Sigil of the Dragon Children: Dragon Magic, #1

By D.B. Tarragon

You struggle with insignificance, Old One, Golmosh sent, keeping his eyes forward.

I do not, Wenlyn muttered. I'm a dragon rider.

 

Wenlyn is a prominent dragon rider, born with the strongest transformational magic in two millennia. There's just one problem: no dragon has chosen him as a companion yet, and he fears none ever will.

 

When a queen dies, leaving a void in the magical boundary protecting the Six Realms, the Dragon Council fears it may collapse. Maylin, a student destined for a life of public service, is asked to become queen. She must complete her coronation within seven days to keep the boundary from collapsing. Attacked by bandits on the road, Maylin races to make it to her coronation on time.

 

Determined to prove his worth to the Council, Wenlyn investigates deaths related to a sinister black vapor. He suspects Fear Mongers have infiltrated the Six Realms, and are purposely trying to collapse the boundary.

 

If it falls, how will Wenlyn protect his family? And what darkness will he have to protect them against?

 

Those who most fear insignificance often prove most crucial, as evidenced by the Sigil of the Dragon Children.

 

Enter a rich mystical world full of magic, dragons, evil sorcerers, and centuries-old prophecy. If such things offend, feel free to spread your wings and fly away. Otherwise, scroll up and experience the dragon magic of the Six Realms with Wenlyn.

 

"I fell in love with every single one of these characters. D.B. Tarragon has created a stunningly rich magical world and expertly weaves together several different storylines that will keep you turning pages. This should definitely be your next high fantasy read!"--M.N. Kinch, Fantasy Author

 

"I have never read a more action-packed, thrilling adventure of so many dynamic and loving characters woven into one magnificent story than this one. D.B. Tarragon has blended the perfect amount of mystery and intrigue in Dragon Magic that had me salivating for answers with every flip of the page. Cannot recommend this series enough!--Morgan Dewey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liesel Hill
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224033126

Book preview

Sigil of the Dragon Children

D.B. Tarragon

Copyright © 2024 by D.B. Tarragon

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

To my friends and family and supporters: I love you all so much and can't thank you enough.

To my future soulmate: This is who I am. Deal with it.

To my readers: Thank you so much for your patience in waiting for this book, and for embarking on the journey with me.

To my characters: I'm so sorry. But it will be worth it.

To the Pearl Clutchers: This is HUGELY in part to your contributions. Thank you so much! I love you ladies!

To my inner child: You did it!

Contents

. Chapter

Prologue: What is Missing…

Once...

1.Deception in the Sky

2.Strange Green Eyes

3.The Historian

4.Hypnotic Beauty

5.A Special and Dire Situation

6.To Learn Dragon Law

7.A Pearl-Colored Runt

8.Secret Ceremonies

9.Making Conversation

10.Golden Baubles

11.The Ordeal of the Coins

12.Harpies and Egg Shards

13.Wanderer

14.To Not Be a Coward

15.A Cold Fish

16.Deep as Blood, Long as Time

17.Sand and Talons

18.The Cudgel

19.Music and Monsters

20.Dragon Glyphs

21.Mysteries for the Evening

22.The Edge of Forever

23.Holding Hands with a Dragon

24.Bleeding Stone

25.A Frightening Expression

26.Insignificance

27.The Awakening

28.The Southern Weir

29.The Griftor

30.The Price of a Book

Once...

31.Familiar Blue Eyes

32.Into the Caverns

33.The Breath of the Desert

34.Amalia

35.The Aspersion of Destiny

36.Yellow Cauldrons and Lava Tears

37.The Dangers of a Kiss

38.Before

39.Shatterer of Destinies

40.Battles in the Sky

41.The Split

42.The Sigil

43.Epilogue

Once...

Want More Wenlyn?

Glossary of Names

About the Author

One blue night under a dark red sky,

Six little lords woke up to die.

Born to rule and born to break, to

Bear the mantle of their father's mistake.

Wise men guided their foolish play,

While shadow men appeared to light their way.

Familiar strangers did mundane magic,

A bloody peace, both cruel and tragic.

Ice cold dragons blinded the good,

Spreading fire where'er they could.

Hid from the sight of the final scream,

Smothered all hope of the fire-tinged dream.

Put the little lord where they couldn't fall,

Clawed up the ground and buried them all.

If you don't believe me, the more fool you.

Just ask the dragons. They tell it, too.

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Prologue: What is Missing…

The sun warmed the right side of Borilad’s face, making one side of his body feel too hot. A chill hung in the air, as the weather already turned toward autumn.

Even so, the sun made him sweat. He’d dismounted his horse and now walked beside the crow-colored stallion to give the beast some rest.

No one had considered Borilad a handsome young man for years. Decades, really. The white strands running through his hair attested to his age. And two surprising parallels, obtained in the heat of battle, reached across his nose and partially down his cheek. Any good looks he’d retained went with them.

He’d completed this journey with minimal difficulty thus far. Despite that, exhaustion crept into his bones, and he felt glad his journey neared an end.

The lad, Fredegar, walked on the other side of the horse, laden with several of Borilad’s heavy bags. Though Borilad did not originally like the thought of the boy—barely fifteen winters old—accompanying him, the lad proved an astute squire. As he was still coming into manhood, he possessed a young and wiry build, rather than a strong one.

Still, he never complained when Borilad made him perform difficult tasks or carry heavy loads. During their past weeks on the road, Borilad actually grew fond of Fredegar.

What is shattered is not destroyed. What is broken can be mended. What is missing is not lost.

The thoughts floated perpetually upon the edge of Borilad’s mind, as permanent as the air he breathed.

The sun already slid toward the western horizon. As the two of them plodded along with the stallion between them, a row of thick trees blocked its heat out momentarily, bringing some relief from its merciless rays.

A chill ran through Borilad’s bones. He’d been unable to shake a feeling of unease all day, and he could not have said why. He’d done his part. Now he only needed to make it back to the palace to let the king and queen know of his results.

His ultimate solution proved ingenious, if he said so himself. It would protect the royal lineage without having to worry about human nature and betrayal. Borilad thought the king would be pleased.

Yet, Borilad awoke this morning feeling unsettled. Something felt different. Off. He could not put his finger on what or why.

He glanced across the horse’s back to his squire. Fredegar’s unruly brown hair stuck out from his head at all angles. His shoulders were hunched, and his face paralleled the ground as he plodded along. Probably exhausted. They’d done nothing except trudge through the blistering sun all day. They’d made good progress. Both would sleep heavily tonight.

Doing all right there, lad?

Yes, Sir, came the slightly muffled reply.

Borilad nodded. Good boy. I want to cover a few more miles, but we’ll stop and make camp soon. Another hour. Perhaps two.

Yes, sir. The boy’s head came up and he glanced at Borilad over the stallion’s red and gold saddle. How much longer to get back to the palace, Sir?

Borilad allowed himself a small smile. A self-possessed man, he’d never been skilled at conversation. Yet, when one spent long days and nights in the company of another, for weeks on end, they couldn’t help but get to know one another. Borilad teased Fredegar a time or two, asking if he had a young lady back home he wanted to get back to. At first, Fredegar denied it. Eventually, he admitted to liking the look of a particular kitchen maid. Not someone he’d begun a tryst with. Rather, a girl he merely wanted to.

Borilad encouraged him, and ever since, the lad asked once a day like clockwork how long it would be until they were back in the palace.

Another two or three days, I think, if we don’t hit any obstacles in the woods.

Fredegar nodded and put his head down, going back to his plodding.

Borilad watched him for a moment before speaking again. And what is our mantra, boy?

The lad’s head came up again. What is shattered is not destroyed. What is broken can be mended. What is missing is not lost.

Borilad nodded his approval. And if I were to say, fall and break my leg tomorrow, what are you to do?

Fredegar gave him a wry smile. When he spoke, his voice carried boyish mischief. I would simply sling you over the horse’s back like a sack of grain and carry you as an invalid back to the palace.

That’s not the right answer, boy, Borilad snapped, throwing a glare at the boy over his stallion’s saddle.

Fredegar looked only mildly chastised. He couldn’t seem to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.

Borilad snorted. As if Fredegar could lift a man Borilad’s size—armor and all—into the saddle. The correct answer now, if you please.

Fredegar’s smirk faded. If anything happens to you, I must return to the palace on my own with all haste and tell the king and queen of our dealings.

And why is that? Borilad prodded.

Because there are many who would want to stop us or find out the locations we’ve been to. We’re the only ones who know, so it is imperative one of us make it back to inform the king and queen.

Borilad waited a few heartbeats—making the lad wait because of his cheekiness—before giving his nod of approval. This was the true reason he’d brought a squire along at all. Sure, having someone to rub down his horse and help prepare his meals lent him authority if they encountered anyone on the road. Which they hadn’t. Yet, such things were not entirely necessary. Borilad had done those tasks for himself since he was younger than Fredegar.

No, he’d needed reassurance. Confidence that if anything happened to him, someone else could tell Saymet and Panera where to search for their treasure once the war ended. It had been a long, hard few years, and the battle still raged, far from over. At least the king and queen could know their legacy would be protected until it ended. Borilad hoped it would mean they could turn their entire focus to the war. To ending Bazmal’s insane machinations that much more quickly.

Can I ask a question, Sir?

Borilad raised an eyebrow at Fredegar across the stallion’s back. The lad rarely began conversations. Of course.

Why did you agree to this mission? It’s very dangerous. And it hardly seems to be your responsibility. So why do it? Did the king command you?

Borilad shook his head. He did not need to command me, boy. I volunteered. Perhaps I shouldn’t admit this, as you might use it against me one day. He threw Fredegar a smirk, and the boy returned it. Saymet and I have been best mates since we were both, well, younger than you. He and I used to hunt stag in these very woods.

Fredegar’s face lit up with surprise. There are stags in these woods?

Borilad shook his head. Not anymore. Or at least very few. Bazmal’s underlings have hunted the great beasts of the land almost to extinction. Any who might have escaped them have fled. Animals have instincts, boy, and they flee before dark magic. There are very few untamed creatures of any sort left in these lands. It’s why things are dying. Turning barren.

What if we can’t beat Bazmal and his fear sorcerers? Fredegar asked. A trace of fear tinged his voice. Not something Borilad heard often from him.

We will, lad, he said gently. Saymet is a good king. The best, really. That’s part of why we’re doing this, you and me. To put his fears for his family’s safety to rest so he can focus on winning the war.

Fredegar put his head back down, saying nothing, but Borilad noticed his frown.

Something bothering you over there, boy?

Fredegar shrugged. Some say he isn’t good. That his decisions aren’t all kind.

Borilad raised an eyebrow. What people are these? Men in their cups at the local tavern, and goodwives gossiping over fences?

The boy hesitated a moment before nodding.

Borilad took a deep, cleansing breath. His first instinct was to berate the boy for listening to gossip. Still, he supposed the fault did not entirely lie with Fredegar. The entire Realm’s fear heightened palpably over past months, with the kinds of attacks coming from Bazmal and his ilk. And rightly so. So many deaths. So much horror.

People will always gossip, boy, Borilad said firmly. None of them carry the responsibility the king does. None of them make decisions every day that affect hundreds or thousands of lives. Borilad let his mind sweep back over the horror and tragedy of the past few years. He knew if he let himself dwell on it long, it would weigh down his soul, followed by his body. When you have only two choices, he continued, and both of them lead to death…. He glanced over at Fredegar to find a look of alarm on the boy’s face. The king shoulders a greater burden than most people can imagine, boy. So, it’s easy for them to criticize him.

Fredegar nodded, though he still looked doubtful.

I won’t claim Saymet isn’t flawed, Borilad continued. He’s still a man. Even I haven’t agreed with all his decisions. Yet only those with the strength of the Darmingian blood can end this war and restore peace to the realms. The king will get us through this. And when he does, those same people who now criticize him will sing his praises the loudest.

Fredegar looked surprised again. Truly?

That’s the nature of people, lad, Borilad said. It’s best you learn to understand it now, and differentiate between gossip born of fear, and truth.

Fredegar nodded. He looked thoughtful now, and less afraid. I suppose, he finally allowed. There’s been so much destruction. So much violence. He swept his eyes over the landscape. The green is going from the land.

Borilad nodded. And that, my boy, is exactly why I made you memorize our mantra. What is shattered is not destroyed. What is broken can be mended. What is missing is not lost. Life isn’t about keeping things whole. It’s about learning how to fix them when they break down. They always will.

Fredegar nodded again and fell into silence. Their plodding continued.

Running through their conversation in his mind, and all the bloody events of recent years, Borilad felt exhaustion overcoming him again. He glanced to his left. The Beryl Mountains stabbed upward in sharp peaks against the sky in the distance. Borilad longed to return there. He had not visited the Pure Ones in over a decade.

Perhaps after returning to the palace, he would ask Saymet permission to take a journey. A few days to bask in the peace of the Pure Ones and rejuvenate his spirit. But he needed to return to the palace first to make his report.

Even as he thought of the trip to the Pure Ones, Borilad berated himself for being ridiculous. Such desires were folly in times like these. Wars against evil sorcerers who murdered the people of the realms daily did not allow for the king’s advisors to take breaks for relaxation.

Glancing at the angle of the sun, Borilad made a decision. A few more miles today would not make much difference in their return to the palace.

Perhaps we will stop now, after all, lad. Why don’t you—

Then he felt it. A lurch in the magic. So sudden and harsh, it took his breath away. It felt like being hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, only without the pain. Strange vibrations in the magic radiated toward him from miles away.

Borilad spun on his toe to look back the way they’d come. As if he could see the source of the strange vibrations in the magic. He could not, of course. Miles of trees and hills and other terrain lay between him and what he felt. What could be causing it?

He had not embraced his dragon magic since leaving the palace weeks before. He’d purposely not communicated with any of the dragon Companions or any of his fellow riders, either. He did not want to bring the wrong attention to himself. Or any attention at all. It wouldn't have taken Bazmal’s spies long to realize the children no longer resided in the palace. Bazmal’s monsters probably began hunting him within hours of his departure.

Yet, he and Fredegar stayed hidden, keeping to back roads and skirting around even the smallest villages. They’d met no one on their journey, exactly as Borilad hoped.

Borilad wanted to embrace his magic now, if for no other reason than to figure out what he sensed. Could these strange vibrations be coming from the Fount itself? He could not tell.

Sir Borilad?

He turned to find Fredegar and his stallion five paces ahead of where he’d stopped. It probably took Fredegar that long to realize Borilad no longer walked beside them. Now the lad held the horse’s bridle, keeping the stallion from going any farther.

What is it? Fredegar ducked under the horse’s neck, still clutching the bridle, so he stood on the same side as Borilad, gazing back at him.

I am unsure, Borilad shook his head. The strange feel of the magic did not dissipate. If anything, it grew stronger. Something was happening. Something big. And Borilad did not know what.

Something cold and sinister whispered down his spine. The feel of a snake in the grass. Eyes watching him from the trees. He could feel something racing toward them. Something predatory, that wanted to destroy them. Borilad’s limbs trembled with the urgency he felt to stay ahead of it.

He met Fredegar’s inquiring gaze. Something’s coming. We must ride!

Taking the saddlebags from the boy, Borilad secured them in record time. Less than a minute later, he swung up into the saddle and reached out an arm for Fredegar. The boy swung up behind him and wrapped his arms around Borilad’s middle. Borilad dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

The horse whinnied and reared up on its hind legs before breaking into a gallop.

Borilad barely saw the landscape blurring by. They covered the distance he’d originally thought to cover in an hour or two before sunset in a quarter of that time. Yet, no matter how much ground the stallion’s surefooted hooves put behind them, the urgency to flee refused to leave Borilad’s chest.

The horse, adept at keeping his speed high while maneuvering around any rocks, trees, or shrubs that might suddenly crop up in his path, rounded a bend. What looked like a gray wall stood across the path ahead of them.

Acting on instinct, Borilad pulled back on the reins savagely. The horse reared up with a scream and Fredegar dug his fingers into Borilad’s sides.

By the time the horse calmed, Borilad recognized the wall as a row of gray-cloaked men, standing shoulder to shoulder across the way. Dragfahr. Twisted, evil creatures, born of fear and pain.

The man who stood in front of them, grinning wickedly with a gleaming sword in hand, put an icy breath into Borilad’s gut.

Not that he feared the man, but for the man to show up here, now, in their path, directly after Borilad felt a strange vibration in the magic…. Nothing about it could be a coincidence.

Wendir, Borilad said formally, not letting his worry seep into his voice.

If Borilad had stood on the ground, the man standing in front of him would have been half a head taller and much thinner. His flat face held blunt planes and wide, sunken eyes. That is not my name, General. I forsook it years ago. I go by Malcroft, now.

Ah yes, Borilad murmured. A much more fitting name, I suppose. I will use it, if you prefer. You shed your name to forget your past, but I remember it.

I am not who I used to be, Wendir—Malcroft—said. Too calmly. I have risen through the ranks and now command a great deal of power, subject only to the Shadow Sorcerer himself.

Should I be honored to be visited by one of your high status? Borilad asked, allowing an edge of mockery to creep into his voice.

Malcroft sneered. Indeed, he said coldly. A visit by one of my station before one’s death is to be admired.

At his words, Fredegar sucked in a small intake of breath and gripped Borilad’s middle tighter.

Get off your horse, friend of the Darmingian blood. Malcroft somehow made it a scornful command.

At the mention of Borilad being a friend of the Darmingian blood, the cloaked figures behind Malcroft shifted and hissed.

Borilad knew very well what the dragfahr were. Once men, they were now creatures, twisted and corrupted by Bazmal and his fear magic. Borilad might have felt sympathy for them if not for the fact that they chose it of their own free will.

Their twisting gave them deadly claws and teeth and inhuman speed. The horse might outrun them with a decent head start, but not while surrounded this way. The instant the stallion lurched left or right, the creatures would converge and rip out its hamstrings before it crossed the clearing.

Mind scrambling for a solution, Borilad could only think of one thing that might work. It did not include his own survival.

Turning slightly in his saddle, he held out his arm. Get down, boy.

Fredegar did not move, and Borilad shifted his eyes to the squire’s face. The boy looked askance at him, as if he could not judge Borilad’s sincerity. Borilad gave a nod of his head to show he truly wanted the boy to do as he bid him. With a look of foreboding in his brown eyes, the boy gripped Borilad’s outstretched arm and swung down from the horse. Borilad followed a moment later, keeping the horse between them and Malcroft for a moment.

Take my horse into that stand of trees there, Borilad said loudly, for Malcroft’s benefit. I don’t want him harmed while Malcroft and I do our dance. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper, counting on the horse’s bulk to partially block him from Malcroft’s eyes. Once you’re out of sight, lead the horse away on foot. If you can lead him quietly for half a mile, they might not realize you’ve gone. If they hear him galloping, they will follow instantly and run you down.

Fredegar’s eyes grew wider with each word Borilad spoke. I’m not going to leave you.

What do you mean? Borilad hissed, resisting the urge to slap the side of the boy’s head with the flat of his hand. What do you think I’ve been training you for all these weeks? The royal legacy is not secure until we tell the king and queen where we’ve hidden it. What good is any of this if we cannot retrieve them?

A kind of horrible understanding came into Fredegar’s eyes, and they filled with tears. But—

I’ll be right behind you, Borilad lied. Now go. Without another word, Borilad drew his heavy steel sword, which nearly equaled him in height, from the sheath tied to the saddle.

Fredegar took the bridle and, moving much more slowly than Borilad would have preferred, headed toward the stand of trees. Then again, at his slow pace, perhaps the creatures would not suspect his attempted escape.

Turning his full attention to Malcroft, Borilad strove to push thoughts of Fredegar from his mind. The boy would have to do as Borilad had trained him to do now. Borilad needed to concentrate on giving him as big a head start as possible.

If Malcroft found Borilad’s whispering to Fredegar suspicious, he did not show it. His smug expression looked infinitely confident. He practically grinned as he unsheathed a dark gray sword and threw off his gray cloak. Where are your charges, Borilad? Malcroft asked. Surely the lad, his eyes flicked in Fredegar’s general direction, is not of noble stock.

My charges are safe, Borilad said evenly, ignoring the comment about his squire.

The man chuckled. The sound sent chills tumbling down Borilad’s spine. Nothing is safe from me, fool. You are a soldier and cannot outwit the magic I wield. Nothing is safe from me. And certainly nothing is safe from my master.

Borilad did not answer, merely gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands and turning to one side, raising its tip to the sky.

Malcroft’s face changed into a rictus of hate. With a wordless snarl, the man charged him. Their swords clanged together. Borilad’s dragon-magic-laden blade met Malcroft’s gray, fear-grown one. The weapons hissed and gave off steam as they collided.

Clang upon clang followed as the two of them danced back and forth across the clearing. Borilad thrusted and parried, feeling almost comfortable. He’d become a master of swordplay eons ago.

Malcroft had several decades of youth on him, but Borilad proved by far the better swordsmen, which made them almost evenly matched. Had it been a fair sword fight and nothing else, Borilad would have been confident he could best Malcroft. After all, true sword play wasn’t entirely about youth or speed. Yet, he also felt certain Malcroft would bring deception or fear magic into it at some point. He stayed on his guard, meeting and blocking Malcroft’s blows, but not pushing hard enough to tire himself out.

All throughout, the line of Malcroft’s gray-cloaked creatures did not move or show their faces. Just as well. Even the most stalwart men could not help but feel upon seeing the true visage of a dragfahr.

The next time Borilad’s sword came down on Malcroft’s, the man threw him backward several steps and put up a hand to stop him. Do you really think you can win, old man?

Borilad frowned. Before he could comment about how he’d shown little if any weakness and therefore the two of them stood evenly matched, he felt it again. The strange fluctuation in the magic, emanating from far away, toward the center of the Realms.

You feel it, don’t you? Malcroft asked, his yellow-toothed grin widening.

The smile made Borilad’s blood run cold. What is it?

Even now, my master is sword to sword with your king, as you and I are sword to sword.

Borilad fought not to gape. Saymet is fighting Bazmal?

He turned toward what he felt, as though he might see it if he peered hard enough into the distance."

Indeed, Malcroft sneered again. And he is losing.

Without warning, the man launched himself at Borilad again, arcing his sword through the air and slamming it down on Borilad’s own. Borilad only barely raised his weapon in time to keep his head.

Malcroft attacked with renewed gusto and the fight became deadly.

Tired of humoring his enemy and praying Fredegar had escaped, Borilad put all the strength and skill he possessed into the fight.

He attacked, and Malcroft blocked. The other man swiped his sword at Borilad’s feet. Borilad leapt over it and drove his elbow into Malcroft’s ear. The man went down in a heap. Malcroft raised his sword again to protect himself. Lying on his side with his left arm underneath him meant he could not use his core strength and would rely entirely on the strength of one arm to protect him.

For a flicker of an instant, Borilad let himself consider a triple triumph. Not only might he return, successful, to the king and queen after all, but might he also bring them news of Malcroft—no, Wendir’s!—death?

Swinging his sword back behind him and then down in full circles, Borilad rained blows down mercilessly upon Malcroft’s sword.

One, two, three, four. The man kept his sword raised above him, which struck Borilad as impressive.

Five, six, seven. Malcroft’s sword arm trembled with weakness.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Malcroft had the grace to look fearful.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. On the fifteenth blow, Malcroft’s sword shattered.

A high-pitched cry, like that of a squealing pig, emanated from the sword itself, filling the air with a deafening shriek. Malcroft’s row of gray-cloaked creatures all shuddered in unison, some of them doubling over or clapping hands to their ears.

Borilad ignored it. Though it hurt his ears, he would not allow himself to lose focus now. He was an old man, after all. Malcroft named him true. What did it matter if he retained all his hearing?

Instead, he focused on his triumph and completing his task. Wendir, or whatever he called himself, had proven himself a dark sorcerer and murderer. The world would be a brighter place without him in it.

Borilad raised his sword over his head, tip pointed down, toward Malcroft’s heart. In a vague, faraway way, he sensed the strange vibrations in his magic again. They felt stronger this time. Much stronger. Yet, he’d grown almost used to them over the past hour, and barely acknowledged the sensation to himself. Nothing would stop him from finishing Malcroft.

As he drove his sword downward, something hit him from behind. Something big. It did not hurt, and yet the force with which it hit him felt immense. Like a battering ram. It launched his entire body forward, throwing off his sword’s trajectory. He flipped over Malcroft’s body, landing on his back on the opposite side, the hilt of his sword sliding from his hand.

The landing knocked the wind out of him. In two heartbeats, before he could so much as get his bearings, something cold, hard, and excruciatingly painful lanced through his gut.

Malcroft stood over him. To Borilad’s chagrin, he’d just been stabbed with his own sword.

Glee danced across the other man’s face as he yanked the sword out, spraying blood and fluids across Borilad’s face.

Borilad suddenly felt disoriented. He glanced around, wondering what hit him. Nothing stood anywhere near him in the clearing. Even Malcroft’s line of dragfahr had not moved. What invisible force robbed Borilad of his life?

The wound would kill him. That much, Borilad knew instinctively. Even if he survived this fight with Malcroft. Even if by some miracle he made it back to the palace, the healers would be able to do little for him.

He would have liked to see Saymet one more time, but Fredegar spoke true about the dangerous nature of their mission. Borilad always knew the risks.

He could only pray the boy could find his way back—

Even as he thought it, one of Malcroft’s gray-cloaked creatures stepped out of the woods, dragging Fredegar with him by the scruff of his neck.

Borilad’s heart fell. They must get information back to the king and queen. Must. And now the boy could not escape, either. Once Borilad lay dead, the boy would soon follow, at the hands of Malcroft’s creatures. The thought filled him with a different pain than the kind the sword caused. He did not have the luxury of focusing on his grief, though. He needed to find a way to complete his mission.

His next idea was to send his mind out in communication. The fear sorcerers had already found him, so what difference did it make now? Great Companions! Fellow riders! Can anyone hear me?

The instant he opened his mind to the communication paths of the Companions, a cacophony of voices entered his head.

What is happening?

Where is the king?

What was that wave of magic?

Bazmal is attacking?

Attacking what?

Everything! The world!

A wave of magic. Yes, he might have described the invisible force that hit him similarly, though Borilad encountered nothing like it before.

Please, he pleaded in his mind. Listen! I need to convey information!

No matter how he pled, he could tell no one could hear him. The entire realm seemed to have tumbled into chaos, and, too focused on other things, other conversations, no one heard Borilad’s pleading cries.

He wished he had done things differently, and immediately recognized the futility of such thoughts. It wasn’t so much that he’d miscalculated. No, he’d taken a calculated risk…and lost. He’d thought about having someone in reserve. Someone he could communicate with if he got stuck in a bad spot. He would not have told them any of the details of his quest beforehand. Instead, he would have asked them to listen for him, in case he needed help, telling them nothing else.

At the time, he envisioned nothing like this. Rather, perhaps one of Bazmal’s followers finding him much earlier in the mission, when he still had one or more of the royal children with him.

In the end, he could think of no one he trusted enough for the task. Despite knowing the risks, he’d taken everything onto his own shoulders. In a sea of predatory risks, it seemed the best option. Until now.

Malcroft stood over Borilad, an evil gloating sparkling in his eyes. Thus ends Borilad, he crooned. Friend to the Darmingian blood. Thus will end all such ‘friends.’ In screaming and viscera.

The faraway, mutinous thought that Borilad had not once screamed floated along the outskirts of his mind, but he felt too weak to voice it. Physically, he could have. It simply felt like a waste of energy, with his life’s fluids draining into the forest floor beneath him. He needed to focus his energy on making someone hear him.

Please! Anyone—

He could almost hear the sword descending toward his chest. A sickening, squelching sound followed. Yet Borilad felt no different from a moment before. Confused, he opened his eyes, and his mouth fell open. A slender gray blade protruded from Malcroft’s throat.

Dark curtains slowly closed in around Borilad’s vision. He still discerned the unruly hair poking up above Malcroft’s shoulders. Fredegar!

The boy stood behind Malcroft and had stabbed him with his own broken sword. Fredegar now yanked it free and stabbed again. This time, the blade protruded from the left side of Malcroft’s chest. Black blood pulsed out, and Borilad knew the sword had pierced the dark sorcerer’s heart.

How under the red sky did the boy get away from his dragfahr captor? Perhaps it didn’t matter. Only that he did.

As Malcroft collapsed in a heap onto the forest floor, unmoving, Borilad noticed a strange, gurgling noise. He turned his head to find all the gray-cloaked creatures jerking back and forth and making strangled, choking sounds. One by one, each of the dragfahr fell to the ground and stopped moving.

So, bound to Malcroft, then. When their master fell, they did, too.

Fredegar rushed forward and pulled Borilad into his arms. Fat, warm tears fell from the boy’s chin and onto Borilad’s face.

Truly, the boy was a hero. If the story were told—the squire would have to tell it himself—he might well be hailed as a hero of legend for decades to come.

Still, things were happening in the world Borilad did not pretend to understand. The boy still needed to make it back to the palace, and his road there might be precarious indeed.

The mantra, lad, Borilad rasped. What is it?

Fredegar sniffled and wiped his nose and face on his filthy shirtsleeve. For the first time, Borilad noticed a purple eye and welts across his neck. Though he’d had little chance against Malcroft’s creature, the boy obviously put up a fight. When he spoke, his voice sounded husky. What is shattered is not destroyed. What is broken can be mended. What is missing is not lost.

Yes. It took effort to force air through his throat, and Borilad’s sight grew ever darker. You must remember it. Get to the palace, no matter the danger, no matter the obstacle. Tell the king and queen where the children are, and how to retrieve them. Otherwise, everything we’ve done will have been for naught. Swear to me.

Fredegar sniffled again. I swear it. His voice still held tears. Alongside them echoed firm conviction. Good lad.

A muffled crumbling sound came from Borilad’s left. Though soft, he got the impression the sound was loud enough to be heard from one end of the Realms to the other, and only sounded soft to him because of the distance.

He turned his head toward the distant Beryl Mountains in time to see the entire range blow apart like a pile of leaves in the wind. In the blink of an eye, they went from solid rock to what truly looked reminiscent of feathers. The millions of bits half floated, half crumbled toward the ground.

White, shimmering balls of light fell as well, though they fell faster than the leaves-that-used-to-be-mountains did.

What are those white lights? Fredegar cried out, fear making his voice tremble.

Borilad knew what they were the moment he saw them. And the knowledge made his heart ache. The…unicorns. Boriland found it hard to force his voice through his throat. Live, he gasped, in the high passes. They are falling. Falling….

Will they die? Fredegar asked, more tears coursing down his cheeks.

Even they…not survive…such a fall.

But, Fredegar sobbed. They’re unicorns. Bazmal cannot kill the Pure Ones.

He can, Borilad whispered, feeling the hope seeping out of his bones. He has.

Fredegar let out an audible sob, his entire body trembling.

Borilad slid his hand over one of the boy’s smaller ones, which rested on Borilad’s chest. Blood slathered both their hands. Up to you now…. You…must go. Borilad tasted blood in his throat. Must…get back. Saymet can only…defeat Bazmal and…drive the fear out…if he’s sure…children are safe. You must…keep the faith. Keep…light of hope…burning.

Despite his tears, Fredegar nodded. I will be brave, Sir Borilad. I promise.

Borilad relaxed, letting the peaceful darkness envelop him. He left behind him a far from peaceful world, but his own role in it had ended. He’d never been a terribly religious man. Now, he needed to believe his wife, who’d left him alone more than a decade before, would wait for him when he opened his eyes again.

Even as he allowed the thought to bring his soul warmth he did not feel in his body, another sound drove the warmth clean out.

The familiar, rasping hiss and click of fire scarabs.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

No creature, human or otherwise, could outrun fire scarabs. And Borilad could tell they converged on his and Fredegar’s position. Their rasping hisses—the sound they made when hunting their prey—and the ominous click of their pincers grew louder by the heartbeat. He could picture them, scuttling over the earth like horse-sized beetles.

So, Fredegar would not survive, either. And the truth of the Darmingian dynasty would be lost. Borilad had miscalculated. Badly. If Saymet could not find his children, they could not return, and they might as well have fallen under the sword.

Yes, Borilad had risked it all, and lost.

I’m so sorry, Saymet, my friend, my brother, he sent into the ether, knowing Saymet would never hear his words. I have failed you, and all the Realms. Your children are safe but lost. The Pure Ones are dead and dying. The Realms are at war and losing. Please, be a better man than I have proven to be. Find some hope against the fear. Some courage against the storm. Some light against the encroaching darkness.

Fredegar held Borilad more tightly. What is that sound? he asked, his voice trembling as the horrible clicking grew louder.

The boy would be familiar with fire scarabs, even if he’d never actually faced one before. Not many men encountered such creatures and lived. Only magic and dragons could keep them at bay. Borilad suspected the boy already knew the answer to his question, and Borilad didn’t have the heart to make things worse for him.

You did well today, boy, Borilad whispered. You were very brave. I…am…proud…of my squire.

More of Fredegar’s tears fell onto Borilad’s face.

Then the fire scarabs arrived.

They both died screaming.

Once...

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Once under a blue sky, a stone dragon looked upon a boy, and danger gathered around his kin.

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Chapter 1

Deception in the Sky

Wenlyn found no refuge from the sun. It beat down on him with unmitigated heat as the afternoon stretched. He sat atop the porch outcropping of the Roost, with Gratchel, a sinuous, purple, mountain dragon, stretched out beside him.

Perched thousands of hands above the ground, Wenlyn had watched his Elite practice exercises and maneuvers in the air below him for hours. His eyelids long since began to droop.

Something nudged the center of his back hard, startling him awake. He stumbled forward, nearly sliding off the edge of the rocky outcropping and into open air. Arms flying out to each side, he quickly stopped his descent and wiggled back up onto the rock shelf before swiveling to throw Gratchel a scathing look.

You trying to push me off? he sent to her.

Gratchel’s distinct, goblet-shaped eyes blinked at him, looking expectant. Wide and slightly round at the top, they funneled to a thin stem at the bottom. Purple irises that matched the lilac color of her scales gazed back at him, unblinking and full of ancient wisdom. She let her long, purple tail—the one she’d used to jab him awake—plop onto the rocky outcropping with a thud.

I would never wish to see you harmed, Old One. Her rich, feminine voice sounded in his head. He thought he detected a slight air of flippancy. He didn’t entirely believe her statement.

Wenlyn drew his eyes away, feeling vague resentment for Gratchel in general. When he found out Gratchel would be presiding over his team’s training exercises today, Wenlyn groaned inwardly. He did not dislike the purple dragon, exactly. She simply never gave him a break. She’d lived nearly three hundred years and bonded with more than a dozen dragon riders in her lifetime, which meant she had much to teach him. Wenlyn respected her, as he did all the dragon Companions. Yet, Wenlyn had not been a child for years, and Gratchel treated him like a rebellious teenager.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Wenlyn focused on the training exercise going on below. His four recruits flew in tight formations atop their dragons, simulating an attack on Felnore, a great black mountain dragon that loomed bigger than Gratchel.

Felnore often helped the trainees with exercises such as these because he remained the largest dragon at the Roost—in all the Six Realms, actually—and therefore represented the biggest threat. Besides, obsidian would shatter on his scales. The trainees had no chance of accidentally injuring him.

Wenlyn watched as, far below, Rivka’s tan desert dragon sent a stream of fire at Felnore's enormous black leg. The black dragon snapped at him, but Rivka’s dragon twisted out of range, staying clear of Felnore’s jaws by a hair-thin margin.

Wenlyn recognized Rivka’s maneuver as a distraction. While Felnore pretended to try and have him for lunch, Syrron, atop a reddish sandstone dragon, flew skillfuly underneath Felnore and jabbed him in the stomach with a wooden sword. Felnore flinched visibly and Wenlyn nodded his approval.

The skills of his recruits improved every week. Rivka created a distraction while Syrron went in for the kill. Felnore's scales made his body harder than those of any creature they might fight in the east, of course. Not to mention, in a true battle, Syrron wouldn’t carry a wooden sword.

All dragons possessed one major vulnerable spot on their bodies. For most, it sat somewhere on their soft underbellies. If the sword had been real, Syrron might have eviscerated Felnore, grounding him. Yet, because most of the Riders trained with Felnore regularly, they knew his vulnerabilities, which gave them an advantage they would not have in a true battle.

Despite the pride Wenlyn felt, the maneuver looked jerky, and therefore not entirely inconspicuous. Once Syrron glided beneath Felnore, his dragon nearly collided with Felnore’s back leg. Syrron lay more at fault for it than his dragon did. Every Rider needed to trust the dragon they rode completely, whether bonded to them or not. Wenlyn’s recruits had not mastered it yet.

Dragons were older, wiser, and more experienced than their riders. Always. They possessed better senses and reflexes than humans did. They also obeyed their riders in such exercises, so the rider could make their own decisions and suffer the consequences, whatever they turned out to be. If a rider contradicted his dragon’s wisdom too often, the two might fly into a rock.

As genius as Rivka and Syrron's plan proved, Purtz and Lyddor still flew circles around Felnore, trying to figure out the best mode of attack. Wenlyn’s Elite had come a long way in the past year. They had not achieved greatness yet.

Gratchel drew her great purple head beside Wenlyn, so the curved indentation of her ear, which Wenlyn could have easily curled his entire body into, hovered next to his face.

What do you sense? she asked. Her voice, rich and feminine, chimed in his head like a bell.

Wenlyn glanced sideways at her. Clearly, Gratchel sensed something he didn't yet.

They…performed the maneuver well, he said aloud, doubtfully.

True. I ask again, what do you sense?

Annoyed by Gratchel’s persistence, Wenlyn turned back to the four riders below him, flying tight circles around Felnore. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to key into his Dragon Senses. Obviously, she wanted him to pick up on something specific, but it eluded him. What did Gratchel sense? His vision blurred from the heat, and he blinked, shaking his head to dispel his grogginess.

Closing his eyes, Wenlyn drew on his dragon magic. Heat started in his fingertips and toes, then moved in slowly to his hands and feet. The searing heat slowly moved inward, along his extremities, toward his core. It felt like fire burning slowly along a very long wick. Once, it had been profoundly uncomfortable, but after years of working with dragon magic, Wenlyn had become used to the feel of it. It no longer bothered him.

All dragon magic stemmed from the Gully. The magical boundary protecting the Six Realms. Wenlyn pulled it toward him in a steady stream and used it to send a vibrating wave—like inaudible music—outward. His training taught him to feel and observe everything the waves of magic hit and make deductions.

Gratchel lay patiently beside him, her body curled around him in a semi-circle.

Then Wenlyn felt it. A gray, sneaking sense, like a spider crawling up his arm. Deception!

Wenlyn snapped his eyes toward his recruits in time to see Purtz drive his dragon head-on into Lyddor’s. One of Wenlyn’s Elite attacked another, rather than attacking the dragon. Lyddor and his desert dragon were thrown sideways at the exact moment Felnore veered toward them.

The great black Dragon opened his sprawling jaws and Lyddor sailed directly into them, small desert dragon and all. Felnore’s jaws snapped shut and Wenlyn sensed the dragon’s triumph, even from this height. He also registered Rivka’s and Syrron's shock. Felnore took advantage of their momentary paralysis to spin through the air and swipe at them with his short arms, long legs, and powerful wings. In moments, he'd knocked them both out of the sky.

Felnore raised his head to gaze up at where Wenlyn perched. From so far away, Wenlyn didn't hear the great black dragon’s specific thoughts, but images of his recruits lying dead on a desolate field appeared in Wenlyn’s head, sent from the dragon. Felnore’s way of telling him that if it had been a real battle, his recruits would all be dead.

Wenlyn sighed, hanging his head. He sent the image back to Felnore to show his agreement. The Elite had failed this one.

Felnore opened his jaws and spit Lyddor and his dragon into the open air.

They spun, uncontrolled, for a few seconds. The little dragon quickly righted itself. Both it and Felnore descended slowly and smoothly toward the ground. Purtz followed close behind them on his dragon.

Wenlyn released his dragon magic, feeling mildly worn out after holding it, as he always did. A few minutes of working with dragon magic produced minor fatigue, but the longer one held it, the stronger the fatigue afterward.

He watched his recruits dwindle in size below him. I do not understand, Wenlyn said, not looking at Gratchel. Why did Purtz do that?

Because Felnore told him to. The Council planned it this morning. A test for riders who still have much to learn.

Wenlyn swiveled his head toward her. I'm their commander, he objected. Why didn’t they tell me?

Gratchel blinked her goblet-shaped eyes at him several times before her thoughts came through. They wanted to test you, Old One. Not your recruits.

Wenlyn’s stomach dropped. Me? Why?

Every commander must learn to sense deception within his own ranks. You trust your men, as well you should. Yet, any man or woman can be bribed, threatened, or forced.

No rider would betray his companions, Wenlyn insisted. Besides, we only ever battle the creatures in the East. They’re brutish, unintelligent. The only people who might attempt to bribe riders would be Fear Mongers, and none of us would be taken in by such a thing.

You cannot be certain of that, Old One. Gratchel’s voice in his head remained cool, and calm. It's happened before.

Not for a thousand years.

Approval drifted to him from Gratchel. Be that as it may. If you want to lead, you must open your senses to everything, not only what you think you ought to sense.

But I—

Did you sense the deception?

Wenlyn ground his teeth. He refused to voice the confession, and so sent it as a thought instead. Not in time.

And so, your team is dead.

Wenlyn’s shoulders slumped. He felt ill. He gazed out over the land of the Six Realms. The Landing of the Dragon Roost was the highest spot left in the world. Below him, the landscape reached toward the horizon, flat as an ashcake in every direction.

His lack of discernment got his Elite killed. Theoretically. Wenlyn held a stronger grasp of each of the Dragon Senses than most recruits held of only one. Yet, when Purtz implemented this misleading maneuver, Wenlyn did not sense a thing. He wondered if perhaps Felnore communicated the plan to Purtz directly before carrying it out. Perhaps it kept Wenlyn from sensing anything wrong during the exercise. He decided to ask.

Did Felnore plan to attack the entire time, or did he make the decision right before he executed it?

Gratchel's goblet shaped eyes blinked approval at him again. A worthy question, Old One. Purtz knew before the exercise began. Yet, by not deciding to act until he received a signal from Felnore, not thinking of it in a conscious way before that moment, he changed the energy of the thing, making it harder for you to sense. You must learn to sense something amiss, even if you don't know what it is.

How? Wenlyn turned his head to look up at her.

Like all things, Gratchel answered, it takes practice. It is a skill to know one’s senses, and what they mean. No more contemplation, Old One. Up on my back. You must explain what happened to your recruits.

Scowling, Wenlyn obeyed. He sensed humiliation coming, and Gratchel happily bore him toward it. Did the she-dragon have no heart? Wenlyn didn’t look forward to admitting his failure, especially to Syrron.

Climbing her scales with practiced ease, he settled into the notch seat, where her neck connected to her back and her powerful wings sprouted on either side. The notch seat of dragon riders.

The familiar rush of wind that surrounded him as she vaulted into the air, usually filling him with a rush of excitement, brought him little comfort today.

Minutes later, Wenlyn jolted forward as Gratchel thudded to the ground. She’d landed at the base of the Roost, a pillar of stone sprouting out of the landscape, like a blade stuck tip-down into a table.

Wenlyn hesitated, not wanting to face his recruits yet. Instead, he peered upward, letting his head fall back all the way until it rested between his shoulder blades, and peered up at the Roost.

An ancient remnant of the evil sorcerer Bazmal, it towered into the clouds, to where humans couldn’t breathe. Dragons could, but most still didn’t ascend to that height. They didn’t enjoy the conditions. The Roost stood as big around as three dragons Felnore’s size put together. Large enough, by men’s standards, but because it took less than one hundred men holding hands to encircle it, the dragons thought it small.

Staring up at it from its base made Wenlyn feel the weight of his own insignificance.

Come, Old One, Gratchel urged. Your recruits wait on you.

With a resigned sigh, Wenlyn left the notch seat, climbing down her lilac scales and jumping the last six feet. He bent his knees slightly when his boots hit the sand-colored ground in a puff of dust.

She’d gone belly down so he could descend. Once his boots hit the dusty, arid ground, she straightened up. Sitting back on her haunches, she still loomed some forty hands above him.

His recruits stood in a circle a short distance away. The small desert dragons who aided them in the exercise already plodded toward their caves. These exercises proved as exhausting for the dragons as for the riders. Rivka, Syrron, Purtz, and Lyddor threw glances in Wenlyn’s direction as he drew closer.

"What under the red sky was that, Purtz?" Lyddor shouted as Wenlyn approached. Thick slime from being in Felnore’s mouth plastered his auburn hair to his scalp and a layer of it as thick as Wenlyn’s thumb covered his entire body. More hair covered Lyddor’s tall, lean, wiry body than most men had on the tops of their heads. He’d have more difficulty than most in getting the dragon slime off. He raked his fingernails over his arms and neck as he shouted, scraping thick handfuls of it off them and throwing it to the ground with violent flicks of his wrist. The saliva landed in the congealed puddle with a squelch. When Lyddor transformed, it was into a stocky dragon with red scales, a pale-yellow underbelly, and curled horns.

Purtz, a young man close to Wenlyn’s age, with straw-colored hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, shrugged his massive shoulders, looking uncomfortable. He’d worked as a silversmith’s apprentice in Vados before being identified as one with the dragon spark. Of all five of the Elite, he was the softest-spoken and most mild-mannered. When he transformed, his scales were the color of his hair, and he had a long tail he’d learned to use effectively. Sorry Lyddor, he murmured, blushing. Only doing what I'm told.

Wenlyn, what happened up there? Rivka asked.

They all turned their eyes toward him.

A stone’s throw away, Felnore lay on his stomach, watching their meeting. Felnore’s arms stretched quite long—nearly half the length of his wings—while his legs were stunted. Opposite to the proportions of most dragons, the trait was unique to Felnore’s species. Felnore took advantage of his physique, though, using his arms to swipe at unsuspecting opponents as he did to Rivka and Syrron. Now he lay with his gargantuan head resting on his arms, looking for all the world like the kid who received the extra fruit tart.

Gratchel plodded over to lie beside him. When she collapsed heavily onto her stomach, a tremor ran through the ground beneath Wenlyn’s feet.

I didn't know about the deception, Wenlyn told his men. Felnore and the Council put it together to teach us a lesson.

What lesson? Lyddor spat. He dug his fingers into his hair at the forehead and raked them backward. Sheets of slime fell from the tips of his shoulder-length hair.

That disloyalty can sometimes come from within our ranks.

Silence fell. The men’s eyes widened. They stared at Wenlyn. Even Lyddor paused in his de-sliming attempts.

That will never happen, Rivka said scornfully. Especially among us. The Elite.

Wenlyn glanced at Gratchel. Though she didn't move, her eyes blinked encouragingly.

It could happen, Wenlyn said reluctantly. It’s happened before.

Yeah, Lyddor grumbled. In the history books.

Agreed, Rivka said. Besides, who's going to try and bribe one of us to not kill fire scarabs and chimera?

It may be unlikely, Wenlyn conceded. I'm sure you're right. We should be prepared for it all the same. We need to learn to discern deception within our own ranks.

"You mean you do, Syrron practically snarled, as beside him, Lyddor dragged his fingernails over his forearms, sloughing off another pile of dragon saliva and leaving red nail marks on his own skin. As our leader, shouldn’t you have sensed it."

Wenlyn felt the heat of anger rise in his belly. Syrron never let a day go by without challenging Wenlyn’s authority. Syrron disliked the fact that Wenlyn, more than fifteen winters his junior, stood higher than him in the ranks.

I should have, Wenlyn ducked his head briefly and kept his tone calm. In truth, it’s a skill we all need to learn.

Syrron’s eyes flashed toward Wenlyn. Do you plan on betraying us, Wenlyn?

Wenlyn felt his calm tone fast deserting him. He forced himself to stare levelly back at the other man.

Of course not, he said quietly.

So, you insinuate one of us will, Syrron said, his lip curling slightly.

Wenlyn glared, fighting down his anger.

Syrron’s dark hair and eyes made him look severe. A fact not helped by his perpetual snarl. With more than thirty years behind him, Syrron had seen more summers than any of the other Elite. In fact, more than any other Trainee. The Vigil only identified the Spark in him a few years before, which was rare, yet not unheard of. A deep scar on the right side of his neck, running vertically from ear to shoulder, which he claimed came from a wood-chopping accident from his childhood, made him look sinister. The scar showed up even when Syrron transformed. He had brown scales and a long serpentine neck in dragon form. His dragon neck held the scar all along the length of it. Wenlyn had never asked Syrron where he’d gotten it.

The older man resented being captained by a boy who’d only seen twenty winters. Wenlyn wished Syrron would move past it, already. Wenlyn boasted the strongest transformational magic born into any single person in a century. The command of the Elite rightfully sat with him.

I do not insinuate motivations. People can be bullied, blackmailed, forced. The five of us may be the only living Elite, but our ranks aren't impenetrable. Someday, something might happen. We simply need to prepare for every possible contingency. These are the Companions’ words, not mine.

His comments seemed to pacify the other man. No one questioned the wisdom of the Companions. Still, Wenlyn resented needing to invoke the wisdom of the dragons before Syrron accepted the explanation.

Wenlyn passed a hand over his eyes. You did well, despite the twist in circumstance. Get some rest and food. For the love of the Ancient Ones, he threw a mocking grin at Lyddor, take a bath.

Purtz and Rivka chuckled. Even Lyddor broke into a grudging smile before turning toward the barracks. Syrron, of course, never laughed at jokes Wenlyn made. He turned, looking sour, and stomped after the others.

Lyddor flicked his fellow recruits with slime as they went, punching and cursing playfully at one another.

Wenlyn turned and walked to where Felnore and Gratchel waited for him. He slid smoothly to one knee in front of them.

Thank you for your guidance, wisdom, and experience this day, he sent them. We are forever in your debt.

Felnore’s deep, rumbling voice answered in Wenlyn’s head. As always, we are honored to impart it. You’re coming along well, Old One. Allow yourself a well-earned breath.

Felnore rose up and onto all fours—his back legs too short to walk upright as many other dragons did—and trotted toward the caves. As he passed her, Gratchel reached out at one talon and swatted Felnore’s hind leg, nearly knocking him over. He righted himself, not hitting the ground. Wenlyn still felt the reverberation of the motion in the earth beneath his feet.

He chuckled and shook his head. Felnore told him more than once that Gratchel was like a sister to him, though the two of them did not share a sire or emerge from the same batch of eggs. Still, Wenlyn understood the sentiment. Neither of Wenlyn’s siblings shared his blood, and the three of them often swatted at one another—either physically or verbally—when they spent time together.

Wenlyn supposed on some level, sibling relationships made the world go round.

He smiled affectionately at Felnore’s retreating form. While