The storm wing watches me intently, something new in itsgaze—recognition, perhaps. It makes that chirruping sound again, softer this time, almost like a question.
Without thinking, I mimic the sound: a clicking at the back of my throat I never knew I could produce. The dragon's eyes widen, and it responds with a similar call.
“How did you do that?” Zeriel asks, his voice barely audible.
“I don't know,” I breathe.
The storm wing presses closer to the bars, its posture changing from wary to curious. It extends one wing slightly, the membranes catching the torchlight in iridescent patterns.
“Try touching it,” Zeriel says, his earlier caution seemingly forgotten in the face of this development.
I hesitate, my body still vibrating with the aftershock of that strange connection. The first contact was overwhelming. Would touching it directly be even more intense?
“Easy for you to suggest,” I whisper, but even as I say it, my hand is already moving back toward the bars, drawn by something beyond conscious thought.
The storm wing remains still, watching with those intelligent eyes as my fingers extend toward its snout. I can feel Zeriel's tension behind me, his breath held, his body coiled to pull me back if necessary.
My fingertips make contact with scales—smooth and warm. The sensation is immediate but different this time—not the overwhelming flood of the blood connection, but something more controlled, like a conversation rather than a shout.
Images flow between us—gentler now, more coherent. I see the dragon's memory of hatching, of its first flight before it was captured, of the stars from high above the mountains. In return, it seems to see fragments of my life—the Lower Wards, my mother's face, the moment of my capture.
“It's... listening,” I murmur, astonished. “Not just hearing. Understanding.”
“What are you showing it?” Zeriel asks.
“I'm not sure I'm in control of that,” I admit. “It's taking what it wants.”
The storm wing makes a soft rumbling sound, almost like purring. Its pupils have dilated fully, black pools rimmed with sapphire blue. Something passes between us—not quite words, but intention. A recognition of kinship despite our different forms.
“We need to test this further,” Zeriel says, his voice shifting from curiosity to calculation so quickly I almost get whiplash. He pulls me back from the bars, breaking my connection with the storm wing. The dragon lets out a soft, protesting noise.
“Other breeds,” he continues, already scanning the surrounding pens with new intensity. “Try the fire drake. We’ll see if your connection extends to all dragons or if it's limited to certain types.”
I rub my palm where the blood had been, feeling strangely hollow now that the connection has broken.
“And how exactly do you think this could help you win the tournament?” I ask irritably, rubbing my palm.
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “As I said, that’s what we’re here to discover.”
He leads me to another enclosure, this one housing a red-scaled fire drake with golden spines. The creature seems agitated, pacing its confines and occasionally snapping at shadows.
“Champions rely on brute force and dominance techniques for the dragon trials,” Zeriel continues, uncorking the vial again. “It's effective enough, but unpredictable. A true connection, though... that would be unprecedented.”
“So I'd be your secret weapon,” I say flatly. “Your actual dragon whisperer.”
“Careful,” he murmurs, that glint in his eye again. “You almost sound proud.”
The fire drake notices us and immediately charges the bars, releasing a jet of flame that stops just short of where we stand. Iinstinctively step back, but Zeriel's steel grip on my shoulder keeps me from retreating fully.
“This one's more aggressive,” he observes.
“Astounding insight,” I mutter. “Maybe you should try standing here instead.”
A flicker touches his mouth. “Why would I, when you’re doing it for me?”
“Did your parents never teach you manners?” I ask.
He ignores my comment, eyes fixed on the dragon. “This one’s perfect for testing control.”
