“Get back,” Rafe shouted, shoving Xander’s chest and pushing him away.
He pumped his wings and launched himself into the air over the sky bridge, shifting into fight mode as the beast approached. It left a trail of dark smoke, stark against the expanse of bright gray. A change in the air behind Rafe caught his attention, and he turned to find his brother flying a few feet away, hand searching for the knife at his hip.
“Get out of here,” Rafe ordered. “Go get the others. They can’t be far.”
“I’m not leaving you.” Xander shook his head and tightened his grip on the only weapon he’d ever bothered to learn how to use, a single throwing dagger.
Rafe wouldn't have it. He dropped into Xander’s space and grabbed the front of his jacket, holding his brother in place and forcing him to listen. “You are the crown prince of the House of Whispers, the sole heir to the throne, and your life is too important to risk. So, go. Get the others, right now. This isn’t an argument. If the dragon attacks, I’ll keep it distracted until you return with backup.”
Xander pursed his lips, biting his tongue.
Rafe refused to back down.
The two brothers stared at each other, their eyes flickering with the memories of that long-ago night, the night that had made Rafe an orphan and Xander a king far, far too soon.
“Go,” Rafe murmured, his voice deep.
For once, Xander relented. He held Rafe’s gaze for one more moment, a violet streak of pain across his irises, before racing away.
Rafe watched until his brother was nothing more than a dot on the horizon. Then he turned to face his target, pulling his twin swords from the X-shaped scabbard resting in the hollow between his wings and drawing strength from the way the steel sang as it slid free. The dragon circled, a lazy hunter on the prowl, flying higher and higher, snout lifted as though following a scent in the air.
At the sound of Rafe’s blade, it looked up.
Something sparked like metal on flint.
Hatred lit those blood-red eyes, a reflection of the loathing in Rafe’s gut. Always there. Always churning. A living, breathing beast no different from the one flying toward him now. Fire erupted from the dragon’s slick scales, sizzling with heat. The burnt, acrid flavor of smoke filled the air—a taste Rafe would never forget. When the beast released another roar, the wind seemed to shudder, as though the entire world answered to the thunder within that call.
Lightning traveled down his spine.
Rafe tried to blink away the images, but he couldn’t. They came too fast to slow down, a flood rush from a broken dam, too overpowering to fight. Just like that, he was five years old—wings hardly more than fluff as he sat with his mother and father, late in the night, the only time they spent together. The weather had been particularly lovely that evening. Rafe could still envision his mother mentioning the beauty of the night, her blue eyes shifting toward the stars as they twinkled across the clear sky. His father, upon hearing the words, had rolled from the bed, walked to the balcony, and flung the curtains wide open to let the cool breeze in.
Even now, Rafe could almost feel the brush of wind against his cheek. It had been crisp yet not cold, perfectly balanced against the hot fire crackling in the corner of the room. He had been ill that night, body racked with fever and nausea. His mother had set him near the flames to still the trembling, tingling pricks that seemed to come from the inside out, from somewhere deep within him. That fresh breeze on his sweating brow had been so welcome, until they heard the roar.
Get to the prince, his mother had demanded.
But his father had shaken his head, gaze darting to the orange glow growing stronger and stronger across the night sky. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave our son.
Go, you must.
It had been too late. Before she’d even finished the words, a sea of flames swept across the balcony and into their room, then another, and another. Rafe could remember nothing more than pain and screams and that burning, acrid smell as his vision went dark and his body cried out in agony.
He’d heard the rest of the story from Xander. How the beast had breathed fire into all the lowest layers of the castle, then landed in the courtyard. How it had taken twenty soldiers to finally bring it down and countless more to douse the flames. How it had stolen more than fifty lives with its raging blaze and razor-sharp teeth. Xander had watched the battle from his rooms at the top of the castle, safe and guarded, before running down to the servant quarters to ensure Rafe was all right. Xander had found him buried beneath the charred bodies of his parents. Injured, but still breathing. Alive, somehow, even though everyone else in that section of the castle had perished.
The queen wanted to execute him. The people cried out that he was blessed by the fire god, a usurper who would one day try to steal the throne, a curse upon their people. But Xander stood before them, their crown prince, their future king, and ordered they step down. Their ruler was only five years old, but they recognized the authority in his tone, one he’d never used before. A child had grown into a man in a single second, his youth dying with his father.
Rafe was moved to the royal quarters after that, to a room beside Xander’s. But those few seconds before the dragon’s call—there in the servant quarters, nestled between his parents—were the last few seconds when he ever felt as though he belonged.
A dragon had once stolen everything from him.
And I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.
He dove, zipping through the channel, plummeting beneath the sky bridge to meet the beast head-on. In the narrower space between the two floating isles, he’d have the best shot at slowing the creature down. Rafe’s wings were nimble and swift, but the dragon’s were wide and cumbersome in the tight space, made for gliding rather than agility.
The beast acted quickly.
Flames shot from its mouth, barreling toward Rafe, but he cut to the left, moving out of the way just in time. The heat blasted into his side, slightly painful as the fire flew past, but he ignored the sting, flattening his wings to build speed as he plummeted underneath the creature. He then flared his wings wide, letting them catch the wind and flip him in midair so he stopped beneath the belly of the dragon, the perfect place to strike.
He shoved his twin swords into the scales, but the steel barely pierced the tough hide. Before he had time to try again, a claw slashed at his vulnerable wing. Rafe pumped once, twice, narrowly escaping as he twisted around the creature’s body, staying close despite the suffocating heat, because it was the safest place to be.
There was a reason the ravens had their own house, separate from the other songbirds. A reason theirs was called the House of Whispers. When they crooned to their patron god, Taetanos, god of death, he answered. Not to them, but to their foe. He sent shadows into their enemy’s mind, a dark fog meant to distract and confuse, to disorient. Not every raven had the gift—only the greatest warriors did—but Rafe was one of the lucky few.
He wasn’t sure it would work with a dragon.
But he had to try.
He took a deep, strangled breath and released his raven cry. The ethereal sound carried across the wind, otherworldly as it echoed through the narrow space, filling the channel with its undercurrent of power, a glittering of dark shadows.
A ripple coursed through the dragon’s scales and a screech tore up its throat. Its head whipped back and forth, throwing its body off balance. The edge of a leathery wing caught on a channel wall, and before Rafe realized what was happening, the dragon slammed into the cliff, rolling with the speed of the collision, crashing into stone and sending bits of it flying.
Rafe dropped as quickly as he could, searching for cover, but even he couldn’t outmaneuver the debris cascading around him. He dodged a boulder only to be hit by a pebble landing squarely on his forehead, causing a blinding flash of pain. Within moments, the confusion cleared, but it was too late. The dragon beat its vast wings, lifting its body swiftly through the channel and into the open air above the sky bridge. Then it looked down, red eyes even more enraged, as it released a blast of flames at Rafe’s head.
He dove beneath an outcropping of rock, but wasn’t fast enough. A hiss came unbidden to his lips as his primary feathers, coated with flame, got singed. Another river of fire rushed past him, bringing beads of sweat to his brow. Rafe ruffled his wings, trying to put out the fire, but the burning wouldn’t stop. He kicked off the wall, gazing up, but all he saw was another blast of orange that drove him under the canopy once more.
How do I get out of this?
How do I get out of this?
Think, Rafe. Think.
He peeked around the edge. The dragon sat on the lip of the sky bridge, scanning for a sign of its enemy along the cliffs. Those massive wings were folded. Sharp claws gripped the crystal walls. A long, spiky tail slithered in the breeze.
Rafe turned his attention to the cliffs on either side of the channel. He was no more than fifty feet below the edge, a quick trip if he could steal a second of flight unnoticed. He’d only have one shot, one chance.
After taking a long, even breath, Rafe released his raven cry again.
Without looking, he flapped his wings, surging up and out of his hiding spot, into open air. The dragon growled, but Rafe didn’t have time to look, to wonder, to question. The edge was thirty feet, now fifteen, now ten, now—
A wave of fire engulfed him.
All he could see was bright light.
All he could hear was the crackle of flames.
All he could feel was pain.
Then more pain as a claw reached through the fire, wrapping around his torso like a vise, squeezing tightly. One sharp talon sliced through his abdomen. The flames disappeared, but they were replaced with bright sparks as his head slammed down against a hard surface, once, twice. Rafe screamed as the bones in his wings were crunched. The dragon tossed him to the side, and he rolled, bouncing over stone, muscles lacking the strength to resist. He came to a stop with his cheek against the ground and blinked.
A fuzzy view of the cliffs slipped into and out of view.
He couldn’t move. Not even as he heard the roar, the flapping of wings, the deep breath of the dragon in its final killing strike. Rafe remained facedown, gazing through the crystal stones of the sky bridge at the air and fog below, with only one thought in his mind. I’m sorry I failed you, brother.
His vision began to flicker and fade. For a moment, he thought he saw the flutter of ivory wings, then consciousness slipped through his fingers—gone.