North Drake
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Book 2: Chapter 29: A Quiet Morning
🕑 Added 2025-09-18 12:42:29 +0000 UTCChapter 29:
A Quiet Morning
It was a calm morning at the border fortress between the Crown Duchy and Ashford. A thin veil of fog drifted lazily over the fields, wrapping the plains in silver. The fortress was already stirring, the rhythm of boots on stone and shouts of the changing watch echoing against the walls. For the past week, every morning had brought more tension, tighter patrols, and frayed nerves. Rumors of rebellion were spreading fast, though no one really knew what was true.
Luca yawned as he climbed the stairs to the ring wall, his spear resting against his shoulder. He greeted a few fellow soldiers along the way, trading tired nods and muttered jokes. The fog pressed in close, blurring the horizon, though here and there the tall grass swayed just enough to show movement. It was always like this. The mountains to the east shed their mist into the lowlands, leaving the borderlands cloaked in a ghostly shroud until the sun burned it off.
The orders had been simple: watch the border, stop anyone trying to slip through, keep an eye out for smugglers and spies. Luca still found it strange. In his twenty years he had never once heard of the border to Ashford being watched like this. Nobles quarreled all the time. A tax dispute here, a hunting right there. That was politics. It wasn’t a reason to man the walls like an enemy army was about to appear.
And besides, hadn’t the Duke of Ashford been executed in Virethorn just days ago? If the rebellion was tied to him, then surely it was over already. What reason would Ashford have to keep fighting? Luca frowned at the thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. Something didn’t add up, but it wasn’t his place to question it.
He settled into his post, leaning casually against the battlements. The view here was his favorite part of the job. To the east, the fields stretched far and wide, a sea of tall grass that rippled in the breeze like waves. On clear days, you could see the shadow of the Ashford mountains towering on the horizon, their peaks sharp against the sky. Today the fog hid them, but even that had its beauty.
With a small grin, Luca pulled out the salami he’d bought in the village near the fortress just a few days ago. He sliced it with his belt-knife, savoring the rich smell. This was why he liked the inner borderlands. The farmers here produced food better than anything he had ever found in the capital. It was fresh, and hearty. Not the bland slop they served in the barracks there. He popped a slice into his mouth and chewed slowly, enjoying the quiet.
He kept half an eye on the plains, scanning the fog for shapes. The idea of spies made him snort. Who in their right mind would sneak into the Crown Duchy through this forgotten border? Maybe a desperate merchant, maybe a deserter hoping to vanish. Hardly worth all the nerves people carried.
The fortress behind him hummed with its morning rhythm. The blacksmith’s hammer clanged faintly from the yard. Horses snorted in the stables. From somewhere below came the smell of fresh bread, carried up by the cool air. For all the rumors of rebellion, life still moved like it always had.
Luca leaned against the stone, chewing another slice of salami as his eyes stayed fixed on the wavering fog. The plains lay silent… far too silent.
He frowned and squinted. For a moment, he thought he saw something—just a shadow, low to the ground, vanishing again into the mist. His fingers tightened around his knife.
“Birds,” he muttered to himself, shaking it off. “Or deer.”
Luca chewed slowly on the slice of salami, but the taste was gone from his mouth. He had only this week left before his vacation, only a few days until he could finally leave this border post behind and visit his sister. The thought had warmed him earlier. He had imagined walking into her home with salamis and cheese tucked under his arm, hearing the news that her child was born, that he was finally an uncle.
That warm thought crumbled when a low groan rolled across the plains. It was not the sound of wind or stone. It was alive. His head snapped up.
A monster?
That was absurd. Monsters had been hunted out of Virethorn generations ago. Only nobles with more money than sense ever brought such beasts across the borders, and even then, they were rare curiosities, not things that roamed free.
He laughed under his breath, trying to chase the fear away. Too many horror stories told in the barracks, that was all. He tightened his grip on the little knife and turned his gaze back to the fog.
Nothing. Only the gray sea, thicker than usual, crawling low across the plains.
Then something moved.
At first, just shadows. A flicker, a shape, here and gone again. He squinted until his eyes ached.
The bells rang.
The sound clanged out sharp and sudden, echoing off stone, cutting through the fog. Other soldiers on the wall leaned out, eyes wide, shouting to one another.
And then he saw them.
Figures in the mist, vague outlines at first. More and more. They took form as they marched closer. Rows of soldiers, their armor black as soot, their banners snapping above them in red and black. The banners meant nothing to Luca, but the discipline did. This was no band of smugglers or raiders. This was an army.
His heart hammered.
The groan came again, louder, deeper, until it rattled in his bones. It rose into a scream, tearing across the plains. His hands went cold.
Through the fog strode something enormous.
A wyvern.
Its wings folded against its body like a cloak. Its head swayed above the soldiers, eyes gleaming faintly in the mist. An armored rider sat atop it, calm and steady, as though this was nothing more than a morning patrol.
Luca’s knees almost buckled. He knew the stories, every child did. A wyvern was the very definition of a war beast. And to see one here, leading an army out of Ashford, turned his stomach to ice.
Shouts rang out along the walls. Orders barked. Boots thundered against stone. Runners sprinted past, shoving bows and quivers into soldiers’ hands. Ballista crews rushed to their stations, heaving massive bolts into place. The smell of oil and pitch rose sharp and acrid as cauldrons were hauled up from the lower halls.
And then the air itself shifted.
Luca felt it first in his skin, then in his teeth. A hum, a vibration that crawled through the fortress. The stones beneath his boots glowed faintly as ancient runes flared to life, spreading across the battlements and down into the gates. Old magic, older than the kingdom itself, rising from slumber.
The fortress had always felt sturdy, but now it felt alive.
“Hold steady!” a captain shouted, voice breaking against the wind. “Archers to the wall! Form ranks!”
Luca forced his numb fingers to grip the bow a runner pressed into his hands. He strung it clumsily, heart racing too fast to think straight. Soldiers pressed in on either side of him, their faces pale, their movements stiff.
The fog boiled with movement. More and more soldiers poured out of it, black ranks without end. The wyvern screamed again, and Luca’s bow trembled in his grip.
He licked his lips, mouth dry as sand.
So, it was true. The rebellion in Ashford had not ended with an execution. It was only beginning.
And they were the first to face it.
The fog churned like a living thing. Shapes moved inside it, lines of soldiers pressing forward, then halting just out of arrow range. Luca’s bowstring creaked faintly under his nervous grip. His eyes darted across the enemy ranks, trying to make sense of them.
There were the soldiers, black armor catching the pale morning light. But between them moved others, robed in white, their arms raised, their voices carrying even over the distance. Priests. Priests of Iras.
Luca’s throat closed.
It was one thing to face traitors. To fight men who had turned their backs on the king. But priests? He was no pious man himself, but even he knew what it meant. The church of Iras had stood at the heart of Virethorn since before his grandfather’s grandfather was born. To see their priests screaming at the walls like enemies—it felt wrong, a twisting in his gut, like watching the sun rise in the west.
This was not just rebellion.
The wyvern kept walking. Slow, and steady. The army had halted, but the beast came on until it stood before the gate, its claws sinking deep into the earth. Its wings folded against its sides like shields, its rider tall in the saddle, armor gleaming black steel edged in crimson.
Luca’s hands shook. He could see the man’s helm, the long plume trailing from it. His voice came next, amplified by magic, heavy as thunder rolling across the plains.
“I am Legion Commander Malrik of Velstran,” the rider called. “By the order of the Empress Liliana of Ashford, I declare these lands now part of the new empire. You have one chance. Surrender this fortress, bend the knee, and give your loyalty to its rightful sovereign. Refuse, and we will raise these walls to the ground.”
Silence felt heavy on the battlements.
Luca’s breath came fast, shallow. Empress? Liliana had declared herself Empress? He wanted to laugh, but the sound died in his chest. This was no rumor now. No whisper. It was war, open and undeniable.
His heart clenched with another thought, sharp and sudden. His sister. He was supposed to leave for his visit in a week. He wanted to bring her salami and cheese, to see her smile, to hold her child. Now the dream seemed so far away he could hardly believe he had thought it just minutes ago.
On the wall above the gate, Baron Lucian of Elbray appeared. His armor gleamed, a mage at his side casting the same voice-amplifying spell. His words rang out, hard and unyielding.
“I am Baron Lucian of Elbray. These lands have belonged to my house for generations. We bow to no self-declared empress. House Elbray serves the King of Virethorn, and no one else. If you dare to step further, know this fortress has never fallen. And it never will.”
A cheer rose faintly from the wall, but it was drowned at once by the sneer of the commander below.
“So be it.”
The wyvern reared, wings spreading wide, shadows falling over the gates. Its jaw opened, black fire churning deep in its throat.
“Mages!” someone shouted.
Circles flared to life along the walls, glowing white, blue, and gold. Barriers sprang into place, runes sparking against the stone, while enemy mages across the field answered with their own incantations. The air rippled, thick with clashing power.
The wyvern roared and loosed its fire.
The explosion lit the world white. The sound was so loud it ripped through bone. Luca dropped his bow and clamped his hands over his ears, pain screaming in his head. The gates vanished behind a storm of smoke and dust. For a heartbeat, he thought they were gone, broken.
But when the smoke cleared, the old runes held. The gates were blackened, cracked, but standing. Baron Lucian was still there, cloak whipping in the blast, his voice rallying the defenders.
Relief surged through Luca, only to freeze again as the fog screamed.
Shapes burst out of it, massive wings beating. More wyverns, at least half a dozen, their armored riders guiding them into the air. They cut through the sky, shadows racing over the fortress walls.
“Archers! Loose!”
Arrows hissed upward, a black storm meeting the monsters. Fireballs and lightning tore from the mages, crashing into the fog below where the army had begun its charge. The field between fortress and fog boiled with spells, metal, and flame.
But the wyverns did not stop. They soared over the battlements, claws slashing, fire spilling across towers. Screams rose around Luca as men were torn from the walls, their bodies hurled down into the courtyard below.
He could not move. His hands shook around the useless bow, his legs stiff. The fortress was shaking, the old stones groaning under the force of it all.
In that moment, he knew.
He would never see his sister’s child. He would never go home.
The wyvern scream drowned every other sound as Luca braced himself for the end.
--::--
The carriage rattled softly along the road, its wheels crunching through the dirt while sunlight slanted through the windows. Grace sat with the black wyvern egg resting in her lap, her hand pressed against it as if by habit. Mana bled from her in a slow stream, steady and thoughtless. She had been doing this for days now. At first, it was just a distraction. Saren Holt had shoved the egg at her like some smug fat merchant handing out prizes, and she hadn’t known what to do with it. But little by little, the ritual became normal. Almost addictive.
The egg felt… alive under her palm.
She blinked, her brows knitting slightly. It wasn’t just her imagination. Sometimes, when she fed it, she swore it pulsed back at her, like it was actually aware of her.
And right now, as the warmth seeped into her fingers, she thought she felt a faint nudge. A twitch. Like something inside the shell had shifted.
Her heart jumped.
Then she stopped feeding it mana, and just like that, the movement stopped.
Grace froze, staring at the egg, her hand hovering.
“…Oh. You little freeloader.”
She almost laughed, a small puff of air escaping her nose. Of course, it moved only when she fed it. Figures. It was basically a spoiled brat in an eggshell, demanding constant attention.
Great. First Clara, now this. I’m just a full-time babysitter for weirdos, aren’t I?
She leaned back against the seat, watching the egg with narrowed eyes. Rin was sitting opposite her, dressed in that dark leather getup Grace had picked out. Practical, yes, but Grace still thought she looked like she was auditioning for the role of “broody assassin number three.” The girl’s eyes flicked to the egg every so often, sharp and curious, but she kept her mouth shut.
Grace could practically hear the judgment anyway.
“What?” she snapped finally, tilting the egg in her hands. “Never seen someone feed a wyvern egg before?”
Rin’s expression didn’t change. Of course not. Grace rolled her eyes and with a flick of her bracelet pulled the egg back into the pearl, vanishing it like it had never been there. Her lap felt too empty without the weight. It really did feel close now, like the shell would split any day. But better not to let it hatch here. Confined space, wyvern baby popping out, chewing the carriage to bits. Yeah… no thanks. Better to wait until she was back in Gatewick for that.
She glanced out the window instead. The morning sun had burned off most of the early clouds, and the fields stretched wide and bright. Fresh air, blue sky. It almost felt like a normal day—if you ignored the knights riding ahead and the two armored guards trailing behind, all keeping an eye out for bandits or worse.
Her lips curved in a small smirk. A field trip. A monster hunt. Maybe even a bandit raid. It was like she had stepped straight into a side quest in an RPG.
And she was the main character.
Grace stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles with deliberate ease, her expression caught somewhere between smug and restless. The carriage rocked gently beneath her, the sound of hooves steady on the packed dirt road. Outside, the morning sun grew brighter, the horizon rolling closer with every turn of the wheel.
Not long now.
Rivermouth was already waiting.
