Thaelyn tightened her gloves as she approached Nyxariel. The dragon lowered slightly to allow her rider to mount. The cool blue scales shimmered faintly in the morning light, and as Thaelyn pressed her palm to the sigil at the dragon’s neck, she felt it again, that sense of being watched from beyond. Not by soldiers. Not by spies. By something older. Hungrier.
“Storms don’t always roar when they come,”Nyxariel murmured into her thoughts. “Some arrive as silence first. That is what we ride through now.”
Thaelyn mounted smoothly, securing her boots to the saddle and glancing up at Thorne. He was already astride Vornokh, his hair caught in the breeze, his eyes flickering toward her, constantly checking that she was ready. She nodded.
A single long note sounded, a signal from the tower horn.
Commander Dareth turned back toward the Queen, who stood near the highest archway of the palace wall, wrapped in layered sapphire robes with her hair braided high. Her face was calm, but her hands were clasped tightly before her. Her eyes found Commander Dareth’s. He bowed once. Then he turned to the group.
“Mount up.”
In a rush of wind and thunder, the dragons took to the air. Wings beat in unison as they rose into the grey morning sky, the mist breaking around them. Thaelyn gripped the edge of Nyxariel’s saddle and looked back only once, just long enough to see QueenElyria watching them from the edge of the tower, one hand pressed to her chest. A silent farewell. A warning unspoken.
The wind grew colder as they rose. Clouds hung low, thick, and unmoving. Every breath tasted like the storm that hadn’t come yet.
Thorne and Vornokh flew beside her, the massive black dragon gliding effortlessly through the currents. Vornokh’s wings cast long shadows across the clouds, and as the dragons slipped into formation, the silence among them deepened. Even from across the sky, she could feel Thorne’s tension coiled like wire beneath his skin.
They flew for hours, the mountains rising and falling beneath them. The sun tried to break through once or twice, but never succeeded. The light was strange, dimmed, muted, like flying through a dream that resisted waking.
Sorren flew slightly ahead, his dragon Mirra streaking through the clouds like a silent knife. Garric and Tarken took the rear, casting iceward shields with subtle flicks of power that danced like light over their wings. Brynnek kept close to Darian, whose posture remained closed, his gaze never lifting to the sky.
“Darian hasn’t said a word since we took off,” Thaelyn said over the bond to Thorne.
“He’s not ready,” Thorne answered. “He’s changed. But it hasn’t claimed him fully, not yet.”
“Something’s following,” Nyxariel whispered to her and Vornokh, the echo of her voice a ripple of thunder threading the bond. “Too far to see. But I feel it.”
Thaelyn’s fingers tightened on the reins, her knuckles pale against the leather. She glanced over her shoulder, squinting into the mass of clouds. Nothing but shifting veils of grey and white, yet her pulse quickened. Her instincts twisted like a gathering storm.
“Trust your storm,”Nyxariel murmured, her mind-voice a low hum of ancient power. “Even when it is silent.”
A growl rumbled through the air as Vornokh’s shadow swept close, his vast wings stirring the currents. “Your instincts are sharpened by fear, girl. Do not let it master you. Fear feeds what lurks in the dark.”
Thaelyn swallowed hard. “Then what is it?” she whispered, as though the wind stole her voice.
Vornokh’s mind coiled like smoke, heavy and gruff. “Not prey. Not wind. The air tastes wrong. Metallic, like blood not yet spilled”.
Nyxariel hissed, a sound that thrummed like lightning before a strike. “It presses against the Veil, seeking cracks. I know the rhythm of such steps. Shadows hunt.”
“Shadows,”Vornokh repeated, the word like stone grinding against stone. “Then it comes for me. For what I carry. And for you, storm-child.”
Thaelyn’s chest tightened. “Why me?”
“Because you burn brighter than you know,”Nyxariel answered softly. “And light calls to hunger.”
Vornokh snorted, his eyes flashing molten gold through the mist. “Let it come, then. Let it bleed on my claws and scatter beneath my fire.”
“Not fire alone will guard her,”Nyxariel cut back sharply, her storm-voice alive with tension. “The enemy has learned flame, has stolen it. They wear the ashes of what they’ve slain.”
Vornokh growled, lowering his body slightly in the air, wings adjusting to cut through the thickening clouds. “No shadow stands when I strike.”
Thaelyn pressed herself against Nyxariel’s scales, feeling the tremor of her dragon’s breath beneath her legs. “Then we fight together,” she whispered.
Nyxariel’s laughter was soft lightning, reverent and dangerous. “Together is the only way. But remember, storms are patient. They strike only when the world dares believe the sky has calmed.”
Vornokh rumbled, the sound low as distant thunder. “Patience is a blade that rusts. When I scent blood, I strike.”
Their voices clashed like storm and fire, until the bond between them thrummed so fiercely it made Thaelyn’s breath falter. She could feel them both in her chest, opposites, colliding, neither yielding.
