Page 41 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
When I step outside and notice the giant wall stretching as far as I can see, my heart leaps. Weareat a landing field, and I’ll get to see Fragor’s landing up close, unlike last night.
In an instant, my excitement destroys the grogginess still left from my interrupted sleep. Suddenly, I’m fully awake, quick on Vaylen’s heels, eyes roving all around. I take in the stone wall, stretching right and left. It surrounds a huge swath of land, a perimeter big enough to allow one dragon to land. A tall portcullis serves as the main entrance. Two guards stand at either side, holding spears, illuminated by the glow of torches attached to the wall.
In unison, the guards step forward and shift their spears to the front, a slightly threatening gesture meant to intimidate.
“Name and rank,” one of the guards demands.
“High Prime Vaylen Stormsong, Skysinger Clutch.”
The guards’ gazes flick to me. I hesitate. Vaylen glares at me over his shoulder.
“Um, Skyrider Rhealyn Wyndward,” I reply, loving the sound of my first official introduction.
The same guard who demanded our rank takes a step closer. “Documents.”
Vaylen already has his at hand. I dig for mine in the special compartment of my jacket, fumbling with the small buttons and earning another glare from Vaylen. When I finally hand them over, the guard checks them thoroughly, relaxing only when he has laid eyes on the thin gold seal next to Commander Voltguard’s signature. The seal is a meticulously detailed tiny replica of Embernia’s coat-of-arms. It was created by a Forge, using their elemental skill to shape the metal.
At a hand gesture from the guard, a loud clank comes from the portcullis as it opens. A woman in a dark blue uniform walks out. She wears the insignias of a captain on her left arm. Her dark hair is up in a bun so tight it stretches her eyes into slits.
“Welcome to East Landing, High Prime.” She salutes. “I’m Captain Stoneberg. We received a Boltgram indicating we should expect you and your dragon.” She gives me a sidelong glance.
“There was a change of plans after I sent the message,” Vaylen says. “Skysinger Wyndward is here, too.”
She inclines her head. “I will take note of the change in our records. Your signature will be required, of course.”
“Of course,” Vaylen repeats.
Captain Stoneberg gestures toward the entrance. “Shall we?” As we walk inside, she adds, “We have prepared the landing pad following all the documented requirements for your dragon.”
Vaylen nods. “Very well. I sense he’s near. Please ensure everyone takes cover, including Skysinger Wyndward.” He turns to me. “Go with Captain Stoneberg.”
I’d rather stay by Vaylen’s side, but it’s not as if I can argue.
While Vaylen keeps walking toward the landing field, the Captain leads me around the corner to an elongated, free-standing structure. It looks like a box made of stone. Past the narrow, doorless entrance, there’s an excited-looking Claw, peering through a narrow slit. He smiles at me, while the Captain instructs another Claw about a saddle.
“It’s my first time seeing a dragon this close,” he says, as if to excuse his undeniable excitement.
“Forgive him,” the Captain says. “He’s new.”
“I completely understand. I’m new, too.” I feel his same excitement even though I’ve been close to not only one but three dragons. Fragor is impressive, though not as impressive as Zephyros with his obsidian traits.
“You are?” the Claw asks, taking in my uniform. “Oh, you’re one of the new Skyriders. Congratulations!” He beams, the way I wish my father had.
Thethump, thumpof wings alerts us to Fragor’s approach. The Claw practically jumps, an ear-to-ear grin splitting his face, while Captain Stoneberg stands with her hands interlaced at her back, wearing an impassive expression. Yet, I feel the sense of anticipation emanating from her. In this post, she’s probably seen hundreds of landings, but dragons never get old. They’re Embernia’s blood.
Our past. Our present. Our future.
They made us who we are. Without them, the Screechclaws would have wiped us off the face of this world already. And even though Heratrix seems to have abandoned us to our fate, I know she will come back one day to ensure her legacy isn’t lost, and that day, we’ll rise from the ashes of what we’ve become and reclaim our glory.
Moments before Fragor appears, wind rattles the glass that covers the slit in the wall. The view is somewhat warped by the thick layer of glass, but it’s still breathtaking to witness. Theoretically, I know a Skyrider can use their enhanced skills to anchor themselves to their dragon. The pair can interlock their elemental powers to provide stability. This allows the Skyrider to do all sorts of things: remain in place while their dragon lands (the way Vaylen is doing right now), stay mounted while flying, and even descend or ascend to a flying dragon. I’ve studied all these things thoroughly but seeing them happen shatters every preconception I had. The sight is even more impressive than I could have imagined.
Back straight, feet slightly off the ground, Vaylen faces the onslaught. Wind whips his hair and coat, so violently he would surely be blown away if not for theTethersof energy anchoring him to Fragor. They sprout from his fingertips and extend toward his dragon, stabilizing him. He reminds me of a hot air balloon I once saw. It bobbed in the wind and stayed in place thanks to a number of ropes and weights staked to the ground. Strangely, he uses wind to blow back all debris away from his face. I’ve never heard of that. Where are his goggles?
“Wow,” the Claw breathes out.
Wow,indeed. The wind currents I’ve been able to produce as a mere Singer are weak and no more than a few inches long. They couldn’t anchor me to a cat, much less a dragon.
Fragor’s huge talons appear first. They come into view, disappear, then appear again as he bobs up and down, attempting a soft landing—or as soft as he can manage. His wings are almost as wide as the length of the landing field and come close to brushing the trees in the periphery. I briefly wonder how the poor things don’t get ripped off the ground from the roots. We’re practically in a tornado.
