Chapter Two: A Strange Occurrence
1000 Words
Storm-pressure vents open, and my wingsuit hisses and settles onto Caelus Spire's upper docks. The dockhands scatter to a clear landing area, their eyes wide in that familiar mixture of fear and wonder. The town's residents gather at a safe distance.
Someone whispers, "The convoy's savior."
"The lightning's blade broke." On my own, I defeated three raiders.
I nod firmly, even though the applause hurts. Where I see failure—another ship lost to hesitation—they see heroism. As I walk to the wreckage retrieval area, my boots clatter against the brass plating.
Like surgeons caring for a corpse, a City Watch surrounds the captured raider. They catalog every piece of evidence as they take the canvas out of the frame. I ignored the sergeant's sad face as I pushed past the queue of Watch officers.
The kite's construction is replete with tales of desperation. The wire holds bent struts where rivets should be. This ship belonged to outcasts, refugees from broken clans, and they lived off the scraps of the sky.
However, the painted sigil makes me gasp.
With its jaws open and ready to devour lightning, the Storm Wolf's head snarls from torn canvas. More recent touch-ups crust over older layers of thick black paint, giving the symbol a new, intimidating, and commanding look.
Memory flashes. During my cadet years, I researched rebellion histories under Scholar Veynar's tutelage.
Fifteen years ago, Warlord Draegor tried to unite the sky-clans under the Storm Wolf. The council crushed him at Keth Morah, his fleet scattered. Thought dead, he vanished.
But his mark, bold as blood, is here.
I marched to the Watch fortress after yanking the piece of canvas away. With his grizzled face darkening with familiar disapproval, Commander Tiberius Kael looks up from the pages of the ledger.
Alaric, sir. What leads to—
I force the canvas onto his desk. "The sigil of Draegor."
His laugh echoes off the stone walls. Tiberius examines the wolf's head.
To frighten merchants, raiders steal old banners. You are aware of this. Like scrap, he pushes the canvas away. "Somewhere in the Outer Reaches, Draegor's bones bleach." Give up looking for ghosts.
My chest gets hotter. The paint is fresh. Someone is repairing his—
"Enough." Standing, Tiberius strains the brass buttons on his barrel chest. Save your report and then go back to patrol. Please allow the investigators to manage.
More painful than lightning wounds is his dismissal. Grab the canvas and stalk off.
With marble arches ascending to a stained-glass dome, the High Council chamber rises like judgement manifested. Across polished floors, afternoon light breaks into rainbow fragments. With expressions ranging from boredom to annoyance, seven council members occupy throne-like seats.
I hold the canvas high as I get closer to the speaker's circle.
I am presenting proof of Draegor's return to you, honourable council members. Once more, the Storm Wolf soars.
With her silver hair shining like steel, Councilor Maelis Ryn leans forward. She tinkles like glass when she laughs.
"Sir Alaric, ghost-hunting? How charming. She makes a contemptuous gesture. One coat of paint doesn't prove anything. To arouse fear, pirates mimic symbols. A knight with your level of experience must be able to see the truth.
The hall is filled with soft voices. The expressions of fellow council members tighten like locked gates as they nod. Like a thick cloak, condemnation descends upon me.
I insist, "The paint is fresh." "The targeting, the formation patterns—"
"Coincidence." Councilor Brennan's hand is adorned with jewels. Sometimes convoys are the target of bandits. There's not much left to say.
According to Maelis, "We vote to classify these actions as isolated banditry." "Sir Alaric, concentrate on your patrol work. Allow shadow-chasers to go after shadows.
The c***k of the gavel reverberates like fractured bones.
With anger rising behind my ribs, I depart briskly. Outside, stooped in robes eaten by moths, scholar Arion Veynar waits beneath a stone archway. Ancient eyes examine my face with a sense of unease.
"They kicked you out," he whispers.
"They were referred to as ghost stories."
Arion looks around, then takes a step forward. He hardly raises his voice.
Prophecies state that the Storm Wolf will reappear "when the sky burns red with fire." As the storm moves westward, I'm seeing colours that no season can bring. His twisted fingers hold my sleeve in place. Keep a watch on the horizon, young knight. Toothy shadows are present.
He disappears into the crowd before I can reply.
I let the wind cool my burning cheeks as I walked on the outer balcony. Caelus Spire spreads out like complex clockwork, with families eating dinner and airship docks illuminated by harbour lights. There is so much life. So exposed.
I am haunted by the faces of lost convoy sailors. I hear their cries in my dreams.
I won't think twice. I'll be prepared.
I ignore my uneasiness and get back to my routine. As the cadet-knights fly formations during morning drill, I give orders with forced accuracy.
" Smooth out the curves! You're flying like inebriated freighters!
Indeed, Sir Alaric!
However, the council's dismissal feels so painful. I constantly think about wolf sigils and the storms that are building. The cadets are aware of my distraction and exchange anxious looks when they believe I'm not watching.
Caelus Spire is enveloped in darkness. Knights gossip and drink wine in the garrison hall. On the balcony of the watchtower, I am by myself while I watch storms illuminate the western sky.
Like a shed skin, my wingsuit hangs on its rack, awaiting the flight tomorrow.
A brilliant flash of lightning suddenly splits the sky, illuminating far-off clouds. A huge shadow, resembling a predator and silhouetted against the stormlight, briefly appears before I can concentrate.
My heart is racing as I blink. Was it paranoia and exhaustion, or was it something else entirely?
Through the spire’s brass frame, the wind whispers—sounding like names.
It sounds a lot like Draegor.
- Writer
