𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗦 ──── fourth wing

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
—Article One, Section One The Dragon Rider's Codex

~

Conscription Day dawns with a crimson kiss upon the horizon—perhaps an omen, foretelling the bloody hours to come. This sunrise, with its splendor, feels like a final, fading gift; one I cling to with a quiet sigh. The war collage has called my name, pulling me into its chaotic embrace on the very day I was to celebrate my birth. I have no illusions about this place. It is a crucible, one likely to be my undoing.

With a fate sealed by duty, all I can do is shoulder its weight and march forward. My heavy canvas rucksack bears down upon me like the burden of the day ahead. My feet carry me, leaden but determined, up the grand staircase to a destiny intertwined with Violet Sorrengail—my childhood friend, my anchor in the storm that looms.

I find her in a room clouded with tension, her mother and sister a tempest of fear and fury. Mira, her sister, lets the words fly like arrows, sharp and unforgiving: "You're sending her to die! No, wait—you're sending them both to die!"

A stifled retort filters through the office door, but Violet's eyes catch mine, and she breathes a silent, "Shhh." We are intruders in this frank exchange between a general and her progeny. As if punctuating Mira's point, Violet's burden threatens to topple her, but our hands find each other, and I steady her—unspoken vows of support passing between our palms.

"Damn it, Mom, she can't even handle her rucksack," Mira protests, her presence a flickering flame of protest.

But Violet is quick to her own defense, her cheeks ablaze not with defeat, but with the fire of indignation. "I'm fine!" she insists, and with a show of strength, rights herself and her load. Her determination is undiminished, a reflection of the dawn that graced our last day of innocence.

A heavy sigh escapes me, mingling with the dust motes dancing in the solemn air. Indeed, I manage my own destiny with a firm grip, but it's Violet, always more lamb than lioness, whom fate has cruelly misaligned. Every sinew in my body protests—railing against the injustice, the wasted years of meticulous preparation. I could thrive among the riders, my spirit akin to the steeds of the quadrant, fierce and unyielding. Yet, my path is irrevocably altered, not by ambition but by a bond that demands sacrifice.

"Tt's already done," Violet's mother pronounces, her uniform a monolith of resolve in the haze of conflict. Authority and motherhood war within her, each etching its claim upon her visage.

"Then undo it," Mira implores, each syllable laced with venom and desperation. "She's spent her whole life training to become a scribe. She wasn't raised to be a rider." Mira's gaze locks with mine, an apology written in the depths of her eyes. "Well, you maybe were... I'm so sorry, Emberlyn."

I offer a dismissive shake of my head, a silent bid to quell her concern. "No offense taken," I reply, the words wrapped in the cloak of composure I wear so well. Yet, beneath the surface, trepidation courses through my veins—an untamed river threatening to breach its banks.

In these chambers where futures are traded like currency, I stand resolute, prepared to escort Violet through the storm. For friendship is not a responsibility I bear lightly; it is the summoning horn that calls me to this battlefield, and I will answer with valor. The seeds of our childhood dreams, watered with hope and now sown in the blood-soaked fields of war, demand nothing less.