Ashwing snorted softly and lowered his front leg. His body dipped just enough for Lindarion to step forward and climb onto the saddle-shaped spot just behind the horns.
The leather grip was still there. Charred and repaired half a dozen times over the years.
"Same place?" Ashwing asked, wings curling slightly with tension.
"The southern crest. The old ridge above the solar gate."
"Long flight."
"I'll make it."
He meant they.
Ashwing felt it.
The dragon didn't reply. He just took two long strides forward, wings pulsing wider with each step.
And then they leapt.
Up.
Wind hit immediately, sharp and cold, but clean. No smoke here. No blood. No echoes of crying children or bleeding soldiers. Just air. Sharp and fast.
Lindarion leaned forward, gripping with his legs, hair snapping behind him like silk on fire.
His coat flared.
His eyes narrowed.
He didn't speak again.
Didn't need to.
