Page 26

Flight

Reina

I stir to morning twilight, rising earlier than Drakon, my legs tangled with his while I curl closer, fitting into the crook of his arm. Since he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, we’ve seldom broken contact.

I’m terrified, but his body reassures me, calming my instinct to break down under the duress. And I suspect our connection does something similar to him.

He speaks only when necessary, and while I expect to find the silence strange, I’m not bothered. My thoughts can’t sort their way into words either, and while our tongues remain tied, our bodies speak volumes.

I watch his chest rising and falling, cuddling closer so I can listen to the steady beat of his heart. He’s impossibly warm, and over the night, I’ve shoved most of the blankets away.

My gaze drifts to the waistband of his pants, where his muscled stomach turns to a V, my morning mind wandering lustily. This wondering and wanting should scare me—it’s wanton and wrong—but the heat sooths me. We’re intimate, safe, and warm within a chaotic world.

It’s only temporary,I tell myself. I can’t possibly stay here. Neither can he. One day, these moments will be memories, and so, by dawn’s growing blush, I memorize him.

“Sunrise approaches,” he whispers, a sigh rumbling through his chest.

I’m about to sit up, but he tightens his grip, pulling me closer. For a final moment, we tighten, clenching like we could be bound together, hidden from the day. Only the sun insists on rising, and so we must do the same. Our fingers linger, soft touches maintaining subtle contact, as we leave the nest behind.

I’m still wearing the rosy-pink skirts, the matching bodice tight upon my chest. The gossamer fabric is wrinkled from sleep, my breasts straining against their confines. There’s little else to wear. Drakon has spare pants packed away, billowy and loose, but this cavern is a space prepared for himself, and there’s no clothing to fit me.

He is confident no one can find us—for decades, no one has found him here. It’s cozy, everything a little too small, and the confines keep us close.

As the sun shows, Drakon sits at the table and clutches the blue stone. Speaking stones are a luxury on the human continent, and this is the first one I’ve seen.

From his increasing agitation, the tapping of his fingers, I watch his growing frustration as the stone does nothing. He continues to wait, hoping, until I’m certain it’s too late—there is no update from the clan.

“We’ll try again at sunset,” he eventually says, clutching the stone. Worries crease his face, and I sit next to him, running my fingers down his back. He doesn’t balk at my caress, and his tension leaves under my touch.

“They might need more time,” I say, hoping it’s true, because I follow it with my confession. “I’m not ready to go back, to let Scorpia make my decision for me. I want…”

He looks at me, and I lose track of my words; there are countless wants I’ve stopped hungering for.

“I want to fly,” I say.

He holds my gaze, setting the stone aside to focus on me, and I sink onto the bench. Leaning closer, he promises, “By sunset, you will fly.”

And thus, our work begins.

My transformation continues, and today, I explore my winged form, the intermediate body between my humanoid and dragon ones. Drakon explains that it’s a good place to start—the shape offering the familiar dexterity of my humanoid one.

However, mastering this transformation is only my first step. If I’m to swim in Wisp’s caldera, I must master my dragon form too.

Our heartaches haven’t dissipated. We’re both weighed down by our circumstances, but when we take the next step forward, departing the cavern for the ledge overlooking the canyon, we discover blue skies.

The volcanic valley is filled with black stones and sharp edges, a thin lava river running through its center. A fall looks deadly, and without my self-preserving fear of falling, my body embraces the possibility of flight.

Drakon has extended and withdrawn his wings several times now, not only preparing to catch me, but because he’s uncertain of how to describe the shift.

He was the last born to the clan, and there wasn’t a younger faeling for him to teach.

Fortunately, some part of this seems intuitive. In the same way Wisp’s knowledge reaches me, my new body is trying to describe something too. Ialmostknow what to do.

My wingblades—what Drakon calls my shoulder blades—tingle, nerves alight and ready to be called into action. The bodice cuts low on the back, exposing my flesh to the breeze.

Wingblades aching, eager for expansion, it’s time.

“I’m ready,” I tell him.