Page 37 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
I sit at the edge of the bed, a bad feeling washing over me. It’s aBoltgram, a type of message reserved for matters of utmost importance. Boltgrams require Bolts to tap electrical impulses into devices connected through a wire network to receivers stationed in distant locations. A certain combination of impulses represents each letter, which are then interpreted by someone trained to do so. The Bolt Signals officers hand write the message, then deliver it to the person and address indicated by the sender. Official seals are used to mark the legitimacy of the missive. Only my superiors know where I’m staying, which means the boltgram must contain orders that are most certainly accompanied by unwelcome news.
I don’t want to open it. Though I’ve been worried about the continued fight at the border, I can’t deny I’ve enjoyed the respite, short as it has been. The other Primes and I only arrived in Emberton four days ago. We flew in on our dragons for the Rite of Flight and the new Skyriders’ short training. Something tells me this reprieve from battle is about to come to an end.
Reluctantly, I break the seal and read the message. The transcription comes from Commander Voltguard herself. When I finish reading, I crumple the piece of paper, teeth grinding. With a flash of anger and a small Wind Blast, I sent the note into the fireplace, where it burns to a crisp.
Damn Screechclaws!
Quickly, I put on my uniform, repack my small suitcase, and exit the room. I set my load on the floor and stare at Skysinger Wyndward’s door as if it’s an enemy I’d rather avoid. I never cower from a fight, but what if she answers the door in some sort of lace nightgown? I’ll definitely be unable to get her out of my head then.
Goddess!
But orders are orders, and I’m supposed to gather her to begin her final training immediately. Steeling myself, I knock on the door once. I wait, looking both ways down the length of the long, empty corridor.
No response.
I knock harder.
Still no answer.
Maybe she left, decided to enjoy her last night of freedom. Relief washes over me. It turns outI ama coward.Damn!
I lean down to pick up my suitcase when the door opens. At the sight of her, I freeze. She stands there, wearing a crumpled uniform shirt, a single button fastened in the middle. The seam reaches mid-thigh, leaving her long shapely legs exposed. They’re tan, strong, and deliciously smooth. But it’s the wideYthe shirt forms on her chest that captures my full attention. It dips tantalizingly low, a flat valley between the peaks of her perfectly round breasts, which tent the shirt to visible points.
My mouth goes dry. It takes me a moment too long to glance up and meet her gaze. A flush of embarrassment rises up my neck, a foolish sensation I haven’t experienced since my first illicit encounter with a girl during my teenage years. However, when I take in her full-blown pupils and the absent quality of her expression, my embarrassment is replaced by a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Skysinger Wyndward, are you all right?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She only continues to stare blankly, gaze pointed straight ahead, drilling into my chest. A door opens at the end of the long corridor and, without taking any time to process my decision, I grab my suitcase, push Skysinger Wyndward into the room, and close the door behind us. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see me in front of her room, the Sky Order’s High Prime standing in a compromising position with a scantily clad woman, one of my subordinates no less.
It isn’t until I’m alone with her in the gloom of her chamber that I realize I’ve put us in an even more compromising situation.
It’s not a situation unless someone sees you leave the room, Vaylen.
Besides, nothing is going to happen.
I glance around. Scraggly shadows dance on the floor, cast by a tree outside the window. Her bed is in complete disarray, as if a tornado spun the covers around. Her uniform lies discarded on the floor, not an encouraging sight. They teach us better at the Academy, behaviors that are required in the barracks. But I suppose I can’t judge. Sometimes it feels good to rebel against even our most ingrained habits.
“She’s gone,” Skysinger Wyndward says in a trembling whisper.
“Who’s gone?”
She hugs herself and shivers.
“Do you feel ill?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. It’s possible she’s sleepwalking, playing out some dream she can’t escape from. Against my better judgment, I take her by the shoulders and shake her. Her head bobs back and forth. Her vacant look remains.
I shake her once more. “Wake up, Skysinger Wyndward. I think you’re having a nightmare.”
Her expression doesn’t change. She just continues to look catatonic.
“She’s gone, and… and I…” Her gaze is still fixed on my chest, though what she sees isn’t at all in this room. I’m sure of that.
“And you what?” I ask.
She shakes her head, though I doubt she’s doing it in answer to my question.
If she’s sleeping, perhaps the best thing is for her to go back to bed.
