ULF
The third week brought the enemy's answer.
I spotted them at dawn—three shapes rising from the Black encampment, scales catching the early light. Syrax, golden and recovered from her wounds at God's Eye. Two smaller dragons I didn't recognize, probably claimed by new riders desperate for power.
Three against one. Unless I count Vermithor.
I banked Silverwing toward the rendezvous point where Vermithor waited. The Bronze Fury had been resting while I scouted, conserving strength for exactly this scenario.
"Sōvēs," I commanded as we landed. "Multiple enemies. Follow my lead."
Vermithor rumbled acknowledgment. His ancient eyes tracked the approaching dragons with predatory focus.
I mounted him quickly, leaving Silverwing to follow. The Bronze Fury was larger, more aggressive—better for the opening engagement. Silverwing would serve as support, harassing enemies while Vermithor delivered the decisive strikes.
That was the theory, anyway.
We launched together.
Dragon combat defied description.
The speeds involved made ground warfare seem frozen. One moment we were climbing toward the clouds; the next, Syrax was diving at us, golden flames erupting from her jaws.
Vermithor twisted aside. The fire passed close enough to singe my hair.
"Naejot!"
He dove after Syrax, but she was already banking—faster than I remembered, more agile. Rhaenyra had learned from God's Eye. She wasn't going to let herself get cornered again.
The two smaller dragons came from different angles. Coordinated attack. Professional.
They've been practicing. Training together.
Silverwing intercepted one—a pale blue beast ridden by a young man I didn't recognize. Her silver fire drove them back, gave me breathing room.
But the third dragon—rust-colored, vicious—came straight at Vermithor's flank.
I kicked.
Rankyaku.
The air blade caught the rust dragon's wing, tearing membrane. Not fatal, but enough to force a retreat.
Syrax circled back.
She's directing them. Rhaenyra is commanding this engagement.
I needed to end it fast.
"Vermithor. Dracarys. Full power."
Bronze fire erupted—hotter than Silverwing's, the inferno of a dragon who'd burned through a hundred battles. The stream caught Syrax's wingtip, sent golden scales spiraling into the void.
Rhaenyra screamed—rage or pain, I couldn't tell.
Then she did something unexpected.
She charged.
Dragons collided in midair.
Syrax's claws raked across Vermithor's chest. The Bronze Fury roared, twisted, tried to get his jaws around her neck. She was smaller, faster—dancing around his attacks while her claws drew blood.
I held on with desperate strength. One hand on the saddle, the other reaching for anything that might help.
The other dragons. Where are they?
Silverwing screamed warning.
Too late.
The rust dragon—wing damaged but still flying—slammed into Vermithor from behind. Claws tore through his wing membrane with a sound like ripping canvas.
Vermithor bellowed.
We fell.
The crash landing saved our lives.
We hit a hillside rather than open ground—Vermithor's instincts guiding us toward something that might soften the impact. His body absorbed most of the force, rolling through brush and small trees before finally stopping in a muddy field.
I was thrown clear. Hit the ground hard enough to see stars. Rolled. Came up reaching for weapons I'd lost somewhere in the tumble.
Pain. Ribs cracked. Left arm screaming. Blood in my mouth.
Vermithor lay twenty feet away, wing crumpled, chest heaving with labored breaths. Not dead. Not yet. But grounded.
Above, Syrax circled. Watching. Waiting.
The other dragons had broken off—damaged, retreating—but Syrax remained. Rhaenyra's voice drifted down, distorted by distance:
"The Dragonslayer, grounded like a common man! Perhaps I should land and finish you properly!"
I found my sword. Staggered upright.
She won't land. Too cautious. But her soldiers will come.
As if summoned by the thought, shapes emerged from the treeline. Black soldiers—a patrol, maybe fifty men—drawn by the crash. They saw Vermithor's massive form. Saw me standing beside him, bloody and battered.
They charged.
Fifty men against one.
The first wave hit like a tide—swords swinging, spears thrusting, the organized chaos of soldiers who smelled victory.
Soru.
I blurred through their ranks. Two men fell before anyone could react, throats opened by a blade they never saw coming.
Shigan.
My hardened fingers punched through a breastplate, into the heart beneath. The knight collapsed without a sound.
Tekkai.
A sword struck my shoulder. Bounced off hardened muscle. The man stared at his broken blade for the half-second before my elbow crushed his skull.
Twenty down. Thirty still coming. And Vermithor can't move.
They were regrouping. Forming a ring. Professional soldiers who understood that surrounding a single opponent was the key to overwhelming even superior skill.
I need to break them. All at once.
The technique I'd only practiced. The unification of all six styles into a single devastating strike.
Rokuogan.
I planted my feet. Drew my arms back. Felt the power building—not fire, not steel, but pure force channeled through a body that had been reforged by impossible training.
The soldiers rushed.
I released.
The shockwave erupted from my palms.
Men flew backward—not cut, not burned, but simply thrown by a wall of force that no normal human should have been able to produce. Bodies tumbled through the air like leaves in a storm.
When the dust cleared, twenty soldiers lay groaning or still. The rest had been thrown far enough to reconsider their assault.
It worked. Gods, it actually worked.
But the cost was immediate. My arms felt like they'd been dipped in fire. My legs shook. Vision blurred at the edges.
Too much. Used too much.
Silverwing's shadow passed overhead.
My partner descended—driving back the remaining soldiers with the threat of silver fire, positioning herself between Vermithor and any further attack.
"Can you fly?" I gasped at the Bronze Fury.
A pained rumble. He tried to rise. His damaged wing dragged uselessly.
"Then we go slow. Silverwing clears the path. You follow. Move."
The retreat took three hours.
Vermithor limped through the sky—half-flying, half-gliding, each wingbeat clearly agonizing. Silverwing flew circles around us, watching for pursuit, occasionally diving to discourage Black scouts from getting too close.
Syrax had withdrawn. Rhaenyra apparently decided that chasing a wounded dragon defended by another wasn't worth the risk.
Smart. She's learned.
By the time we reached King's Landing, I could barely stay conscious.
The Dragonpit rose ahead—familiar, safe, the closest thing to home my dragons had. I guided Vermithor toward the landing platform, where keepers waited with medical supplies and worried faces.
He landed hard. His legs buckled. The massive dragon collapsed onto the stone with a sound like thunder.
I slid from his back. Tried to walk. Failed.
Hands caught me before I hit the ground.
"I've got you."
Helaena's voice. Helaena's arms.
"Vermithor's wing," I managed. "Torn membrane. Needs—"
"The keepers are already working. Rest."
"Can't rest. The Blacks—"
"Are still a day's march away. You bought time." She pulled me close. "Now let someone take care of you for once."
I wanted to argue. To push her away and get back to planning, fighting, protecting.
Instead, I let her hold me while the world went gray at the edges.
"You can't do this alone," she whispered.
"I know. But I don't know what else to do."
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