Irmin adjusted her grip on Berthold’s reins, the worn leather familiar against her calloused palms.
Below, the Imperial courtyard teemed with nobles in finery, jewels catching the light amid a sea of emerald and jade.
Beneath her, Berthold shifted, his muscles bunching as his scarred wings stretched wide, their black scales edged with red like cooling embers. Through their bond, she felt his eagerness thrum—a crackle of anticipation that mirrored the quickening beat of her own pulse.
“Steady,” she said, though the warning was more for herself than her mount. The weight of tradition bore down on her, heavier than her ceremonial armour. Fifty years since her father’s birth, and now his naming day celebration would showcase the Ostreich Kingdom’s might to all who watched. Including those who might wish it harm.
A shadow passed overhead, then Sergeant Wulfram’s wyvern drew alongside, its bronze scales catching the sun. “Squadron’s in position, Commander.”
Irmin nodded, studying the formation with a critical eye. Five pairs of riders and mounts hovered in perfect alignment, their shadows painting dark crosses on the courtyard stones. Each rider sat straight-backed, armour gleaming, every detail precise. As it should be. “Begin the display. Standard sequence.”
From her mind, she fed Berthold the pattern—an intricate dance of loops and dives perfected over countless hours of training. His approval rumbled through his chest, a deep vibration she felt in her bones.
The first notes of the Imperial anthem rose from below, carried on the breeze.
Irmin raised her arm, the signal to begin.
The sun caught the etched surface of her vambrace—a gift from her father on the day she’d earned her command.
As one, the squadron dived.
Wind whipped at Irmin’s face as Berthold led the formation into a tight spiral. The crowd’s gasps faded beneath the rush of air and the steady beat of wings as the ground blurred below.
They pulled up sharply, climbing until the air grew thin and cold enough to sting.
At the apex, Berthold tucked his wings and rolled, the rest of the squadron mirroring the movement in perfect synchronisation. The manoeuvre would look like a blooming flower from below.
Through gaps in the formation, Irmin glimpsed the Imperial dais. Her father sat straight-backed on the Ravenglass Throne, every inch the King, even after three decades of rule.
They were approaching the finale—the most dangerous segment of the choreography.
“Squadron, prepare for cross-formation,” she commanded through the bond network that connected all riders and mounts.
The squadron split into two groups, banking hard in opposite directions. They would cross paths at high speed, close enough for their wing tips to nearly touch. Even the slightest miscalculation would spell disaster.
Berthold’s excitement spiked through their connection. This was what they lived for—the razor’s edge between control and chaos.
The formations converged.
“Three…two…one…”
A crack split the air.
For a heartbeat, Irmin thought someone had mistimed the fireworks. But fireworks didn’t make people scream. Fireworks didn’t leave bodies crumpled on the courtyard stones.
More cracks followed—crossbow bolts.
“Protect the civilians!” Irmin shouted through the chaos. The squadron responded instantly, banking to form a protective circle above the panicking masses.
Below, figures in servants’ livery converged on the dais. Steel glinted in their hands. The Imperial guards moved to intercept, but they were outnumbered.
“Berthold!” They dived as one, his roar scattering those in their path. The wind of their descent sent banners snapping.
Mid-descent, Irmin drew her ravenglass sword.
She leaped from Berthold’s back while he was still airborne, using the momentum to drive her sword through the first assassin’s chest. The blade caught on bone, forcing her to abandon it as she rolled to avoid another attacker’s knife.
“Father! Get back!”
But her father stood his ground, drawing his own ceremonial sword. Its black form seemed to drink in the light as he parried a blow, his movements still graceful after all these years.
A flash of movement drew her eye. Another assassin, approaching from her father’s blind side—the blade already drawn back to strike.
“No!”
She sprinted forward, but bodies pressed between them—guards, assassins, panicking nobles.
Every step felt like wading through mud.
Every heartbeat stretched through time.
The assassin’s blade plunged into her father’s side.
Time fractured.
The King’s face showed more surprise than pain.
He looked at Irmin, his lips moving to form words she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.
Then he fell.
Berthold’s roar shook the courtyard. His massive form dropped from above, and he pinned one of the fleeing assassins beneath his claws.
Blood welled around his talons as he pressed down. The wyvern’s thoughts crashed into Irmin’s mind, heavy with the scent of betrayal.
“This wasn’t random,” he growled, his voice like stones grinding together. “The stench of treachery is thick.”
Irmin spun, taking in the scene with new eyes. Most of the nobles had fled, but a few remained, watching the chaos unfold.
She stalked towards the pinned assassin and closed her hand around a fallen dagger.
The weapon bore an intricate sigil she recognised. She knew it from countless court functions and council meetings, and it had no business being in an assassin’s possession.
The mark of House Darius.
Irmin’s fingers tightened around the hilt until her knuckles whitened. This was more than an assassination. More than a simple bid for power.
This was the beginning of a civil war.
Above, her squadron maintained their protective formation, but Wulfram’s wyvern descended. “Commander, we need to get you out of here,” he said. “Now. Before they realise what you’ve found.”
She looked at her father’s body, already being covered by royal guards, and at the dagger in her hand, its sigil damning in the morning light.
“No.” Her voice came out steady, despite the rage burning in her chest. “We’re not going anywhere. This ends now.”
Berthold’s approval blazed like fire. They had trained for war their entire lives. Had prepared for every contingency, every possible threat to the Kingdom.
They’d just never expected to fight it at home.
The assassin beneath Berthold’s claws laughed, blood staining his teeth. “You’ve already lost, Commander. The old order dies today.”
Berthold’s claws tightened. The man’s laughter turned to screams.
“Berthold.” Irmin’s quiet voice cut through the sound. “We need him alive.”
The wyvern growled but eased his grip. “For now.”
Irmin kneeled beside the assassin, holding the sigil-marked dagger so he could see it. “Tell me who gave you this,” she said.
“You know who.” His eyes gleamed with fanatic fervour. “The weak must fall. The Kingdom must be cleansed.”
“The Kingdom must be preserved.” Irmin narrowed her eyes. “And it will be, once traitors like you are dealt with.”
Movement caught her attention. Imperial guards were spreading through the courtyard, securing the area.
“Wulfram!” she called. “Get the squadron into defensive positions. No one leaves the courtyard without being searched.”
Her second-in-command’s wyvern banked sharply, relaying orders to the rest of the formation. They moved with practised efficiency, creating a barrier of wings and teeth above the chaos below.
Irmin stood, her mind racing. She needed to secure the assassin, warn the Imperial guard about Darius’s involvement, find her sisters…
“One thing at a time,” Berthold said, his thoughts steady against the storm of her own. “We can’t fight everyone at once.”
He was right, of course. Strategy had never been her strong suit—she preferred direct action, immediate solutions. But this situation required more than brute force.
She touched the hilt of her father’s sword, still clasped in his lifeless hand. The weight of it, of all it represented, settled onto her shoulders.
Her father was dead.
The King was dead.
And he had not chosen a successor.
“Secure the prisoner,” she ordered the nearest guards. “Take him to the high cells. No one speaks to him without my direct authorisation.”
The guards saluted, dragging the assassin away. Berthold’s wings mantled, casting a shadow over Irmin as she kneeled beside her father’s body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have been faster. Should have seen this coming.”
But recriminations wouldn’t change what had happened. Wouldn’t bring him back. All she could do now was ensure his death meant something.
She stood, her hand still gripping the dagger.
She pulled her sword free from an assassin’s body, wiped its blade, and sheathed it.
Around her, the courtyard continued to churn with activity—guards securing the area, healers tending the wounded, nobles being escorted to safety.
And somewhere in the chaos, traitors walked free.
“Sound general quarters,” she told Wulfram. “I want every rider in the air within the hour. No one enters or leaves Reichsherz without our knowledge.”
War had come to the Kingdom. Not from outside forces, but from within.
Irmin mounted Berthold, feeling his muscles coil beneath her. Together, they rose above the courtyard, above the spreading ripples of chaos that would soon engulf the Kingdom.
The time for ceremonies was over.
