Pryce followed Finnegan into the barracks. He kept glancing out the window, searching the treeline for any sign of movement, but Nymeria was not there.
"Stop your fretting and help me with these potatoes," Finnegan grumbled, pulling supplies from his pack, setting them on the crude wooden table.
Pryce joined him. "I thought you said we were having fish stew."
"Aye, and what's fish stew without potatoes? Unless you prefer eating like that dragon of yours—raw fish and nothing else. Though I suppose Stormwing has the right idea, skipping the cooking altogether."
"At least I know how to properly scale a fish," Pryce teased, watching Finnegan hack away at a trout with more enthusiasm than skill. "You're butchering it worse than a drunken sailor."
"Been scaling fish since before your father was born, you cheeky pup." Finnegan brandished his knife playfully. "Now, are you going to help or just stand there critiquing my technique like some fancy chef from the mainland?"
They worked side by side, Pryce chopping vegetables while Finnegan prepared the fish. The old man hummed an off-key sailing tune, occasionally breaking into snippets of bawdy verses that made Pryce's ears turn red.
"That's not how Mom taught me to cut onions," Pryce said, watching Finnegan's rough handling of the vegetables. The old man's technique seemed designed to create maximum chaos on the cutting board.
"And I suppose your mother's way doesn't end with tears streaming down your face?" Finnegan wiped his eyes with his sleeve, leaving a smudge of fish scales on his cheek. "Sometimes the old ways are the best ways, boy. Your mother learned to cook in a proper kitchen—I learned on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm."
The stew came together quickly, filling the barracks with a smell that made Pryce's stomach growl. When they finally sat down to eat, the late afternoon light slanted through the windows.
"So," Pryce said between spoonfuls of the stew, "tell me about the Dragonkin."
Finnegan's expression darkened. "Some things are better left in shadow, lad. But since you've seen her . . ." He launched into tales of the Dragonkin's raids along the coast, their fearsome reputation, and their mysterious origins. His voice grew hushed as he described their ability to command dragons through ancient magic.
As night fell, Pryce let Ash and Skye inside. The cat immediately claimed a spot by the fire, stretching out like a furry king on his throne, while Skye settled onto a wooden stool, smoothing her ruffled plumage. Pryce fed them both—dried fish for Ash and some breadcrumbs for Skye.
"Your menagerie's growing," Finnegan said, helping Pryce set up a second cot near the fire. "Next thing you know, you'll be running a proper circus. Maybe we should charge admission."
They secured the barracks for the night, checking the locks twice before settling down to sleep. The fire crackled softly, and outside, Pryce could hear Stormwing's gentle breathing, punctuated by occasional snorts when she chased something in her dreams.
***
The next morning, Lune, dawned clear and bright. Finnegan insisted they observe the day of worship properly.
"Up with you, lad. We've got obligations to attend to," Finnegan said, already dressed in his cleanest shirt—which bore the marks of countless mends and patches.
Pryce groaned and rolled over, pulling his blanket tighter. "It's barely light out." Through bleary eyes, he watched Ash stretch lazily by the dying embers of last night's fire, clearly sharing his sentiment about the early hour.
"The sun waits for no man, and neither do the gods," Finnegan yanked Pryce's blanket away. "Your mother would string me up by my toes if she knew I'd let you sleep through morning prayers."
They made their way through the misty morning, boots squeaking against dew-laden grass. They walked past the sleeping dragon—Stormwing's massive bulk rose and fell with gentle snores. Skye followed them, gliding silently overhead.
"The Shorlings have always honored the old ways," Finnegan said, pausing to catch his breath at a moss-covered boulder. "It's what keeps us connected to the land and sea. Your ancestors understood that better than most—especially your mother's people."
The clearing overlooked the bay, where waves lapped against worn stones. Finnegan raised his arms. "Great spirits of tide and tempest. We stand before you as our ancestors did, humble before your might."
Pryce found himself remembering standing between his parents during ceremonies back home, his mother's voice mixing with his father's deeper tones.
"We thank thee for the bounty of sea and shore," Finnegan continued, "For the fish that fill our nets and the winds that fill our sails. For the dragons who share our skies and the wisdom of ages past . . ."
When the final prayer faded, Pryce turned to study the old man with new eyes. "I never knew you were so . . . religious."
"Don't look so shocked, boy. I'm not particularly religious, mind you, but there's value in remembering where we come from. Besides, your mother would sail straight across the bay if she heard you'd missed a single ceremony."
"She did always say missing prayers would bring bad luck."
"Smart woman. Though between you and me, I suspect she was more worried about keeping you lot in line than divine retribution. Nothing like a healthy fear of the gods—and your elders—to keep young ones from too much mischief."
They made their way back to the barracks, the morning sun now fully risen. Stormwing had awakened and was watching them, steam rising from her nostrils in the cool morning air.
"Right then," Finnegan said, clapping his hands together. "Now that we've properly honored the old ways, what say we honor our stomachs? I've got some salt pork that needs eating."
After breakfast, Pryce couldn't contain his excitement any longer. "Will you show me how to saddle Stormwing?"
"Aye, but mind you—no riding until you're both ready. Dragon riding isn't like hopping on a horse. One wrong move and you'll both end up in the lake . . . or worse."
They headed to the building where they'd found the saddle. Finnegan demonstrated the pulley system that raised and lowered it, the leather creaking like an old ship's rigging as Pryce practiced the motion.
"The leather's sound," Finnegan said, "but these spots here and here need mending." He pointed out worn areas in the reins and bridle. "If these snap mid-flight, you'll have no way to guide her. Might as well try to steer a hurricane."
Outside, Stormwing watched them through the wide doors, occasionally pawing at the ground or snapping playfully at passing insects.
Ash suddenly leaped onto the saddle, assuming a regal pose that made them both laugh.
"Look at that," Finnegan chuckled. "Seems your cat fancies himself a dragon rider, too. Better watch out—he might steal your glory."
"Maybe I could make him a carrier. Something secure enough for flying."
After Finnegan left, Pryce spent hours cleaning the saddle and shaking out the thick pad that would protect Stormwing's back. He fashioned a simple carrier for Ash from an old leather bag, testing it to ensure the cat would be safe. To his surprise, Ash seemed to enjoy being in it, purring as Pryce made adjustments.
Looking at the finished work, Pryce knew he should wait as Finnegan had advised. But the saddle seemed sturdy enough, and Stormwing had been so cooperative lately.
He raised the saddle and called Stormwing inside. The dragon entered cautiously, standing perfectly still beneath the hanging tack. It took longer than Pryce expected to secure everything properly, but finally, the saddle was in place, the bridle adjusted, and the reins ready.
Pryce placed Ash in his newly made pouch. Climbing the ladder, Pryce settled into the saddle. He instructed Stormwing to exit the building. The saddle shifted slightly—too loose, he realized with a bit of worry—but he pressed on anyway.
Instead of taking flight, Stormwing walked toward the water's edge.
"Don't be afraid. I know it's your first time flying with a rider."
Stormwing pawed the sand, then broke into a run along the beach. She made a small hop, wings spread wide, but remained earthbound. Ash peered out from his carrier, whiskers twitching with interest.
"Try again." Pryce leaned forward in the saddle.
This time, Stormwing's powerful legs propelled them forward faster. Her wings beat the air, and suddenly they were airborne. For one heart-stopping moment, her claws skimmed the lake's surface, but then she pulled up, climbing higher into the sky.
"Yes!" Pryce cheered as Skye soared alongside them. The view was breathtaking—Lake Dragontide stretched out below them like polished glass.
Pryce guided Stormwing over the island, taking in the stunning landscape. A vast meadow spread out below, dotted with wildflowers. Craggy mountains rose in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist. A clear river wound through the terrain like a silver ribbon, disappearing into a dense forest that seemed to absorb the sunlight.
Ash had settled into a comfortable position in his carrier, seemingly unfazed by their altitude.
As they circled back toward the outpost, Pryce spotted someone in the meadow—a young woman with flowing blonde hair, watching their flight. Unlike Nymeria's threatening presence, this girl seemed almost angelic. Her face tracked their movement through the sky as her long, white dress rippled in the breeze.
Pryce raised his hand in greeting, then guided Stormwing toward the meadow. The landing proved more challenging than he'd anticipated. Stormwing's back legs touched down first, but her momentum carried them forward at an alarming speed. The loose saddle slipped sideways, and Pryce felt himself sliding.
"Steady!" he called out, but Stormwing was already stumbling, her wings flailing as she tried to regain balance. Pryce clung to the saddle with one hand while trying to protect Ash's carrier with the other. The cat yowled in protest as the carrier swung wildly.
Stormwing's left wing dipped, and suddenly they were tumbling. Pryce threw himself clear just as the dragon rolled, narrowly avoiding being crushed beneath her bulk. He hit the ground hard, rolling through the flowers as Ash's carrier went flying.
Stunned, Pryce found himself lying in a bed of crushed wildflowers, staring up at the afternoon sky. Stormwing had managed to right herself and was shaking her head as if embarrassed. Ash emerged from his carrier several feet away, fur puffed up to twice its normal size but otherwise unharmed.
Then a face appeared above him, framed by the sun—a girl with features so striking that his mind wondered if he'd died in the crash. "Are you an angel?"
