Page 33 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)
"That's not a settlement," Valeria said, her voice sharp with sudden understanding. "That's the baggage train."
The realization hit our formation like a physical blow. The supply column that had been following hours behind us, carrying the food and equipment that would sustain our campaign—it was under attack.
"Signal from the rear guard!" another scout shouted, pointing to a series of light flashes coming from a ridge to our south. "Dragons attacking the supply lines!"
My heart hammered against my ribs as I processed what that meant. Talfen dragons. Free dragons. Striking at the Empire's vulnerable logistics chain with the kind of tactical precision that spoke of careful planning.
Jalend's voice cut through the rising chaos, calm but commanding. "Fourth wing, with me! Sharp turn and dive—we need to get there fast!"
But even as Sirrax responded to my guidance, wheeling around in a tight arc that pressed me hard against his neck, I could see we were too far away. The smoke was rising from a point at least twenty miles behind us, and by the time we covered that distance...
"We're not going to make it in time," Marcus called out from where he rode behind me, his voice grim with tactical assessment.
He was right. The other dragons of our wing were following suit, racing back the way we'd come, but we were flying into the aftermath of a battle that was already decided. The Talfen had chosen their moment perfectly—hitting the supplies when the main force was too far away to respond effectively.
This is it, I thought. The fighting has started.
As we flew, I found myself watching the other dragons in our formation.
They were moving faster than I'd ever seen them move, their powerful wings beating with an urgency that seemed to go beyond simple obedience to their riders' commands.
It was as if the prospect of combat had awakened something in them—some buried instinct for battle that the collars couldn't entirely suppress.
But there was something else too. The way they moved, the subtle changes in their flight patterns—it was almost as if they were remembering how to be dragons rather than just mounts.
Do they know? I found myself wondering. Deep down, do they remember what they really are?
Some remember more than others, Sirrax replied, somehow catching the drift of my thoughts. Collars block much, but not all. In moments of strong emotion... things surface.
The landscape blurred beneath us as we raced south, but it was clear we were fighting a losing battle against time and distance. The smoke column grew thicker as we approached, and I began to make out details that made my stomach clench with dread.
Dragons. Multiple shapes wheeling and diving through the smoke, their movements wild and organic compared to the rigid formations of Imperial forces. These weren't enslaved creatures following programmed responses—these were thinking beings making tactical decisions in real time.
"Gods," one of the other riders breathed, his voice carrying clearly in the thin air. "Look how they move."
He was right. There was something beautiful and terrible about the way the attacking dragons fought—not the rigid precision of military training, but the fluid adaptation of creatures thinking for themselves.
They worked together without apparent coordination, each dragon seeming to know instinctively where the others would be.
Free dragons, Sirrax observed, and I could hear something like longing in his mental voice. See how move. Remember how was, before.
As we crested a ridge and finally got a clear view of the valley below, the scope of the disaster became apparent.
The supply train was in complete chaos—wagons overturned and burning, pack animals scattered to the winds, soldiers running for whatever cover they could find.
Dragons—Talfen dragons— wheeled and dove through the Imperial formation, breathing fire onto supplies and equipment with surgical precision.
But it wasn't random destruction. I could see the pattern in their attacks, the careful targeting of specific objectives.
They'd gone for the food stores first, then the medical supplies, then the weapons cache.
Everything an army needed to sustain itself in hostile territory was being systematically destroyed.
"Tactical withdrawal in progress," Jalend called out, his voice tight with professional frustration. "They're not staying to fight—they're hitting and running."
Indeed, even as we watched, the attacking dragons began to disengage.
They climbed rapidly toward the mountain peaks, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that spoke of extensive training and communication.
Within moments, they would be beyond our effective range, safely hidden in terrain where the heavier Imperial dragons couldn't follow.
But in those final moments before they disappeared, I caught sight of something that made my heart stop.
One of the dragons—smaller than most, with distinctive midnight blue scales that caught the sunlight—broke away from the main group and climbed toward the sky. Something about his movement pattern, the particular way he held his wings, sparked recognition deep in my chest.
Tarshi.
Without thinking, I screamed his name aloud, my voice tearing at my throat as I tried to make myself heard over the wind and the roar of battle. "TARSHI!"
But he was too far away, climbing rapidly toward the safety of the mountain peaks. If he heard me at all, he gave no sign of it. The indigo-scaled dragon continued climbing, joining the other Talfen dragons as they withdrew from the devastated supply train.
Tarshi, please! I called out mentally, though I knew the distance was too great for that kind of communication. Please hear me!
For just a moment, the dragon seemed to hesitate in his climb. His great head turned slightly in our direction, and I thought—hoped—that some part of him had heard my desperate call. But then the moment passed, and he disappeared over the ridge with the rest of his flight.
I stared at the empty sky, my heart breaking. He had been so close. For just a moment, Tarshi had been right there, and I had been powerless to reach him. The frustration and grief threatened to overwhelm me.
"Assess the damage!" Jalend's voice cut through my emotional turmoil, sharp with barely controlled anger. "Salvage what you can!"
We landed amid the wreckage of the supply train, and the reality of what had happened became immediately clear. This hadn't been a random raid—it had been a carefully planned operation designed to cripple our ability to wage war in Talfen territory.
The dragons responsible were long gone, vanished into the mountainous terrain where we couldn't follow.
But their message was clear: the Empire might have superior numbers and equipment, but the Talfen had advantages of their own.
They knew this land, they moved like the wind, and they had dragons who fought like dragons were meant to fight—free, intelligent, and utterly committed to their cause.
As I dismounted from Sirrax and looked around at the devastation, I couldn't help but feel a fierce surge of pride.
Tarshi and his allies had struck a devastating blow against the Empire's war machine.
They'd reminded everyone present that this wouldn't be the easy conquest the Imperial high command had promised.
The war had begun in earnest now, and for the first time since leaving the capital, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—the Empire could be stopped.