Page 15 of Forcing Fate

“You want to be placed at the front, girl?” he asked, baffled.

“I do.” I met his incredulous gaze with a firm nod. “It’s where I belong.”

He stopped in his tracks and stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

“My father died on the front lines. I belong there—to take his place.”

“Avenge him, you mean?”

My hands clasped in front of me. The Shadows took my father. They robbed me of ever truly knowing him. His death separated me from my mother and left her alone in a remote village. They stole the life I was meant to have, and I would make them pay.

“Regardless, I will take his place,” I said, walking ahead.

Master Damon stared at me for a moment longer before chuckling and continuing on. “Women belong at home—Dragon Riders or not. The front lines are no place for the softness of women.”

My lips twisted into a frown. “Women should be allowed to go where they want.” The words flew out, and I bit my lip in an attempt to cut off the harsh retort.

It wasn’t in my nature to talk back to authority, but his statement struck a nerve. My dragon and I would be on the front lines. We would slake our need for vengeance upon those who had not only taken my own father, but orphaned countless others.

Master Damon continued walking, but turned to me with a raised eyebrow in question. “If you knew a crumb of the things that happen there,” he closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered, “you would not be so eager to join them.”

It was true; I didn’t know what happened at the front, but I could read. Shadow Men stole the dragons’ magic and wreaked havoc against us. They unleashed it in sick and twisted ways, poisoning our lands. I had read stories of Riders separated from their dragons. Tainted by the magic that had been ripped from their dragons, they were the true monsters on the battlefield. They turned into empty shells of their former selves, somehow retaining the blood-magic of their dragons, and used their fouled gifts against those they once called allies.

I read stories of beasts that were once men being unleashed upon our armies. They feasted on soldiers, eating them alive. Once their victims passed the Veil, they left what remained of their carcasses to rot.

No, I may not have seen the horrors firsthand, but I knew the stories.

When we arrived back at Master Damon’s office, Willhelm was waiting, leaning against the wall. I noted his easy confidence as he watched the passing men. “Master Damon, what rank is Sir Willhelm?” I asked.

“See those arrows on his shoulders? He’s a Sergeant.” He nodded at Willhelm across the way.

There were four crossed arrows on the sleeve of Willhelm’s tunic, black against the off-white linen. It bothered me that I knew nothing about the ranks or how they were depicted. I would have to visit the Records Room to learn more about these men I would be fighting alongside.

It was half past the fifth chime when we arrived. I joined Willhelm’s side with an apologetic smile. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

“Miss Avyanna.” Master Damon’s low voice made me stop and turn to face him. “Never let me hear of you walking through the barracks without an escort again. You might be used to dealing with rebellious lads, snotty children, or petty women, but do not let yourself be fooled. These soldiers would like nothing more than to ruin a sweet girl like you.” His tone brooked no debate. With a final stern look, he entered his office, leaving Willhelm to escort me to the school grounds.

Over the next few days, we settled into an easy routine. I woke, grabbed a bite to eat on the way along with a bit for later, and headed to the wall. Willhelm waited for me each morning, escorting me to Master Damon’s office.

Willhelm was a gentleman, but not necessarily a sweet man. He was short and curt with the other men, expecting nothing less than obedience. By the end of the day, though, he was always more relaxed and easygoing.

I learned that he had been orphaned at a young age, as was the case with far too many soldiers. He attended Northwing, but at sixteen-winters moved to the barracks. He didn’t aspire to be a great General or even fight on the front lines, though he would if he was ordered. The structure and routine of military life pleased him. He appreciated the purpose behind it and the lack of idleness.

After arriving at the office, I would organize documents, dust, and sweep. Under careful scrutiny, I was permitted to rearrange shields. A Shield Master had far more to do than teach people how to use a shield, which was my original assumption. Shields were Master Damon’s life. He collected, studied, and designed them. He lived and breathed them. I listened to his endless rambles about where each shield came from. He gave rigorous details of why a design differed from others, and whether that design could be implemented or useful to our army.

It was usually around the eleventh chime that he left for his scheduled rounds. He did not teach all shields-men classes. Instead, he rotated through the outfits to troubleshoot their lessons and make sure they performed as expected.

Around midday, I ate what I had brought from the dorms that morning. I went out more often to watch the blacksmith work, whose name I learned was Elib. He was a rather quiet man, which I found so striking because of his large stature.

He crafted different, private shield designs for Master Damon and worked from sunup to sundown. On warmer days, I’d fetch him water from the well a few paces away from the office. Surely that didn’t count as gallivanting off on my own. Elib was always pleasantly surprised and thankful when I did. I noticed he often got so involved with his work that he skipped midday meal. The least I could do was remind him to drink.

By the third chime, Master Damon sent someone to escort me to the arena. There, I watched him instruct his classes for the next two chimes—the highlight of my day. I learned more and more about formations used against arrows, catapults, horses, armed men, beasts, and many others. Master Damon was thorough and worked the men rigorously through their paces.

It was two days until the end of my term with Master Damon when the first Dragon Kind arrived. I was in the armory office, studying a particular shield from the southern lands, when I heard the first bellow. Familiar exhilaration flooded through me, and I rushed to the window.

A great blue dragon swooped low over the buildings with a delighted roar that shook the bubbled glass panes. A smile spread over my face as I glimpsed the Rider harnessed on its back, whooping with the same elation. It was a younger pair, clearly excited to be home.

Dragon Riders trained at the King’s schools for three years before they left for the war front. There, they studied under experienced Dragon Riders fighting the war. They were kept out of harm’s way as much as possible until their fifth year, when they joined them on the battlefield. Because of the Shadow Men, a Rider was lucky if they made it past their first year of actual combat.

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