Page 119 of Wings of Destruction

“I refused to let it be Morgan,” I say out loud.

Mine was the book she held in her hand when Evie slapped her. The one she replaced on the shelf.

Astrid’s penetrating gaze lassoes me back into my body when my mind threatens to carry me off. “You’ve been discussing loyalties to the crown with a known traitor.”

…And I’m meant to lead a rebel army against my father.

I can’t even see what’s right in front of my face. Shame burns my face and the flush disappears into my high collared black tunic.

“I have no way to defend myself.” So I give her an easy smile and hold my hands out to the side. Striving more for a picture of repentance and charm vs I’ve botched this completely.

Astrid grips the note and holds it out to me without breaking eye contact. “Get it together. Our efforts will hardly get off the ground if you refuse to look at what is right in front of your face.”

My head is reeling and I slick my tongue over my teeth, the ache deepening from too long clenching my jaw. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. An apology feels cheap.”

Especially considering I am not actually sorry for writing to Morgan. Her intellect, her insights⁠—

It’s no wonder she received an acceptance letter. She’d be a formidable asset to this place, and my original opinion grows stronger roots. She’d be an asset to me.

I pluck the letter back and hastily shove it beside my father’s inside my tunic.

“A promise,” Astrid clarifies. “Do better. See clearly. Think twelve steps ahead instead of one. Maybe then we’ll actually get somewhere.”

I want to ask her opinion on the letter’s tone, on Morgan’s disgust of the monarchy, but it’s treading over the same ground Astrid and I have already covered. We feel the same. The King’s rule is a sham, my father the true power behind the young man, and the rest of the royals and the nobility are only too happy to fall in line if it means a thickening of their own pockets.

Astrid turns and leaves me with her cold shoulder and an overwarm chest.

You might have said something. I glare at Mozi, drawing my knees up.

There are things happening beyond your reckoning and unless you can bear the necessary grit to do what is necessary, you cannot withstand the storm.

His cryptic and sometimes almost prophetic intonation isn’t new. Today, it’s annoying as well. Always some kind of excuse, I gripe.

Then I’ll spell it in simpler terms and pretend that this is a one-off occasion. Me being thickheaded, he means. These are opportunities for you to grow stronger. More secure. More observant. Take them as such instead of making excuses.

If I remember correctly, you were the one warning me not to engage with the person writing these notes. An enemy. Wasn’t it?

Dragons are notoriously bad at being called out.

Perhaps Astrid is right and you need some time alone to decompress. Your anger will consume you alive if you’re not careful, Kieran. Claws scrape over stone and Mozi perches at the precipice of the ledge.

Coward.

I point the finger at myself, too. I am angry.

I’m furious that I keep doing everything I can and it is never enough. I tap dance to the tune of so many different flutes and at the end of the day, with my feet bleeding, I am still the jester.

Astrid and Mozi are right to laugh at me.

A rumble of Mozi’s hunger deepens the ache I’ve already got in my gut. He pauses before launching. But… I could stick around. If you want the company.

“Nah, you go. I’ll be fine,” I insist blithely.

The sun arcs lower toward the tree line and intensifies the hue of the sky to something peachy and ripe. If I had my own wings, I’d take off with him. My fingers itch to grab the row of bony protrusions along his neck and haul myself up, to settle between the joints of his wings and hold on for dear life.

Without a saddle, I’ve got a death wish.

Mozi lowers his head until we are eye level. His features are less pointed than many of the other dragons I’ve seen. The top of his skull is flatter, his eyes wider set, and his horns small and tucked neatly back from his eye sockets.