Page 367 of Elemental Becoming

It rises beyond the next ridge, black and thick and wrong. The kind that doesn’t come from a single fire, but from destruction. From siege. From suffering.

Greythorne Keep comes into view, stone spires cracked and scorched, sections of the outer wall already crumbling beneath the force of whatever breached them. Even from this distance, I can see movement below. Too fast. Too dark.

Shadow Forces.

Hundreds.

Calryx growls beneath me. Around us, the formation tightens. Riders lower into their saddles. Hands ready to release magics. Every eye fixes on the battlefield ahead.

And then, just as I adjust my grip, I hear it.

“I love you.”

I turn my head and find Thane already watching me across the distance. His eyes hold mine, unwavering. The wind tears at his dark hair, his jaw set. His entire body is poised for battle.

But in that moment, he’s justhim. Thane.

I raise two fingers to my lips, press them into a kiss, and hold them out toward him across the sky.

“Now shields up, love,”he says, the bond lingering between us for a moment longer.“I’ll let you know when I need to communicate with you.”

I nod.

Then I draw wind around my mind like a veil, weaving it tight and impenetrable. The shield settles into place, a barrier of air and will, leaving only the smallest opening for Thane. My connection with Calryx remains untouched.

“If anyone else tries to breach it,”Calryx says, her voice edged with pride,“I will know. I will shut them out. And I will cut them off at the root.”

“Let them try,”I murmur.

Then Thane raises his hand and gives a single signal.

Strike.

The formation shifts instantly.

Calryx angles left, tucking in behind Xaroth’s wingtip. Aisling climbs above and to the right, taking high guard. Ruadhan, Faolan, and Muirgen fall into staggered positions behind us, each surrounded by other dragons and their riders.

The entire flight stretches across the sky like a living storm, twenty-one dragons locked into an attack pattern that moves with terrifying precision. No words are spoken. No orders are shouted. Every rider knows their place. Every dragon knows the rhythm of the others.

We form a spearhead with Xaroth at its tip. The rest of us narrow behind him in a bladed V, honed through training and trust.

Above us, clouds churn.

Below us, Greythorne burns.

Flame-scaled, obsidian, amethyst-winged, and bronze-horned dragons beat their wings in unison. Jewel-toned bodies flash through the dull light as they bank and adjust, preparing for the strike to come.

As we descend, the smoke thickens, curling into the sky in dark, twisting columns.

I see the battle below—the courtyard of Greythorne Keep is in chaos.

Fellborn swarm the stone paths and battlements, twisted masses of muscle and shadow. Their claws glint as they slash and tear through anything in their path.

The Elite Guards of Greythorne hold the inner wall, fighting in disciplined ranks with shields locked and blades stained with both human blood and the oily black ichor of the creatures they face.

Channelers and wielders hold the rear, hurling bursts of flame and stone from behind hastily raised barriers. Others fight with nothing but steel and desperation.

Bodies litter the courtyard.