying me as my feet meet the stone. “Didn’t think you’d trust me to hold you.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” I reply, still struggling to steady my breath.
He offers his arm formally, and I reluctantly take it, aware of the eyes watching our every move.