Cray’s forces dwindled. The bastard had entered the fight with a handful of soldiers and six division witches. Against the goblin horde alone, Cray’s forces would have prevailed, but the horde wasn’t alone—they had a dragon. Whisper tore through the enemy’s defenses on the hunt for their leader, only to discover the coward was nowhere to be found. Whisper set their sights on the next most powerful witch instead, a fire mage, and rendered the elf dead with a grisly snap of their jaws. A swipe of their armored tail crushed the legs of another. Whisper’s surprise attack came at the cost of a singed left flank, but the destruction was worth it. Panicked, Cray’s forces scattered. The goblins took chase, soon joined by what was left of Oralia’s fighters, and made quick work of the remaining realm soldiers.

  The enemy fled to Belfast Manor, the only part of the village untouched by the fire. From there, the fighting stalled. Cray’s force had the advantage of cover and was using it to keep the goblins and dwarfs from breaking beyond the trees. Whisper, however, was in no hurry. The dragon fae spread their mighty wings and circled the manor from above, taunting the witches into taking their best shot. The enemy would tire themselves out long before any of them landed a decent blow.

  It had been ages since Whisper had felt so whole. After centuries of hiding, squirreling their miserable life away in the shadows, confining their might to lesser forms, it felt good to be out in the open again. With the pale sun on their back and the crisp winter air roiling over their scaled hide, Whisper rode the currents as freely as they had once done long, long ago. Freedom was good, but what Whisper loved the most was the fear. It had been too long since they’d reminded mortal-kind that there were worse things than them in existence.

  Whisper dipped low over the top of the manor, encouraging another volley of spells from the witches near the roofline. Two mere beats of their wings lifted the dragon fae safely out of range again. The air stunk of ash, rotten flesh, and the acrid fumes of volatile magic. The once pale-gray sky was stained with streaks of magical energy, reminding Whisper not to grow complacent. As insignificant as Whisper wished them to be, Cray’s witches were powerful nonetheless. Their veins pumped with the same cursed blood of their ancestors, the ones responsible for wiping the fae from existence.

  Whisper looked forward to returning the favor.

  The dragon tucked their left wing to their side and spun slowly about, preparing for another ominous flyover, when a wayward scent gave them pause. A new magic stirred in the breeze. It was different. Highly concentrated. Powerful.

  Confused, Whisper rose high above the sickly rows of dark trees for an eagle-eye view of the manor and the surrounding forest beyond. They breathed deeply, running the scent through the catacombs of their memory. The magic was not new, they concluded, but forgotten. It was old. Older than old, in fact. It was as ancient as they were and so startlingly familiar that it caused Whisper to panic, questioning whether a confusion spell had struck them low without realizing.

  There was movement below.

  Whisper watched, spellbound, as a plume of blue-black smoke billowed free from the manor. Its roiling particles took shape as it jetted skyward and disappeared behind the clouds. Whisper hung in place, their leathery wings slowly treading air, as they searched the thick cloud cover for signs of life. Their heartbeat picked up speed, matching the pace of their racing thoughts.

  It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Unthinkable. They were the last. Whisper had searched the land high and low for others for years following the massacre. They found no other wind shifters because there were none to be found. Mortal-kind’s greed had seen to that.

  So what was this then? An illusion? A trick? It was not the first time Whisper had been fooled into believing such blatant lies. Their recent clash with the scolopendra had come with a painful lesson in humility. Centuries of wisdom and power did not make one any less susceptible to magical trickery. But that had been a scolopendra. An ancient beast from the dawn of magic. These were mere mortals who, by all rights, should have been incapable of anything beyond a basic illusion spell. Illusions were incapable of mimicking the magical signature of another.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Whatever this was, trickery or not, it felt like a wind shifter. The smell, the movements, the way its magic rippled over Whisper’s scaled hide like water across silk. It had to be real. But how? Surely Geraly Lazuli hadn’t discovered how to awaken an unborn.

  The thought sent a flood of cold panic surging down Whisper’s spine.

  Holy gods of chaos! Were they too late? Had their enemy discovered the secret to awakening the youngling? Tentatively, fueled by a mix of dread and gnawing curiosity, Whisper drifted closer. The magic called to them like a broken lullaby—partial fragments of a memory buried by space and time.

  A shadow appeared behind the clouds, backlit by the sun. It dropped, bursting through the clouds, and dove in Whisper’s direction. An iron weight settled in Whisper’s chest. This was not a youngling, as they’d feared, but something far, far worse.

  Spriggalen? Whisper’s reached out with their magic. The oncoming dragon’s mind was aflame with competing thoughts all flashing like warning beacons against a black sky.

  D’zeahr? No relief came with the recognition in Spriggalen’s eyes. Their voice entangled within Whisper’s thoughts as a scream. Move! I cannot stop!

  Whisper darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the smaller dragon as they swept past.

  Spriggalen whipped back around in a blue of broken quills and dull-colored scales. Smaller in stature, the red and blue was streamlined for speed. Even in Whisper’s prime, they’d never been able to outmatch their old friend. Spriggalen had never been a fighter, though. Their heart had always been too soft.

  Barreling towards Whisper with outstretched claws, the dragon’s eyes welled with sorrow. Help me!

  I would if you would stop attacking. Whisper summoned a gust of wind that swept Spriggalen off course.

  I cannot stop, I already told you! The red and blue dragon recovered quickly. Their torn wings beat the air faster. So long as the master draws breath, I am enslaved to his bidding.

  Master? The very word burned like fire through Whisper’s veins. Where is he, Spriggalen? Tell me and I will rip his head from his shoulders.

  You cannot reach him, D’zeahr. Not while there is still breath in my lungs. You have to destroy me first.

  Whisper would do no such thing, which was exactly what Cray was counting on. Tell me where he is. What room of the house? I can send others to kill him.

  He is not in the house. D’zhear. The retreat was merely a distraction. The orc has something he wants. Cray is in the woods, hunting her.

  Good gods, the bloody powerstone. With it, it would grant Cray all the power he needed to wipe all of them from existence.

  Whisper dodged again, but this time not quickly enough. Spriggalen slammed into them, knocking both dragons from the sky. The smaller dragon’s talons shredded scale and wing alike as the pair plummeted. Whisper whipped their tail against the side of Spriggalen’s head, causing their grip to loosen, and pulled away. Their bloodied wings beat the air, propelling them back up into the clouds.

  Spriggalen’s body flipped head over tail as they plummeted towards the forest below.

  Whisper was unable to look away, caught between hoping the dragon would strike the ground, ending the battle before it began, whilst feverishly praying that Spriggalen would pull up in time. Whisper did not wish ill on the other fae. Spriggalen wasn’t just a former friend, Spriggalen was family. The last Whisper had.

  Spriggalen’s wings unfurled and caught the air in the nick of time. Steadily, the smaller dragon lifted. Spriggalen didn’t wish to fight any more than Whisper did, but the interfering magic was too strong. It rippled across Spriggalen’s mind, commanding them to obey. The smaller dragon shook their head with a snarl, attempting to shake off their master’s voice, but it was to no avail. The magic was too strong. They were bound to Cray’s whim.

  Little bird. Whisper willed their thoughts across the forest floor. They found Rasp not far from the manor, already on the move.

  The boy replied with a squeak of panic.

  The distance weakened Whisper’s connection. They were unable to tap into Rasp’s thoughts, but with enough concentration, they could get a single message across. I will hold off the other dragon for as long as I can. Do not waste your time battling the other witches. Cray is hiding in the forest. Find him and kill him. It is the only way to end this.