Page 28 of The Bond That Burns

“All right. Let’s get this over with,” I muttered aloud, my fingers tightening around the spine.

Nyxaris’s wings beat powerfully as we lifted higher and higher into the sky. I clung to the spine I was holding for dear life. It was bony but strangely elegant, its surface glossy and black. The tip looked extremely sharp. I wasn’t about to test it though.

Below us, the Black Keep had turned into no more than a child’s toy. Beside it lay Bloodwing Academy. The place I couldn’t help still thinking of as home. The city of Veilmar stretched out along the coast. Its bustling streets were already too far away for me to make out the details of anything clearly.

Nyxaris angled his massive body and we soared out to sea. My breath caught as the endless expanse of water came into view. The waves looked so small. At this height, if I fell, even the water wouldn’t save me. Death would be instant.

Hold tight, rider. Nyxaris’s voice rumbled in my mind, dry with amusement.

“As if I had another choice,” I muttered. My hair was whipping wildly in the wind, my cloak flapping behind me like a banner. I squeezed the spine tighter between my hands, my thighs clutching the dragon’s sides.

Did your riders ever use saddles?I asked breathlessly.

At first he didn’t answer. Then his reply came, clipped and begrudging.

Yes.

Really?I pressed on, emboldened.What were they like?

Nyxaris’s annoyance radiated through our connection.Functional. Practical. Leather, reinforced with steel. Straps secured the rider. Of course, the weaklings fell regardless.

I gulped. Even with straps. I firmly forced myself not to look down again.

I thought about how I might get a saddle made. Would they have to take Nyxaris’s measurements? I tried to imagine that and nearly burst into hysterical laughter.

Nyxaris interrupted my thoughts, his tone sharp.Do not mistake this for a recurring event, Medra Pendragon. You are here for one purpose.

My stomach twisted.I know. I know why you agreed to this. I haven’t forgotten.

Then begin, he growled.You owe me answers.

All summer I’d managed to string him along, refusing to answer his questions until he promised to help me and only then.

At first I worried he would simply go out and find someone else to help him. But evidently that wasn’t as easy as it seemed or he’d probably have done it. Perhaps only riders could speak to dragons. Another thing I’d have to ask Rodriguez about.

The books I’d read—well, scanned in haste—had been useless. Now I wondered if Rodriguez had purposely set it up that way. Obviously he kept the good ones to himself. He knew more than he let on. And he’d wanted to share only tidbits. Why? Until he knew if I was trustworthy?

Of the books I’d flipped through, one had been focused on mythology and lore. I now realized half of it was bunk.

The other was pure history. Authored by a scholar who had clearly never interacted with dragons himself. She told stories second-hand, mostly of old battles and political intrigue between houses, barely touching on what it actually meant to be a rider.

The last had been interesting but it was dense and mostly to do with healing. I’d read enough to use for my essay quotes, but hadn’t gone through it cover-to-cover.

All of the books had been centuries old and none had included practical information relevant to my present situation.

What I needed were books written by riders themselves. Or better yet, by a dragon. I wondered if a dragon had ever had anyone ghost-write their biography for them. Perhaps I could be the first.

I decided another book was called for.How to Speak to Dragons.

No,How to Speak to Dragons Without Winding Up a Scorched Corpse. Nowthatwould be useful.

I realized I was hesitating. I could feel Nyxaris simmering with impatience.Did you really not know? That there were no other dragons alive when you woke, I mean?

Nyxaris’s silence stretched long enough that I began to wonder if he’d reply.

I did not,he admitted at last.I sensed the world had changed. I did not know how profoundly.There was something raw inhis tone. Grief. Though he quickly masked it with irritation.My memory is incomplete. Clouded. As though pieces of me were absorbed into the stone.

Foggy?I asked, as gently as I could.

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