Page 72 of Demon Touched

Little soldier boy’s been dreaming of this his whole life, I imagine Syrus saying, and I can’t deny that it’s true.

But it also means Rowan’s a great ally to have right now.

“What do I need to know about how this is going to go?” I ask as the last few fledglings arrange themselves by the rift.

I thank the ancestors for ephilium directness. It means Rowan immediately locks in, information falling from his lips in quick, clipped tones.

“Right. The battle’s been going on for nearly two hours now. They’re opening this separate entry point for us. Fledglings only. Our rift will open along the Brigade’s western flank. Our job is to help protect it. There will already be a battalion there led by General Sawler. We’re to follow her orders.”

I swallow, my mouth dry as I picture what lies ahead. Of course, I’ve watched battles from afar, and our lessons on battle strategy at the academy proved I’d actually picked up a lot by observation. But my fellow fledglings have a bank of knowledge built up over decades that I lack.

“There aren’t going to be any instructors?” I ask, startled by the idea that we’re going to be left to our own devices. The general overseeing us will no doubt be more focused on her actual troops.

“It’s a trial, not a training exercise,” Rowan shrugs. “We’re on our own.”

Again, there’s a glimmer of excitement in his voice. He’s chomping at the bit, whereas I might just grind through my own teeth with anxiety. I spot several other drawn expressions in the crowd, but there’s plenty like Rowan too. Keros bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet, all but radiating bloodthirst.

I glimpse the crown of Filippa’s hair a ways behind me, but I can’t see her face. We haven’t really spoken since that day we argued while running flight drills, and now, of course, I feel shitty about it. What if that was the last time I spoke to her?

But before I can do anything about it, there’s a call from somewhere at the front. A figure in gold uniform starts quickly inscribing runes across the frame. A few minutes later, they’re lighting a match and holding it to the runes, setting them alight.

I’m trying very hard not to think about the interaction I just had with Syrus, but as the rift starts to sear open—edges splitting and peeling apart to wrap around the sides of the frame—I remember all the times we traveled through rifts like this together. And because my mind is a treacherous thing, that throws wide the doorway to other memories of him. Details of our last conversation stick like burrs to my thoughts—the desperation in his voice as he begged me not to go and the steel mask I had to put on to make myself strong enough to say no.

“Wings out!” Baxir, to the left of the arch, bellows. “There’ll be a drop on the other side.”

“May the ancestors smile on you,” Hasteed, on the right, calls just like with the first trial.

I survived that, back when I had no idea what to expect and didn’t even have a feather to my name. But I have my wings now; my power’s been honed. I can survive this, I tell myself.

“For the glory,” she finishes, saluting the first fledglings disappearing through the rift.

“For the glory,” we all call back. I don’t particularly want glory, but it feels surprisingly good to share something together. Even with our differences, right now I’m one of them. We’re all facing the same danger, with the same goal, and I want to have these people’s backs.

Then I’m being squeezed through the aether and spat out under the Stratan sun.

The drop Baxir spoke about is a good fifty feet, and my wings instinctively bank as the air opens up below me. I follow the line of fledglings ahead of me, climbing back up into the sky, gaining altitude. Most of them are banking toward the crowd of white feathers and glinting armor to our left. We’re a bit behind the front line, which is what stops us being slaughtered upon arrival.

The battles always looked brutal from the city walls, but this close, it’s a waking nightmare.

The sound and smells hit me first: the equine screams and shouted orders punctuated by the crack and clang of lightning meeting shadow and metal hitting metal. The iron scent of spilled blood is so thick I can almost taste it, mingling with the acrid smoke of lightning strikes and burned flesh. It’s everything I experienced on the plains made ten times worse, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed. I focus on following the fledglings up ahead. Drifts of mist left over from demon shadow attacks cast the whole area in a dark haze, so that when patches of it are lit up by the flash of lightning strikes, the shapes of winged soldiers and soaring kelaryn steeds are silhouetted against the sky.

I hang back a little, still a safe distance from the action, trying to spot the general Rowan mentioned. The fledglings are already spreading out a little randomly, some throwing themselves straight toward the action, others hesitating, clearly unsure where to position themselves.

I pull my bow from my back and draw an arrow.

A prickle runs up my spine as Syrus enters my mind. I feel the urgency in his presence before he’s said a word.

“Let me at least help you,” he says.

But I’m already bricking up my walls. It’s easier now that I’ve been close to him recently. I’m not so starved for him that I sabotage myself by leaving an opening for him to wriggle through. If I pushed him away now, I know I could keep him gone for a while.

“Syrus, I’m going to be fighting demons out here. Possibly Malice soldiers you’ve sworn to protect.” I keep my voice calm and certain. He’s not thinking clearly, so I have to do that for us both. “You can’t help with this, and I wouldn’t ask you to. I won’t make you choose between protecting me or your subjects.”

He doesn’t have an immediate response to that. While he scrambles for an answer, I thrust my walls up higher.

He tries again, his voice fainter in my mind. “If you’d let me stay⁠—”

“I won’t make you watch this, Syrus,” I say sternly. “Go. I’ll see you after.” And then, because I can feel how scared he is too, I soften my voice. “I promise. I’ll come back.”