Page 21 of The Midnight Death Match

“In that case, you are ready.” A look of what appears to be pride crosses Einar’s face before he returns inside.

Before heading in myself, I steal a glance at Harek. He’s only inches from Vash’s nose, and they appear to be having a silent conversation.

Time flies as we pack and eat, then almost before I know it, we’re all back with the dragons.

The wind roars louder now, curling down the mountain like a beast set on vengeance. Sapphire crouches low, her wings half-extended. Einar stands beside her, double-checking the leather harness and flight packs, his expression tight.

Vash stands farther back, tail flicking again, eyes focused on the sky. Harek tightens the final strap on the saddle. For a moment, he just rests his hand between the dragon’s shoulders.

I stand next to him. “Are you ready for this?”

He glances over. “You asking me or him?”

“Either.” I give him a slightly playful nudge.

He offers a wry smile, almost shy. “We’ll figure it out.”

Then he climbs up in a fluid, confident motion, like he’s done it a hundred times. Vash shifts under him but doesn’t resist. In fact, he stills, like he’s been waiting for this.

The sight hits me unexpectedly hard as I realize they belong together. Rider and dragon, shadow and storm.

Einar finishes his final check and looks at me. “You coming?”

I glance from him to Harek—two pieces of my story, two halves of different truths.

Vash huffs once, as if impatient.

Sapphire waits, steady as ever, blinking her jewel-like eyes slowly.

I walk toward Sapphire and place a hand on her warm, glowing hide. Then I turn and approach Vash and Harek.

He extends a hand to help me up without a word, and I take it. The saddle’s built for two. We rise into the wind together, dragons diving off the edge of the world with a single powerful thrust. For a moment, flying into the storm doesn’t feel like running. It feels like choosing.

My heart races as we fly over the city toward the forest. It’s strange not being squished between my father and friend, but there’s something freeing and exhilarating in this first flight without the expert dragon rider.

The wind turns sharp. At first, I think it’s just the altitude—the jagged, cold breath of the mountains slicing through my coat. But then Vash jerks hard, wings tilting sharply. Harek curses, pulling the reins tighter.

“Sapphire’s dropping back.” His voice is nearly lost in the wind.

I glance behind us. Einar’s dragon has slowed, weaving side to side. The movements are too controlled to be accidental. Something’s wrong.

I feel it before seeing it. My palm warms with energy and glows in the darkness of the storm.

Four figures rise through the clouds on sleek-winged gliders powered by pulsing violet magic. They arc toward us like hawks toward prey.

“Fighters,” Harek says. “But they aren’t on our side.”

As if to prove his point, one raises a glowing disc and hurls it like a blade. It sings through the air, nearly catching Vash’s wing before he rolls sideways with a snarl.

“Hold on,” Harek growls.

I cling to him tighter.

We dive.

Below, Sapphire roars, and I glimpse Einar hurling a javelin of bright gold energy straight through one glider’s core. It sparks, spins, then falls, screaming.

The others continue toward us. One peels off faster than the others, eyes hidden beneath a copper mask, arms covered in runes that pulse like veins.

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