Part Twelve: The Oncoming Storm



                The wind whistled though Drake’s hair as he stared at the ground, which was flashing by, far below his feet.

He looked up at the rocky plains stretching on ahead of him, framed by grey mountains looming in the distant south.

He glanced to his left, where the illusion of Krish was riding a scarred yellow dragon. Layleanel smiled at him, an exhilarated glint in the image’s eye.

He looked behind him, at the great leathery wings; at the colourful spectrum of scales; at the magnificent beasts, some imposing and ancient, some slender and young, some battered and hardened, all flying for a single cause.

Drake turned back to the barren, grassy plains, as he took in the enormity of his deed, of his plan, of his responsibility. His senses, usually buzzing with information, seemed to have been shut off: it was just him, the wind, and the flight. He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, a look of fierce determination was in them. ‘Give the signal’, he murmured, and the illusory Krish nodded, still smiling. Drake could feel the same determination in the hundred winged creatures that flew behind him.

They weren’t just dragons.

They weren’t just an uprising of dragons.

They were an army of dragons.

And he was their leader.

He was leading them to war.

And they were going to win that war.

He would see to it.

‘Signal received, Dragon-speaker’, came Layle’s voice from Krish’s mouth. ‘The levers have been pulled. Get ready to dive.’

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