Page 11 of Wings of Destruction

Certain responsibilities fall to me through blood. For the simple fact of being the great General Ryson’s son and needing to maintain an image, he’ll send me down with the land mounts to obliterate the opposition.

I’m his sword.

Those facts have haunted me my entire life, and I trail his dragon with awful speed. Roman insists the raid is necessary to crush the lawlessness in the land and ensure King Lochlain’s will be done.

Is it, though?

Necessary?

Is it truly the King’s will?

I understand why my father is doing this, which doesn’t negate the hesitation. Murder shouldn’t be necessary.

The realization leaves an awful taste coating the back of my throat which lingers no matter how many times I swallow. Reluctance lumps together, growing with every swallow, blocking my air.

If we don’t do this, if we don’t act against these people today, then we will die, and no one can save the others. The death of these riders is tragic. Brutal. But they are merely a drop of blood; if we don’t stay the course, the entire kingdom will be bathed in death.

Yes, I know, I fire back at Mozi. You’ve explained it to me many times.

And it seems I have to repeat myself once again. The good of the many must outweigh the lives of a few.

It’s a terrible balance and an even more terrible reckoning.

My brow twists. I stare at the ground below, a blur of green and brown and gray, my head tilting to take it all in. Mozi puts on a burst of speed, forcing me to adjust across his spine. I roll with the sinuous undulations of his body as his wings work to shoot us forward like some black comet.

My mother would be heartbroken if she saw the shackles around me and the iron rope dragging me into this destiny of Ryson’s choosing. Good thing the dead don’t have eyes.

They’re far beyond the worries of Manifest. If they’re looking down on us, if they see the horrors of the world left behind, they have no energy to connect or to show they still care.

And I learned a valuable lesson.

I grip the saddle pommel hard enough to leave permanent grooves in my palms. It’s prudent, smart, required, to do everything Roman asks and more.

A dull roar sounds, and the sound throbs through my body. Ahead of us, Omram stalls, forcing us to pull up short before we collide. Mozi stiffens beneath me as his great lungs work hard to expand his ribcage with each exhalation.

I’ve excelled with my private tutors. I’ve become a fighter who people fear and a strategist the scribes respect. A leader who inspires people.

Now, I’ll be a murderer as well.

We’re here.

Mozi’s ominous tone scrapes through my insides and my heart flutters. Below us, trees and mountains have given way to a wide stretch of lush field. I barely make out the pointed roofs of the village nestled between the landscape naturally, hidden in plain sight.

It’s a unicorn’s playground.

There aren’t many unicorn riders left in our armies. It almost seems that my father has systematically gotten rid of the unicorns although it’s never been explicitly mentioned out loud or in any of his written declarations.

My gut twists with disgust.

Why leave a trace when the power moves are made in silence?

I stifle my last bit of sympathy for the village as General Ryson pulls his dragon parallel to me.

It’s either Fallkirk or it’s the kingdom of Manifest, and in the great scheme of life, the scales must be balanced. As Mozi says, the good of the many outweighs the good of the few. Or in this case, the lives of a small, fairly peaceful village far outside the capital.

The great shadow of General Ryson’s mount darkens the entire mountain ridge below. Omram the Pale is a massive beast of a creature.

I refuse to look him in the eye.