1
Sky above, wind beneath, flame within.
Riven had always thought the floating kingdom of Aerithal looked most beautiful at dawn.
The sky stretched endlessly, brushed with lavender and peach, clouds drifting like lazy seafoam across a cerulean tide. Below the cliff where he stood, the lower tiers of the kingdom floated in quiet harmony—platforms of stone and ivy hanging in the air like suspended islands, tethered by ancient magic and glowing crystal veins. Airships creaked in the wind, banners flapped from rooftops, and in the distance, a chorus of dragon cries echoed like a song only the wind understood.
Virex shifted beside him, the Nightflame’s obsidian-black scales gleaming faintly in the morning light. A puff of smoke curled from his nostrils, his tail twitching like a sleepy cat’s. Riven placed a gloved hand on his dragon’s broad neck, feeling the warmth radiate from beneath those midnight scales. Calm. Watchful.
“We’re not late,” Riven murmured, though Virex hadn’t moved. “She’s the one who’s late.”
As if summoned by the complaint, a golden streak sliced across the sky. Riven tilted his head, already smiling before he could stop himself. Sora descended with wings outstretched, sunlight catching every shimmering scale of her golden hide. She looked like a living sunrise, graceful and fierce, her wingbeats steady and proud.
Riding astride her, legs hooked easily into the saddle straps, was Lyra. She whooped as Sora dove low, the wind whipping through her short curls.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Riven called with a hint of a laugh in his voice, stepping back as Sora landed with a thud beside Virex. Dust and stray leaves blew into his face.
“Fashionably late,” Lyra corrected, unstrapping herself from the saddle and hopping down with practiced ease. “Besides, you just got here, didn’t you?”
Riven folded his arms, trying not to smile too much. “I’ve been here since dawn.”
She made a face. “That’s not normal.”
“You’re not normal,” he countered.
Lyra grinned, unrepentant. She pulled off her leather gloves with her teeth, tucking them into her belt as she sauntered over. Her riding leathers were scuffed, streaked with soot and ash in places, but she wore them like armor and silk all at once. “You’re just jealous I got to sleep in.”
Sora nuzzled Virex, bumping her snout against his shoulder. The larger dragon snorted softly, then rested his head on his front claws again, unbothered.
“They like each other,” Lyra said, watching them.
“Of course they do. They’ve been flying together since we were fifteen.”
“Doesn’t mean they have to like each other.”
Riven gave a noncommittal shrug. He was too busy watching the way the wind caught the edges of Lyra’s braid, the way the sunlight haloed her like she belonged in the clouds. She always had—ever since the day they’d both been chosen by the dragons. She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, glancing away. “You have soot on your nose.”
“No I don’t.” She rubbed at it anyway, then peered at her reflection in a polished bit of Sora’s saddle harness. “Ugh. Great.”
“You were probably dreaming about Prince Xanten again.”
Lyra groaned. “Riv.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, holding up his hands. “Every time you come back with that dumb smile on your face, he’s involved.”
“It’s not dumb,” she muttered, though her ears turned slightly pink. Riven chuckled under his breath, then sat on a low stone ledge overlooking the central skyfields. Below them, young riders were beginning drills, their dragons taking off in staggered waves. He watched them without really seeing, mind half on the breeze and half on the weight that settled in his chest every time Lyra mentioned the prince.
She flopped down beside him, stretching out her legs and leaning back on her hands. “He wrote me again. Said he might come to the Midyear Solstice.”
“Lucky you.”
She turned to look at him. “You don’t like him, do you?”
Riven paused. The truth pressed against his ribs like a caged animal. “He’s... fine.”
“Liar,” she said, nudging him with her boot. “You always make that face when you’re pretending not to be annoyed.”
He didn’t answer. Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but not easy either. Just enough to remind Riven that there were things they didn’t talk about. Things he had buried deep.
Finally, Lyra exhaled. “You’ll like him once you meet him properly. He’s funny. And kind. And his hair does this little swoopy thing when he laughs—”
“Oh, please no,” Riven groaned. She laughed, tipping her head back toward the sky. The sound of it cracked something open in him. Even now, even with her talking about another man, he wanted to memorize that laugh. Bottle it. Guard it.
“I’m going to fly to the ridge and back,” she said, softer now. “Want to come?”
“Always.”
She smiled, then stood and whistled for Sora, who immediately rose and stretched her wings with a huff. Virex stood too, with less enthusiasm, as if reluctant to leave the comfort of the warm stone.
“You know,” Lyra said as she strapped back into the saddle, “when we’re up there, it feels like nothing can touch us.”
Riven mounted Virex with ease. “That’s because nothing can. Not when we’re together.”
She gave him a crooked grin. “Then let’s remind the skies who we are.” And with that, Sora launched upward in a burst of wind and gold. Virex followed a beat later, black wings slicing the air with thunderous grace.
Up in the vast blue, above the floating towers and domes of Aerithal, the dragons spun and danced. Lyra laughed again as she leaned into a dive, and Riven followed her without thinking. Always following. Always chasing. Never catching.
