Page 83 of Wings of Destruction

I rest the book on my lap, my eyes closed, until my breathing evens out.

The book’s owner added to what I said and asked a few questions in return.

Flight times versus travel times on the ground. What can be done to span the great differences? If a course was charted from the Clinchwood Mountains to the Eldorian territory, any winged mount would be faster. There is expedition in having an open sky versus an entire craggy range to traverse. Isn’t there?

I’m not saying dragons are superior, only that basilisk and the like would falter in the mountain range. Especially if the temperature drops during the winter months. When ice blocks the path, the trails are impassable, but a winged mount would still be able to make it.

The paragraph almost feels philosophical in a way none of the others have felt. I stare at the note and consider potential replies.

There are several more questions written throughout the book in response to mine. I’m going to have to really think through my replies, to make sure I’m getting the information out there in a way where I’ll receive the answers I need.

The author’s questions are insightful. They make me think, challenge me in a way I appreciate. How interesting. This is the best and most exciting human contact I’ve had since I came to the academy.

Heart lurching into my throat, I blink back tears. Tears are useless. They’re only a waste of time. Finally, I clear my throat, shrewd eyes narrowing on the text again.

I tap the pen faster against my chin, my heart racing.

A glance at the door shows no one out there but a girl can’t be too careful these days. The future isn’t decided or promised.

You are correct in that the Clinchwood Range is impossible to land mounts during the colder months. However, there are many places, deep in the heart of the land, made inaccessible to a dragon simply because of their girth.

I turn my attention to the next chapter, a murmured song rising from my chest. I don’t recognize the tune as I hum and read.

A scrawled passage near the last chapter snags my attention and holds it in a stranglehold.

There are those loyal to the crown who believe that the only might is found in the sky on the back of a dragon. Where do you stand?

There is always another hurdle to peace. There are those who lack the capacity to stand up for what is right, and there are those who will do whatever it takes to reach a nebulous end goal. How much wrong can one person do in the name of good before they become a monster?

I pull up short at the questions and my chest goes tight.

“Well, well.” Muttering out loud helps ground me. “This could very well be a trap.”

It probably is. Why else let the words linger there like a trap ready to close around my throat? Oh, boy.

The author knew exactly what they were doing when they penned it. I guarantee. None of the other responses were crafted haphazardly.

This one feels loaded and much heavier than any of the other questions.

And if I say what I really think, I could be killed. Somehow or another, the staff or the book owner will trace the comments back to me if I let too much information slip.

Or they’ll send me down to the mines and let me die a slower, agonizing death.

My hand flies back to the necklace again, my touchstone to the past, to my mother. Illonia would rip the book right out of my hand and toss it in a fire. I see her in my head, the thunderous look she got when she felt the hand of fate taking control away from her.

Elspeth and I had fallen asleep on the chaise lounge in the parlor one evening, nestled together like fox cubs in a den. Caught between sleep and wake, I’d listened to the low murmur of my parents’ talking, the conversation punctuated by Mother’s sharp inhalation.

“They can’t make you go, Michael. You’ll never come back.”

My father had sighed and, resigned, told her, “There’s no choice left. I go where I’m told. Orders are orders.”

When I’d cracked an eye open, I saw their shadows dancing in the firelight, their heads pressed together.

And glancing up, my mother’s face…

Stormy, lined, and worried. She’d never speak it out loud when her face gave her away.

She’d give me the same look now and warn me of the dangers of this conversation. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d only pretend outrage at the written exchange and hoard the book to study it later, ignoring the written questions in favor of the priceless information.