Page 127 of Black Wing and Shadows
Esme soared straight before banking hard left without warning. My stomach lurched, the world tilting. My grip slipped on the pommel, teeth clacking together as I fought for balance, thighs screaming with the strain.
“Hold,”Esme urged, laughter bright in my head.“Feel the pull. Lean with me, not against me.”
I tried. Gods help me, I tried. The circle narrowed, the ground rushing closer as she carved another brutal arc. My braid whipped loose, eyes watering, but that time I found her rhythm, body flowing with the turn instead of fighting it.
“Closer! Tighter!” Hildegard roared from the field, his voice cutting through the thunder of wings. “If you can’t bank a circle, you’ll never survive a dive under fire! Again!”
Sylari bellowed as Erik nearly toppled sideways, clinging with both hands. Lorenzo cursed so loud that half the wing laughed when Syth’s bank slammed him against the saddle horn.
Thora and Sylivia, naturally, looked carved from perfection—circles clean, seamless, mercilessly precise.
By the fourth lap, my lungs burned, arms ached, and thighs shook with every shift of pressure. Esme’s exhilaration only climbed, her joy fizzing through me like lightning, a stark contrast to my trembling muscles.
When Hildegard finally whistled again, I sagged forward, every muscle screaming.
“Better,” Hildegard barked. “But not enough. Not yet. Remember that, if you find danger while flying home, you need to be prepared for your dragon to get you somewhere safe, and quick. See you all tomorrow.”
Esme rumbled smugly beneath me as I slid down her shoulder, legs wobbling when I hit the dirt,“you’ll thank me later.”
“For the bruises?”I groaned.
“For the wings,”she purred.
The dining hall felt hollow without the upper years. The clatter of trays echoed too loudly against the stone, and empty tables stretched like broken teeth. Unusually, Feather Wing’s usual noise was also muted, and cadets hunched close together, voices low. No one lingered long.
The afternoon passed in Professor Yan’s workshop. Chalked measurements turned into leather cuts. The stiff hides spread across the worktables. My fingers ached by the end of it, but for once the work was almost soothing—something steady in a world gone unsteady.
Professor Yan and her spouse moved tirelessly from bench to bench, correcting grips, trimming edges, reminding us that every stitch mattered. She swore that our own saddles would be done soon, and I almost believed her.
CHAPTER 43
Second Lieutenants kept first-years in the courtyard. Flight Guides, Wing Commanders, Executive Officers, and Platoon Leaders were led to the administrator's building. My chest tightened when they told us to report to the large conference room, where important decisions were made and punishments were enforced.
The space was stark and cold, with a U-shaped table dominating the center, wrapping around like an arena. At the far end, a wide table stood alone, accompanied by two enormous chairs carved from dark oak. We filled the open seats, and some stood along the walls.
At the head sat General Blackcreek—my father—and beside him Major General Kamban, their uniforms immaculate, their expressions carved from stone. The air thickened just seeing them there, command radiating like a pressure you couldn’t escape.
Brigadier General Scullin, the male who oversaw the Rider branch, leaned forward in his chair, sharp eyes cutting across the room as though daring anyone to meet them. He wasn’t alone—other brigadier generals lined the table, representing the branches I didn’t know well enough to name. Infantry, Healers, Historians, Shapeshifters, Sorcerers, and Drusearon—faces I’d only seen from a distance, all gathered under one roof.
Professor Melamora stood near the left side of the table, dark purple robes contrasting against the pale stone wall, her presence cold as iron. Professor Pascal sat closer to the right, his hands folded on the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes sharp.
The weight of them all, gathered here at once, pressed heavily on my chest. This wasn’t a lecture. This wasn’t another curfew, another list of restrictions. This was a council.
The hush that fell over the room when my father stood was absolute. Every scrape of boot leather, every cough, every nervous shuffle stopped. His presence alone pressed like a weight on my chest. My father didn’t need to raise his voice to command silence—he carried it in his blood.
“We are past the point of whispers and speculation,” he said, his tone sharp enough to cut. “Six cadets murdered. Three strung up in public as if this campus were a stage. If this continues, the campus itself will collapse from within.”
My stomach twisted. He spoke as if we were nothing but numbers on a ledger, assets to be lost.
Major General Kamban leaned forward. “The question is whether we’re facing an outside infiltrator… or a predator among the cadets themselves.”
“Among them,” Brigadier General Scullin snapped, his voice like gravel. “Who else could move so freely? Who else could silence six cadets without being noticed?” His sharp gaze swept the room, lingering on the Rider leaders.
Professor Melamora adjusted her cuffs, speaking in a cool tone. “If it is a cadet, they are highly skilled. That alone should give us pause. These murders are not random. They are calculated.”
Pascal’s reply was softer, but no less firm. “Fear is spreading faster than we can contain it. Sending the cadets home will slow the panic. But it will not stop the killings.”
My father raised a hand, and the room fell silent again. His pale eyes cut across us, merciless. “Speculation wastes time. We need the truth.”
