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16

Vaylen

O ut of habit, I return to my old haunts. This place is familiar. The Raven’s Perch has barely changed in the last four years since I graduated from Aerie Academy.

The tavern clings to the edge of the cobbled street like a dying bird. Its sign, a crudely painted raven with eyes that seem to follow me, creaks in the damp air. A flickering lantern casts distorted shadows across the muddy threshold, barely illuminating the narrow doorway.

Inside, the common room belies the exterior. Despite the haze of smoke and rough-hewn tables, the patrons laugh and talk animatedly, sharing bowls of warm stew and foaming tankards of ale. The barkeep, a hulking figure with a face like weathered stone, moves with a sluggish grace.

I’ve been here for an hour, sitting in silence. I lift the tankard to my lips and take in a mouthful of the spiced ale. It’s much better than what we get in Cinderhold. Much better.

Kicking back in my chair, I watch the crowd. A group of Aerie Academy students converses by the counter, while the barkeep polishes drinkware, surreptitiously listening to their conversation. He lives vicariously through the students—his words, not mine. He’s a Tide who once tried for the Academy, failed, then settled for opening a tavern nearby.

My gaze sweeps the rest of the room. There’s a sizable number of young women present. They come in sets of at least two to ogle the cadets. They did the same in my day. That hasn’t changed either. Several of them have made eyes at me. The High Prime uniform has that effect, more so than the plain one the Aerie cadets sport.

I hate that I’m required to wear it when I’m on leave. That’s why I was hoping to make a covert connection at the party, which I suppose I did, except with the entirely wrong woman.

Dammit all to the hells.

Another mouthful of ale slides down my throat as I slam the tankard on the table. A woman sitting nearby jumps, pressing a hand to her bosom, calling attention to it. Her leaf-green dress pushes her breasts up, forming a small ledge any man would love to rest his face upon.

Fuck!

I glance away, feeling like an absolute boar. She’s not even my type, and I can’t keep the lecherous thoughts out of my head. When I joined the service, I never suspected my needs would become an issue, but here we are. I remind myself these are enamored young women, here to find a promising cadet they can later call their husbands. This is not the place to get what I want. For that, I would have to go to?—

The thought dies short in my mind as Skysinger Wyndward walks through the door. She wears her formal uniform, coat draped over her arm. Her black hair, which should be up in a bun, tumbles over her shoulders. She walks with confidence toward the front counter. The cadets notice her right away and stand to attention, their faces shaped by awe and a generous dash of jealousy.

She stops in front of the tallest one—a strong-jawed, third-year cadet—and surveys him. Her expression is stern and critical. They face off for a moment. A momentary hush falls over the room, but it breaks when Skysinger Wyndward and the cadet laugh, then embrace and thump each other’s backs.

“Congratulations, Rhea, I heard,” the cadet says.

The others join in, praising her for becoming one of the lucky few, a dragon rider. She thanks them, then greets the barkeep warmly. He quickly produces an ale for her. Only a week ago, she must have sat here, drinking and fantasizing about what today is a reality.

And what a reality. She wasn’t only chosen. Zephyros means to bond with her. Now, there will be two of us.

I throw back the rest of my ale, cursing inwardly. My task of teaching her might become much harder due to that bond. She’s already full of herself, with a bravado taller than she is. On top of that, she’s entirely my type. That jet black hair, her sun-kissed olive skin, her simultaneously supple and strong body, and worst of all… that air of confidence and determination that promises a worthy match. Not even her considerable power—which might eclipse mine after bonding—intimidates me, nor the inexplicable way our energies intertwined during her last test, an occurrence I can’t understand even after scouring Sky’s Edge’s well-supplied library. While some men may prefer women who sit quietly and do as they’re told, I have never found any appeal in that, on the contrary. This doesn’t bode well.

Heratrix, help me!

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I push the empty tankard away and stand. I shouldn’t rely on Heratrix for this. She has abandoned us, after all. I need to help myself and get the hells out of here. As I turn to leave, her gaze connects with mine.

A jolt of electricity courses through me, reminding me of her last test and that strange outburst of energy we shared. I should run out the door without looking back, but I’d hate looking like a coward, so instead, I approach her.

I will tell her some nonsense or another, then I’ll leave.