K’lan teemed with life. Youngsters darted between wagons, chasing rag balls. A red-haired girl tackled a boy, setting off a pile-on. Nearby, mothers worked—fingers weaving, curing strips of sharkskin, attention flicking toward the wild swarm while other women labored with their husbands on ships.
Laughter cracked the air. Brine thickened with the scent of dye. As we crossed into K’bar, lye stung my eyes, sharp enough to draw tears. Soap-makers lined the road, their faces swathed in cloth against the fumes.
Draconis worked hard for what they held. They built their legacy with blood and grit. Nothing was given, and nothing was taken. Weearnedthe respect of our dragons.
The carriage slowed, too wide for the narrow lanes curling between the stacked stone buildings.
There were too many people. Crammed in tight. Pressed shoulder to shoulder. The memory of Radaan’s open plains—bare, boundless, terrifying—rose sharp in my chest. This place had always felt like home. But now? We were ants, piled high, scrambling skyward with nowhere else to go. The sea pinned us in. There was no way out. Only up.
Dragons or no, we would have to expand to the Wild Shores soon. We had no choice.
The carriage rocked as the guard dismounted and swung the door open. I took his hand, skirts brushing the sand-packed road.
Freya followed, arm flung wide as a boy darted past me. “Back to K’lan!” she snapped.
“Probably an errand,” I said, unconcerned. Some parents encouraged their young ones into trades early. Technically forbidden until age twelve, but rules bent when there were mouths to feed.
“They belong in the safe havens with the rest of the children,” Freya muttered, moving ahead.
The alley pinched so tight we walked single file, brushing shoulders with passersby. Recognition flickered across sun-browned faces. Men and womenbowed in awkward dips, as if unsure how to treat me. Some smiled. Others frowned and hurried on.
Their uncertainty mirrored my own.
Part of me was overjoyed to be back, wrapped in the cozy chaos of this close-stitched city. But I longed for vast green fields, the open sky, the wind.
I needed a good flight. A real one. I’d only ever ridden with my brother or father, and for whatever reason, asking either of them felt as if admitting defeat, surrender.
I didn’t stop to analyze that.
We passed oil refiners, tanners, dyers, weavers—the woodworkers came last. Williard’s shop stood ahead, its door painted in festive red and green. Inside, mage lights flared so bright I had to blink against the glare.
Mikal wore his flight leathers, goggles dangling loose at his neck. His wiry frame angled away from us, hands clasped with another man’s. I halted without thinking, my greeting caught behind my teeth.
An older man stood nearby. His graying brown hair hung in a braid, paint staining his worn clothes. His gaze latched onto me, a slow smile deepening the creases across his weathered face. A neat gray beard framed his chin and upper lip. He raised a finger, eyes flicking toward the two men.
Kites lined the far wall—bright, dyed sealskin in a dozen styles—but my focus returned to the pair.
Mikal’s back was stiff. The act of filling a Vessel was never easy. To open oneself meant letting the rider in—baring their soul, thoughts, and fears. Most chose their rider with care, knowing they might witness their innermost reflections.
It took intense concentration not to be distracted by the other person’s mind. Even a disciplined Vessel couldn’t hide everything. Elmo would be near. Dragons never strayed far when channeling, needing proximity to keep the current steady.
Mikal stepped back with a grunt, cracking his neck left, then right.
The younger man—tanned skin, black hair—shook out his fingers before folding his arms.
“It never gets easier,” he muttered, looking away.
“With time.” Mikal turned to Williard. “Keep an eye on him. The magic is for kites,” he said, cutting a sharp look toward the apprentice, “not for making fish dance.”
Freya snickered, drawing Mikal’s green gaze to mine. He grinned, then shuttered it back into a modest nod. “Princess. Good to see you out and about.”
Middle-aged now, Mikal wore his years in the corners of his eyes, sun-etched and faint, though he hadn’t lost that sly charm.
“I heard Williard’s not making kites for the Awakening.” I stepped deeper into the room, tracking the brilliant displays lining the walls. “Shame. I expected more of him.”
“My greatest fan moved across the sea,” Williard said, his voice dry and brittle as driftwood bleached by sun. “I told you—I made my kites for a certain princess.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Well, I’ve returned.” I spun, catching the warmth in his broad grin.
