ULF
Two weeks of training. Two weeks of learning what should have taken years.
The saddle helped. Proper riding leathers helped more—fitted to my body, reinforced at the thighs and chest where dragon scales rubbed raw.
But mostly, it was Silverwing.
She adapted to me as I adapted to her. Learned my balance points, my reflexes, my limitations. When I leaned too far left, she compensated. When I kicked for a turn, she anticipated the direction.
Partnership. That's what this is.
"Naejot," I called. Forward.
She accelerated. Wind screaming past.
"Kelītīs!" Halt.
Her wings flared. We stopped mid-air, hovering impossibly.
"Jikagon." Descend.
A controlled drop. Fifty feet. A hundred.
"Sōvēs!" Fly.
She caught the air again, leveling out ten feet above the training yard.
The dragonkeepers had stopped pretending not to stare. I'd overheard them talking—the bastard rides like he was born to it. Two weeks and he's better than lords who trained for years.
Not better. Just different. I cheat in ways they can't understand.
A shadow passed overhead. Massive. Bronze.
Vermithor landed with a crash that shook the yard. Hugh Hammer sat on his back, whip in hand.
HUGH
The beast was learning.
Hugh Hammer drove Vermithor through another set of turns—sharp, punishing, designed to teach obedience through pain.
The Bronze Fury snarled. Resisted.
Hugh's whip cracked across the dragon's neck.
"Turn, you stubborn bastard!"
Vermithor turned. Grudgingly. Furiously.
That's right. I'm the master here.
Movement in the corner of his eye. The White bastard, landing on his silver bitch.
Hugh guided Vermithor down. Dismounted with the careless confidence of a man who'd never doubted his own strength.
"Ulf." He nodded. "Getting better."
"So are you."
"I'm already better. Just refining." Hugh stretched, working out the aches from flight. "Vermithor's learning his place."
The White bastard's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.
"Dragons aren't horses. They don't respond to force."
"Everything responds to force. Some things just need more of it."
"And when the force breaks them?"
"Then I find another dragon." Hugh grinned. "Plenty of them around."
ULF
I watched Hugh walk away, whip coiled at his belt.
Vermithor remained in the yard, sides heaving, a fresh welt visible on his neck. The dragon's eyes tracked Hugh with an expression I recognized.
Hatred. Pure, patient hatred.
"You'll make him hate you," I'd told Hugh a week ago. He'd laughed.
He wasn't laughing now. Just dismissing the warning with the arrogance of a man who'd never lost a fight.
He'll lose eventually. Everyone does. And when he falls—
Helaena's words echoed: "I've dreamed of a bronze fury turning on its own."
I approached Vermithor slowly. Non-threatening.
The dragon's attention shifted to me. Wary. Not hostile, but not welcoming.
"Lykiri," I said softly. Calm. "Nyke daor aōha dārilaros." I am not your enemy.
A rumble. Neither agreement nor rejection.
"Patience," I continued, knowing I couldn't be overheard. "He'll fall. They always do. And when he does, you'll be free."
Vermithor's eyes held mine for a long moment.
Then he turned away. Dismissed me.
But something had passed between us. Understanding, maybe. Or warning.
I returned to Silverwing and began our afternoon drills.
THAT EVENING
Mock combat.
The dragonkeepers had arranged targets in the fields beyond the city walls—straw men, wooden towers, painted circles representing enemy positions.
Hugh went first.
Vermithor dove. Fire erupted. Everything burned—targets, grass, a tree that had been too close.
"Clean sweep!" Hugh roared, circling back. "Nothing left!"
Nothing targeted either. Just destruction.
My turn.
Silverwing and I approached differently. Calculated angles. Specific targets.
"Dracarys," I commanded as we passed the first tower.
A focused stream of fire. The tower ignited. Nothing else.
"Jikagon."
We dropped toward the straw men. I leaned, kicked—
Rankyaku.
The air blade cut through three targets before dissipating.
"Sōvēs!"
We climbed. Circled. Descended on the painted circles.
Silverwing's flame touched each one precisely. Controlled burns. Minimum spread.
When we landed, the dragonkeepers stared.
"Did you just..." one began.
"Attack from the saddle? Yes."
"Without fire?"
"Different technique."
They exchanged glances. Questions they were afraid to ask.
Hugh landed beside me. His expression had soured.
"Fancy tricks. Won't matter when we're fighting real dragons."
"Maybe not. But they won't hurt either."
He spat and walked away.
I watched him go. Cataloged his movements. His weaknesses.
When he finally breaks, I need to be ready.
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