Chapter 1
"Liam Mairi. He's in Second Squad, Tail Section of our wing and already the top cadet in our year. He practically ran across the parapet and destroyed every opponent on assessment day."
Dragons in the sky could spot Tirvainne tonight.
Most nights, the dimly lit village went unsuspecting, unnoticed by both predators and its own defensive riders. But the Forge Festival lit the town like a beacon—placing it on the map for revelers and rivals alike, depending on one's loyalties.
The fireberry tea scorched like flames against Myla Ashbourne's calloused palms. She sipped slowly, though the drink offered little more than a bitter distraction from the overstimulating celebration around her. Music and laughter spilled into the streets, harmonizing with the clang of hammers striking anvils and the occasional roar of a bonfire stoked too high. To most, the festival was a celebration of Tirvainne's craftsmanship and community—a rare moment of unity in a world so fractured.
"Your father's been putting you to work, Ashbourne."
Eldon Harwick's voice sliced through the hum of the festival, far too close for comfort. He hovered on the other side of her family's stall, his fingers grazing the edge of a finely forged blade as though testing its sharpness. Myla knew better than to think he'd buy anything; he was only here to talk—or, more accurately, to provoke. The town elder's phrases were predictable and well-rehearsed, the sort of small talk he wielded like a blunted weapon. He knew little of her beyond her family's reputation as Tirvainne's's blacksmiths. Fortunately, the Ashbournes liked it that way. Anonymity was a comfort—honor their shield against suspicion..
Myla forced a smile, bright and polished like a newly tempered blade. It didn't reach her eyes. "How else would we be the best if we didn't hone our craft, Elder Harwick?"
"Ambition on a beautiful young women like yourself is inspiring." He folded his arms across his chest, the gesture oozing condescension.
There wasn't enough fireberry tea in the world to help her stomach this interaction.
"But also, intimidating," he continued, his smirk deepening, "I wouldn't invest all your endeavors into a man's work, unless the goal is celibacy."
Myla could easily cower under his degrading gaze, but that would only invite more. Fighting the slump in her shoulders, she stood up straighter. "Tonight's goal is selling the best weapons in Navarre, and, judging by the handful of purchases made since sundown, it's no wonder you might feel a bit… intimidated."
His smirk faltered, but she didn't stop. The rush of defiance sent her words tumbling out faster than her sense of caution could catch them.
"I understand why you might feel the need to overcompensate for other deficiencies. Perhaps this dagger could accommodate your size?" She directs him to a short 5-inch sword priced high enough to dent anyone's silver reserves. The ornate blade would likely never be used in actual combat but in a mogul's collection.
Harwick's laugh was clipped as he stepped back, his interest clearly waning. Myla's pulse buzzed as he murmured something Myla chose not to strain her ears to hear. She exhaled slowly, setting the dagger back down with careful precision.
From across the square, another voice called out. Not to her, specifically—but loud enough to be meant for her.
"What a waste of a pretty face."
Myla's head snapped up. Near the largest bonfire, a small group of youths had gathered, their faces flickering in the firelight. At the center of them stood a girl with dark hair tied back in a loose braid, her smirk sharp and confident. Myla recognized her instantly. Kera Malven—the girl everyone whispered about. She'd been training all spring for Conscription Day, aiming to join the dragon riders. Her stance, all coiled strength and calculated sharpness, made it clear she had no intention of failing.
"All that heat in the forge," Kera added with a grin, "and they still can't soften a single one of them."
Laughter rippled through the group. Myla turned back to her stall, her jaw tightening. She arranged the weapons in front of her with mechanical precision, refusing to let the weight of their jeers see her flinch.
And then, another voice cut through the firelight—clear, calm, and firm.
"Funny. You don't seem desperate, but you're still stuck using the old rusted dagger your dad bought five years ago. You're lucky that weapon doesn't snap before you make it to Threshing."
The laughter stopped as if snuffed out. Myla's head snapped up.
Liam Mairi was not one to make his presence known, though he was tall and lean. His frame cast a long shadow that seemed to stretch across the square. His tone was light, almost teasing, but the sharp edge beneath it was impossible to miss.
"You're lucky that weapon doesn't snap before you make it to Threshing," Liam added, his voice ringing louder than the fire itself.
Kera's smirk faltered, but she recovered quickly. "And you expect to make it to Threshing to see it happen?"
Liam laughed, the sound rich with assurance. "I will."
His confidence was a weapon sharper than any blade on Myla's stall, and for the first time that evening, her lips twitched into a genuine smile. She couldn't stop the inner critic telling her to wipe the smirk off her face, though a part of her wanted to rebel against her father's voice. Liam was one of the two fosters of Duke Lindell. Their rebellion status forbade nearly any interaction from the boy or his foster brother.
A group neared Myla's booth, drowning out the youth's voices and offering a moment of relief. The jostling of wood broke through her thoughts. A crate of weapons on the edge of the stall tilted dangerously. Myla darted a hand out instinctively, her palm colliding with another's before she realized Liam was beside her.
The two of them steadied the crate, but the moment their eyes met, Myla felt a strange jolt—like striking flint against steel. Her hand recoiled as though burned.
"Nice reflexes," Liam said, grinning.
"It was just instinct," Myla replied curtly, though her voice wavered as she turned back towards her stall. "Hardly worth complimenting."
Cocking an eyebrow, Liam smirked. "With that tenacity, why let those insults roll of your back?"
Her head snapped up, and she glared at him, though his words unsettled her more than his presence. She needed to shut this down. This conversation. This… feeling. "I don't waste my energy on people like her." Myla clipped, pulling her eyes from wandering his face. "Besides, I have more important things to do."
"Do you?" Liam asked, glancing toward the bonfire where musicians were striking up another lively tune. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like all of Tirvainne is having a good time, except for the one person who's spent all night deflecting idiocy."
"Cutting down egos is my specialty. Stick around—I'll be here all night." Her attempt at intimidation wavered, the bite dulled beneath her lashes. She was about as menacing as a hatchling yet to breathe fire.
If Liam noticed, he didn't let on. Instead, his smirk deepened, and there was something almost daring in his eyes. "You know," he said, voice lower now, "nothing shuts people like that up faster than proving you're better than them."
"Better how?" she asked, wary of his tone.
"By outshining them." He gestured to the firelit dancers, the music growing wilder as another group joined in. "On their own turf."
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Surely you're not suggesting I dance?"
"No," he said, extending his hand toward her. "I'm suggesting we dance. And trust me– it's not all for their sake."
Her lips twitched again despite herself. His offer was tempting, and not only for the reason he'd suggested. Deep down, there was something about the prospect of ridicule that drew her in. If the townspeople wanted to talk, let them. If her family wanted to disapprove, let them. She could decide how this story would end—on her own terms, no one else's.
"You're ridiculous," Her tone light but firm The flicker of rebellion cooled as she put distance between the two of them. Questions prickled at the edges of her mind, as piercing as the blades she sold: Why now? Why her? Was this just a game to him—a way to turn her into a pawn in some unspoken agenda? Surrendering to a dance with the child of a Rebellion leader would invite more vulnerability than she was prepared to give.
The rejection hung between them, and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. Then his grin returned, a little sharper than before.
"Fair enough," Liam said, stepping back with a shrug that was almost too casual. "You'd probably outshine me anyway."
As he walked away, Myla exhaled slowly, letting the tension in her shoulders ease. A moment alone offered brief clarity. Being put on the spot like that had made her judgment feel hazier than the smoke rising from the forge fires. Maybe it was the fireberry tea. She dumped the rest of the blood-red drink into the grass behind her, watching as it soaked into the dirt.
Liam, like Kera, had a relentless drive to enroll in the Riders Quadrant. It was no secret—he and his foster brother, Xaden Riorson, spent every spare moment training for Conscription Day. Their dedication was equal parts admirable and foolish. Riders were more likely to be struck by lightning or fall to their deaths than live long enough to graduate from the academy. It was a death wish disguised as ambition.
But unlike Kera, Liam's loyalties set him apart. His rebellion marking, that unmistakable black spiral, coiled from his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt, wrapping his chest and arm. Myla had never seen it in its entirety, and her cheeks burned at the stray thought of tracing its path. She tore her gaze away from the firelit silhouette of his retreating form, frustrated for letting her mind wander there.
The rest of the festival passed uneventfully. Myla stayed at the booth until vendors around her began packing up. Selling half their inventory was standard for an event like this, and she embraced the predictability. She pocketed the earnings, ensuring they'd make it safely to her father's coinbox. Conveniently, the leftover weapons fit snugly into a single crate. Either the load was lighter than she expected, or years at the forge had made her stronger than she realized.
When Myla arrived home, the warm glow of embers smoldering in the hearth greeted her. Her father, Veyron Ashbourne, stood near the flames, stoking them with deliberate precision. His back was straight and rigid, his silence heavy with expectation.
Her grandfather sat in his usual chair by the far wall, his figure shadowed and still. The faint red light cast jagged shapes across his face, making his sunken features appear sharper, more skeletal.
Myla set the crate down carefully, the clang of metal echoing in the quiet home.
Her father glanced her way, his expression cold yet approving in its own restrained way. It was the closest she would get to a welcome. "Looks like a majority sold if that's all you brought home. Not bad."
Relief softened the tension in her chest, and a swell of pride lightened her shoulders. "I thought so too," she said.
"And yet," her grandfather's voice rasped from the shadows, heavy with something unspoken, "you let yourself get distracted. Again."
The warmth drained as fast as it arrived. She turned to face him, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me, girl," her grandfather interrupted, his tone low and cold. "I heard how you spoke with him. Elder Harwick."
Her pulse quickened. "He came to the booth. That's it." She thanked unknown gods that he hadn't brought up her interaction with Liam.
"Is it?" Veyron's voice was quieter, a manufactured puppet of the older man.
Shallow breath caught in her throat.
Her father stepped closer, the firelight casting hard shadows across his face. "Be truthful, dear. Word travels fast."
"Let them whisper," she snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. "It's a festival. I'm allowed to defend myself. Defend our family's reputation."
"You're allowed to do as you're told," her grandfather said, rising from his chair with unnerving ease. For a man his age, his movements were disturbingly fluid. "Do you think this family's name survives on stubborn defiance?"
"I didn't do anything wrong," Myla's fingernails curled into her fisted palms. Her grandfather's mere presence summoned defiance in her that even her father didn't deserve. "I sold weapons, I brought back the coins, and I didn't cause any trouble."
Her grandfather stepped into the light, and the air seemed to shift. Something unnatural shimmered beneath his pale skin, and his eyes burned a faint red, glinting like embers in the dark. Myla's stomach twisted as his presence seemed to press down on her, heavy and constricting.
"You didn't cause trouble," he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you invited it. A single crack, Myla, and everything we've built crumbles."
"Everything you've built," she shot back, though her voice cracked. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to live under your rules or carry your secrets."
His gaze hardened, distended veins surfacing like threads beneath his pale skin. Myla braced herself, certain his cold, scaly hand would reach out to restrain her.
Veyron stepped between them, carefully creating space between the two. "Enough," her father said, his voice tight. "She's tired. Let it go."
Her grandfather's expression didn't change. His piercing gaze remained fixed on her, though the red glow in his eyes dimmed into something darker, more ominous. "You think exhaustion excuses defiance? She's weak. We don't have room for weakness."
Myla stepped back, nearly stumbling over the crate she'd left behind her. "Weakness is hiding in the shadows while everyone else fights for their freedom. Weakness is keeping secrets and expecting me to carry them!"
Her grandfather's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Freedom," he said softly, the word dripping with disdain. "You'll learn, girl. Freedom is an illusion for fools who think they can escape the inevitable."
The light in the room dimmed as his presence seemed to expand, suffocating and oppressive. Shadows casted on the floors lengthened unnaturally.
Her vision narrowed, her body screaming at her to run. "You're wrong," she managed, her voice trembling.
Her grandfather tilted his head, his gaze burning into her. "Am I?"
Before another word could be said, Myla bolted.
The night air overcame her like a wave as she stumbled out of the house. Her feet pounded against the ground, desperate to escape the tendrils of magic slithering along the earth behind her. They reached, grasped, curling like smoke, but they wouldn't take her—not tonight.