People don't believe you when you tell them you're a wolf hybrid, not that you don't expect it.
After all, you're a low-presenting hybrid. Lacking really any hybrid characteristics besides your instincts. Something that used to bother you, being the odd one out in a high-presentation family.
Nowadays, it only makes you cock your head at gaz in an imitation of your brother's with their ears "what do you mean you've got a proper wolf on the team?"
"Ghost, our wold hybrid," gaz shrugs all casual, even a bit braggy "not sure he'd like you going around claiming to be one, though."
You doubt that, Given you still smell like a wolf. All hybrids have a certain smell to them that's hard to cover all the time. "Where is he?"
"Probably in the gym– what– hey!" Gaz makes to grab your wrist, then seems to think better of it. Some newbie getting chewed up by ghost is none of his concern...he'll make an effort to keep your blood inside after a few weeks. "...don't be an idiot!"
The gym is empty this late into the night, most lights off except for the section by the punching bag. There, you spot him.
As it turns out, ghost is the highest presentation wolf you've seen yet. He's also in horrible condition.
Matted fur, ears pinned back. You're sure his tail aches to move with all the knots pulling at skin, and by the way he holds himself you wonder what else hurts. You don't get to inspect further, because the second you step closer a deep growl bursts from his chest, eyes catching on you.
It's so sudden you instinctively back off, head tilted back, whining the best you can. Not for the first time, you wish you had proper ears and tail to convey what you mean. Instead, you resort to your voice and whisper "sorry, sir. Just wanted to introduce myself. I'm....I'm the new wolf on the team."
The growling continues for an excruciatingly long moment, warning or show of power you don't know. But between one breath and the next you're being shoulder checked by a body much bigger than yours, stumbling embarrassingly far.
"Stay away from my pack, runt." Ghost glances back at you over his shoulder.
The intimidation is ruined by a better view of those mats, of the claw marks barely peaking out from his shirt. He just looks...bad. unwell.
You wonder why no one's helping him, if he claims them as a pack. You wonder how much you'll have to sacrifice to help him. Christ, that poor lonely wolf in you can't tell danger from opportunity and just wants to bond with something like it.
...decision made, you slink to your barracks and resign yourself to observe ghost for a few days before making a move.
soft yandere!fairy king with villainess!reader mini-series [chapter one]
warnings: mention of death and violence, fem!reader, explicit language, obsessive behavior, implications of bigotry, fairy!reader, references to the Emily Wilde series by Heather Fawcett and Long Live Evil by Sarah Brennan, smut, minors dni.
Hey guys and welcome~! I had put up a poll about a month ago for what should my next big project be and here it is, another collaboration with the incredibly talented @deathmetalunicorn1! Contrary to our previous mini-series, this one will have some spicy content in it, we hope you're prepared for the heat we'll be dishing out~.
Do you have a favorite book troupe or theme associated with fairies and villains? A least favorite troupe that could definitely be improved on? We would love to hear your thoughts on them in the comments section and how you would react if you found yourself trapped in the pages of a terribly written romantasy manuscript~.
Special thanks to @solxamber for writing her Twisted Wonderland Trash Novel Chronicles that motivated me to write, especially her Azul Ashengrotto piece. I will leave to it the link here and the masterlist if for anyone who are interested in reading them!
Comment with 🌶️ if you would like a little bit of spice or ❤️🔥❤️🔥 if you want the spice to be almost too hot to handle in one sitting 🥵.
divider by @cafekitsune
pt. two >
You honestly wonder why you haven’t started your own writing career yet. You didn’t consider yourself the next Ernest Hemingway or Haruki Murakami, but you knew how to write sentences and remove unnecessary exposition so that the character’s actions show rather than tell the story’s narrative. Hence why you are very good at your job as a proofreader at one of the largest publishing houses in the world, blankly staring at the email popped in your inbox just seconds before you closed your laptop for the day.
One unread message from Mira Kingfisher.
You loved and hated her at the same time. Not entirely impossible, but given how many of her author’s manuscripts have graciously plopped on your desk in the last three months alone and you’ve polished them into diamonds on tight deadlines without a break, it is. She’s a brilliant editor and agent who represents her literary darlings incredibly well; if there’s one person who any self-respecting author who writes in the romantasy genre wants to have on their side and promote their books, it is Mira Kingfisher.
So why did she re-send you the godforsaken manuscript that is literally copy-pasting the latest trends on BookTok and possesses zero logic?
You informed Mira via email that despite the record-breaking preorders and the social media hype for this author’s new romantasy novel, the book simply isn’t ready. There were too many subplots, repeated use of the word ‘growl’ and ‘golden eyes’. Did you mention the author wrote almost all the characters as being breathtakingly beautiful, or so handsome that the entire world fell silent upon seeing them? This is a song and dance that’s already done before, and the hot magical creatures in this manuscript are fairies.
Mira might see the numbers and how much she’ll receive from the royalties and advances, but you see a story that is clearly not ready to be released into the world yet. The manuscript needed extensive revisions! Revisions that take time, and at best you could finish going through all two-hundred-ninety-five pages in three weeks, maybe two months. If the author will read and follow through the list of revisions you had attached in the email last Thursday down to the last letter, then this book is going to be another New York Times bestseller, hell, even become Barnes and Noble’s Best Fantasy Book Year of 2025. But the only one to make those impossible feats possible is to push back the deadline.
It’s highly doubtful that Mira or the author will listen to reason when there’s a huge paycheck on the line, so you have no choice but to show them how extensively you have edited this manuscript with your trusty red pen. Which is why you thanked your lucky stars that you have invested in a state-of-the-art office printer. Reading manuscripts hot off the press makes the job (plus line edits) so much easier than spending more hours staring at your laptop and giving yourself another headache.
It was still beyond your comprehension how this manuscript landed on your desk again after rounds of quality control, but if this is the game that Mira wants to play, fine. You were a professional proofreader and you will soldier on. Inhaling a deep breath through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, you adjusted the settings and listened to your printer get to work after tapping the icon twice with your mouse.
Thirty minutes later, you had a double-sided manuscript sitting in your lap. A large water bottle sat on the coffee table on your left, and the lamp was on the right. You steeled your mind, prayed your remaining sanity wouldn’t be not be shredded after reading this hot mess, and started your S-Rank proofreading quest.
The title of this piece is A Dance of Gold and Glitter. The story follows a bookish Courtly fairy heroine; her mother’s staggering military accomplishments as commander of the Fairy King’s army secured her place as a candidate in the Queen’s Trials. The male protagonist is, of course, the all-powerful Fairy King. The courtly and common fairies across the continent of Iayihos answered him. To defy the Fairy King is unthinkable. He’s super strong, and no one knows his true face minus his trusted advisor, blah, blah, blegh. Predictable. Next. An incredibly stupid and vain villainess acting as a foil to the heroine’s perseverance and kind heart, thus creating a love triangle between the heroine, the Fairy King, and her apprentice knight childhood friend.
Yay. Cliched troupe number two is check-marked. Moving on.
Someone is killing off the candidates one by one, and everyone automatically assumes the villainess is responsible because she is a fairy who was born with the ability to wield dark magic, which automatically makes others see her as an unredeemable monster as opposed to the pure-hearted and righteous light fairies. No trial, just a swift execution right before the steamy, drawn-out sex scenes between the heroine and the Fairy King. A BJ under the table while the Fairy King holds a meeting with his advisors? Wow! Just wow. Who would have thought of that?
Second love interest gets sent off to war, dies, and the Fairy King comforts his new queen with sex. And that’s how the story ends.
Sorry Mira, but this is not how the story will end.
Click.
Your pen did not stop crossing out or circling paragraphs or adding notes on the sides until it was almost two o’clock in the morning. You were halfway through the manuscript now with the weekend to finish it before showing Mira just how much work her literary darling needs to put into this book. Not through an email; you believe that dropping it on her desk, right on top of her other projects when she’s on her lunch break doom-scrolling is a much more effective method in getting your point across.
You had also been kind enough to include cottage-core sticky notes with detailed suggestions on how to improve certain areas of the manuscript, plus title suggestions because A Dance of Gold and Glitter is very misleading. Why is it even called A Dance of Gold and Glitter when the currency of this fantasy world dictates that a gold coin is as valuable as copper? Hopefully Mira can help her client figure that out, at least. That’s why she gets paid to do besides promoting books and acting as a middle-man between her darlings and the publishing company.
Now? You needed to sleep.
Placing the manuscript gingerly on the coffee table and the red pen on the side, you stood up from the couch before stretching your arms over your head. What you did not realize is that at when your big toe slammed the foot of said furniture piece, two things happened. You lost your balance, careening forward, and landed on top of a pile of paperbacks; the novels you had the honor to polish up into the bestsellers they are today, yet still didn’t have a place on your shelves because they are already full of books you’ve read. The woes of being a professional and chronically tired proofreader in the world of literary mediocrity.
You swore under your breath, rubbing the sore area for a moment before making your way to the back bedroom to perform your usual nightly slash early morning routine.
The final thought you had before the sweet, comforting blankets of your bed lulled you into darkness is that you hoped that this time, Mira Kingfisher will listen to your grievances or else A Dance of Gold and Glitter will turn into a catastrophic clusterfuck that could cost the company thousands and many die-hard readers who loved the author’s previous works.
Then nothing. Just peaceful silence amidst the humming of your ceiling fan.
When you woke up, the first thing you realize is that an antler chandelier hangs above your head, and you know that the walls of your humble abode don’t look like someone carved them from the inside of a mountain because you’re not that rich. Your precious Egyptian cotton sheets? Gone, replaced with a myriad of tawny and onyx pelts. You still had a pillow, so that was one positive note in this weird-ass situation. It still doesn’t explain why your head hurts like a bitch. And why are there feathers on the bed?
A glance at the ornate mirror hanging on the other side of this bizarre room confirms your worst fear: an impeccable beauty with the face of a goddess was staring back at you with jewel-blue eyes that glowed under the dim lighting of the torches mounted on either side of the mirror. Pointed ears poked out from the curtain of long, lustrous jet-back hair cascaded over her bare shoulders and past her lower back. Her tits were huge.
Authors portrayed the villainess as a femme fatale, using charm and gorgeous looks to achieve her goals and secure her power. Now? It seems the universe thrust you into the villainess’s body, finding amusement in watching a proofreader survive in this world, destined for execution so the heroine might achieve a happy ending. But the worst part is that you couldn’t find the energy to scream, to panic, or cry because you were still so damned tired.
A wolf hybrid keen on breaking the taboos of following his more... predatory instincts.
Noone questions when prey hybrids disappear off the field sometimes, prejudice of prey being weaker and meeker still stands strong in the military.
Nobody bats an eye when you, a new deer hybrid, fresh out of training disappear on your first mission under Ghosts supervision.
You know better, now at least. Chained in the basement of the house Ghost is given by Price, cowering in the corner.
You know whats going to happen to you, hard not to when theres blood splattered on the floor and skulls of fellow prey hybrids line the vitrine shelfs across from you.
Youre prepared for the worst when heavy footsteps reach your ears, descending the stairs. You face him with pinned ears and no antlers. The bastard had taken advantage of shedding season. Ghost thinks its funny. A smaller hybrid, prey at that trying to stand its ground against him.
You freeze when you see whats in his hands, a plate of food. Meat at that. Barely any vegetables. Sure Ghost knew most herbivores, could stomach some meat in harsh times, but it was socially more than taboo.
He sets the plate down infront of you expecting disgust and mortification. Expects you to cry and balk at the horrors. Instead you strain against the chains, not even attempting to hide the hunger as you shove your face into the plate, herbivore teeth gnashing through the meat. God youd been starving for a good meal.
"'S good"
You choke out between bites, almost licking the plate clean. Ghost makes a decision right then and there. Hed been a little lonely and had been thinking of getting a pet. And you were perfect. Something he could feed his kills who wouldnt even flinch and just thank him for the meal. Someone just as much a societal freak as him.
if your go-to assumption when your favorite media is critiqued is that those doing the critiquing ‘can’t tell the difference between fiction and reality’ because ‘characters can’t be oppressed because they’re not real,’ and not instead, say, that their criticism might be driven by the observable consequences depictions of race, gender, religion, sexuality, and disability (and where these intersect) have had on real communities when handled offensively by those ignorant to these lived experiences, maybe step back and ponder what it is about you that allows you to jump to the first conclusion before considering any of the others. some sort of… privilege, perhaps??
clair. also known as “that creepy girl from verdanturf town”. she’s about three years older than the main group (may, brendan, wally, and storm).
their mother was a pokemon trainer, specifically a psychic-type specialist, who used to be the gym leader of slateport city. (now, i know what you’re thinking, “there’s no pokemon gym in slateport city”. well… this is why.) anyways. the ace of her team was a male gardevoir named sterling, and the two of them were secretly in love. though most people thought this was impossible, they conceived a child together.
once clair was born, her parents wanted to just try and pass her off as a normal human baby. but she was born with two tiny red horns on her head, just like a ralts. they had to hide them or someone would notice, so they just covered them up by putting hats on her. right away she was obviously gifted; she could teleport* before she could hold her head upright. her parents would’ve even said she was clairvoyant… and that’s where she got her name.
*ralts learn to teleport before they develop any other psychic abilities. this helps them easily flee from danger, even as infants. still, they’re rarely born with the ability to do so.
their mother wanted her family to not have to hide who they were anymore, but they knew hoenn wasn’t the place for them to do this. so she and sterling started secretly planning to run away & move to sinnoh. she was a gym leader, so she started putting aside money for them to move. and it almost looked like things were going to go well.
but one day when clair was six months old, everything fell apart. her mother was giving a speech in front of the whole city, with sterling standing nearby, holding clair. when suddenly, she teleported out of her father’s arms, crawling a few feet forward and knocking off her hat in the process. sterling scrambled to pick her up again and put her hat back on. but everyone saw clair teleport, everyone saw the bright pink horns, there was no denying what happened.
no one said anything at first, but the rumors started to spread.
two days later, clair’s parents were hunted down and killed by an angry mob. they were in the gym when it happened. thank arceus, clair was with their aunt at the time (their mother’s sister). sterling would’ve died to protect his bondmate, he would’ve fought off that whole crowd and won, even if he died of exhaustion afterwards. but several people brought dark-type pokemon to the attack, and he had no good way to attack them (fairy-type hadn’t been discovered yet, so obviously he didn’t know moonblast or any other fairy-type moves, if they weren’t known to exist). so instead, both of them were killed.
clair’s aunt saw the incident from afar. while the mob was distracted, she fled far away with clair, to somewhere they would never be found.
the fight caused extensive structural damage to the gym - carpets were scorched, walls were knocked down, support beams were dented. but everyone was so ashamed of what had happened, that instead of trying to repair it and find a new gym leader, the gym was simply shut down. no one speaks of her today.
eventually clair and her aunt made it to verdanturf town. while her mother originally planned for her daughter to become a psychic-type specialist just like her, clair’s aunt forbade her from even interacting with other psychic-types. her powers developed at an impressive rate - by age five, she could pick up on people’s thoughts just by looking them in the eyes; a skill usually only seen in fully-grown gardevoir, unheard of for a half-human child. but she was punished for even acknowledging her perceptions at all.
their aunt raised them to hide who they were, to be ashamed of the fact they were even born at all. they were forced to hide their pointed ears, their pinkish-red eyes. to always wear a hat, so no one would see the strange horns on their head. once they grew older and their heart piece moved to their chest, they were made to wear several layers of clothing even in the hottest days of summer, so no one would see its outline through their shirt.
her powers have become weaker, now that she’s been made to neglect them for so many years… not to mention, chronic malnutrition and sleep deprivation aren’t exactly conducive to the proper development of psychic powers.
clair sincerely believes that humans and pokemon should never be together. but not because it’s “wrong”, but because it’s what got their parents killed. because it’s the reason they have to live in shame. the possibility of pokephilia ever being accepted in hoenn… just isn’t something that occurred to them.
I am going to say that if you're a butch4butch lesbian and you try to co-opt the fujoshi-ifcation of cishet woman, and give that stigma to femmes for thinking a member of their fellow lesbian community is hot then this blog is not for you. This blog stands for allowing lesbians to be free to express their sexual desires for other lesbians so long as they're following consent.
I would HIGHLY ENCOURAGE those who feel this way to examine WHY you hold this belief system in the first place. Why are you co-opting a reactionary sentiment that started from a place of unexamined patriarchy within the greater LGBTQ+ community? Why do you feel that lateral discrimination is helping you? Are you actually setting boundaries or are you letting things outside of your sphere of control influence you into behaving in a long term unhelpful way? Are you living up to your core values as a lesbian? Would you say the things you're saying online to this person face to face without any interference from outside parties?
Lesbians as a whole are still WILDLY discriminated against outside of the Internet and even outside of the lesbian community on Tumblr. This place isn't perfect by any means because perfection is a standard that can't materially exist, but that doesn't mean we don't have a semi-decent culture going on here. So, I hate that I'm starting to see more and more blogs pop-up within the greater Tumblr lesbian space that engage in lateral discrimination because it makes this admittedly small place unsafe for our community. No matter if you like it or not, the people you aren't attracted to are still members of your community and deserve to be treated with basic courtesy. That means block and move on and NOT MAKE A BLOG DEDICATED TO HATING ON A SUBSECTION OF OUR COMMUNITY.
At the end of it all, you are responsible for your emotions and behaviors, and no one else can make you feel any certain type of way. They can influence it with their behaviors, sure, but they can't make you lash out. That's on you which means YOU have the opportunity to change which is empowering. Please do some soul searching, and ask what YOU want out of being an ACTIVE member of this community. (Do this in your private time offline preferably) Remember no one is making you be an active member of the community AND you have no obligations to be. That's a choice you make for your own self. You are empowered to make those choices.
And finally, if you read all of that and decide you're still in the right, stay the fuck away from my blog and the femmes that follow me. Me being a butch4butch dyke doesn't mean I won't whoop your sorry ass for coming for the femmes. I'm the oldest sibling and sister in my family and I certainly use that energy I learned to protect me and mine. So step the fuck off.
warnings: swearing, discrimination, bullying, ableism, violence, astar is ready to eat a gryphon flier
a/n: are we supposed to hate neve? probably not in canon, but you're definitely gonna hate her by the end of this chapter
masterlist | ao3
—
From the dangerous waves of the Arctile Ocean to the lowest plains of the Tyrrendor plateau, the Cliffs of Dralor rise to over twelve thousand feet in places, making them unflyable by gryphon. While there are three well-carved paths within Navarre to ascend the plateau, along the Krovlan border exists only one...and it is deadly to both gryphon and flier.
Do not attempt under any circumstances.
— Chapter Two: The Tactical Guide to Defeating Dragons
by Colonel Elijah Joben
—
The Cliffs of Dralor stretch high above us, so far that they disappear into a thick layer of cloud cover, and I'm almost tripping over myself to look up that high. After our four-in-the-morning formation time and the flight that followed, we're all standing in a field west of Draithus, skeptically looking at the gryphon drifts gathered on the other side of First Wing as the sun burns off the early morning haze.
Turns out, Violet wasn't wallowing in her room all weekend, she was flying to Cordyn to secure the revolution a luminary. And she did—she just also happened to secure the remaining gryphon drifts that survived the attack on the Cliffsbane Flight Academy.
"He can't be serious," Ridoc says ahead of me in formation, his neck craned at the same angle as mine. Between the hundred Aretian cadets and an equal number of fliers packed into this grassy field, I'd guess ninety-five percent of us look exactly the same, gawking at the steep, barely visible, narrow trail Brennan Sorrengail just pointed at with absolute incredulity.
The series of ledges and switchbacks carved into the granite cliff look more suitable to a mountain goat than a gryphon, and blend so well into the terrain that it's no wonder the Medaro Pass has been kept secret.
Until now.
"Agreed." Visia nods. "He has to be kidding. That's not a trail—it's a death trap."
The path Brennan's so excited about isn't wide enough to support a full wagon, let alone the width of a gryphon...and he wants them to hike it? For us to hike it with them while dragons fly patrol?
"Pretty sure he's serious or we wouldn't all be here," Rhiannon says over her shoulder.
"What the hell does he expect us to do besides climb with them?" Lynx asks, keeping his voice down.
"Catch them if they fall off?" Ridoc suggests.
"Right, because we're capable of catching a gryphon," Imogen remarks with a roll of her eyes.
Near the front of our formation, Baylor covers a jaw-cracking yawn with his fist as Brennan continues to lecture us about the length of the hike ahead from where he stands on a bound stack of crossbolts, amplifying his voice over the field. "The journey should take you twelve hours, though I recommend taking time to rest along the trail." His gaze scans over us, as if gauging our reaction.
The only sound is the fall breeze rustling the leaves from the scrub oak trees at the south end of the field. Even the dragons and gryphons fall silent around us, as if they can't quite believe what's being suggested, either.
"So they can push us off?" a rider from Third Wing asks, and the way no one laughs at his words means he's absolutely serious.
"That question is exactly why you'll be going with them," Brennan says as the female flier I recognize from Resson climbs up the pile of bound crossbolts to stand with him.
I tap on Violet's shoulder and sign, "What's her name? The one from Resson."
"That's Syrena Cordella," she whispers back. "Her sister, Cat, is a cadet, too. And also Xaden's ex," she grumbles. "They're Viscount Tecarus's nieces."
Not a lot of what she's told me makes sense all together, but as individual pieces of information I store them away. "His ex?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she mutters with a scowl.
"Not only have the Wingleaders been given the locations of the gryphon traps to disarm them, but you need to learn some mutual respect and trust before you can be educated together," Brennan continues. "No rider will respect a cadet who hasn't crossed the Parapet." He gestures at the trail behind him. "Behold a Parapet for them to cross."
"It's narrow, but it's not that narrow!" Ridoc calls out, earning a few scoffs of agreement from the riders around us.
"And if we were just risking ourselves, perhaps it would be appropriate to deem it inferior to your death bridge at Basgiath," Syrena states, clasping her hands behind her back and facing the riders' half of formation. Sunlight catches on the palm-size metal rings that fall at the fronts of her shoulders, connected to the leather above. "But consider while you climb, while you decide if you'll truly accept fliers into your ranks, that while this trail is perfectly safe for humans, it's perilous for gryphons. And ask yourself if you would risk the lives of your dragons climbing a trail built specifically to kill them into hostile territory so you can learn how to better destroy your enemy with the very people you considered your enemy up until last week."
Riders all around shift their weight.
"Each squad will be paired with a drift of equal strength to make the ascent," Brennan says. "Hopefully by the time you reach the top, you'll have found some mutual ground on which to build a framework of partnership."
"Highly doubt it," Ridoc mutters.
"In the meantime, your dragons will remain close," Brennan asserts. He and Syrena start to call out the drifts being paired together, and with the way Violet clams up in front of me, she doesn't like who we're with.
All separated, with no one eager to start, Syrena walks over to the drift we're paired with and murmurs lowly to one of the fliers that looks strikingly similar to her: same nose, same dark hair.
She must be Cat.
But then Syrena's walking over to me in the brief moment I'm not surrounded by my squad. "Graycastle."
"Cordella," I sign back. "Glad to see you're still alive."
"Likewise." She smirks, the lines around her mouth and eyes deepening, then claps me on the shoulder. "Have fun on your hike."
"Form up," the Drift Leader assigned to us says to his cadets, and they all fall into line. "I'm Bragen, Drift Leader." Then he points down the rest of the line as he introduces each person. "This is Kai, Luella, Trager, Maren, Catriona, and Neve."
Rhiannon introduces herself, then does the same thing, listing off our first names in order of our positions in formation. "This is Sawyer, my Executive Officer. Then Baylor, Avalynn, Lynx, Visia, Sloane, Aaric, Violet, Ridoc, Joan, Imogen, and Quinn." She looks each of the fliers up and down. "Do any of you not know Sign Language?"
My eyebrows lift in shock at the question. No one has ever bothered to take my language barrier into consideration before.
Two fliers raise their hands—Luella and Kai—and Rhiannon only acknowledges them with a nod. Then she and Bragen split off for a second to decide on who will be paired up for the hike.
"We could just leave," I offer to Astar. "I can Conceal us and we'll be gone in seconds."
"I'm pretty sure that defeats the point of this exercise."
"You're no fun." I adjust the straps of my pack on my shoulder, then turn to Violet and sign, "What was the point of us packing so much if this is barely going to take the day?"
"To torture us," she says lowly. "Me, specifically, I'm sure."
The way the pack hangs, with too much weight to be supported by her stature, makes me cringe. "If you ever need me to take some of the weight—"
"I'm fine," she says too quickly. "Everyone else can do it."
I just roll my eyes. "Everyone else can also talk with their mouths, but here we are."
She dips her chin, just barely, but it's enough for me to see the faint smile on her lips. "Fair point." Then she meets my eyes. "I'll let you know."
"Good."
"Okay." Bragen's voice, though unfamiliar to me, commands enough attention that even the riders turn to look at him when he speaks. "There will be two riders for every one flier, and the groups are as follows: Luella."
The petite first-year flier steps forward, her gryphon standing proudly at her back.
"Ridoc and Visia," Rhiannon finishes.
"Kai."
The other first-year steps forward.
"Quinn and Avalynn."
"Neve—"
"—Joan and Aaric."
I'm surprised she's letting the two of us be together, but I will not be complaining—the only other first-year I know well enough to warrant this twelve-hour hike a somewhat success is Sloane, and if I know Rhiannon, she'll have her paired with Violet.
"Maren—"
"—Violet and Sloane."
Knew it.
Cat lets out a mild grunt of displeasure, which only makes Bragen narrow his eyes in warning at her. "Cat—"
"—is with me," Rhiannon says quickly, giving her a saccharine smile.
Everything goes a bit quicker after that, in hopes of getting on the trail and easing the tension building between Violet and the dark-haired flier. Trager is paired with Imogen and Lynx, and Bragen is with Sawyer and Baylor.
It takes almost another half hour before the Wings are actually ready to go, and then Fourth Wing is leading the charge, with Claw Section ahead of us and Tail Section behind. Rhiannon and Cat are at the front of our squad, while Sawyer, Baylor, and Bragen bring up the rear, with Aaric and I somewhere in the middle, just in front of Imogen and Lynx.
Already three hours into our twelve-hour hike, Neve hasn't stopped making passive aggressive comments under her breath every other step. I could turn around and snap at her, but with how unstable the trail is, I don't trust it to not collapse under me and send me to my death.
"There will be no dying," Astar growls.
"Wasn't planning on it." But if Neve says one more thing—
"I'm surprised they even let you conscript," she murmurs just low enough I'm the only one that hears her. "Isn't there a 'no mutes allowed—'"
I spin around and slam her into the cliffside, drawing a dagger and shoving the blade against her throat tight enough it'll draw blood if she breathes too deeply. Her gryphon squawks at me, but I just bare my teeth at the pair of them and push the steel closer.
"What's the matter?" she wheezes, a smirk still dancing on her lips even as the words force my dagger to draw blood. "Cat got your tongue?"
I see red. I tighten my hold on the dagger and shove, but there's a burning tear at my shoulder before any more blood spills from Neve's neck, and I'm being thrown backward. I land in the dirt, pain shooting through my shoulder, as Neve's gryphon looks down at me and shrieks.
The scream echoes through the cliffs and in my head, forcing me to cover my ears in a measly attempt to quiet the deafening cry.
But it's nothing compared to the roar Az lets out on my behalf.
"You do not hurt what is mine without facing the consequences!" He hovers in the air just feet away from the cliffside, staring down the gryphon mere inches from my face. "Back away from my rider if you do not want me to go after yours."
The gryphon squawks at both of us, then pulls away, but I still hear its scream ringing in my ears.
"What the fuck is going on?" I hear someone shout, but it's muffled, like we're underwater, and pulling my hands away from my head doesn't make it better.
It just puts the blood on my palms on full display.
"Fuck, Jo." Aaric kneels down beside me and helps me sit up, looking over my ears with a furrowed brow. "You okay?"
"Everything's fuzzy," I say to him through our link—I don't want to move any more than I need to at the moment. "And my shoulder burns."
He touches my shoulder, and I wince. His fingers come back bloody, and his frown deepens. "The bird broke skin."
"She attacked me," I catch Neve saying as the world slowly starts to clear. "She snapped and held a knife to my neck." Then she sneers at me. "Probably wanted me to match her."
Aaric twists like he's going to swing at her, but I latch onto his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. "Help me up."
Standing on my own two feet, I narrow my eyes at the flier, then completely bypass her to look at Bodhi instead, who came down the path to see what was going on. "I attacked her. But she provoked me."
Neve scoffs.
"Show him the memory." Astar grumbles in distaste, but I'm not having it. "Please, Az."
Bodhi's eyes go hazy as Cuir shows him my memory of the last five minutes, then he turns on Neve with fire in his eyes. "You were harassing her." He looks back at her gryphon before meeting her eyes again. "Let's see how you do with someone who isn't nearly as patient. Imogen!"
"Yeah?" the third year calls up from her spot behind us.
"You and Lynx are switching with Aaric and Joan."
"Fine." The path is wide enough here that the two riders can pass by the gryphon without any trouble. Imogen looks me up and down with an arched brow, then swings her gaze over to Neve. Her eyes narrow. "I knew I wasn't going to like you."
The four of us switch, then Bodhi goes back to the front of our section and we start to move again. Aaric makes me go in front of him, so I'm directly behind Neve's gryphon, but my brother gets to act as a buffer between me and our newly-assigned flier, Trager.
The burning in my shoulder and the ringing in my ears don't let up, to the point where I can't hear any of what Aaric and Trager are saying beyond muffled grunts, but I hear the shouted, "Look out!" from directly above us just fine.
"Take cover!" someone else shouts, but that's all I hear before an explosion sounds overhead. A flash of black disappears away from the wall and levels out in the sky as small chunks of rock rain down on us.
Tairn.
"You okay?" Aaric asks, his hand on my uninjured arm. "How's your shoulder?"
"It burns." There's no use in sugar-coating it. "Will you look at it when we stop next?"
"'Course. Do you have bandages in your pack?"
"Ever since people kept trying to kill me every other day in Basgiath."
Once Neve's gryphon in front of me begins to move, I follow, when a pulse of star-bright energy courses down the bond from Astar and Molvic.
"What was that?" Aaric asks, his hand clutching his chest.
It felt, for lack of a better term, magical.
"Aretia's first hatchling has chosen to emerge," Molvic tells us both, his voice...wary.
"You don't sound very excited about that."
"The hatchling's choice transforms the valley back into a hatching ground," Astar says, his deep voice just as cautious. "Every channeling creature within a four-hour flight of the valley will know."
"Is that not just us?" Aaric asks them.
"It's hard to say who else patrols through Tyrrendor," is all Molvic offers.
"That's fucking ominous," I say just to Aaric. "Navarre doesn't need to know Aretia is a hatching ground again."
"Not just Navarre. This is why venin are so interested in the Vale, right? Because of the magic in the hatching grounds."
My eyes go wide as I look at him over my shoulder. "And Aretia doesn't have any wards."
Fuck.
—
The fights between fliers and riders get worse the longer we climb. By late afternoon, Bodhi's had to switch cadets around three times to stop the fighting. Brennan might be right that we'll respect the fliers for having climbed, but a daylong hike isn't going to solve years of hatred.
The afternoon is extra fun as we enter a thick layer of cloud that only allows a dozen feet of visibility, and our progress slows to what feels like a crawl.
"Only four more passes, Little One," Astar reassures me as the air gets even thinner, being my ears while mine are still ringing. "Claw Section is cresting now."
"So maybe an hour," I say with a sigh, thanking him for the information. Aaric bandaged my shoulder a couple hours ago—the bite will need stitches when we get back to Aretia, but the bleeding has at least stopped—but the joint has just gotten stiffer the longer we've hiked.
I'm ready to be off this fucking cliff already.
A flash of a dragon's wing appears through the fog, cutting through the cloud like a knife before disappearing again, too fast for me to catch the color. "Are you still patrolling?" I ask both of them.
"Yes. We will not leave the cliffs until you crest, though there's almost no visibility," Az answers. "It makes me uneasy."
"That makes two of us."
The line comes to a sudden stop, and I almost run into the gryphon in front of me, but Aaric catches my elbow before I can get too close. "Thanks," I murmur. "What's going on?"
"I think it's another trap," he answers with furrowed brows. "I can't see anything, but I thought I heard Dain shout up ahead."
It feels like we're standing there for hours, but it's really only a couple minutes before there's a lot of movement just ahead of us. I can't see over the cadets in front of us, but gods bless Aaric and his long legs, because he can see just fine.
Or, at least, better than I can.
"It looks like people were trying to jump the trap, but they nearly fell off the cliff."
It would explain the restlessness, at least.
A scream pierces the air, making all three of us look to the clustered group, but even Aaric can't see past the crowd now. And with fog this thick, I doubt our dragons know any more than we do.
And then one ear-shattering scream from a too-familiar voice tears through the cliffs.
"BRENNAN!"
A chill runs down my spine and dread fills my gut. One of my squadmates is hurt—hurt enough to warrant Violet screaming for her life.
An Orange wing cuts through the fog and I'm sure Brennan is now on the cliffside, which makes my stomach turn.
A minute later, though, another shout sends the entire Medaro Pass into chaos.
"Wyvern!"
—
a/n: sometimes i get really wrapped up in the realisticness of the injuries and the character reactions and i have to remind myself that i'm writing a fanfiction about a story with dragons and magic for myself. realism left the picture a long time ago. reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)
