Wake up.

  Syra roused to human screaming and the encroaching ripples of firelight on water. Her wings twitched and strained to unfurl, but buckled as her muscles gave out. Shit. With a groan, she heaved her mana forward. A thin barrier just wide enough for her head flickered, then shattered on impact.

  Air shot from her lungs. The chilling water sucked the heat from her limbs, and she sank. Around her, the water vibrated as the crash of falling debris. Even underwater, the sound of rubble and screaming filled her ears. She craned her head upwards, twisting until her claws scraped the muddy bed. With little air left, she stretched out her wings and launched herself upwards like a swimming bat.

  As her snout broke the surface, her nostrils stung of smoke and burnt wood. She huffed, spat, and dragged herself from the water to find herself lying springside of the academy pond. Evening sunlight filtered through the haze and her eyes froze on the ruinous structure at the far end of the pond–on its familiar rows of windows below gold-tipped towers. But now, half of the academy’s dormitory wing lay scattered in the streets or underwater. And in front of her, at a mockingly close distance, their maple tree lay broken and burnt under Marrak’s scaly, crumpled mass.

  Syra instinctively flattened herself against the bank, but her breaths still came heavy and loud. She sharpened her vision against the mist for signs of movement, but not even steam rose from his body this time.

  Her muscles threatened to relax, but she continued to scan his shadowed form for any stubborn flickers of crystal light. Still, nothing. No light. And no breathing.

  Did…did that actually do it? Was that fall enough? With his bulk, his landing must’ve been brutal.

  The details were hard to distinguish through the fading drizzle, but his ribcage flexed and bowed in the wrong directions, and she could smell his blood on the grass. All along his spine and flank, a branching gash splintered his scaly hide like bark from a tree, leaving it to ooze over exposed bone and charred muscle.

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  That must’ve been from the lightning strike.

  The scent soured her tongue and stomach, and a wave of guilt and grief panged her chest. Was that how Mother died? She recalled a similar scene in her mother’s memories as she now faced the fallen form of her mentor. Her throat tightened and she clenched her jaw against the cry bubbling up inside.

  He deserved it, right? She let her head fall as she gasped and hissed at the memories of head pats and fiery blows battling in her mind. He started this–he started a war. We had to stop him…I had to stop him. He wouldn’t listen. But neither did I. All he wanted me to do was listen! But would that have mattered? Would that have changed anything? People were already dying–or dead! And he almost killed–shit. Petra…Cassius! I have to get back!

  “Syra!” Aidan’s voice cut through the pounding in her head.

  She whipped her head around to see a faint glint of light cast upon the rumble as the scuffle of boots grew louder.

  “Over here!” Her throat burned but hearing him grunt and heave past the wreckage made her chest just a breath lighter. He’s alive.

  “It's okay, I'm fine!” She forced herself to her feet and limped along the bank, her fractured wing tucked against her side.

  “Don't move, I'm coming!” With a chorus of groaning, Aidan appeared from behind the shifting wood and stone with several soldiers in tow. One particular burly redhead with hands for both a longsword and healing hurried after Aidan with a Southwater green witch on his heels.

  Syra’s face cracked with joy, “Rimmel! Nelly!”

  Their eyes shot wide at the sight of her, but Rimmel quickly held up a firm fist as they rushed around the pond.

  “All eyes on the downed one! Surround him, but maintain distance!” Rimmel commanded the war mages behind him.

  “And you sit right there, you hear!” Nelly called out to Syra, her face covered in dirt and sweat. “That wing looks nasty.”

  Syra winced as a chuckle escaped her throat. You should see the burns. Warmth returned to her chest as she watched her best friend rush to her like she did the first time Marrak attacked–a budding apprentice with arms full of blankets and bandages. But this time, her face was fierce, battled hardened, and her hair slicked back with blood-streaked sweat.

  Syra ached to collapse and fall asleep to Nelly's gentle tending, even if it meant a harsh scolding later. But her promise to Petra screamed in her ears, and she pushed past the wave of exhaustion and continued her forward hobbling. But as a cloud passed over the sunset, a shimmer under Marrak’s dark hide made Syra’s body freeze. She tilted her head and leered down into the crater around Marrak’s head. Smushed into the mud but as clear as the evening star from this angle, the edge of a single shard flickered in dim defiance.