Chadwick Rye

The dragons came at dusk, when the fading sun caught their scales and transformed them into living constellations against the darkening sky. I froze midstep, my worn leather shoes rooted to the dirt path as I tilted my head back, shielding my eyes against their brilliance. Three riders in tight formation—Bronze Squadron, judging by the distinctive amber undertones of their mounts’ wings—banking sharply above our village rooftops before accelerating toward the western horizon.

My heart ascended with them, though my body remained earthbound.

The thunderous wingbeats rippled the air, stirring the laundry lines and causing windchimes to sing in chaotic harmony. Children abandoned their evening chores to point skyward, their excited shrieks barely audible above the atmospheric percussion of leathery wings displacing air. Even the village elders, who pretended indifference to most things, found reasons to step outside their cottages and squint toward the heavens.

But I alone stood perfectly still, memorizing every detail: how the lead rider shifted weight almost imperceptibly to initiate the turn; how the second dragon’s wings adjusted to maintain precise distance; how the third completed the formation with mathematical elegance. My fingers twitched with muscle memory from countless hours of sketching flight patterns in charcoal on scraps of parchment hidden beneath my sleeping pallet.

“Mira! You’ll be late again!” My mother’s voice shattered the moment, her silhouette framed in our cottage doorway. “Master Howell said one more tardy arrival and he’ll find another girl for the evening shift!”

I reluctantly lowered my gaze, the spell broken. “Coming, Mother.”

The dragons had already diminished to gleaming specks against the lavender sky, the sound of their passage fading like retreating thunder. They would return to Highcrest Aerie by nightfall, fifty miles distant and a lifetime away from Elmwood Village.

My hands automatically smoothed my apron as I resumed my journey to the Copper Hearth Tavern, threading through narrow streets that had never known anything more remarkable than the seasonal arrival of merchant caravans. The scent of pine smoke and baking bread clung to the evening air—comforting smells that once defined my entire world, before I’d glimpsed something greater passing overhead.

“Another sighting?” Thea asked as I entered through the tavern’s back door, tying my serving apron with practiced movements. My closest friend since childhood, she alone knew the depth of my fascination. “You’ve got that look again—like you’ve been touched by something holy.”

“Bronze Squadron,” I confirmed, grabbing a cloth to wipe down freshly washed tankards. “Perfect talon-wing formation, heading west. Probably returning from border patrol.”

Thea shook her head, auburn curls bouncing against her shoulders. “You sound like you swallowed a flight manual. Which, knowing you, you probably have.”

I smiled despite the familiar ache in my chest. “If such manuals existed outside the Aerie libraries, I absolutely would.”

The evening rush began minutes later—farmers coming in from fields, craftsmen setting aside tools, village guardsmen ending their shifts. The Copper Hearth filled with the comfortable cacophony of clinking glasses, hearty laughter, and the gentle roar of the massive fireplace that gave the establishment its name. I moved between tables with practiced efficiency, balancing trays of ale and plates of steaming food, smiling at familiar faces, deflecting wandering hands with cheerful warnings.

This was my life—had been for three years since I’d turned sixteen. A good life by any reasonable measure. The pay was fair, Master Howell ran a respectable establishment, and there was security in knowing exactly what tomorrow would bring. The same rooms, the same faces, the same carefully circumscribed existence stretching infinitely forward.

“Did you see them dragons earlier?” Old Willem asked as I delivered his nightly tankard of dark ale. “Flying lower than usual. Must be trouble brewing somewhere.”

“Routine patrol,” I corrected automatically, then bit my tongue. Tavern girls weren’t supposed to know such things, much less correct village elders about military matters.

Willem raised bushy eyebrows. “That so? And how would Elmwood’s little serving maid know about dragon patrol schedules?”

Heat crept up my neck. “Just something I heard from travelers,” I murmured, moving quickly to another table before he could press further.

The night proceeded as all nights did at the Copper Hearth—until the door swung open at half-past nine, admitting a blast of cool air and three figures that silenced all conversation. Even without their flying leathers, dragon riders carried an unmistakable presence—backs straight as lance shafts, eyes quick-moving and alert, movements economical yet fluid. Two men and a woman, their forearms bearing the telltale scarring of those who had bonded with dragons.

My hand trembled slightly as I set down a pitcher of mead, nearly spilling it across the table.

“Three riders from Bronze Squadron,” Thea whispered unnecessarily as she passed, her eyes wide. “Never seen them actually come *into* the village before.”

Master Howell directed them to a corner table—the best in the house, partially secluded yet offering clear views of both entrances. A tactical choice, I noted. Even at rest, they positioned themselves for optimal awareness of surroundings.

“Mira,” Master Howell called, gesturing me over with a wave that made my heart skip. “You’ll serve the Aerie table tonight.”

My legs felt suddenly untethered from earth as I approached, cloth clutched in white-knuckled hands. They sat in triangular formation—the woman clearly their leader, flanked by her wingmates. Up close, the details I’d only imagined became startlingly real: the way sunlight exposure had weathered their skin differently than villagers’, the subtle shifting of shoulders accustomed to compensating for high-altitude pressure changes, the burn scars on one man’s jawline where dragon-fire had likely caught him during training.

“Three tankards of your strongest ale,” the woman said without preamble, her voice carrying the distinctive clipped cadence of Aerie speech. “And whatever hot food you can provide quickly.”

I nodded, suddenly mute, drinking in every detail with desperate intensity. The lead rider—Commander, based on the small bronze pin securing her collar—had eyes the precise color of storm clouds before rainfall. A diagonal scar bisected her right eyebrow, giving her a perpetually questioning expression. Her dark hair was cropped short against her skull, practical for wearing flight helmets.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, catching my stare.

“No, Commander,” I responded automatically, using the proper honorific before I could stop myself.

Her expression shifted subtly, reassessing me. “You recognize rank insignia. Interesting.”

“I notice details,” I replied, then added hastily, “Three ales and hot meals. Right away.”

As I retreated to the bar, my mind raced with questions I would never dare ask. Why had they landed in our village? Bronze Squadron typically patrolled the northern borders, far from our southern forest settlement. Were they merely stopping for refreshment, or was something happening that would never reach village ears?

I returned with their drinks, setting each tankard down with precision that betrayed my trembling hands. One of the male riders—younger than the others, with a fresh guild tattoo visible at his wrist—offered a friendly smile.

“Thank you,” he said, the casual courtesy surprising me. In stories, dragon riders were always aloof, separated from common folk by their extraordinary calling.

“You’re welcome,” I managed, then, gathering courage from some unknown reservoir: “Was it the thermal disruptions that brought you off-course? The mountains create unusual air patterns this time of year.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on me with sudden intensity.

“How would you know about thermal disruptions affecting flight paths?” the Commander asked, her voice neutral but her gaze sharp as obsidian.

I should have retreated, should have claimed it was merely something I’d overheard from travelers. Instead, words tumbled out before wisdom could contain them.

“The mountain ridge west of here creates compression thermals after midday heat. They’re strongest during late summer, when warm air rises from the valley floor and collides with cooler mountain currents. Dragons—especially bronze breeds with their higher wing-loading ratio—would need to adjust typical flight patterns to compensate.”

Silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring.

“Who taught you about aerodynamic principles?” the Commander finally asked.

“No one,” I admitted, clutching my serving tray against my chest like a shield. “I watch. I listen. Sometimes merchants bring old books, and I trade extra work for reading hours.”

The three riders exchanged glances laden with unspoken communication.

“Your name?” the Commander inquired.

“Mira. Mira Weston.”

She nodded once, as though confirming something to herself. “Bring our meals, Mira Weston. We have much to discuss.”

I retreated to the kitchen in a daze, nearly colliding with Thea, who had clearly been eavesdropping around the corner.

“What in the blazing skies was that?” she hissed, gripping my elbow. “You were lecturing dragon riders about dragon flight!”

“I don’t know what came over me,” I whispered back, my hands shaking as I assembled plates of roasted venison and root vegetables. “I’ve just ruined everything.”

“Or changed everything,” Thea countered, helping me arrange the plates. “The Commander looks interested, not angry.”

For the next hour, I moved between their table and my regular duties, answering their questions with increasing confidence. Yes, I had studied what little I could access about dragon physiology. Yes, I understood the basics of aeronautical navigation using stars and landmarks. Yes, I had drafted my own modifications to standard flight harnesses based on observations of rider discomfort during sharp maneuvers.

With each answer, the Commander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, from skepticism to curiosity to something I dared not name.

As the tavern emptied and closing time approached, she finally asked the question that mattered.

“Why this interest in dragons and flight, Mira Weston? It’s unusual knowledge for anyone, let alone a—”

“A tavern girl?” I finished when she diplomatically hesitated.

“I was going to say ‘civilian,’” she corrected.

I looked directly into her storm-cloud eyes. “If I could choose any profession for just one day—just to experience it once—I would be a dragon rider.”

The younger male rider smiled, but the Commander’s expression remained impassive.

“It’s not a profession,” she said flatly. “It’s a calling. A lifetime commitment. Dragons bond once, and the connection reshapes both parties on elemental levels.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “That’s why I said ‘for one day.’ I have no illusions about my place in the world, Commander. I’m the daughter of a seamstress and a carpenter from a village too small to appear on Aerie maps. I know dreams remain dreams.”

Something softened in her gaze then—not pity, which I would have despised, but recognition.

“I was the daughter of a tanner,” she said simply. “From a village smaller than this one. Until I wasn’t anymore.”

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small bronze token embossed with the Aerie insignia.

“Testing begins at Highcrest in one month’s time. This grants you passage through the gates and the right to be evaluated.” She placed it on the table between us. “Aptitude, not birth, determines who rides. Whether you have that aptitude remains to be seen.”

My world contracted to that small circle of bronze catching tavern lamplight. “Why?” I managed, my voice barely audible.

“Because potential is the rarest resource in our ranks, and I’ve learned to recognize it when encountered.” She stood, her wingmates following suit. “You may fail spectacularly, Mira Weston. Most do. But you’ve earned the right to try.”

After they departed, I stood motionless, the token cool against my palm, my entire existence shifting like sand beneath a rising tide. Outside, the distinctive sound of dragons launching into night flight reverberated through the village—three massive bodies lifting into darkness, their riders secure in ancient harnesses.

For them, another routine journey. For me, the first wingbeat of possibility.

I stepped outside the tavern, clutching the token as I watched their silhouettes against the star-filled sky. Tomorrow would bring explanations to Master Howell, tearful debates with my mother, frantic preparations for a journey I’d never imagined actually taking.

But tonight—tonight I simply watched as dragons dwindled to distant specks, knowing that when they returned to Highcrest Aerie, they carried with them the coordinates of a girl whose feet had never left the ground, but whose heart had been flying her entire life.

For just one day, I would test my wings against impossibility. And perhaps, if fortune and aptitude aligned, that day might extend into a lifetime among the clouds.