Aeson’s Wing moves with me, but I don’t bother asking any of them for answers. If anyone wanted me to be in the loop of what’s going on, they would have just told me. Besides, this tracks for The Horde; why be straightforward when you can be flashy?
The other commanders take a seat, but Aeson waits at the back of the box. His presence there feels like an invitation, and I let that thread of instinct tug me over to him. As I get closer, I’m able to see what appears to be a large training area below. Unease stirs in my center when I draw even with Aeson and take in the drakes all gathered in the center of the arena.
Rows and rows of them, standing in sharp formation, hands at their sides, feet together, eyes forward, and faces blank of all emotion. There must be fifty of them, mostly males, but a few females are sprinkled in too. They’re all wearing matching gear for forms: loose black pants and fitted tank tops. Dragon marks of all kinds wrap around limbs, peek out from under clothing, and decorate several shaved heads.
“Fledglings?” I ask Aeson as my eyes flit between the rows of individual soldiers.
“Flight Leaders,” he corrects. “Hoping to move up the ranks into a Wing. We put a call out a few days ago. They’ve answered it.”
Understanding washes over me, clearing away any lingering residue of doubt. A Call to Arms. This is what he meant. It’s an invitation.
“Are you filling ranks or forming a new Wing?”
My trepidation simmers to a tepid caution. I’ve heard about this kind of thing. Craith used to tell stories about the trials, contests, and sparring involved in advancing through the ranks of The Horde. He never referred to it as a Call to Arms, or knew much about dragon Wings, as wyverns were never allowed to be a part of them, but I’m instantly intrigued by whatever is happening.
“We’re forming a new Wing,” Aeson replies, his hawk-like stare keen as he surveys the turnout.
“Oh? Whose?” I ask politely, brushing my arm against his as I rise up on my tiptoes and pretend like I’m trying to get a better look at what’s happening down below.
He turns to me, and there’s an unexpected spark of satisfaction flickering across his face. “Yours,” he declares matter-of-factly, and then he glides down the stairs to the front of the box, and every head in the arena snaps up in perfect unison to greet him.
A ripple of fervent anticipation eddies through the waiting Flight Leaders, and my stomach drops.
Well, shit.
I know he said we’d address the whole Wing issue later, but I didn’t think he meant this. My irritated stare flickers over to Tove. Why do I once again feel like I’ve been set up? Did his Wing plant the owl shifter? Did they purposefully set off this whole chain reaction of trust issues just so I’d end up exactly where Aeson wants me?
Or is this all the commander’s doing? Enamor me with vows of protection and then dangle safety and trust like they’re pretty little baubles that are mine for the taking as long as they’re wrapped in a Wing-shaped package.
I force myself to inhale slowly and then exhale even slower. Nixy warned me. She said they moved fast. I knew they were cunning, but trying to anticipate all the ways they could be trapping me is going to make my head explode.
Now, if I can just get out of this Wing nonsense. The last thing I need is any more of Aeson’s spies buzzing around me, which is exactly what will happen if I don’t play this right. I need to counter his move, but how? And if I can’t, how do I use this to my advantage?
“Over the next five days, you have a chance to prove yourself,” Aeson declares, his voice booming through the arena. “It will not be easy. It will take everything you have and still demand more. Many of you will fail. And even if you succeed, you still have to be chosen for trial. This Call to Arms is a royal one. As always, the blood oath is to the death.”
A cheer goes up from the formation of drakes as though they’re celebrating the possibility of their impending death. Crazy fucking dragons. I wasn’t sold on the whole Wing idea, but I’m sure as shit not up for anything involving blood oaths and death decrees.
“Now…” Aeson bellows, a tinge of excitement echoing through the reverberation. “Show us what you’ve got. Show us what it means to be Horde! Begin!”
A roar of approval crashes through the arena, and I feel the ground under my feet tremble from the force of it. Goose bumps pebble my skin from the raw power, and I feel my own call to action pumping through my veins.
Aeson turns around and looks directly up at me. A cacophony of noise reaches our viewing box as instructors below begin to assign groups of drakes to run the various courses that have been set up around the arena. Several vid screens have materialized in front of the commanders. Some of them show live feeds of what’s happening on the ground, and others have still shots of the Flight Leaders who are participating, with their details and stats listed out. It would be an impressive setup if I had any interest in picking a winning team, which I don’t.
I can’t let this happen.
I have a Flight at home I’m responsible for, my own people to protect, and even though Aeson doesn’t know any of that, the way he’s trying to back me into a corner with this whole thing isn’t going to work for me.
I glare down at Aeson and then at the other commanders, who I realize are also now staring at me. I don’t even acknowledge Aeson’s Wing members, because fuck everyone at this point.
“No,” I assert, holding up my finger in that angry mom way that Saba uses on her kids. It always makes those vicious little wyverns listen; maybe it can work for me too.
“No to what?” Aeson asks, confused.
“No to all of it,” I declare, and then I turn and calmly walk away.
I have zero clue where I’m going, but they can run their little obstacle courses and play their Wing games all they want. I’m not going to sit here and make nice while they tie their puppet strings to me and try to force me to dance for them.
I don’t dance for anyone.
