The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 42 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 43: Marching
Two thousand soldiers moved as one down the winding road, three abreast, a column of iron and flesh that stretched farther than the eye could hold. The ground trembled beneath the synchronised thunder of four thousand boots, each impact rolling together into a low, unbroken rumble like the beating heart of some great beast. From the air it seemed endless, the line undulating as the terrain rose and dipped, its motion serpent-like. Their bobbing helmets and dark heads rippled like the scales of a colossal snake gliding over the earth, while the sunlight flashing from polished spear tips gave the illusion of scales catching light.
Dust rose around them in hazy clouds, clinging to armour and sweat-damp tunics. It smeared across faces until every man and woman bore the same grey mask, a strange uniformity that made them seem less like individuals and more like extensions of the creature that slithered across the countryside. Captain Jason Moore marched steadily at the head, his shoulders squared, his jaw set in grim patience. On either side padded Santaya and Kristolia, the wolves, their eyes sweeping the road, their movements smooth and tireless, shadows of silent vigilance.
Above, Nekira sat astride Amira, her great wings beating slow and measured. From the height of the clouds, the army’s march appeared almost maddening in its sluggishness. So slow, he thought, his grip tightening on one of Amira’s ridges. The vast serpent crawled forward, but from his vantage it seemed barely to move at all. Every heartbeat felt stretched, every moment elongated into eternity. His fingers tapped against his elbows, restless, impatient, as if drumming a tempo faster than the one below.
And then the sky darkened.
At first it was only a smear of shadow across the western horizon, a bruised swell of cloud that built and spread with unnatural speed. The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain and the faint crackle of approaching thunder. A shiver passed through the column below as helms tilted upward, wary of the storm’s approach. Nekira narrowed his eyes as the first lance of lightning split the heavens, illuminating the serpent-road in a flash of white.
The rain came in sudden sheets, heavy and cold. Dust turned to mud in minutes, sucking at boots, swallowing the rhythm of the march into a sucking, squelching mire. Armour darkened under the downpour, cloaks plastered to backs, and yet the line trudged forward, shoulders hunched against the sky’s fury. The serpent still moved, but slower now, as though its body dragged itself through mire and muck instead of earth.
The steady thunder of boots was swallowed by the storm, replaced by the relentless drumbeat of water against steel and leather. Helmets rang like muted bells with each pelting drop. Spears, once gleaming, now ran with rivulets that dripped from their tips like cold blood. Men and women who had marched with steady rhythm now bowed their heads, not broken, but heavy with the weight of weather.
High above, Nekira’s impatience turned to frustration. Rain spattered his face, running cold down his cheeks, matting his dark hair against his brow. The storm made the march seem slower still, as though time itself dragged with the army below. They crawl, he thought bitterly. They crawl like worms in the mud.
Amira’s voice flowed into his mind, calm even as water cascaded from her great wings. Patience, little one. The storm tests them, as all storms test the earth. Yet still they march. Step after step, even when every step is misery. This is their strength, though you may not see it. Where fire burns hot and swift, they endure cold and wet. Neither is lesser.
Nekira exhaled sharply, his breath fogging in the chill air. He forced his hands to loosen their grip on the saddle. He could not deny her wisdom. Below, the serpent pressed forward, slower, sodden, but unbroken. The storm had stolen the gleam of the march, but it had not halted it.
He watched in silence, the rain drumming against him, the thunder rolling endlessly over the horizon.
The soldiers trudged as one, a serpent of steel winding down the sodden road. What had once been dust now churned into sucking mud, every step a struggle as their boots squelched and dragged. The steady thunder of the march was drowned beneath the roar of the storm, the sky’s endless drums battering steel, leather, and skin alike. Armour clung heavy to shoulders, cloaks plastered like second hides, and water poured from helmets in steady rivulets.
Grumbles rippled through the column, muffled curses swallowed by the rain. Jokes, too, bitter ones, traded in mutters between sodden ranks. One man spat, swearing the storm was sent by the gods to break their backs. Another laughed, calling it nothing more than a test to see who could keep their boots when the mud tried to eat them. Even misery, when shared, became a strange thread of camaraderie, though the weight of the storm pressed down on them all.
Faces were grim, steps slower, but none faltered. Each man and woman held their place in the living serpent. The wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, moved with quiet certainty at the captain’s side, their fur plastered flat, their ears pricked against the downpour.
At the head of the column strode Captain Jason Moore, his stride unbroken, his shoulders square as the rain hammered down. His eyes, hard as iron beneath his dripping helm, swept the weary line behind him. He heard the mutters, saw the bent heads, and knew the danger of despair settling like rot among them.
He raised his voice above the storm, deep and steady, the kind of voice that cut through rain and thunder alike.
“Left—left—left, right, left!”
The rhythm of the chant rolled back through the lines like a stone cast into water. Boots struck in time with his call, a beat to cling to amidst the chaos. His words grew louder, sharper, not just command but encouragement:
“Step by step—mile by mile!
Through the storm—we will not break!”
A murmur of voices joined him, ragged at first, then stronger as soldiers lifted their heads. Soon the chant swelled, echoing along the length of the serpent, each voice binding to the next, defying the storm that sought to drown them. Mud sucked at their feet, rain blinded their eyes, but the cadence carried them forward, each syllable a spark against the darkness.
Above, Nekira watched in silence, the chant faint beneath the storm but unmissable in its rhythm. His impatience faltered, replaced by a grudging respect. From his lofty perch the army still crawled, sodden and slow, but now they crawled with defiance, their will rising to match the fury of the storm.
Amira’s voice rumbled in his mind, warm and steady: ‘Do you see, little one? Their strength is not in swiftness. It is in standing when the world tries to grind them down.’
Nekira said nothing, rain streaming down his face. He only watched as the serpent pressed forward, voices raised against thunder, and for the first time he felt the pulse of their endurance, not fast, not fierce, but unyielding.
The chant rolled down the line, carried by Captain Jason Moore’s steady bark. “Left—left—left, right, left!” Boots struck mud in rhythm, water slapping from the sucking earth as the men and women found their pace again. The storm still howled, but now there was cadence to resist it.
Then, from just behind the captain, his right hand raised his voice, strong and clear, cutting through the rain like a spark catching dry kindling.
“We march, we march, to the beat of the raining drum!
We march, we march, though the storm would see us undone!”
A ripple of laughter stirred through the ranks—tired, but real. Helmets tilted upward, eyes brightening as the chant caught.
“The sky may break, the thunder may roar,
But step by step, we’ll march all the more!”
The line took it up eagerly, voices uniting with the pounding rain, turning the storm itself into part of their rhythm. The endless patter on steel and leather became percussion, the hiss of wind a kind of accompaniment. The column became a living song, a serpent no longer just crawling through the mire, but writhing forward in defiance of the heavens.
Captain Moore allowed the smallest of smiles to crease his face. He did not silence his right hand; instead, he let the song rise, pride swelling in his chest as the voices of two thousand soldiers melded into one thunderous hymn. The wolves at his sides pricked their ears, their eyes gleaming with the same fire that now burned in the marchers.
High above, Nekira shifted in Amira’s saddle, leaning to one side to better hear the words beneath the storm. A flicker of amusement touched his lips. ‘Do you hear them, Amira? Even beaten by the rain, they still find a song.’
Amira’s wings beat once, scattering sheets of water as her voice brushed his thoughts, deep and amused. Mortals have always found music in misery. It binds them, makes them forget the weight of their bones.
Nekira tilted his head, rain dripping down his hair into his eyes. “Then what about you? Could you come up with a marching chant? Something to match theirs?”
There was a pause, a low hum of thought, before her reply rolled into his mind, half-teasing, half-profound:
'We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow.
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow.
But we wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come—
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all.'
Nekira blinked, then let out a sharp breath, half laugh, half sigh. ‘Even your chants turn into lessons.’
‘As they should,’ Amira rumbled, her golden eyes glinting as lightning flashed across the clouds.
Below, the serpent of men and women pressed onward, their song rising louder than the storm, step by sodden step, unbroken.
Nekira lingered on Amira’s words, their rhythm still echoing in his thoughts. The army’s chant below thundered through the storm, but a sly smile touched his lips as another idea took hold. “I wonder,” he murmured, leaning forward in the saddle, “how your chant would sound in their voices.”
Without waiting for her reply, he let a thread of his mind unravel, a tendril of thought slipping downward through the sheets of rain until it brushed against Moore. The words carried with it like a whisper from the storm:
'We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow.
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow.
But we wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come—
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all.'
Jason blinked, the voice not his own but planted firm in his mind. He glanced upward through the rain, eyes narrowing at the silhouette of the dragon and her rider. For a moment, his stern mask cracked, the barest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, lifting his voice above the storm, he bellowed the words, each line ringing against the rain:
“We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow!
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow!”
The soldiers faltered, startled by the sudden change, but the captain’s voice carried authority, and soon the column found the beat again, their voices joining in ragged unison.
“We wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come!
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all!”
Laughter burst between the lines, surprised and rough, but it quickly fused into a roaring cadence. The chant rolled down the serpent-body of the army, a storm answering the storm, the voices of two thousand raised in something wholly new.
Amira’s massive body rippled as she turned her head slightly, one golden eye fixing on her rider. Satisfaction radiated from her as she focused forward again, her voice curling in his mind like smoke. ‘It sounds good. I’m quite proud of that,’ she said, her tone teasing, though it thrummed with unmistakable pleasure.
Nekira shifted in the saddle, smirking despite himself. ‘Proud, are you? You sound like you’ve been waiting centuries to hear it.’
Amira’s wings stretched wide, catching a gust of storm-wind, her chest rumbling with a low, pleased sound. ‘Perhaps I have.’
Below, the army marched on, their chant rising louder than the thunder, a mortal hymn born from the words of a dragon.
By the time the storm had broken and passed, five days of marching had carved themselves into the bones of the army. Mud clung to boots, cloaks hung heavy with rainwater, and even the strongest shoulders carried the fatigue of ceaseless movement. Captain Jason Moore, reading the weariness etched into every step, raised his hand and called the column to a halt.
A sigh rippled through the ranks as two thousand soldiers lowered their burdens, spears grounding, shields sliding to the earth. Some sank where they stood, grateful for stillness; others busied themselves with tents and fires, the practised rhythm of veterans who knew how to seize rest when it was given. They would remain here for two days, Moore declared. They had covered much ground despite the storm’s wrath, but Edena still lay far ahead—two to three weeks’ march, if luck held.
High above on the ridge where Amira had settled, Nekira watched the bustle below. He leaned forward, his hands resting against the dragon’s warm scales, and traced his thumb along the bracelet at his wrist. Purple and orange beads gleamed faintly in the fading light, simple yet carefully strung together. Tara’s work. He remembered the way her fingers had twisted the cord, her quiet smile as she tied it snug, and wondered how she fared now, with the burden of her own task. Was she safe? Was she afraid?
His chest tightened with the thought, a subtle ache beneath the armour of impatience and fire.
Amira’s presence slipped into his mind, soft as breath, steady as stone. ‘Do not let worry eat at you, little one. Threads woven with care do not break easily. She is stronger than you think, and her path is hers to walk.’
Nekira’s fingers lingered on the beads, his jaw tightening before he let out a slow exhale. “I know,” he murmured, though the word sounded hollow even to him. Still, Amira’s certainty seeped through him, easing the sharp edges of doubt.
Beneath them, campfires began to spark against the twilight, flickering points of light scattered across the field like stars fallen to earth. The serpent had curled upon itself, resting at last, yet coiled and ready to uncoil again when the road called. And Nekira, with Tara’s bracelet warm against his wrist and Amira’s calm voice in his mind, felt the weight of both distance and closeness pressing in all at once.
The order to rest spread through the column like a balm. As the last echoes of marching boots faded into stillness, men and women lowered their burdens and let the earth hold them. At first, there was only exhaustion, soldiers dropping where they stood, some even laughing breathlessly at the simple miracle of not having to take another step. But slowly, as the storm clouds broke and pale sunlight spilled across the sodden fields, the camp came alive with purpose.
Armour was unbuckled, beaten plates laid out to dry and scrubbed free of rust. Cloaks and tunics were strung between makeshift lines, flapping in the weak wind as if the army itself shed its old skin. Fires kindled one by one, smoke curling into the brightening sky, and soon the smell of roasting meat and thick broth carried over the ranks.
Some gathered in small circles, bowls in hand, trading half-serious boasts about how much mud they had dragged on their boots or how many times the storm had tried to steal their cloaks. One man swore he’d sunk knee-deep in a puddle and nearly lost his leg to it, which drew raucous laughter and a round of wagers on who had marched the worst-soaked. Others sat quieter, heads bowed over letters half-written, or over blades carefully honed, their silence saying more than words could.
The wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, padded through the camp like sentinels at ease, their fur drying into thick, bristled tufts. They tolerated the soldiers’ playful pats with the patience of creatures older than such games, though their eyes never truly softened.
By the second day, the shift in morale was unmistakable. Where before the storm had hunched shoulders and hollowed eyes, now laughter carried more freely, and the serpent of two thousand seemed lighter, looser. The memory of thunder and endless rain still clung to them, but already it was turning into a story retold over bread and broth, something to laugh about with comrades rather than curse in solitude.
Standing by the side of Amira, Nekira observed it all with a quiet curiosity. The storm had tested them, had nearly broken their rhythm, and yet here they were, drying, repairing, eating, laughing. Human frailty, human endurance. His fingers brushed Tara’s beaded bracelet, the purple and orange beads warm from his skin. He wondered if she, too, had found a moment to rest, or if her path offered no such respite.
Amira’s golden eye turned slightly, catching the play of light across the campfires below. ‘The storm passed, her voice curled into his mind. As all storms do. And see how quickly their spirits rise, once the weight is lifted. This is what you must learn of them, little flame. Fire burns hot and fast, but hearts endure in embers.’
Nekira said nothing, only pressed his thumb more firmly against the bracelet as campfire smoke curled upward like threads of prayer.
Night came soft and slow, wrapping the army in the quiet glow of scattered campfires. Around one of them, half a dozen soldiers shared a circle, bowls of stew in hand and shoulders hunched close against the cool air.
A broad-shouldered man with a crooked grin tapped his spoon against his empty bowl. “I’ll tell you this, if the cooks could fight as well as they boil boots, Edena would already be ours.”
The men beside him laughed, though one shook his head. “Better this than gnawing on stale bread, friend. Besides, stew tastes finer when you’re not slogging through waist-high mud.”
The quiet was broken by a soldier striking up a low, rough tune. Voices joined in, some in key, most not, the melody wobbling but rich with heart. Their laughter carried across the camp, mingling with the smoke and the smell of cooking fires.
Captain Jason Moore moved quietly among them, boots crunching over dirt, his eyes watchful. He said little, but the nods he offered to each group were worth more than words. The men and women straightened when he passed, not from fear but from respect. He saw them—not just soldiers, but people, tired yet unbroken.
Then a shout rose at the edge of camp.
From the darkness beyond the firelight came a flicker of movement, swift and low. The ground seemed to shiver as a black shape tore across the field, fast as shadow itself. Soldiers sprang to their feet, bowls cast aside, weapons snatched up in alarm. Spears bristled, their tips glinting red in the firelight as they swung toward the blur.
The shape slowed, slipping into the glow of the campfires. A black cheetah padded forward, its body sleek and rippling with coiled muscle. It moved with a predator’s grace, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. A low growl rippled through the ranks as soldiers spread out, encircling the beast with wary steps.
On the ridge above, Amira lifted her head sharply, her golden eyes narrowing. Her chest rumbled with a low note of recognition, though confusion lingered. Not a wild beast… no… It took her a heartbeat longer before realisation struck. Tivor.
The cheetah’s pace slowed to a walk, tail flicking lazily as it stalked through the camp. Soldiers held their ground, spears still raised, but uncertainty gripped them—this was no ordinary animal. Its gaze swept the circle of firelight with intelligence too sharp for mere instinct.
A spear wavered, ready to strike.
“Hold!” Nekira’s voice cut through the camp, sharp as a whip-crack. From Amira’s side, his figure loomed against the fire lit sky, his command undeniable. “Leave it. Leave the cheetah alone!”
The spears froze, and a ripple of hesitation passed through the line of soldiers. They exchanged uncertain looks but obeyed, lowering their points, though not their guard. The cheetah, Tivor, slipped further into the firelight, unhurried now, every step deliberate. Its golden eyes gleamed, catching the flames as it padded past the wary soldiers, its presence commanding silence.
The black cheetah padded slowly through the circle of firelight, its sleek body rippling with restrained power. Soldiers held their breath, spears still lowered but tight in their grips, every eye fixed on the creature. Flames flickered across its dark coat as it came to a halt at the heart of the camp.
Then it began to change.
Muscles rippled unnaturally, fur dissolving into skin, limbs stretching and twisting with an audible crack. Within a heartbeat, the predator was gone and an elf stood in its place, tall, lean, black hair damp from lingering rain, eyes still carrying that faint gleam.
Amira’s massive head tilted, gaze sharp. Tivor, she confirmed in Nekira’s mind.
Tivor’s eyes swept the soldiers before locking on Nekira. “You need to know,” he said, voice steady, carrying weight and urgency. “Thomaz waits, ten thousand men ready beyond Edena. He has not yet struck, patient in his deranged calculations. Edena is aware of the army, and its walls are being reinforced even as we speak. Every tower, every gate is being prepared for the assault he imagines he will command.”
The camp went silent. Soldiers felt the weight of it, the immediacy of danger brushing against their bones.
Nekira looked towards Amira, eyes narrowing as he studied Tivor. “And Thomaz still doesn’t know about the army—or Amira?”
Tivor shook his head, voice calm but firm. “Not yet. He is blind to what you bring. But Edena’s defences are rising quickly. Rubian is marshalling its own forces under the king’s command. The city may hold… for now. But if we hesitate, even a day, Thomaz could strike where defenses are weakest.”
Nekira’s fingers traced the purple and orange beads of Tara’s bracelet, thumb moving over each one. Even with Amira’s steady presence beneath him, the weight of Tivor’s words pressed on his chest. Two to three weeks of marching lay ahead, and Edena was preparing for them.
Amira rumbled softly in his mind, wings flexing beneath him. ‘The city is awake, little one. We cannot rely on surprise alone. Every choice now must account for their walls, their soldiers, their resolve.’
The campfire’s glow danced across Tivor’s sharp features, soldiers watching him in wary silence. The night had grown heavy with urgency, the knowledge that Edena was ready, and Thomaz still patient, pressing the pressure on every second they lingered.
Tivor’s gaze flicked between Nekira and the captain, his posture tense as he continued. “Messengers have been sent to the Dwarves and the Elves. They know of Thomaz’s movements and Edena’s peril. The were-cats are also trying to reach Tara and Elqiana—time is critical. Everyone who can help is being called upon.”
Nekira’s hand unconsciously brushed the purple-and-orange bracelet at his wrist. “Tara…” he murmured. “She’s with Elqiana. Tarasque is the rider of the great opal-white dragon.”
Captain Moore inclined his head, his eyes sharp as he absorbed the news. “And Edena’s forces? How many are stationed within the city?”
Tivor’s jaw tightened. “Three thousand are in the barracks, trained soldiers ready to defend the walls. A further thousand, roughly, if citizens of Edena volunteer. They will fight alongside them.”
The captain’s gaze swept over his own troops, standing ready yet weary in the dim light of campfires. “I have two thousand here,” he said, counting silently in his mind. “That would make six thousand. How many can we expect from the Dwarves and the Elves?”
Tivor shook his head, frustration flashing in his golden eyes. “I don’t know. Their response will depend on distance and how quickly the message reaches them. That is uncertain. We may not have reliable numbers until they arrive—or not at all.”
Amira’s deep, steady rumble filled Nekira’s mind, warm and reassuring. ‘Two dragons and two riders can make up for a lot of soldiers.’
Nekira’s lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled slowly, then repeated her words aloud, translating them into strategy for the others. “Two dragons and two riders can make up for a lot of soldiers,” he said, letting the weight of it settle in.
Captain Moore’s eyes flicked upward, toward Amira. “Dragons,” he said, the word tasting almost like hope. “If we can leverage their strength… then perhaps we have a fighting chance.”
Tivor’s gaze remained sharp, but a faint spark of relief crossed his features. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “Elqiana and Tarasque are powerful allies. They can turn the tide, even if reinforcements are delayed. But timing will be everything. If Thomaz moves before we coordinate…”
Nekira’s fingers tightened around Tara’s bracelet. ‘We have to make it right, Amira. We have to protect Edena,’ he thought.
Amira’s mind brushed against his in a soft, confident ripple. ‘Then we will. Two dragons, two riders, and a steady army. Strength lies in coordination, little one. Fear not the numbers alone.’
Nekira nodded subtly, repeating once more, for Tivor and Moore to hear: “Two dragons, two riders… can make up for a lot of soldiers.”
The captain’s eyes hardened with resolve, scanning his camp once more. “Then we prepare for that. Whatever the numbers, whatever the delays, we use every advantage we have. Timing, discipline, dragons… and a few clever allies in unexpected places.”
The night hung heavy with planning and possibility. The rain-soaked ground of the camp seemed quieter now, each soldier huddled near their fire or gear, waiting for orders, while two dragons above marked a new hope against the shadow of Thomaz’s army.
Nekira’s gaze swept over Tivor, sharp and insistent. “You need to rest,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Tivor opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, nodding reluctantly.
Nekira turned toward Captain Moore. “Captain, will you and your soldiers be ready to march at first light?”
The captain inclined his head, eyes steady. “We’ll be ready.”
Without another word, he disappeared down the incline to confer with his army, the sound of boots and voices fading into the camp’s quiet hum.
Nekira shifted back to Tivor. “Is there any news from Tara? Did she manage to rescue Dorianna?”
Tivor shook his head, his golden eyes clouded with concern. “No news yet. I… I’m surprised you managed to succeed, Nekira. This is unprecedented. What was trapping them?”
Nekira watched silently for a moment, his eyes tracing the flickering light of the campfires and the captain’s dark figure addressing his soldiers below. Then he spoke, voice low: “Dog tags and emblems… cursed. Followed by a barrier created from some enchanted bird skulls.”
Tivor nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of pride breaking through his tension. “You did well, Neks.”
For a long moment, they both sat in silence, the storm behind them leaving only the faint smell of wet earth and smoke from the dying fires. The world felt suspended in the quiet, two dragons and their riders resting against the weight of what had come—and what was to come.
Hours passed like this. Then, pale fingers of sunlight crept over the horizon, brushing the tops of the wet trees and glinting on Amira’s scales. The soldiers below stirred, tents struck and gear packed with precise efficiency. The serpent of boots and armour began to stir, ready once more for the march toward Edena.
Nekira and Tivor exchanged a brief look, silent acknowledgement of the long road ahead. Above them, Amira flexed her wings, muscles rippling beneath him, ready to soar when needed.
The first light of dawn broke across the wet landscape, brushing the tops of trees and glinting against armour still damp from the storm. Campfires were extinguished, tents folded, and the army stirred with precise, practised efficiency. Soldiers shouldered packs, tightened straps, and exchanged nods of readiness. Captain Jason Moore moved among them, boots crunching against the muddy ground, issuing last-minute instructions with calm authority.
Above, Nekira leaned forward on Amira’s broad neck, the dragon’s wings stretched in anticipation. Her scales glimmered in the rising sun, droplets of water running off like liquid silver. From this vantage, the serpent of two thousand soldiers stretched along the road below, boots hitting the ground in slow, rhythmic cadence. Despite the early hour, the line moved with determination, every step a statement of purpose.
Tivor shifted subtly, with a ripple of muscle and shadow, he transformed, fur spreading across his limbs, spine elongating, claws piercing the soft earth. In moments, the black cheetah was gone from sight, racing ahead of the column with liquid speed, each stride devouring the distance between them and Edena. Dust and mist rose behind him, swallowed by the morning light, as he disappeared toward the horizon with a singular purpose: to warn the city that Nekira’s army was approaching.
Nekira’s fingers tightened around Tara’s bracelet, the beads warm beneath his thumb. ‘Go, Tivor,’ he murmured into Tivor’s mind. ‘Let them know we are coming.’
Amira’s deep, resonant rumble answered him. ‘Swift and unseen. Let him do what he does best.’
Below, the soldiers felt the cadence of their march settle into a rhythm, the lingering tension of the storm replaced by quiet anticipation. Some glanced upward, spotting the dragon high above, wings spread like a shadow over the road. Whispers passed through ranks—admiration, awe, and a measure of comfort knowing that Nekira and Amira were watching over them.
The road stretched onward, winding through rolling hills, the sun climbing higher, glinting on mud-spattered armour and glimmering spear tips. The army moved as one, steadfast and disciplined, unaware of the precise moment when Tivor would reach Edena, carrying news that could alter the fate of the city.
Above, Nekira let himself relax slightly, shoulders easing against Amira’s scales. His eyes followed the black streak racing ahead, tail flicking in the distance. The wind pressed against his face, carrying with it the scents of wet earth and fresh grass, and the quiet thrill of purpose.
We are moving, he thought, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. We are coming. And they will be ready.
Amira flexed her wings, beating once, twice, lifting them higher into the crisp morning air. The march below continued, steady and unwavering, while Tivor, the black cheetah, became the first shadow to reach Edena, carrying word of the approaching army with unmatched speed and precision.
Chapter 43: Marching
Two thousand soldiers moved as one down the winding road, three abreast, a column of iron and flesh that stretched farther than the eye could hold. The ground trembled beneath the synchronised thunder of four thousand boots, each impact rolling together into a low, unbroken rumble like the beating heart of some great beast. From the air it seemed endless, the line undulating as the terrain rose and dipped, its motion serpent-like. Their bobbing helmets and dark heads rippled like the scales of a colossal snake gliding over the earth, while the sunlight flashing from polished spear tips gave the illusion of scales catching light.
Dust rose around them in hazy clouds, clinging to armour and sweat-damp tunics. It smeared across faces until every man and woman bore the same grey mask, a strange uniformity that made them seem less like individuals and more like extensions of the creature that slithered across the countryside. Captain Jason Moore marched steadily at the head, his shoulders squared, his jaw set in grim patience. On either side padded Santaya and Kristolia, the wolves, their eyes sweeping the road, their movements smooth and tireless, shadows of silent vigilance.
Above, Nekira sat astride Amira, her great wings beating slow and measured. From the height of the clouds, the army’s march appeared almost maddening in its sluggishness. So slow, he thought, his grip tightening on one of Amira’s ridges. The vast serpent crawled forward, but from his vantage it seemed barely to move at all. Every heartbeat felt stretched, every moment elongated into eternity. His fingers tapped against his elbows, restless, impatient, as if drumming a tempo faster than the one below.
And then the sky darkened.
At first it was only a smear of shadow across the western horizon, a bruised swell of cloud that built and spread with unnatural speed. The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain and the faint crackle of approaching thunder. A shiver passed through the column below as helms tilted upward, wary of the storm’s approach. Nekira narrowed his eyes as the first lance of lightning split the heavens, illuminating the serpent-road in a flash of white.
The rain came in sudden sheets, heavy and cold. Dust turned to mud in minutes, sucking at boots, swallowing the rhythm of the march into a sucking, squelching mire. Armour darkened under the downpour, cloaks plastered to backs, and yet the line trudged forward, shoulders hunched against the sky’s fury. The serpent still moved, but slower now, as though its body dragged itself through mire and muck instead of earth.
The steady thunder of boots was swallowed by the storm, replaced by the relentless drumbeat of water against steel and leather. Helmets rang like muted bells with each pelting drop. Spears, once gleaming, now ran with rivulets that dripped from their tips like cold blood. Men and women who had marched with steady rhythm now bowed their heads, not broken, but heavy with the weight of weather.
High above, Nekira’s impatience turned to frustration. Rain spattered his face, running cold down his cheeks, matting his dark hair against his brow. The storm made the march seem slower still, as though time itself dragged with the army below. They crawl, he thought bitterly. They crawl like worms in the mud.
Amira’s voice flowed into his mind, calm even as water cascaded from her great wings. Patience, little one. The storm tests them, as all storms test the earth. Yet still they march. Step after step, even when every step is misery. This is their strength, though you may not see it. Where fire burns hot and swift, they endure cold and wet. Neither is lesser.
Nekira exhaled sharply, his breath fogging in the chill air. He forced his hands to loosen their grip on the saddle. He could not deny her wisdom. Below, the serpent pressed forward, slower, sodden, but unbroken. The storm had stolen the gleam of the march, but it had not halted it.
He watched in silence, the rain drumming against him, the thunder rolling endlessly over the horizon.
The soldiers trudged as one, a serpent of steel winding down the sodden road. What had once been dust now churned into sucking mud, every step a struggle as their boots squelched and dragged. The steady thunder of the march was drowned beneath the roar of the storm, the sky’s endless drums battering steel, leather, and skin alike. Armour clung heavy to shoulders, cloaks plastered like second hides, and water poured from helmets in steady rivulets.
Grumbles rippled through the column, muffled curses swallowed by the rain. Jokes, too, bitter ones, traded in mutters between sodden ranks. One man spat, swearing the storm was sent by the gods to break their backs. Another laughed, calling it nothing more than a test to see who could keep their boots when the mud tried to eat them. Even misery, when shared, became a strange thread of camaraderie, though the weight of the storm pressed down on them all.
Faces were grim, steps slower, but none faltered. Each man and woman held their place in the living serpent. The wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, moved with quiet certainty at the captain’s side, their fur plastered flat, their ears pricked against the downpour.
At the head of the column strode Captain Jason Moore, his stride unbroken, his shoulders square as the rain hammered down. His eyes, hard as iron beneath his dripping helm, swept the weary line behind him. He heard the mutters, saw the bent heads, and knew the danger of despair settling like rot among them.
He raised his voice above the storm, deep and steady, the kind of voice that cut through rain and thunder alike.
“Left—left—left, right, left!”
The rhythm of the chant rolled back through the lines like a stone cast into water. Boots struck in time with his call, a beat to cling to amidst the chaos. His words grew louder, sharper, not just command but encouragement:
“Step by step—mile by mile!
Through the storm—we will not break!”
A murmur of voices joined him, ragged at first, then stronger as soldiers lifted their heads. Soon the chant swelled, echoing along the length of the serpent, each voice binding to the next, defying the storm that sought to drown them. Mud sucked at their feet, rain blinded their eyes, but the cadence carried them forward, each syllable a spark against the darkness.
Above, Nekira watched in silence, the chant faint beneath the storm but unmissable in its rhythm. His impatience faltered, replaced by a grudging respect. From his lofty perch the army still crawled, sodden and slow, but now they crawled with defiance, their will rising to match the fury of the storm.
Amira’s voice rumbled in his mind, warm and steady: ‘Do you see, little one? Their strength is not in swiftness. It is in standing when the world tries to grind them down.’
Nekira said nothing, rain streaming down his face. He only watched as the serpent pressed forward, voices raised against thunder, and for the first time he felt the pulse of their endurance, not fast, not fierce, but unyielding.
The chant rolled down the line, carried by Captain Jason Moore’s steady bark. “Left—left—left, right, left!” Boots struck mud in rhythm, water slapping from the sucking earth as the men and women found their pace again. The storm still howled, but now there was cadence to resist it.
Then, from just behind the captain, his right hand raised his voice, strong and clear, cutting through the rain like a spark catching dry kindling.
“We march, we march, to the beat of the raining drum!
We march, we march, though the storm would see us undone!”
A ripple of laughter stirred through the ranks—tired, but real. Helmets tilted upward, eyes brightening as the chant caught.
“The sky may break, the thunder may roar,
But step by step, we’ll march all the more!”
The line took it up eagerly, voices uniting with the pounding rain, turning the storm itself into part of their rhythm. The endless patter on steel and leather became percussion, the hiss of wind a kind of accompaniment. The column became a living song, a serpent no longer just crawling through the mire, but writhing forward in defiance of the heavens.
Captain Moore allowed the smallest of smiles to crease his face. He did not silence his right hand; instead, he let the song rise, pride swelling in his chest as the voices of two thousand soldiers melded into one thunderous hymn. The wolves at his sides pricked their ears, their eyes gleaming with the same fire that now burned in the marchers.
High above, Nekira shifted in Amira’s saddle, leaning to one side to better hear the words beneath the storm. A flicker of amusement touched his lips. ‘Do you hear them, Amira? Even beaten by the rain, they still find a song.’
Amira’s wings beat once, scattering sheets of water as her voice brushed his thoughts, deep and amused. Mortals have always found music in misery. It binds them, makes them forget the weight of their bones.
Nekira tilted his head, rain dripping down his hair into his eyes. “Then what about you? Could you come up with a marching chant? Something to match theirs?”
There was a pause, a low hum of thought, before her reply rolled into his mind, half-teasing, half-profound:
'We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow.
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow.
But we wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come—
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all.'
Nekira blinked, then let out a sharp breath, half laugh, half sigh. ‘Even your chants turn into lessons.’
‘As they should,’ Amira rumbled, her golden eyes glinting as lightning flashed across the clouds.
Below, the serpent of men and women pressed onward, their song rising louder than the storm, step by sodden step, unbroken.
Nekira lingered on Amira’s words, their rhythm still echoing in his thoughts. The army’s chant below thundered through the storm, but a sly smile touched his lips as another idea took hold. “I wonder,” he murmured, leaning forward in the saddle, “how your chant would sound in their voices.”
Without waiting for her reply, he let a thread of his mind unravel, a tendril of thought slipping downward through the sheets of rain until it brushed against Moore. The words carried with it like a whisper from the storm:
'We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow.
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow.
But we wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come—
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all.'
Jason blinked, the voice not his own but planted firm in his mind. He glanced upward through the rain, eyes narrowing at the silhouette of the dragon and her rider. For a moment, his stern mask cracked, the barest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, lifting his voice above the storm, he bellowed the words, each line ringing against the rain:
“We fly, we fly, where the storm cannot follow!
We burn, we burn, with a fire none can swallow!”
The soldiers faltered, startled by the sudden change, but the captain’s voice carried authority, and soon the column found the beat again, their voices joining in ragged unison.
“We wait, we wait, for the earthbound to come!
For victory is not won by one wing, but by all!”
Laughter burst between the lines, surprised and rough, but it quickly fused into a roaring cadence. The chant rolled down the serpent-body of the army, a storm answering the storm, the voices of two thousand raised in something wholly new.
Amira’s massive body rippled as she turned her head slightly, one golden eye fixing on her rider. Satisfaction radiated from her as she focused forward again, her voice curling in his mind like smoke. ‘It sounds good. I’m quite proud of that,’ she said, her tone teasing, though it thrummed with unmistakable pleasure.
Nekira shifted in the saddle, smirking despite himself. ‘Proud, are you? You sound like you’ve been waiting centuries to hear it.’
Amira’s wings stretched wide, catching a gust of storm-wind, her chest rumbling with a low, pleased sound. ‘Perhaps I have.’
Below, the army marched on, their chant rising louder than the thunder, a mortal hymn born from the words of a dragon.
By the time the storm had broken and passed, five days of marching had carved themselves into the bones of the army. Mud clung to boots, cloaks hung heavy with rainwater, and even the strongest shoulders carried the fatigue of ceaseless movement. Captain Jason Moore, reading the weariness etched into every step, raised his hand and called the column to a halt.
A sigh rippled through the ranks as two thousand soldiers lowered their burdens, spears grounding, shields sliding to the earth. Some sank where they stood, grateful for stillness; others busied themselves with tents and fires, the practised rhythm of veterans who knew how to seize rest when it was given. They would remain here for two days, Moore declared. They had covered much ground despite the storm’s wrath, but Edena still lay far ahead—two to three weeks’ march, if luck held.
High above on the ridge where Amira had settled, Nekira watched the bustle below. He leaned forward, his hands resting against the dragon’s warm scales, and traced his thumb along the bracelet at his wrist. Purple and orange beads gleamed faintly in the fading light, simple yet carefully strung together. Tara’s work. He remembered the way her fingers had twisted the cord, her quiet smile as she tied it snug, and wondered how she fared now, with the burden of her own task. Was she safe? Was she afraid?
His chest tightened with the thought, a subtle ache beneath the armour of impatience and fire.
Amira’s presence slipped into his mind, soft as breath, steady as stone. ‘Do not let worry eat at you, little one. Threads woven with care do not break easily. She is stronger than you think, and her path is hers to walk.’
Nekira’s fingers lingered on the beads, his jaw tightening before he let out a slow exhale. “I know,” he murmured, though the word sounded hollow even to him. Still, Amira’s certainty seeped through him, easing the sharp edges of doubt.
Beneath them, campfires began to spark against the twilight, flickering points of light scattered across the field like stars fallen to earth. The serpent had curled upon itself, resting at last, yet coiled and ready to uncoil again when the road called. And Nekira, with Tara’s bracelet warm against his wrist and Amira’s calm voice in his mind, felt the weight of both distance and closeness pressing in all at once.
The order to rest spread through the column like a balm. As the last echoes of marching boots faded into stillness, men and women lowered their burdens and let the earth hold them. At first, there was only exhaustion, soldiers dropping where they stood, some even laughing breathlessly at the simple miracle of not having to take another step. But slowly, as the storm clouds broke and pale sunlight spilled across the sodden fields, the camp came alive with purpose.
Armour was unbuckled, beaten plates laid out to dry and scrubbed free of rust. Cloaks and tunics were strung between makeshift lines, flapping in the weak wind as if the army itself shed its old skin. Fires kindled one by one, smoke curling into the brightening sky, and soon the smell of roasting meat and thick broth carried over the ranks.
Some gathered in small circles, bowls in hand, trading half-serious boasts about how much mud they had dragged on their boots or how many times the storm had tried to steal their cloaks. One man swore he’d sunk knee-deep in a puddle and nearly lost his leg to it, which drew raucous laughter and a round of wagers on who had marched the worst-soaked. Others sat quieter, heads bowed over letters half-written, or over blades carefully honed, their silence saying more than words could.
The wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, padded through the camp like sentinels at ease, their fur drying into thick, bristled tufts. They tolerated the soldiers’ playful pats with the patience of creatures older than such games, though their eyes never truly softened.
By the second day, the shift in morale was unmistakable. Where before the storm had hunched shoulders and hollowed eyes, now laughter carried more freely, and the serpent of two thousand seemed lighter, looser. The memory of thunder and endless rain still clung to them, but already it was turning into a story retold over bread and broth, something to laugh about with comrades rather than curse in solitude.
Standing by the side of Amira, Nekira observed it all with a quiet curiosity. The storm had tested them, had nearly broken their rhythm, and yet here they were, drying, repairing, eating, laughing. Human frailty, human endurance. His fingers brushed Tara’s beaded bracelet, the purple and orange beads warm from his skin. He wondered if she, too, had found a moment to rest, or if her path offered no such respite.
Amira’s golden eye turned slightly, catching the play of light across the campfires below. ‘The storm passed, her voice curled into his mind. As all storms do. And see how quickly their spirits rise, once the weight is lifted. This is what you must learn of them, little flame. Fire burns hot and fast, but hearts endure in embers.’
Nekira said nothing, only pressed his thumb more firmly against the bracelet as campfire smoke curled upward like threads of prayer.
Night came soft and slow, wrapping the army in the quiet glow of scattered campfires. Around one of them, half a dozen soldiers shared a circle, bowls of stew in hand and shoulders hunched close against the cool air.
A broad-shouldered man with a crooked grin tapped his spoon against his empty bowl. “I’ll tell you this, if the cooks could fight as well as they boil boots, Edena would already be ours.”
The men beside him laughed, though one shook his head. “Better this than gnawing on stale bread, friend. Besides, stew tastes finer when you’re not slogging through waist-high mud.”
The quiet was broken by a soldier striking up a low, rough tune. Voices joined in, some in key, most not, the melody wobbling but rich with heart. Their laughter carried across the camp, mingling with the smoke and the smell of cooking fires.
Captain Jason Moore moved quietly among them, boots crunching over dirt, his eyes watchful. He said little, but the nods he offered to each group were worth more than words. The men and women straightened when he passed, not from fear but from respect. He saw them—not just soldiers, but people, tired yet unbroken.
Then a shout rose at the edge of camp.
From the darkness beyond the firelight came a flicker of movement, swift and low. The ground seemed to shiver as a black shape tore across the field, fast as shadow itself. Soldiers sprang to their feet, bowls cast aside, weapons snatched up in alarm. Spears bristled, their tips glinting red in the firelight as they swung toward the blur.
The shape slowed, slipping into the glow of the campfires. A black cheetah padded forward, its body sleek and rippling with coiled muscle. It moved with a predator’s grace, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. A low growl rippled through the ranks as soldiers spread out, encircling the beast with wary steps.
On the ridge above, Amira lifted her head sharply, her golden eyes narrowing. Her chest rumbled with a low note of recognition, though confusion lingered. Not a wild beast… no… It took her a heartbeat longer before realisation struck. Tivor.
The cheetah’s pace slowed to a walk, tail flicking lazily as it stalked through the camp. Soldiers held their ground, spears still raised, but uncertainty gripped them—this was no ordinary animal. Its gaze swept the circle of firelight with intelligence too sharp for mere instinct.
A spear wavered, ready to strike.
“Hold!” Nekira’s voice cut through the camp, sharp as a whip-crack. From Amira’s side, his figure loomed against the fire lit sky, his command undeniable. “Leave it. Leave the cheetah alone!”
The spears froze, and a ripple of hesitation passed through the line of soldiers. They exchanged uncertain looks but obeyed, lowering their points, though not their guard. The cheetah, Tivor, slipped further into the firelight, unhurried now, every step deliberate. Its golden eyes gleamed, catching the flames as it padded past the wary soldiers, its presence commanding silence.
The black cheetah padded slowly through the circle of firelight, its sleek body rippling with restrained power. Soldiers held their breath, spears still lowered but tight in their grips, every eye fixed on the creature. Flames flickered across its dark coat as it came to a halt at the heart of the camp.
Then it began to change.
Muscles rippled unnaturally, fur dissolving into skin, limbs stretching and twisting with an audible crack. Within a heartbeat, the predator was gone and an elf stood in its place, tall, lean, black hair damp from lingering rain, eyes still carrying that faint gleam.
Amira’s massive head tilted, gaze sharp. Tivor, she confirmed in Nekira’s mind.
Tivor’s eyes swept the soldiers before locking on Nekira. “You need to know,” he said, voice steady, carrying weight and urgency. “Thomaz waits, ten thousand men ready beyond Edena. He has not yet struck, patient in his deranged calculations. Edena is aware of the army, and its walls are being reinforced even as we speak. Every tower, every gate is being prepared for the assault he imagines he will command.”
The camp went silent. Soldiers felt the weight of it, the immediacy of danger brushing against their bones.
Nekira looked towards Amira, eyes narrowing as he studied Tivor. “And Thomaz still doesn’t know about the army—or Amira?”
Tivor shook his head, voice calm but firm. “Not yet. He is blind to what you bring. But Edena’s defences are rising quickly. Rubian is marshalling its own forces under the king’s command. The city may hold… for now. But if we hesitate, even a day, Thomaz could strike where defenses are weakest.”
Nekira’s fingers traced the purple and orange beads of Tara’s bracelet, thumb moving over each one. Even with Amira’s steady presence beneath him, the weight of Tivor’s words pressed on his chest. Two to three weeks of marching lay ahead, and Edena was preparing for them.
Amira rumbled softly in his mind, wings flexing beneath him. ‘The city is awake, little one. We cannot rely on surprise alone. Every choice now must account for their walls, their soldiers, their resolve.’
The campfire’s glow danced across Tivor’s sharp features, soldiers watching him in wary silence. The night had grown heavy with urgency, the knowledge that Edena was ready, and Thomaz still patient, pressing the pressure on every second they lingered.
Tivor’s gaze flicked between Nekira and the captain, his posture tense as he continued. “Messengers have been sent to the Dwarves and the Elves. They know of Thomaz’s movements and Edena’s peril. The were-cats are also trying to reach Tara and Elqiana—time is critical. Everyone who can help is being called upon.”
Nekira’s hand unconsciously brushed the purple-and-orange bracelet at his wrist. “Tara…” he murmured. “She’s with Elqiana. Tarasque is the rider of the great opal-white dragon.”
Captain Moore inclined his head, his eyes sharp as he absorbed the news. “And Edena’s forces? How many are stationed within the city?”
Tivor’s jaw tightened. “Three thousand are in the barracks, trained soldiers ready to defend the walls. A further thousand, roughly, if citizens of Edena volunteer. They will fight alongside them.”
The captain’s gaze swept over his own troops, standing ready yet weary in the dim light of campfires. “I have two thousand here,” he said, counting silently in his mind. “That would make six thousand. How many can we expect from the Dwarves and the Elves?”
Tivor shook his head, frustration flashing in his golden eyes. “I don’t know. Their response will depend on distance and how quickly the message reaches them. That is uncertain. We may not have reliable numbers until they arrive—or not at all.”
Amira’s deep, steady rumble filled Nekira’s mind, warm and reassuring. ‘Two dragons and two riders can make up for a lot of soldiers.’
Nekira’s lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled slowly, then repeated her words aloud, translating them into strategy for the others. “Two dragons and two riders can make up for a lot of soldiers,” he said, letting the weight of it settle in.
Captain Moore’s eyes flicked upward, toward Amira. “Dragons,” he said, the word tasting almost like hope. “If we can leverage their strength… then perhaps we have a fighting chance.”
Tivor’s gaze remained sharp, but a faint spark of relief crossed his features. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “Elqiana and Tarasque are powerful allies. They can turn the tide, even if reinforcements are delayed. But timing will be everything. If Thomaz moves before we coordinate…”
Nekira’s fingers tightened around Tara’s bracelet. ‘We have to make it right, Amira. We have to protect Edena,’ he thought.
Amira’s mind brushed against his in a soft, confident ripple. ‘Then we will. Two dragons, two riders, and a steady army. Strength lies in coordination, little one. Fear not the numbers alone.’
Nekira nodded subtly, repeating once more, for Tivor and Moore to hear: “Two dragons, two riders… can make up for a lot of soldiers.”
The captain’s eyes hardened with resolve, scanning his camp once more. “Then we prepare for that. Whatever the numbers, whatever the delays, we use every advantage we have. Timing, discipline, dragons… and a few clever allies in unexpected places.”
The night hung heavy with planning and possibility. The rain-soaked ground of the camp seemed quieter now, each soldier huddled near their fire or gear, waiting for orders, while two dragons above marked a new hope against the shadow of Thomaz’s army.
Nekira’s gaze swept over Tivor, sharp and insistent. “You need to rest,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Tivor opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, nodding reluctantly.
Nekira turned toward Captain Moore. “Captain, will you and your soldiers be ready to march at first light?”
The captain inclined his head, eyes steady. “We’ll be ready.”
Without another word, he disappeared down the incline to confer with his army, the sound of boots and voices fading into the camp’s quiet hum.
Nekira shifted back to Tivor. “Is there any news from Tara? Did she manage to rescue Dorianna?”
Tivor shook his head, his golden eyes clouded with concern. “No news yet. I… I’m surprised you managed to succeed, Nekira. This is unprecedented. What was trapping them?”
Nekira watched silently for a moment, his eyes tracing the flickering light of the campfires and the captain’s dark figure addressing his soldiers below. Then he spoke, voice low: “Dog tags and emblems… cursed. Followed by a barrier created from some enchanted bird skulls.”
Tivor nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of pride breaking through his tension. “You did well, Neks.”
For a long moment, they both sat in silence, the storm behind them leaving only the faint smell of wet earth and smoke from the dying fires. The world felt suspended in the quiet, two dragons and their riders resting against the weight of what had come—and what was to come.
Hours passed like this. Then, pale fingers of sunlight crept over the horizon, brushing the tops of the wet trees and glinting on Amira’s scales. The soldiers below stirred, tents struck and gear packed with precise efficiency. The serpent of boots and armour began to stir, ready once more for the march toward Edena.
Nekira and Tivor exchanged a brief look, silent acknowledgement of the long road ahead. Above them, Amira flexed her wings, muscles rippling beneath him, ready to soar when needed.
The first light of dawn broke across the wet landscape, brushing the tops of trees and glinting against armour still damp from the storm. Campfires were extinguished, tents folded, and the army stirred with precise, practised efficiency. Soldiers shouldered packs, tightened straps, and exchanged nods of readiness. Captain Jason Moore moved among them, boots crunching against the muddy ground, issuing last-minute instructions with calm authority.
Above, Nekira leaned forward on Amira’s broad neck, the dragon’s wings stretched in anticipation. Her scales glimmered in the rising sun, droplets of water running off like liquid silver. From this vantage, the serpent of two thousand soldiers stretched along the road below, boots hitting the ground in slow, rhythmic cadence. Despite the early hour, the line moved with determination, every step a statement of purpose.
Tivor shifted subtly, with a ripple of muscle and shadow, he transformed, fur spreading across his limbs, spine elongating, claws piercing the soft earth. In moments, the black cheetah was gone from sight, racing ahead of the column with liquid speed, each stride devouring the distance between them and Edena. Dust and mist rose behind him, swallowed by the morning light, as he disappeared toward the horizon with a singular purpose: to warn the city that Nekira’s army was approaching.
Nekira’s fingers tightened around Tara’s bracelet, the beads warm beneath his thumb. ‘Go, Tivor,’ he murmured into Tivor’s mind. ‘Let them know we are coming.’
Amira’s deep, resonant rumble answered him. ‘Swift and unseen. Let him do what he does best.’
Below, the soldiers felt the cadence of their march settle into a rhythm, the lingering tension of the storm replaced by quiet anticipation. Some glanced upward, spotting the dragon high above, wings spread like a shadow over the road. Whispers passed through ranks—admiration, awe, and a measure of comfort knowing that Nekira and Amira were watching over them.
The road stretched onward, winding through rolling hills, the sun climbing higher, glinting on mud-spattered armour and glimmering spear tips. The army moved as one, steadfast and disciplined, unaware of the precise moment when Tivor would reach Edena, carrying news that could alter the fate of the city.
Above, Nekira let himself relax slightly, shoulders easing against Amira’s scales. His eyes followed the black streak racing ahead, tail flicking in the distance. The wind pressed against his face, carrying with it the scents of wet earth and fresh grass, and the quiet thrill of purpose.
We are moving, he thought, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. We are coming. And they will be ready.
Amira flexed her wings, beating once, twice, lifting them higher into the crisp morning air. The march below continued, steady and unwavering, while Tivor, the black cheetah, became the first shadow to reach Edena, carrying word of the approaching army with unmatched speed and precision.
The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 44
Chapter 44: Hoard The cave released them into the pale light of morning. Mist clung to the lake like smoke, curling upward into the teeth of the mountains. Elqiana crouched low in the clearing, her scales cool and gleaming, her wings arched wide to catch the air. Tarasque guided her...
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