Page 5 of Wings of Destruction

It’s supposed to go to Elspeth.

“And now it’s yours.” Mother dangles the chain. “Morgan?”

“Please, no,” I insist.

Eyes burning, tears pushing their way out, I stare at her.

The sounds of the battle are louder now, and the combined cries of the herd reaching their peak. Metal clashes, weapon on weapon, and Mother is distant. Her focus, her responsibility, is to the herd and to Fallkirk.

Himself snorts in another clear command for them to move.

She thrusts the necklace at me despite my clear hesitation. “Keep this safe. Get the people somewhere far from the field, Morgan. I’m counting on you.”

There’s an emotion in her eyes I can’t ignore. I have to take the necklace. There’s no other choice. But what does she mean by giving it to me? My mind circles uselessly to find some sort of deeper explanation for what’s going on and comes up blank each time.

The sapphire, warmed from her skin, is heavy in my palm and the moment the chain drops from her fingertips, Mother turns.

She strides back to her mount, and Himself bends his front legs to allow her an easier mount. Once she settles, they turn as a singular unit, and she thrusts her helmet back into place. Her features immediately distort.

“I love you, honey.”

Then she’s gone, as though she’d never stopped in the first place, the last scents of her disappearing in the wind.

Himself takes off faster than lightning until the only thing left is the screams in the distance. The screams that grow louder with every pulsing heartbeat. The ache in my chest deepens, and I press my palm to it. A fat load of good it does.

There’s nothing left.

Nothing except this necklace and a legacy I don’t understand.

Two

Morgan

Numb fingers grip the edges of the clasp and I pull the necklace over my head and tuck the necklace against my clavicle. Despite the heat from the chain, the pendant is as cold as ice and sears into my skin, marking me where it touches.

“She’ll be fine,” I tell myself out loud.

Every syllable strokes steel along my spine, forcing the truth between vertebrae.

I manage to get the necklace secure. Tugging my tunic up to cover the gem, I march, resigned, unseeing, away from the field. Every step in the opposite direction costs me something more precious than currency.

“They’ll all be fine.”

My muttered prayer means nothing when a hydra roars out its displeasure, the sound echoing off the mountains at our village’s back.

I have to believe it’s true. The herd is strong and our leadership unmatched. Whatever army the King and his favorite General send our way, we’re sure to rise against it; there’s no other choice.

If we fall to our knees for brutes then which village will be next? Will no one else stand up for what’s right? Are we expected to turn a blind eye to tyranny because the threat of the dragon jaws around our necks is too great?

Fallkirk, then Duenden, and Marman, perhaps, south along the entire mountain range. The capital with its greed and ego and ruthlessness to the north will expand beyond the stone borders of their lifeless city and encapsulate everything.

The image draws a sob.

I turn at the intricate iron gate marking our courtyard and march down the main street away from home. The nearest houses to ours are arranged on either side of the thoroughfare in neat rows with plenty of grazing space and open grass between them.

I drive my boots into clover and crush the delicate pink and white blossoms underfoot.

Heart still thundering, I slam my palm onto the door of the next cabin and drive inside without waiting for an answer.