The wind rushed past Jackson, cool and crisp against his face as Levin soared high above the rolling hills. The Pegasus’s powerful wings cut through the sky with rhythmic precision, carrying them effortlessly over the sprawling landscape below. Jackson grinned, the sense of freedom he always felt in the air easing the weight of the mission ahead. Despite his unease about Sebo and the troubling rumors of attacks, the skies felt like his domain—untouchable and serene.
But the serenity didn’t last.
A sharp whistling sound cut through the air, too fast and too precise to be natural. Jackson’s instincts kicked in, and he pulled hard on Levin’s reins. The Pegasus veered left, narrowly avoiding a deadly projectile—a bolt that whizzed past them and vanished into the clouds.
“What the—?” Jackson muttered, his grip tightening on the reins. His eyes scanned the horizon, and his body tensed as more bolts followed in quick succession. Levin twisted and rolled in the air, the prince’s years of training keeping them just out of harm’s way.
Then he saw them.
Figures emerged from the clouds, riding mounts that looked eerily similar to Levin but with darker, sleeker forms. Their riders were clad in dark armor, their faces obscured by helmets. They moved with precision, their formation tight and coordinated.
“Pegasus riders?” Jackson’s voice was low, incredulous. “Who in the hell are you?”
A bolt zipped past, grazing his shoulder. The sharp sting of pain flared, but Jackson pushed it aside. Flames burst to life in his hands as he countered, hurling bursts of fire toward the attackers. The first ball of flame clipped a rider’s mount, sending it into a spiral as the rider struggled to regain control.
Levin surged forward with a powerful beat of his wings, Jackson guiding him through the barrage with sharp commands and quick maneuvers. “Come on, Levin! Show me what you’ve got!” The Pegasus obeyed, twisting and rolling with uncanny agility, but the attackers were relentless.
Jackson gritted his teeth as one rider closed in, a spear gleaming in their grip. His hand ignited with fire, and he flung it forward in a precise arc. The flame struck true, engulfing the spear and forcing the rider to retreat with a cry of frustration.
The attackers began to circle, their movements coordinated like predators closing in on prey. Jackson’s mind raced. This wasn’t random—these were trained riders with a clear objective. But why him? Why now?
With a surge of determination, Jackson leaned forward, guiding Levin into a sharp dive. The sudden move threw off the attackers’ aim, and another bolt sailed harmlessly into the sky. Flames roared in Jackson’s hands as he spun Levin in a tight arc, unleashing a fiery barrage that scattered the riders.
One of the dark mounts shrieked as the flames caught its wings, sending it into a rapid descent. The others hesitated, their formation breaking as Jackson pressed the attack.
But the fight had taken its toll. Jackson’s shoulder throbbed where the bolt had grazed him, and Levin’s movements grew less fluid as exhaustion began to set in. Realizing the battle couldn’t continue in the air, Jackson scanned the ground below, spotting a small village nestled in a valley.
“Hold on, Levin,” he murmured, guiding the Pegasus into a rapid descent.
The attackers didn’t follow. Whether they had retreated or regrouped, Jackson couldn’t tell. His focus was on landing safely. The Pegasus’s hooves struck the ground with a heavy thud, and Jackson dismounted swiftly, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Breathing hard, he glanced over his shoulder at the sky, half-expecting the riders to reappear. But the air was clear, save for the faint trails of smoke from his counterattacks.
He pressed a hand to his shoulder, grimacing at the wet stickiness of blood. “Well,” he muttered to Levin, who snorted softly, “that could’ve gone better.”
The village ahead looked small and wary, its wooden houses clustered together as if seeking comfort in closeness. Jackson straightened, his fire still smoldering faintly in his palm as he took a step forward.
Time to figure out what the hell was going on.
The square seemed almost deserted at first, the only sound coming from the soft snorts of Levin as the Pegasus pawed at the ground. Then, one by one, villagers emerged from behind doors and corners, their expressions a mix of curiosity and fear. They kept their distance, their wary gazes darting between Jackson and the magnificent creature at his side.
Jackson let the flame in his hand flicker out, raising his voice to cut through the tension. “I mean no harm,” he called out, his tone firm but measured. “I’ve been attacked while traveling and need a place to rest before continuing my journey.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The villagers exchanged glances, uncertainty etched on their faces. Jackson’s commanding presence, coupled with the sight of Levin, seemed to hold them in a mix of awe and suspicion.
Finally, a man stepped forward, clutching a staff in his weathered hands. “And why should we trust you?” he asked, his voice steady despite the question’s sharp edge. “Strangers mean trouble in times like these.”
Jackson held the man’s gaze, the authority in his stance and the steadiness of his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Because I am no stranger,” he replied. “I am Prince Jackson, and I come seeking nothing but a brief reprieve.”
The villagers gasped, their whispers growing louder. Some bowed their heads in deference, while others lingered in disbelief. Then, from the back of the crowd, an older man with a strong yet weathered frame stepped forward. His gait was slow but deliberate, his eyes sharp with recognition.
“Your Highness,” the man said, bowing deeply. “I am Farlin, leader of Zaria. Forgive the caution of my people—we are a small village unused to such visits.”
Jackson inclined his head, acknowledging the man’s words. “Your caution is understandable,” he said. “These are troubled times. If you’ll allow it, I’ll rest here for an hour before continuing my journey.”
Farlin nodded, gesturing toward a modest house at the edge of the square. “Of course, Your Highness. Please, come with me. My home is yours to use for as long as you need.”
As Jackson followed Farlin, he could feel the weight of the villagers’ stares on his back. The tension in the air remained, but the presence of their leader seemed to temper it. Levin trailed close behind, his golden-tipped wings folded neatly at his sides, a silent testament to the prince’s station.
Inside the house, Jackson ducked under the low doorway and took in his surroundings. The space was modest but well-kept, the scent of dried herbs lingering in the air. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the wooden beams.
“Sit, Your Highness,” Farlin said, motioning to a sturdy chair near the fire. Jackson hesitated for a moment before easing himself into the seat, careful not to aggravate the wound on his shoulder. The warmth of the room was welcome, though it did little to soothe the ache spreading through his arm.
Farlin knelt by his side, his gaze lingering on the bloodstain spreading across Jackson’s tunic. “Allow me to summon our healer,” he said.
Jackson waved a dismissive hand, though his voice was tinged with weariness. “There’s no need. The wound isn’t serious. I just need a moment to rest.”
But Farlin shook his head firmly. “With respect, Your Highness, it would be a dishonor to let you leave here without aid. Our healer is skilled and will tend to you quickly.”
Jackson exhaled, recognizing the futility of arguing. Villagers could be stubborn in their hospitality, and Farlin’s tone left little room for negotiation. “Very well,” he relented. “But make it quick. I cannot afford delays.”The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Farlin nodded, turning to a young man who lingered by the doorway. “Fetch Eira,” he instructed. The boy darted off without a word, and Farlin returned his attention to Jackson, a flicker of pride in his voice. “You’ll find no better healer than Eira. She’s young, but her talent is unmatched.”
Jackson arched an eyebrow but said nothing, leaning back in the chair as exhaustion crept in. He allowed his gaze to drift to the flames, the steady crackle a faint comfort as he waited.
-----------------
The sound of hurried footsteps approached the door, followed by a soft knock. Farlin glanced toward Jackson before calling out, “Come in.”
The door creaked open, and in stepped the healer. Jackson’s sharp gaze shifted to her immediately, and for a brief moment, even his weariness seemed to fade. She was younger than he had expected, no older than her early twenties, with long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders like a river of ink. Her features were striking, not in an overly delicate way, but with a quiet strength that commanded attention.
Her eyes, a piercing shade of green, swept the room briefly before settling on Jackson. She dipped her head slightly, a gesture that could have been mistaken for respect. But something in her posture—straight-backed and unwavering—suggested it wasn’t deference. It was acknowledgment, tempered with defiance, as if to say, I’ll help you, but I owe you nothing.
Jackson arched an eyebrow at the unspoken challenge, his curiosity piqued. “You must be the healer,” he said, his tone even but edged with subtle amusement.
“Yes,” she replied simply, her voice steady and devoid of the reverence most would show a prince. She stepped forward, setting a small satchel on the nearby table. “Let’s see to that wound.”
Farlin watched the exchange briefly, then excused himself to give them privacy. As the door closed behind him, the healer approached Jackson, her movements purposeful and calm. Without a word, she crouched beside him, deftly unfastening the buttons of his tunic to reveal the wound on his shoulder.
Jackson didn’t flinch, though the sting of her cool fingers against his skin sent a faint shiver down his spine. She worked efficiently, cleaning the wound with a cloth soaked in some herbal tincture. The faint, sharp scent of mint and lavender filled the air.
“You’re remarkably composed for someone who was attacked mid-air,” she remarked, her tone matter-of-fact as she examined the injury.
Jackson smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve seen worse.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and he caught a glimmer of skepticism. “I’m sure you have, Your Highness,” she said, though the title carried no particular warmth.
He chuckled softly, though it quickly turned into a grimace as she pressed against the wound. “Careful, little one,” he said, his tone teasing despite the pain.
Her hands paused briefly, and she glanced up at him again, her expression unreadable. “If you’re expecting me to fawn over you, you’ll be disappointed,” she said, returning to her task. “I’m here to patch you up, nothing more.”
Jackson’s amusement deepened, though he wisely chose not to push further. He remained silent, watching her as she worked. There was something about her—her steady hands, her calm demeanor, and that defiant edge—that tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t like the others he’d encountered in small villages. Most would stammer in awe or tremble under the weight of his title. She, on the other hand, treated him as just another patient.
The silence stretched as she wrapped a clean bandage around his shoulder, securing it with practiced efficiency. Finally, she rose to her feet, brushing her hands against her skirts. “That should hold,” she said, her voice brisk. “Don’t strain it, or you’ll reopen the wound.”
Before Jackson could respond, she picked up her satchel and turned toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me,” she added, her tone formal but clipped.
He watched her go, his brow furrowing slightly. The pull he felt was faint, a whisper at the back of his mind, but it was enough to linger. As the door clicked shut behind her, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the fire as if it held answers.
“Interesting,” he murmured under his breath, though he couldn’t decide if he was referring to her skill, her defiance, or the strange sensation she left behind.
Jackson’s gaze lingered on the door even after the healer had left, the faint tug of intrigue still brushing against his thoughts. He shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. There were more pressing matters to address. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth creeping up his uninjured side as Farlin reentered the room, his expression a careful mix of concern and curiosity.
“Feeling better, Your Highness?” the village leader asked, his voice breaking the silence.
Jackson rotated his shoulder experimentally, wincing slightly but finding the pain manageable. “Better, thanks to your healer,” he replied, though his tone was distant, his thoughts already moving ahead. “Now, tell me—what’s been happening here? I’ve heard troubling rumors, but I need specifics.”
Farlin nodded gravely, settling into the chair opposite Jackson. The flickering firelight cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines of weariness etched into his features. “It started about a fortnight ago,” he began. “Our village has always been quiet, untouched by the troubles that plague larger towns. But now…”
He trailed off, his hands clasping tightly in his lap. Jackson leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Go on.”
Farlin took a steadying breath. “We’ve been attacked. Not by bandits or raiders, but by riders on dragons.”
The words hit Jackson like a physical blow. He straightened in his chair, the casual posture he’d maintained now replaced by rigid focus. “Dragons?” he repeated, disbelief laced with alarm. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I am sitting here, Your Highness,” Farlin said, his voice firm. “They came under the cover of night. Great beasts with wings that blotted out the stars. Their riders torched our crops and stole what little livestock we had left.”
Jackson’s mind raced. Dragons were rare, their presence in the kingdom strictly limited. He knew of only two—the majestic creatures gifted by the Azov Kingdom, one ridden by his father and the other by his brother, Alex. For these attacks to involve dragons was unthinkable. Unless…
“Did you see any markings? Crests? Anything that could identify them?” Jackson asked, his voice low and urgent.
Farlin shook his head. “No, Your Highness. The riders wore dark armor, and the dragons bore no banners or symbols. It was as though they came from the shadows themselves.”
Jackson leaned back, running a hand through his hair. His father’s dragon was housed securely in the royal stables, and Alex was still in the capital, overseeing the Harvest Festival preparations. It couldn’t be them. But that left a disturbing question: where had these dragons come from?
The Azov Kingdom had always been an ally, their dragon riders bound by treaties and oaths of peace. The thought of them breaking that trust felt like a betrayal too great to fathom. And yet… the attacks were real, the threat undeniable.
“Are these attacks common?” Jackson asked, forcing himself to remain composed.
Farlin’s shoulders sagged. “They’ve been increasing. Our village isn’t the only one—Sebo and the surrounding areas have reported similar incidents. I fear it’s only a matter of time before they strike again.”
Jackson clenched his jaw, his mind churning. If these attacks were spreading, they weren’t random acts of violence—they were coordinated, deliberate. Someone was sending a message, and it wasn’t a friendly one.
Farlin’s voice softened, pulling Jackson from his thoughts. “Your Highness, I know you’ve come to investigate the rumors. I only hope you can find the truth before more innocent lives are lost.”
Jackson met the man’s gaze, his expression hardening with resolve. “I will,” he said firmly. “You have my word.”
As the fire crackled and Farlin excused himself to check on the village, Jackson remained seated, his thoughts spiraling. Dragons. The word hung in his mind like a storm cloud.
He had seen the power of dragons firsthand—the sheer force of their wings, the fire that could reduce entire fields to ash. They were creatures of legend, dangerous even under the control of skilled riders. The idea of rogue dragons, untethered by loyalty or law, was a nightmare waiting to unfold.
But who was behind this? The Azov Kingdom had long been a friend to their realm, their dragon riders bound by alliances and treaties. For them to break those bonds would mean war—a war that would devastate both sides. And yet, the evidence couldn’t be ignored.
“No,” Jackson muttered to himself, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
He couldn’t let suspicion cloud his judgment, not without proof. Whatever was happening, he needed answers. His journey to Sebo had taken on a new urgency.
Pushing himself to his feet, Jackson adjusted his tunic and glanced toward the door. The healer’s defiant eyes flashed in his mind, unbidden, but he quickly dismissed the thought. There were larger matters at hand, and distractions were a luxury he couldn’t afford.
As he strode toward the door, he paused, his hand resting on the frame. “Dragons,” he murmured under his breath, the word heavy with unspoken questions. “What in the hell is going on?”
-----------------
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the village as Jackson emerged from the leader’s home. His movements were deliberate, his body still stiff from the earlier attack. Levin stood a short distance away, the Pegasus’s sleek coat shimmering in the sunlight. Jackson’s lips twitched into a faint smile at the sight of his steadfast companion, but his gaze quickly caught on something else.
A figure stood near Levin, her long dark hair catching the light as she ran a gentle hand along the Pegasus’s neck. It was the healer, Eira. Her back was to Jackson, and she seemed unaware of his presence. Her voice, soft but audible, drifted toward him.
“You poor thing,” she murmured, her tone filled with sympathy. “Stuck with a man like him. I’d feel sorry for you too.”
Jackson froze mid-step, a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face. The corner of his mouth curved into a slow grin as he watched her, her words sharp but oddly endearing. He cleared his throat lightly, making his presence known. “It’s rude to speak about someone like that when you think they’re not listening.”
Eira jerked upright, her hand snapping away from Levin as though she’d been caught stealing. She turned quickly, her wide green eyes meeting his. For a moment, her expression was startled, but it quickly hardened into a glare. “I didn’t realize you were standing there,” she said, her voice clipped, though a faint blush betrayed her discomfort.
Jackson chuckled, his steps measured as he approached. “Clearly. Otherwise, I doubt you’d have been so honest about your opinion of me.”
Eira didn’t back away, though her posture stiffened. “It’s not an opinion if it’s true,” she shot back, folding her arms. Her defiance was palpable, her chin lifting slightly as if daring him to refute her.
Jackson’s grin widened, finding her unflinching demeanor more amusing than offensive. “Little one, you know nothing about me,” he said, stopping just a step away from her. “But if you’d like to discuss my flaws, I’d be happy to listen.”
Eira blinked, clearly caught off guard by his playful tone. She opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it. Turning on her heel, she muttered, “I’ve said enough.”
As she moved to leave, Jackson reached out and gently caught her arm, stopping her in her tracks. His touch was firm but not forceful, his voice light with teasing. “Now, now, I won’t hurt you,” he said softly, leaning closer. “But I am curious—what exactly did Levin tell you about me?”
Her glare intensified, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. “Levin didn’t need to say anything,” she said tightly, attempting to pull away.
Jackson laughed, the sound rich and warm as he released her. “You’re braver than most,” he remarked, watching her retreat. “But don’t worry. I’ve grown used to being misunderstood.”
Eira took a step back, her expression unreadable as she hesitated. For a moment, it seemed like she might say something, but instead, she turned sharply and strode away, her steps brisk. Still, just before disappearing around the corner, she glanced back at him, her green eyes lingering for the briefest of moments.
Jackson stood there for a moment, his gaze following her until she was gone. Then he turned to Levin, stroking the Pegasus’s mane with an amused smile. “What did the little one say about me, hmm?” he murmured, his tone light. Levin nudged him gently, as if sharing in the joke.
Jackson chuckled, shaking his head as he mounted the Pegasus. His mind should have been on Sebo, on the dragons, on the attack in the skies. But as they ascended into the air, a part of him couldn’t shake the memory of those defiant green eyes and the fiery spirit behind them.