Page 50 of Wings of Destruction

The new training place Astrid Edwards and I have scouted for the rebellion is decent. It’s more spacious than I bargained for when my second in command pulled me aside yesterday to admit she’s found another place.

A better one, she’d insisted. Where no one will see us and none will follow.

You know better than to doubt her.

I’m not sure why you are quick to defend her. You know my feelings, I reply to Mozi.

Astrid was raised in the same city as me although we knew each other only as acquaintances until we arrived at school and she tried to kill me.

That sort of thing tends to happen when one loses a much-loved older brother to my father’s brute tyranny.

Astrid managed to get closer than anyone else. Impressed, instead of killing her—which I had every right to do—I approached her with a proposition.

She may be a hardass but she is determined and she understands the limitations of scope much better than you do, Mozi adds. She wouldn’t allow a letter to ruffle her.

Your begrudging respect is showing. Do I need to remind you of Zicua?

The grumpy basilisk who chose Astrid hates everything and everyone, including Mozi.

This will do nicely, I add before Mozi has a chance to reply. Especially when we have more than a handful of recruits at our disposal. They’ll need a place to spread out.

Mozi pauses, his hesitation like a swarm of gnats against my skin, before he says, The reports have come in. We will need to move soon.

It’s impossible to hide my flash of surprise from him, followed by an equally large bit of curiosity and confusion. Are you ever going to tell me where you’re getting these reports from? And please don’t say it’s dragon poli⁠—

Dragon politics, Mozi interrupts.

Yes, of course.

Dragons won’t tell humans too much about their governing structures or laws, or the ancient traditions binding them to their practice of choosing humans for riders. No matter how many times I’ve poked and pressed Mozi for more details, he’s notoriously close-lipped.

My feet grow heavy and a sudden flush has me pulling at the collar of my tunic. What did you hear?

Only that the time is coming ripe for a rebellion and the window of opportunity will only be in place for so long. It’s small but it will be enough to cause a chink in the defense of the kingdom. A chink we hope will someday become a wedge if given the right amount of pressure.

Did your resources tell you what kind of action will best cause this chink?

Leaving the open training space behind, kicking up a bit of dust with every footstep, I head the opposite direction. The desire to see Mozi grows with every throb of my irregular pulse.

Only that we need to work fast. We will have to make a move soon enough.

It’s always there, the constant and mounting pressure of what faces us. The moves we’ll have to make are the bite of an executioner’s ax on the back of my neck and every passing day only brings blade closer to bone.

It’s my choice to do this. To train others, to get them to my side with the fervor of one who knows their actions will lead to a better future.

The actions I’ll take to get there are the questionable things. How many of us will be left standing by the time we’re through? How many will fall?

And how many girls like Morgan will pay the price for my failures along the way?

That’s the question that haunts me most of all.

Eleven

Morgan

The large lecture hall is structured in a rectangle, longer than it is wide and ending in a wall of books to make any kingdom sponsored library jealous. The upper levels are accessed only by large rolling ladders on golden risers.

A podium for the lecturer or whatever professor claims this room as his dominion perches in the heart of the room. Tables and attached chairs round in a semi-circle around it.