Page 52 of Wings of Destruction

I sweep the last pile of dust into a black metal bin and mechanically dump it into one of the trash receptacles. The floor is good enough. When I stand, my hand automatically presses to the base of my spine. I arch to crack the bones into place.

The ache stays lodged in the center of my back and no amount of twisting helps it.

If I break for more than a few seconds, one of Milkin’s spies who occasionally march past the door will report the hesitation to her. Then it will be more threats of the mines, more ear wrenching—a specialty of hers—and maybe even another withheld meal.

A few seconds will have to do double time.

I catch the end of the feather duster and move to the alcove with the leather strap looped over my wrists. The raw spots from the ropes have semi healed at this point.

“What kind of light reading are you keeping from your subjects?” I say under my breath.

The lettering along the base of the spines shows the books here are well used. Well read.

Only a few scattered pieces of dust kicked up from the sweeping have dotted the bookshelves, but that’s the way it has to stay.

There is no hint of grime or debris.

I drag the tips of the feathers across the middle shelf first, scattering the dust at eye level. It drifts in a lazy spiral to the ground as I move onto the second shelf, and then the third. In a perfect world, I’d be in this classroom but in one of the seats.

One of these cubbies would belong to me. I’d stash my favorite stories here and grab others from those lofty shelves above.

I’d mark them with a tassel and tell the others not to lose my place if they want to borrow something.

“And which seat do I want?” I tap my lower lip.

Glancing over my shoulder, I mark the rows. Somewhere in the middle. Maybe. Somewhere close enough to show my eagerness to learn but not in the front where the toadies usually stay. The back rows are no doubt reserved for the late arrivals, the listless, or the cool kids who were no doubt much too perfect to be up front.

I’ve never been part of that crowd.

My thoughts darken, shifting automatically to Kieran and his new blonde sidekick, and I sneer at the shelves.

I’d be reading these books instead of dusting them.

I swipe the duster across the fourth shelf and one of the books not quite lined up with the others pulls free another half inch. Glaring at it doesn’t slide it back into place and when I rise on the tips of my toes to do so, I pull up short.

Land Bound Mounts Vs. Flying Mounts and Superior Battle Tactics Between the Two.

Oh. Ether.

My heart lurches against my ribs and fills my chest with a sickening warmth. The title catches my eye, curiosity too deep to ignore.

Battle tactics, eh?

The room is empty, and the hallway quiet with everyone off to dinner. Itchy fingers twitch midair before I give into temptation.

My mouth goes dry as I grab the book away from the spotless shelves, fumbling to drag it down and letting the pages fall open. The black script is neatly printed, and several passages are accompanied by hand drawn illustrations.

This copy is in pristine condition despite the permeating scent of old leather. The binding is strong, not what I’d expected from a much-loved tome.

If my mother had had access to this information… would she still be alive? My chest tightens at the thought.

There is no name written on the inside cover to mark its owner. I lean against the wall in silence, tired, alone, resigned and linger in this stolen moment of quiet.

Every second counts.

Unicorns, basilisks, and hydras are the only land bound mounts I know of. The first chapters in particular detail different methods for protection against the flying mounts, such as dragons, thunderbirds, and in theory, phoenix.

I thumb through the pages. Why hasn’t this particular book been copied and made available to the masses? I like to consider myself well read.