Page 10 of Wings of Destruction

The scars on my knuckles crack as I grip the pommel of the black leather saddle, adjusting forward against the battering wind. Knees bent, perching slightly above the saddle, the leather braces tighten around my legs through circular maneuvers in the sky.

The chill air at this altitude blurs my eyes.

I cling to Mozi, the black dragon racing behind my father toward another slaughter.

That’s what this is. It’s always the same no matter what pretty phrase Roman Ryson uses to justify his, our, involvement. This time, he’d doubled down against my slightly probing hesitation.

Fallkirk’s leaders refuse to pay their fair share of taxes, he’d told me as his steward finished adjusting the armor across my father’s broad shoulders. Now they’re plotting against us. Against the crown.

Do I believe him?

Do I have a choice?

Regret twists my gut, the sentiment echoed by the fire breathing lizard beneath me.

This is wrong, and we both know it.

Innocent people are going to die on my blade.

Kieran, stop. You’re making it impossible to think through your worry. Mozi’s voice fills my head through our bond.

He cuts sharply to the left to avoid the tip of Omram’s wing. My father’s dragon cranes his head slightly in our direction without losing speed, his lips peeling back in a bloodless snarl.

Mozi’s focus filters through me like the darkest truth. Don’t make him mad.

I close my eyes, my mouth forming words no one will hear but Mozi. He’s always furious. Probably why the two of them are the perfect pair.

Roman Ryson sits atop his dragon’s spine like a monarch on his throne, and the glint of the sun sparkles across his spotless armor. It will stay immaculate. He won’t need to dirty himself to accomplish his goal today.

That’s why he has me.

Nerves grip my throat like a noose.

Tell me you’re prepared. Mozi tenses in my head despite the seamless way his wings continue to beat the open air to keep us this high. I need to hear you say it.

The air thins, and my lungs struggle. Prepared to fight alone? Is that what you mean?

You know it’s a test. His claws tense in my head, the image undeniable.

A punishment, I correct.

My own hands flex against the saddle pommel as Mozi cuts sharply to the left to once again avoid Omram’s wing, which keeps purposely dipping directly into our flight path.

Dragons communicate with their riders through telepathic communication. It’s said that dragons, more than any other mount, can see the intent of their riders and will only choose one whose ambitions match their own.

Right now, the only thing Mozi sees in me is the crushing guilt of what I have to do. There’s anger, plenty of it, the majority directed at the man in front of me. The sweep of dragons in a triangle formation behind us all caves to his will too. I’m not alone.

I might as well be.

Mozi’s scales warm beneath me, and his thoughts are a clear arrow shooting ahead, distinctly different than my jumbled, tangled knot.

Stop fretting and focus, he adds. We have to do this. If there were any other choice⁠—

I know, I cut him off.

Wind whips hair away from my forehead and tangles the strands. I blink, tears in my eyes, and my lips cracked.

Today, Fallkirk will fall, wiped from the map.