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Heather woke up to the pounding on a solid oak door. On the other side, the voice of her wyvern, Michale, was heard bidding her to wake up. Heather rubbed her right eye, her good eye. She had been having the nightmare again. Every night for the last fourteen months, she had dreamt of Verona and of the end of the war that had brought her to her position in the Swallow’s Nest in Rachedale. In the year that had followed the final battle, Heather had been treated for her injuries following Verona’s primitive gas attack. She had lost her left eye and was left with scarring on her left cheek and across the left side of her head, causing her to not be able to grow hair on the affected side. It gave her a terrifying visage, but it was what she deserved, and she wore her scars with pride. Heather
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