Page 62 of Stalk the Sky

“No, no, it isn’t…I didn’t mind…I…this isn’t coming out right.” Fieran hissed a breath between his teeth as he gestured vaguely with his hands. “If we weren’t at war, if we weren’t serving in basically the same unit, then I’d ask you out on a date in a heartbeat. But I can’t trust myself.”

Pip hugged her arms over her stomach, her chest in such tight knots she could barely breathe. She didn’t understand, and everything in her wanted to flee before Fieran said anything to make this moment even worse. “I trust you. You wouldn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Fieran waved helplessly again, his gaze flicking to her before lifting to stare at the distance over her head. “But I’d do something stupid. I’m impulsive. I proved that with the whole penguin sliding thing. It’s easy to curb my impulsiveness when it comes to moral lines. If something is morally wrong, then there’s a good reason not to do it. But other things that aren’t wrong by themselves? That’s harder. And if we were…together, I’d be tempted to sneak off to spend time with you. Or I’d be distracted at a crucial moment. Or something like that. I need to keep my focus right now.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn’t like it. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered or offended to be reduced to a distraction.

But she also understood. They would be facing battle tomorrow. Now wasn’t the time to start dating or courting or change the status of their relationship from friendship in any way. Fieran was putting the safety of his flyboys ahead of his own personal feelings. She would have to do the same.

She drew in a shaky breath and plastered on a smile, even if it felt as painful as a palm sliced open on a sharp piece of metal. “So…friends.”

“Yes. Friends.” Fieran’s answering smile didn’t reach his eyes either.

Pip spun on her heel. “You were right. I should get some sleep.”

She hurried off as quickly as possible, not looking back or looking around. She didn’t want anyone else to see her tears.

Chapter

Eighteen

Fog hung heavy over the harbor and ocean when the squadron took off. A light drizzle still misted down from the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky, but otherwise the storm had fully worn itself out.

The control column was cold even through Fieran’s gloves as he wheeled his aeroplane higher into the sky, his toes jammed into the holds on the rudder bar. The mist fogged his goggles, and he had to lift a corner of his silk scarf to wipe them off.

But worst of all was the aching cold deep in his chest.

I like you. Those words had haunted him all night. For one moment after the words had dropped from Pip’s lips, his heart had raced, his head had been light, and he’d thought he could finally stop pretending he and Pip were just friends.

Then he’d remembered Commander Druindar’s lecture and the fiasco of his own impulsiveness.

For the good of his men, he’d had to pull back. He couldn’t risk their lives by letting himself get caught up in a romance with Pip. As he’d told Pip, he was sure to do something foolish. While the war raged, he and Pip couldn’t be anything else but friends.

The radio crackled to life, and Fieran shook himself. The whole point of breaking up with Pip—was it a breakup if they had never actually been together?—was so that he could focus on leading his men.

“Flight A, we will swing southwest.” Lt. Rothilion spoke in elvish, so his pilots would understand—as did Fieran, Merrik, and Tiny—but the rest of Flight B would find the incomprehensible orders easy to tune out.

The thirty aeroplanes of Flight A wheeled to the left of Fieran’s position, falling into a large formation of aeroplanes gathered in the sky. Each aeroplane in Flight A flew by itself as Lt. Rothilion hadn’t adopted the pairs system that Fieran had for his Flight.

“Flight B.” Fieran worked to tune out Lt. Rothilion’s voice crackling over the radio. “We’ll be swinging to the southeast and our primary mission is to prevent as many airships as possible from breaking through to Dar Goranth.”

“Not a problem,” Pretty Face drawled over the radio, sounding far too relaxed. His aeroplane gleamed with an extra glint. Had he waxed it before the battle? The artwork of himself suggestively lounging shone especially bright.

“Yeah, we have Laesornysh!”

“The Mongavarians won’t know what hit them!”

“There won’t be any airships left for Flight A or Battlegroup Sky!”

Fieran had to wait a moment for all the cheers to fade from the radio before he could speak again. “We’ll all do our duty for our kingdoms this morning. Stick with your wingman. Watch each other’s six. Be aware of your surroundings. Visibility is poor this morning between the fog, drizzle, and low clouds. No taking each other out or getting caught in the crossfire of dueling airships.”

“Yes, sir!” Various voices spoke over each other amidst the crackle of the radio.

Fieran pointed his aeroplane’s nose out to sea with Merrik’s aeroplane just to the right and behind him. The low clouds forced Fieran to fly lower than he would have normally, trying to stick in the slightly more open spot in the sky between the clouds above and the fog hanging thick over the ocean below.

Would they even spot the Mongavarian fleet before it was on top of them? Normally, a Mongavarian ship was easy to spot from miles away. Unlike the Alliance ships, which ran on magic, the bulk of the Mongavarian ships burned coal to heat their boilers, resulting in vast plumes of black smoke blasting from their stacks, which acted like a giant finger pointing toward the ship.

Was the fog thick enough to hide an entire fleet steaming at full power? Or would the black pall so discolor the fog that it would still be obvious?

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