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The chilly air whipped her fiery red hair around her face as she approached the very edge of the cliffs. She closed her eyes and savored the howling wind that seemed as angry as she was. Wren would not be defeated. The elves would pay for what they’d done.

She opened her eyes and surveyed the battle below through the smoke and fog. Waterfalls tumbled down the sides of the immense black cliffs that formed the barrier of an enormous crescent shaped bay. The gusts from the storm crashed against the falling water, pushing the spray into a thousand water droplets that disappeared into the air. Ships bobbed in the angry sea below, the flash of cannons penetrating the fog.

Her lips curled.

How had the Verlantian ships made it into the bay? Such a thing should not have been possible. The reefs and their cannons to the north were their final defense—for the elves to make it this far south did not bode well for Lorne. Ships with the orange and black flags of the enemy spread out as far as she could see. Her heart sunk.

A full-scale invasion.

The shriek of dragons along with the low boom of the cannons filled her ringing ears.

Do something.

She would stop the invasion here and now. For her dead mother. Her dead father. Her beloved Rowen and, most importantly, for Britta.

You will not fail.

Wren moved with purpose along the edge of the cliffs until she came to a weathered set of steep steps that were carved into the side of the cliff. Only the most prestigious of Dragon Riders were even aware they existed. It was a precipitous decline. She grimaced as her bare feet scraped against the wet porous stone. Only once she entered the first cavern did her heartbeat slow. Her family had prepared Wren for this. There was no need to be afraid.

She exhaled heavily and strode through the cavern until she arrived at the second staircase that was exposed to the elements. Rain fell from the sky, explosions rattled the stone beneath her feet, and the storm and battle raged in her ears. Her borrowed clothes chaffed at her skin, but it was better than her wedding dress. The garment would have made things more perilous than they already were. She picked up her speed, becoming surer footed, her quiver and bow together on her back.

On more than one step, her feet slipped from under her, and, for sickening moments, she truly believed she was going to fall to her doom before managing to do anything at all. But then her instincts kicked in, fingers grappling at sharp rocks and knees bracing her weight beneath her, and she managed to steady herself. But not without injury.

Wren hissed as she lifted up her left hand, inspecting the bloody gash across her palm. Just one more thing to blame the elves for.

By the time she reached the bottom of the cliff, her entire body trembled from the sheer exertion required to have descended such a narrow, slippery staircase. As she glanced up at the sheer height of the cliffs, she decided she didn’t want to do that again any time soon. It was a bloody miracle she’d made it at all.

The ocean thundered against the rocks below, dousing Wren with sea spray. She backed away from its hungry waves to the hidden cave behind the stairs. The stone beneath her feet was smooth as she edged farther inside the teardrop shaped cave. She blinked hard to adjust her eyes to the darkness and made sure she stayed on the thin ledge of stone that surrounded the writhing pool of water in the middle. Another spray of seawater pummeled her face, finding its way into her mouth. Wren spat it back out, though the tang of salt and brine within the water somewhat reinvigorated her. It took her longer than expected to locate a horn made of shell hanging from a leather cord in a small alcove. It was a conch shell, with beautifully curved spirals that tapered to a fine point along with three holes. It had weathered many battles and yet somehow remained in pristine condition. Her stiff fingers curled around the horn and she cradled it to her chest. She’d been told never to use it unless under the gravest of conditions—and there was never, nor would there be, a graver condition than now.

She brought it to her lips, placed her fingers over the holes, and began to play her dragon song.

The folktales told in Lorne said that the sound emitted from the horn was different depending on who blew on it. Wren had never quite believed this; she had heard other Dragon Riders use it before and decided it sounded very much the same as when she used it.

She blew on the horn until there was no air left in her lungs, and then she took a deep breath and blew again. She did not stop until the cave walls began to rumble. Her song echoed in the cavern and Wren prayed that it was enough. Her fingers tightened on the shell when a familiar hum reached her ears.

Aurora emerged from the pool of water.

“Oh, am I glad to see you,” Wren told her dragon.

She placed the shell back into the alcove and rushed to the creature’s side. Her dragon whistled and laid her head on the rock shelf of the cave. Wren dropped to her knees and hugged Aurora’s neck fiercely. In the swirling, stormy weather, the dragon was barely visible to the eye, even with Aurora standing right next to her. Her pearly scales took on the color of everything around her, making Wren feel as if the creature beside her was scarcely real.

“It’s time to fight, my love. Are you ready?” she asked the dragon, placing a kiss on her snout. Wren pulled back and ran her hand gently over Aurora’s brow. “We must be brave.”

Her dragon gave a soft whistle and bumped her nose against Wren’s chest. She hugged the beastie and allowed herself one moment of comfort. Dragons were sensitive to human emotion. Aurora always knew when something was wrong.

“They’re all gone,” she whispered the awful words out loud. Aurora whined and puffed a hot breath against Wren’s stomach. “It’s just Britta, you and me now.” She inhaled deeply and released her dragon, steeling herself for what was to come.

Wren stood and rolled her neck. It was time to go. She whistled softly and Aurora perked up and pressed her side closer to the rock. She reached out to her dragon’s frill as she climbed onto the beastie’s back. Water soaked through Wren’s pants as she settled between two spines of Aurora’s crest, and for the first time all evening, she felt more like herself.

She stroked a hand along Aurora’s sleek side. “Let’s go,” she commanded with a sharp whistle. Wren took a deep breath before the dragon dove beneath the water. She closed her eyes and held on tight as the tide threatened to tear her from Aurora. It was over as soon as it began.

The beastie broke the surface and jumped onto a tall rock jutting from the ocean. Wren shook the water from her hair and opened her eyes. “To the skies!” she cried.

Aurora’s wings snapped out from her sides. Wren’s stomach lurched as the dragon caught a draft of wind and launched into the sky. Her dragon hurtled through the air at such a sickening speed that euphoria filled Wren. She’d always loved the thrill of flying. Adrenaline shot through her as they approached the warring soldiers. Her father had trained Wren for this eventuality all of her life, but this was the first real battle she’d ever seen, let alone engaged in.

You will not fail now. You’re made of sturdier stuff.

Wren urged the white-scaled dragon onward.