CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ELARA

WHAT IF I TRIED SPEAKING TO HIM?” SIGNEY ASKED AS THEY walked through the market.

It was almost the weekend, almost time for their next meeting with the commander, and Signey had caught Elara after class with an invitation to see the open-air market on Margon Island. We need to properly celebrate your incendio win, Signey had said, unaware of the goose bumps left behind by her touch and the fluttering in Elara’s chest incited by her words.

Signey made her feel as if she’d never seen a girl before, let alone dated one, but she refused to act on her infatuation. There were many beautiful girls in the world. Signey was not special in that regard. If Elara had feelings for her, it had to be a result of the bond, a result of the potential to know each other better than anyone else could. She remembered her breakup with Cherry, the awkwardness it had added to their friendship for a few months afterward. She couldn’t imagine how much worse that would be with their bond, feeling each other’s heartbreak when it slipped past their walls.

It wasn’t worth it. This wasn’t why she was here.

At least she had the comfort of the market to distract her. Like the ones in San Irie, the market was stuffed with vendors behind their stalls, shopkeepers in front of their doors, and sellers balancing baskets on their heads, all yelling at people to come buy. Unlike the ones in San Irie, this one was vast and chaotic. Instead of being restricted to a single square, it spilled down every alleyway and side street. Children raced through the crowds with light feet and sticky hands. Instead of bananas and guinep, there were roasted chestnuts and hazelnuts, cod and herring, cherries and parsnips.

“I’m talking about Gael,” Signey continued, pulling Elara back to the present. “Maybe he’ll be honest with a member of the family.”

Elara had underestimated her co-Rider’s emotional state. Signey had patiently listened to Elara’s theories without emotion and then proposed that Faron should reach out to Gael for more information. Her opinion had only gotten stronger after Elara had related the news of Faron’s disastrous meeting with the gods, and, though Elara wasn’t happy that Faron was communicating with a former tyrant, she supposed she did the same every weekend when they went to see the commander. Faron would be careful—and Reeve was there if she forgot to be. She had to trust them both.

Elara paused to stare at a small pyramid of cherries, wondering if they tasted different from the ones back home. “Well, if Gael Soto is anything like you, he won’t be honest at all.”

Beside her, Signey rolled her eyes. Her hair was loose today, softly curled beneath a dragon horn hairpiece. “Is this about Jesper again?”

“He’s your older brother,” Elara said, “and he deserves the chance to look out for you.”

“Spoken like an eldest sibling.”

Elara shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“It does mean you’re biased.” Signey grabbed her arm as she was about to walk away. Her Firstrider took a coin purse out of the pocket of her breeches and counted out enough money for a bag of cherries. She handed the bag to Elara and kept walking. “It’s egotistical to assume I need his protection because I’m younger.”

But Elara wasn’t listening. Her eyes were on the bag of cherries, a red so dark they were almost black, the bag that she wouldn’t have been able to buy because she’d realized a second too late that she didn’t have any Langlish money. And Signey had bought it for her, casually, without a word exchanged between them.

Signey realized that Elara wasn’t behind her and pushed back through the crowd to her side. “Are you all right? I didn’t upend your entire worldview, did I?”

“No. No, I—no.” Elara blinked. Swallowed. “We’ll just have to disagree on this subject. And I don’t believe you can do anything with the Gray Saint that Faron isn’t already trying.”

Signey grabbed a cherry and popped it into her mouth. The pit was spat on the cobblestones. Red cherry juice stained the corner of her lips. Elara swallowed again. “Well, we have to try something.” Signey wiped at the juice and missed half of it. “I wish my dad were here. He could help. He loved this kind of thing.”

“Espionage?”

Signey snorted. “No. Family. Growing up, he made sure that Jesper and I could speak Lindan, that we enjoyed Lindan food and music, that we knew Lindan history and culture. Although he was a dracologist, one of his proudest research projects was only tangentially related to dragons: the Soto-Zayas family tree.” She made another valiant swipe for the cherry juice, leaving a single smear right at the seam of her mouth. “I wish I’d paid more attention. Gael’s name was probably on it.”

It was a long time before Elara could think of anything else. Since they were treading onto sensitive information, she sent her next statement through the bond. “Well, we still have our own resources here. We go to the National Hall tomorrow, right? Maybe it’s time to try breaking into the commander’s office, see how far along he is in raising the First Dragon.”

“I’ve already been in the commander’s office. He keeps nothing of note there. If he’s hiding anything, let alone a list of next steps, it would be at Rosetree Manor.”

Elara bit into a cherry and followed Signey down the street. Rosetree Manor was the private residence of Gavriel and Mireya Warwick, Reeve’s home before the Warwick family had moved to San Irie to occupy Pearl Bay Palace. She could think of no pretense under which they could infiltrate the commander’s home without being caught, but they had learned as much as they could from the National Hall—which was nothing. She could probably build a dragon from scratch if she had to, bones, muscle, and all, but the connection between their magic and the bond eluded her and the dracologists. Signey could likely name every member of the Conclave and Judiciary, but she’d learned more about the commander’s plans from Elara than from the man himself.

In fact, every time they went to the National Hall, Elara felt as if they were giving more than they were getting. There was a gleam in the commander’s eyes when he greeted them that made her nervous.

He had once come to check on her in the laboratory, where she had been watching a dracologist test how long a dragon had to be dead for the magic in their relic to weaken. The carcass of the dragon in question—Skythrall—had been dead for five years. The other—Raisel—had been dead for fifteen.

Elara had asked if it was necessary to know the dragons’ names when carving up and experimenting on their corpses, and the dracologist had replied, “Dragons are divine creatures, their chosen Riders worshipped as saints. We honor our dragons in war and in peacetime, in life and in death. When a dragon falls, we learn what we can from their bodies and then craft their remains into relics through which their magic can temporarily live on. And when our people create rings from claws, necklaces from scales, bracelets from fangs, it’s to venerate those who have lent us their protection and their power. So, yes, Miss Vincent, it’s necessary to know the names of the creatures we’re honoring.”

Her cheeks had burned in response, and that was when the commander had found her. He’d been dressed in a navy-blue suit, his tie a deep green that almost matched her uniform, and he’d been smiling in that strange way he had, as if she’d given him a gift that he hadn’t been expecting.

“Raisel was ridden by twins Kenya and Sebastian Edwards, who perished helping free San Irie from the clutches of Joya del Mar,” he’d said. “Skythrall, well. Skythrall was the mount of Eugenia and Celyn Soto.” He’d nodded in the face of Elara’s shock. “Signey and Jesper’s mother and sister.”

Immediately, Elara had reinforced the wall between herself and Signey, making sure that her Firstrider wouldn’t pluck the image of her dead family’s dragon cut open on a laboratory table.

“Skythrall was killed during the war by an Iryan drake. Many of the relics that the Soto siblings wear were created from him.” The commander had placed a hand on the table, inches away from a silver tray that contained a pile of Skythrall’s blue scales. “Has your co-Rider told you about the history of her family?”

“I’d rather hear it from her,” Elara had said. “Sir.”

The commander had smiled, and it had been an unfriendly one. “The Hylands, the Sotos, the Warwicks, and the Lynwoods are all dragon-riding dynasties, but the Sotos stand above them all. Imagine what one could do with so much power.”

Before she could think of a response, the commander had drifted toward the door. “It’s been illuminating to have you here, Miss Vincent. You and I have far more in common than I think you know.”

Those words had kept Elara up long after she had finished speaking with Faron and Reeve. They still haunted her now, weeks later, when she knew that he had made contact with Gael Soto at least once before and planned to inflict the First Dragon on the world again. It felt as if she, Signey, Faron, and Reeve were trying to chip away at a mountain with nothing but a toothpick.

“Elara.”

She blinked out of the memory. From the urgency in Signey’s voice, this wasn’t the first time she had called Elara’s name. “What?”

Her Firstrider stood in the middle of the street, an unmoving crowd around her. Everyone was staring upward in various states of horror. Elara turned to see what they were looking at, and her stomach dropped. A dragon tore through the sky flame-first, its wings flapping hard as it shot over Margon Island. Even when the fire faded, it was followed by a roar that made the earth shake beneath her feet, the bellow of a dragon who was absolutely livid.

“That’s Nizsa,” said Signey aloud. “Professor Smithers’s dragon. He and his husband must be up there.”

“The Fury,” Elara continued, following her train of thought. “We have to help.”

She was the one to grab Signey’s arm now, dragging her back toward the bridge to Caledon. Signey not only kept pace with her, elbowing their way past everyone running to safety, but also called Zephyra to fetch her saddle and meet them there. “We finally have the opportunity to do some good,” Signey had said the day they’d called their truce. It wasn’t that Elara hadn’t believed her until now, but it was the first time they’d been united in exactly what that meant.

For the first time, the three of them were going to do some good.

They caught up with Nizsa near the southern tip of Nova, where Langley curled around the Hestan Archipelago and pointed west toward San Irie. Professor Smithers and his husband, Rupert Lewis, sat unmoving in the saddle, ignoring all cries of their names. Elara still had only patchwork memories of her own time gripped by the Fury, but she remembered the desire to hurt, to maim, to kill. There hadn’t been enemies and friends, but targets, and the howling rage coursing through her had made her eager, even desperate, to strike.

But as Zephyra closed the distance between them and Nizsa, Elara realized something about the Fury that should have been obvious to her before now: Everyone wore their anger differently. She, Signey, and Zephyra might have been apoplectic with rage, but Smithers, Lewis, and Nizsa’s fury was seething and methodical. They didn’t simply want to strike anyone or anything. They wanted to raze. To annihilate.

To conquer.

“How do you want to do this?” Signey sent when they were so close that Elara could see the gleaming silver of Professor Smithers’s hair over Signey’s shoulder.

Elara assessed the situation. Nizsa was another sage dragon, swift and smart, and they had no idea where she was flying to. In a few minutes, she would be outside the boundaries of the continent, which would take her away from civilization but risk the lives of her Riders if Elara and Signey brought her down in the open ocean.

“Fly over them,” she told Signey and Zephyra. “I’ll try to bring the professor around. You make sure Nizsa doesn’t fly out any farther.”

“I’m not sure I care for this plan,” said Zephyra.

“You could get hurt,” Signey added. “They’re not themselves right now, Elara.”

“A little trust would be nice, ladies.”

Zephyra snorted at the echo of her words from the incendio. Signey sighed—so deeply that Elara could feel it through the bond—before she twisted around in Elara’s hold. She detangled her horned hairpiece from her fraying curls and held it out. “At least take this. You might need its magic.”

Elara, who still refused to wear dragon relics in her everyday life, smiled as she affixed the hairpiece around her braids, the horns curving just above her ears. Many of the relics that the Soto siblings wear were created from Skythrall, the commander had said. Now here was Signey, trusting her with a piece of her mother and sister. A part of her ancestors, given for Elara’s protection. Maybe it meant something different in Langley than such a thing would mean in San Irie, but…

“Thank you,” she sent, touched. “I’ll definitely need it.”

Was it her imagination or were Signey’s cheeks pink? “Thank me by being careful.”

Zephyra pulled up into the air over Nizsa as Elara untied herself from the saddle, sending her gratitude to Irie that even without the added security measures, she, as a Wingleader, had perfect balance. Because it was only her clenched thighs and her arms around Signey’s waist that otherwise kept her from tumbling off her dragon’s back.

“Be careful,” Signey said one last time.

“Always am,” Elara replied.

Zephyra arced sideways, aligning directly above Nizsa, and Elara leaped into the air, leaving her stomach behind. Wind rushed around her, a moment of pure stillness. Then the fall began to register and a scream tore from her throat, lost in the frigid air.

Elara hit the saddle, pain shooting up her thighs. Nizsa didn’t so much as dip, but Lewis turned to watch her cling to the edge of the leather. Nizsa’s scales scraped against her clothes, dug into her stomach, and her arms strained to pull herself farther away from the dragon’s spiked tail. She watched Lewis lift a hand, watched a ball of flame spark above his palm. She could almost feel the heat of it, the way it would scorch her skin.

And then Nizsa hissed and drew up short.

Lewis jolted in the saddle. The flame went out. Elara dragged herself up behind him, relieved when she saw straps dangling from either side of Nizsa’s body. They’d succumbed to the Fury so quickly that they hadn’t bothered to tie themselves in, relying solely on their Rider magic to maintain their balance, and that worked for her. She’d barely managed to strap herself in when Nizsa spiraled away from Zephyra. Apparently, perfect balance didn’t apply if she rode any dragon besides her own.

Lewis and Smithers were moving seamlessly with every twitch of Nizsa’s body, but Elara felt as if she were riding a wild horse and only her wits would keep her from ending up in an infirmary. Signey and Zephyra were doing their part, corralling Nizsa back toward the Langlish borders, and now she had to do hers.

Elara reached for the magic in the dragon horns. Once again, it was as easy as a breath, as easy as a thought. The hum of magic replaced the whistle of the wind, waiting for her direction, eager to help. And as Lewis moved again to attempt to dislodge her, Elara aimed the cloud of magic at him and the professor, commanding it to put them to sleep. He raised a hand as if to block or counter, but she was faster. It took seconds for Rupert Lewis to slump against his husband’s bent back. Professor Smithers snored lightly, his forehead almost low enough to touch the saddle.

She held tightly as Nizsa hovered in midair, visibly confused. The Fury was a relentless wave of feral rage, but it also built on the minds consumed by it. Without Lewis and Smithers to add to Nizsa’s viciousness, she was left to tend to the single ember of her own anger. Elara opened her mouth to tell the dragon to fly back to Hearthstone and screamed instead.

Because Nizsa was falling from the sky, fast asleep like her Riders.

Her lithe body dropped so quickly that Elara was partially lifted from the saddle, only the straps keeping her from spinning away. She gripped the back of Lewis’s shirt, still screaming, her eyes burning from the sharp air and the sudden knowledge that she had miscalculated, that she was going to die, that she would never again see her sister or her family or her home or Reeve, that she would never summon again, never return to school, never stop the commander—

She slammed against the saddle like a bird against a window. The faded ache from earlier pulsed through her a second time, in not just her thighs but her ribs and chest, as well. A shadow had blocked out the sun, and Elara looked up to see that it was Zephyra. The talons of her arms were gripping Nizsa’s, keeping the slumbering dragon aloft. Zephyra’s leg talons gripped Nizsa’s as well, carrying her, carrying them.

“Are you all right?” Signey and Zephyra asked together.

Tears soaked Elara’s cheeks, but this time they weren’t from fear. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

She felt their relief, as powerful as her own, and closed her eyes to sink into that wave of affection. Her Firstrider. Her dragon. Once enemies, once punishments, and now her saviors, her protectors. Her friends. Elara still wanted to go home—perhaps even more so now that her final thoughts had been only of the people she’d left behind—but she would miss this, too. She would miss them.

And she didn’t know what to do with that realization.