Page 76 of Black Wing and Shadows
Jackson was a natural at these skills. Rope climb? He did it with ease. Gap jump? Flawless. He navigated the logs as if he were born to them, ending with a burst of speed that made Quillet raise an eyebrow.
Finally, it was my turn. The rope burned my palms almost immediately, but I forced my legs into the rhythm Sadie drilled into me. The angled ropes were definitely tougher—each reach pushed me to my limit. The first gap? I barely caught the ledge, pulling myself up with a grunt. My fingertips screamed on the stone grips, but I didn’t let go.
The logs swung erratically, appearing faster due to my shorter frame. I darted in quick bursts, heart pounding, and reached the ladder, climbing swiftly. The ramp’s five-foot gap almost knocked me down as my boots slipped on the landing, but I pushed through the last rope lattice. When my hands gripped the final stone and I stepped onto the narrow bridge, my chest burned fiercely, yet I had completed the climb.
We didn’t cheer or shout—just shared exhausted smiles. Eight weeks. One teammate lost. And each of us had crossed that bridge. Waiting at the top were all the Wing Commanders—Corson, Verlander, and Cusik. The three wing Executive Officers were also there. All of them had stopwatches, each timing someone differently. “Your overall squad placement will be announced closer to Bonding Day. Great job, Electric’s first squad,” Corson said.
***
The week off drifted by in a haze of late mornings and slow days. No drills, no lectures, no endless hours under the sun until your skin felt like leather.Except for the time we completed the Flier’s Rite of Passage. Otherwise, it was just… breathing space.
We relaxed in the commons more than usual, played cards until the pile of coins in the center of the table was more about bragging rights than actual money, and wandered into Chalahana again—this time without any brawls or bruises. Some afternoons, we sprawled out on the grass near the flight field, watching the dragons soaring high above, their wings catching the sunlight in flashes of gold and fire.
Every night, just before the barracks fell silent, Zane slipped into my room. Sometimes he’d rove in, sometimes he’d take the risk of the walk, but he always came. We’d talk about nothing and everything until our words blurred into yawns, and then he’d pull me close, his arm heavy around my waist.
It wasn’t always about heat and tangled limbs—though there was plenty of that. It was how he grew still when I settled against him, his breathing slowing first, as if he trusted me enough to sleep peacefully. Perhaps, during the hours between midnight and dawn, I trusted him the same way. By week’s end, I was more rested than I’d been in months—and more entangled with him than I liked to admit. The sadness that had been knocking at my mind’s door had vanished.
Every cadet began the day in our first class, held in the stadium classroom. Professor Melamora stood in the middle of the speaking platform, flanked by Professor Fogg and Professor Pascal. Melamora’s presence attracted all eyes to her, despite the room's size.
“I trust you all remember the events from a few nights ago,” she started, her voice easily reaching the highest tier. “The young red that disrupted the courtyard.”
A murmur spread through the room.
Professor Fogg stepped forward, his gravelly tone cutting through the noise. “That was no random disturbance. Two days earlier, the fledgling’s mother—a veteran red—was killed in combat alongside her bonded Rider. Both died defending against another coastal attack.”
Professor Pascal’s voice softened Fogg’s bluntness. “Dragons mourn. They mourn deeply. When a dragon dies, their lineage often feels this loss. In the case of a fledgling, the impact can be… severe.”
Melamora’s gaze moved from section to section, her expression unreadable. “This young red is back in the vale with the elders. Do not mistake grief for harmlessness.”
I sank back into my seat, the image of the little red still burned into my mind from that night. Frantic, searching—not reckless, but desperate. And now I understand why. Melamora’s words echoed in my mind, the murmurs of the other cadets fading into the background. Do not mistake grief for harmlessness.
I kept my eyes fixed on the pale wood of the bench in front of me, but my mind had already gone somewhere else. Somewhere colder.
When my mother died, the world didn’t pause to explain what happened. There was no warning—just a sudden change from one moment to the next, her laughter still echoing from the night before, and then—silence.
I remembered the hollow ache in my chest, as if something had been scooped out and could never be restored. I’d stare at doorways, hoping she would walk through, and at shadows, thinking I’d see her figure. Alex and Lili had held me during the first nights, but even their comfort wasn’t enough to silence the panic that awakened me in the dark.
The young red... she must be going through that same pain, but probably worse. Dragons didn’t just lose their mothers—they lost the connection, a heartbeat shared so naturally it was like breathing. And I understood exactly what that was like.
“A final note before we move on,” Professor Pascal’s voice cut through my thoughts, smooth but easily carrying across the tiers. “General Blackcreek returned to campus the next day with his bonded dragon, Kim. As most of you know, Kim is an elder—one of the most experienced living dragons in the vale. Together, she and the other elders were able to subdue the young red without injury and place her into a deep, restorative sleep.”
The low murmur that followed was immediate. My head snapped up before I could stop myself.
My father.
“She will stay in this condition for a while, giving her body and mind time to recover from the trauma. Since we don’t get involved in dragon—or flier—affairs and they are secretive, we only know what dragons have told their fliers. She’s no longer a concern,” Pascal said.
I sat back slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears. The image of him—of them—flying together across the sky was almost too vivid. Kim’s massive wings blocking out the sun, my father’s steady hands holding on… and that little red, curling inward under the weight of grief she couldn’t yet understand.
The pain in my chest persisted, now mixed with curiosity, unease, and unanswered questions. My father had been here for over a week—yet not a single word had passed between us. That realization struck me hard, like a stone in my stomach. It wasn’t unexpected—he had recently mastered the art of absence—but it still hurt. He could cross oceans, calm dragons, and face chaos head-on, yet he couldn’t spare a moment to meet my gaze. Part of me actually preferred it that way.
Because beneath all the formal respect and titles, I still believed he had been involved in my mother’s death. Too many unanswered questions. Too many coincidences that weren’t. Now he was back, walking these same halls, his shadow brushing mine without ever touching. And for the first time in months, the air felt too tight in my lungs. Then again, they didn’t say he was still here. Perhaps he had come and left shortly after.
The remaining current events proceeded as the instructors reviewed protocols for managing another incident and our respective responsibilities. They covered the new schedules sent out this morning to all cadets, which modified some class times. Our platoon continued to spar three days a week on the same days. However, the groups and periods changed.
The gym was a cavern filled with echoing voices and scuffed mat floors, the air heavy with anticipation. This was our second class ofthe day—sparring—and Instructor Gile’s rules were ingrained in every cadet’s mind. Once called out, you fought until someone tapped, someone dropped, or someone didn’t get back up. No exceptions.
“Kaelen Veyth calls Auriella Blackcreek.”
