Page 69 of Wings of Destruction

The mantra plays in my head on repeat.

Who needs a mount?

Mounts die the same way humans do, like my mother did. Flames spare nothing and no one and eat up the land until there is only dust left. Maybe a new world will rise from it or maybe not.

It’s not up to me to figure it out.

When my muscles are limp and the moon has arced across the sky, I end the final sequence and drop my guard. Sweat drips from my brow down to the corner of my mouth with the same salty tang as my tears. My stomach gives a low rumble.

There’s still hours until sunrise. I’ve always been good at getting by with little sleep, or maybe I just know how to suffer well.

It’s a gift.

The door to the private gym closes softly behind me and the coolness of the hallways quickly turns my sweat soaked skin tacky. It’s harder to navigate without the proper light but the windows are ample, the stars shining even if no one is awake to see them. I slink along the main passageways of the castle past wooden doors leading to classrooms or the wild mountainside beyond.

A few twists and turns take me to the same classroom I’d cleaned last week and the book I’d had no choice but to replace on the shelves.

The door is locked.

It’s never been locked before.

Frustration rises, sliding like sand against my nerves.

I glance over my shoulder to both sides out of instinct and twist the knob hard but it refuses to budge. Kicking it in will draw a crowd. Chewing on the inside of my lips, I grab a pin from my hair, keeping my bangs out of my face while I work out.

This was Elspeth’s deal, not mine.

She could pick a lock faster than most people could draw a breath. She was a master of most things mechanical and many of the hinges on the unicorns’ armor came straight from her imagination.

Many nights she and the armorer worked with the blacksmith to make more durable, flexible, strong armor for our herd.

I’m a bumbling fool in comparison. My fingers are fat and the movements unrefined as I twist the pin, listening for the whisper soft clank of the lock twisting.

I bite a large chunk of my cheek, blood’s copper tang on my tongue before the mechanism finally, grudgingly gives way.

The classroom is an echoing mausoleum at night. I taste the boredom of the students in the air and in the gentle touch of my finger against the walls. I follow the line of stone toward the back wall and the bookshelves there, counting them out in my head and rising on tiptoes until I reach the right shelf.

I haven’t had a chance to look at the book for a few days. I halfway wonder if Daisy catching me is the reason for the locked door.

“Nice overactive imagination,” I chide out loud. Using my voice as a lodestone. “What’s next? Ghosts coming out of walls?”

Probably.

The title glitters even in the gloom, like it’s waiting for me.

I grab it and set it aside on the nearest desk. Squinting in the shadows, I grab a few other books from the shelf, heading into a quiet corner to read.

The corner is far from the door. Anyone who walks by won’t see me because of the podium, which will hopefully disguise the glow of a candle.

No, no candles.

I shift directions, the podium still a perfect shield. The moonlight in this area will let me read without ruining my vision.

I pry open the book, stopping at the title page this time with a rush of emotion. There’s a handwritten note there I hadn’t seen the first time.

Property of:

The owner’s information is left blank but the scrawl is big and bold and black.