Kaelmoor's first hello

Riding on the back of a dragon is nothing like Arthur imagined. The wind punches, tugs, roars in his ears like a beast from the old world. His fingers grip the leather strap tied around Drok’s neck, the dragon’s thick scales warm beneath him.

Asa sits behind, her arms wrapped around Arthur’s waist, her blonde hair pulled tight under her hood to keep the wind from blowing it. Spidaract clings near the tail, crouched low, his chitinous limbs locked into the seams of Drok’s back, his eyes narrowed against the bright sky.

“I can’t believe this,” Arthur shouts over the wind. “I’ve always wanted to ride a dragon!”

Drok rumbles under them in response, either flattered or smug, maybe both.

For a brief moment, they are nothing but dots against the ocean of clouds, above the world, above kingdoms, mountains, politics. Just the five of them on the cloud.

Then the rain comes.

At first, it’s just a hiss, fine droplets slicing through the air. But in seconds, the hiss becomes a roar, the sky darkens, and the clouds churn like boiling water. It’s a relentless downpour, swallowing light and scattering sound.

From the veil of rain, shadows emerge.

Sleek, dark-winged figures twist out of the storm, moving fast like they are chasing something. These should be krow soldiers.

“They’re here!” Asa warns with a sharp voice.

She raises her hand and murmurs under her breath, wind magic crackling between her fingers.

The first strike lands without warning. A soldier zips past like a dart, his blade slicing across Drok’s flank. The dragon growls and banks, almost making Arthur nearly lose his grip.

“They’re going for the wings!” Vellithar yells.

Another soldier passes low, dragging a hooked blade along the edge of Drok’s right wing membrane. Spidaract hisses and launches a glob of web fluid, but it misses.

“They’re not trying to kill us,” Asa mutters. “They’re trying to ground us.”

The third krow soldier dives from above, but this time Asa is ready. She solidifies an air right before it, a translucent shield, just in time. The soldier slams into it, crack, and spins off course.

Spidaract moves fast, spewing a stream of thickened web fluid into the soldier’s wing. The sticky mess clogs it, sending the attacker tumbling.

But not before he scratches Drok’s wing with a curved blade.

The dragon roars, his body listing and his right wing faltering. Then he tilts violently while charging downward.

They fall.

The storm has passed, but its echoes still rumble in Arthur’s ears. Drok lies sprawled across the polished stone floor, groaning softly, one wing bent at an unnatural angle. Webbing sags from the ruptured hole in the mountain ceiling, its edges fraying with the tension of the crash. The smell of smoke and scorched moss still clings to the air.

This place is unlike anything Arthur has seen. Surrounding them are countless tubes that twist like vines along the cracked stone walls, some leaking a greenish vapor. Glass orbs flicker faintly with inner light, embedded into the ceiling and mounted onto metal arms.

Tables are covered in half-built contraptions: gears, coils, metal wings, broken compasses. One wall is covered entirely by maps, hundreds of them, each marked by ink and dust, stretching far beyond the island’s borders.