Page 3 of Thauglor (Dragonis Academy Year 3.5 #5)

Chapter Two

Early the next day, I take flight toward Klauth’s territory, cutting through air thick with the promise of violence.

Storm clouds gather on the horizon like an omen, their dark bellies pregnant with lightning that mirrors my own turbulent mood.

The sky bleeds crimson and gold where dawn struggles against the encroaching darkness, painting everything in the colors of war.

Today we go to collect his bride, and everything about the idea screams mistake to me with the intensity of a battle cry.

The wind carries the acrid scent of smoke from distant battles—a reminder that even this simple journey could turn deadly if we encounter enemy scouts lurking in the mountain passes or hidden among the clouds.

I’m going to bring it up once more to him, though I know how these conversations usually end between two alpha dragons.

If he goes through with this fool’s errand, so be it.

I just hope the hatchlings don’t suffer because he’s too proud to admit his loneliness, too stubborn to wait for what the fates might have in store.

The thought of innocents paying for their father’s impatience makes my jaw clench with barely contained fury.

The cedar and pine forests that separate our territories stretch below me like a dark green sea, their ancient canopies hiding both wonderful hunting opportunities and countless dangers that could end a life in seconds.

All sorts of wild game exist in them—deer that can feed newly born hatchlings with their rich meat, elk whose antlers make excellent toys for developing claws, but also predators that wouldn’t hesitate to make a meal of vulnerable young.

Shadow cats with fangs like daggers, dire wolves that hunt in packs large enough to bring down even a young dragon, and worse things that have no names but plenty of teeth.

The forest floor far below is littered with the sun-bleached bones of those who thought these woods were safe, their remains telling silent stories of overconfidence and poor judgment.

Shattered ribcages speak of crushing jaws, scattered vertebrae whisper of things that strike from above, and the occasional dragon skull serves as a grim reminder that even we are not invincible in this unforgiving wilderness.

Personally, I want to catch and breed rabbits if I’m ever blessed with a mate, though the thought feels like a luxury I may never afford.

I’ll dig a secure pit lined with smooth stones and place my progeny down there with several breeding pairs of rabbits for them to hunt in a controlled environment.

It will teach them the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the kill, but keep them safe from the larger threats that stalk these ancient woods.

The image fills me with unexpected warmth—tiny roars of triumph echoing from below as sharp little claws learn to tear flesh, the proud gleam in blue eyes that mirror my own.

I daydream about what may one day be on my way to Klauth’s stronghold.

I imagine the sound of small roars echoing from training pits carved into living rock.

The sight of tiny claws learning to tear flesh with precision rather than blind fury.

In my mind’s eye, I see myself teaching them the difference between killing for survival and killing for sport, showing them how to honor their prey even as they consume it.

But even my fantasies are tinged with wariness—every parent’s dream shadowed by the knowledge that in our world, even the strongest hatchlings face countless ways to die before they reach their first molting.

The reality of our existence crashes back into my consciousness like an icy wave.

Hatchlings die from exposure, from predation, from the simple bad luck of being born during a siege.

They die from eating poisoned prey, from falling into underground rivers, from challenging older siblings too early.

The mortality rate among our young is staggering, which makes every successful fledgling a precious miracle.

Perhaps that’s why Klauth is so desperate to secure his bloodline, even if it means compromising everything we’ve fought to protect.

I spot Klauth circling high above his castle’s spiked turrets, a dark silhouette against the threatening sky that could easily be mistaken for a vulture by distant observers.

The wind whips at my face with vicious intensity, carrying the metallic taste of iron from distant battlefields and the sharp bite of coming rain that will make flying treacherous.

Each gust threatens to slam me into the jagged mountain peaks that rise like spears around his territory—navigation here requires constant vigilance and reflexes honed by centuries of aerial combat.

His castle sits perched on a natural throne of granite and obsidian, its black walls seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it.

Guard towers rise from the structure like accusing fingers, their arrow slits dark and watchful.

Even from this distance, I can see the subtle movements of sentries along the battlements, their weapons glinting in the weak sunlight.

This is a fortress built for war, designed by someone who understands that peace is just the pause between conflicts.

When he spots me, I watch him drop in altitude with practiced precision, wings wavering dangerously as they catch a sudden downdraft that could easily dash him against the rocks if he miscalculates by even a few feet.

He maneuvers toward an open field we use for landings, but even this approach is treacherous—the ground is scarred with craters from past attacks, testament to enemies who thought they could breach his defenses.

Loose stones and rubble could send him tumbling if he lands wrong, turning a simple arrival into a potentially fatal accident.

He kicks up a flurry of dust and sharp pebbles with each powerful wingbeat; the debris stings my eyes as I follow his descent through the turbulent air.

The sound of his wings cutting through the wind is like thunder, announcing our presence to anyone within miles.

I see him shift back to human form just before he hits the ground; the transformation leaving him momentarily vulnerable to attack—a calculated risk that speaks either to his confidence in his defenses or his faith in my protection.

I land nearby with bone-jarring force that sends shockwaves through the rocky ground, my massive wings fanning a swirl of grit and small rocks through the air like projectiles fired from siege engines.

The impact sends tremors through the earth, disturbing nesting creatures that scatter with alarmed cries and causing several loose boulders to shift ominously on the surrounding slopes.

Birds explode from hidden roosts in clouds of feathers and panic, their cries adding to the cacophony of our arrival.

I notice his face scales are darkening—a sure sign he’s edging closer to the wyrm stage, when dragons become more powerful but also more unpredictable, more dangerous even to their closest allies.

The transformation brings increased strength and magical ability, but at the cost of emotional stability and rational thought.

Many dragons who reach this stage become hermits, unable to maintain relationships with anyone, consumed by paranoia and rage.

The sight of those darkening scales fills me with an unexpected pang of sorrow.

My oldest friend is approaching a phase that might cost me his companionship forever.

We stride toward each other across the rocky ground, each step calculated to avoid the hidden crevices that could turn an ankle or worse.

The terrain here is treacherous even in human form, littered with loose stone and unexpected drop-offs that could send the unwary tumbling into jagged ravines.

We clasp hands with a firm grip that tests for weakness, a ritual greeting that has saved both our lives more than once by revealing enemies using illusion magic to disguise themselves.

The lingering warmth of our transformations radiates through our palms, but beneath it lurks the constant tension of predators who could turn on each other at any moment if circumstances demanded it.

“It’s been too long, Klauth. Have you been well?

” I ask, my voice resonating like distant thunder as I turn to take in his domain with a warrior’s eye, automatically noting defensive positions and potential escape routes.

There’s a slight curl to my lips as I observe the sprawling stone walls and their fresh battle damage, the way the distant peaks could hide approaching enemies or provide cover for a strategic retreat.

“You’ve chosen a defensible place for your stronghold.

Will your bride come here with you, or will you be fool enough to leave this protection behind? ”

The question hangs between us like a blade, sharp with implications neither of us wants to acknowledge.

I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides as he wrestles with decisions that could determine the fate of his bloodline.

The wind picks up, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something that makes my nostrils flare with recognition.

Danger approaches, though whether from the weather or more sinister sources remains to be seen.