The stables erupted in a cacophony of sound and motion as the Reapers led their Pegasi past the trainers, hooves striking stone and wings rustling with anticipation. Hot breath clouded the air, crystallizing in the morning chill. The familiar scent of leather oil and wing balm mixed with the crisp dawn air as riders performed their pre-flight rituals with practiced efficiency.
Bren led Casia out first, the great stallion's violet and gold coat catching the light. His wings spanned the distance between riders, their membrane translucent as stained glass in the morning sun. Lamara followed, her pearl-white coat rippling as she moved, scaled wings folded tight against her sides. Behind them, Xasus's mercury-colored hide seemed to shift and flow with each step, living quicksilver in motion. The Pegasi touched noses as they gathered, a familiar greeting between old friends.
Casia flexed his leathery wings, muscles rippling beneath iridescent hide as he shook out his mane and nudged Bren with his snout. She smiled at the touch, hands moving with practiced precision over the leather straps and buckles of his flying harness. Each connection required perfect tension—too loose meant death in battle, too tight could hamper crucial movement. Her fingers traced the talons protruding from his wing tips, deadly weapons that had saved more than one rider's life in close combat. She tested each edge and joint, knowing such details often meant the difference between survival and disaster.
Valeria ran through her own checks on Lamara, testing each buckle with three sharp tugs—an old habit learned from Captain Corliss himself. Wing straps needed to be tight enough to prevent slipping in sharp turns but loose enough to allow full extension for sudden climbs. She paid special attention to the chest plate's crystal-core reinforcement, designed to protect against arrows but useless if improperly aligned.
Sam's inspection of Xasus was equally thorough, though he maintained his casual demeanor as he worked. His fingers danced across the intricate network of straps and buckles, each touch a silent communication between rider and mount. The war saddle's weight distribution had to be perfect—too far forward could strain wing muscles, too far back could slow reaction time.
"Are you ready to roll? Or do you two need a room?" Sam asked Bren, who was still checking Casia's gear with meticulous care.
"Get bent, Wells. He's the only male worth spending any time with in this palace." Bren narrowed her eyes at him before giving her mount a kiss on the nose. Valeria cracked a smile, studying her two closest friends atop their mounts—seasoned warriors beneath their constant banter.
"Are you flying or just gonna stare at us all day?" Sam called with a wink. "I know I'm good looking, but come on Vale, people are watching."
Valeria answered with a gesture that made her feelings about his vanity quite clear.
"You're not that good looking," Bren said, trotting past him. "Most women just want you because they're bored and let's face it, you're easy."
"I'm not that—" Sam paused, considering her words before shrugging. "I guess you're right. The ladies do love me."
"Get over yourself," Valeria called. "And move your ass. Everyone's going over the wall in twenty minutes."
They rode out to the platform atop the wall, joining their fellow Reapers in precise formation. Two rows of six Pegasi lined up with military precision, wing tips exactly three feet apart—close enough for mutual protection, far enough for emergency maneuvers. Front row riders sat at attention, eyes forward, while rear guards maintained calculated angles of awareness, scanning for threats even here within Centrex's walls.
Steam rose from powerful nostrils into the cold air as Captain Corliss approached, his practiced eye examining each mount and rider. His inspection was methodical, born from years of experience and loss. He checked wing strap tension, rider posture, weapon placement, and emergency release mechanisms. Each rider received the same scrutiny, from newest recruit to veteran flyer. Those who'd flown under him long enough recognized his subtle tells—the slight nod of approval, the almost imperceptible pause at a questionable strap adjustment.
As Valeria found herself counting her straps again, she remembered the day Voss had taught her the importance of those three checks. She'd been a new recruit, eager to prove herself, rushing through pre-flight inspections with youthful confidence.
"Your mount, your checks, your life," he'd said, catching her hurrying through the routine. He'd made her watch as he methodically went through every connection on Pyrris's harness. "Three times for everything. Once for the eye, once for the hand, once for the heart. Skip one, and you might not live to regret it."
Later that same day, she'd watched him save a fellow recruit whose careless check had left a buckle loose. Voss had somehow spotted the failing strap from thirty feet away, managing to position Pyrris perfectly as the young rider fell. If he'd been a second slower, if his own gear hadn't been perfectly maintained for quick maneuvering...
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The lesson had stayed with her, becoming as much a part of her as flying itself. Three checks. Always three checks.
"Keep your formations tight. Watch your wingmen and do not engage. This is surveillance only." Corliss's rough voice carried across the platform. "It's a six-hour ride to the site, so be ready for the journey." The scars around his eye seemed more prominent in the morning light, a reminder to all of what happened when missions went wrong. "Remember your training. Remember your distances. And remember—one mistake up there isn't just your life."
Valeria and the other three point riders moved their mounts forward to take the leap from the platform. Voss sat atop Pyrris, whose ancient copper scales caught the morning light like autumn leaves in wind. The old rider's face bore the marks of countless flights, weather-worn and lined with experience. He had taken Valeria under his wing when she'd first joined the Reapers, spending evenings teaching her the intricate maneuvers she'd struggled to master.
Kestrel guided Tempris forward with sharp commands, her dark hair braided tight against her skull in elaborate warrior knots. The storm-grey Pegasus's muscles rippled with barely contained energy, matching his rider's aggressive nature. Both mount and rider were known for their lightning-quick attacks and fierce diving charges that had earned them as many reprimands as victories.
Reyna positioned Valkyra with tactical precision, the silver-dappled mare's wings folded with military exactness. Her ice-blue eyes scanned the horizon as she adjusted her sword belt, everything about both mount and rider speaking of calculated power. They commanded their squad through strict discipline and unflinching determination, a reputation that had earned them both respect and fear among the ranks.
"Your mother would be proud," Voss said quietly as he guided Pyrris alongside Lamara. His words carried that familiar weight - decades of experience wrapped in simple truth. "She had the same look before missions. Like she could see straight through the horizon."
Valeria's hand moved unconsciously to her father's pendant, her shoulders tensing at the mention of her mother. The memory of her final flight over Ashemel still haunted Valeria's dreams - the way her formation had disappeared into the clouds, never to return. Her mother had taught her everything about flying before she died, and Voss had carried on those lessons, turning grief into purpose with each training session.
Voss noticed the shift in her posture, the way her fingers tightened on Lamara's reins. A rare smile crossed his weathered face, gentle with understanding. "Three checks on every strap. Eyes always scanning. The way you hold your reins - that's all her."
Before Valeria could respond, Kestrel cut in with her usual sharp tone. "Save the history lessons for the ground, old man. We've got formations to maintain."
Voss just chuckled, guiding Pyrris back to position with practiced ease. But his words hung in the air, adding another weight to Valeria's shoulders as they prepared to launch.
"Squads!" The four point riders called in unison, their mounts pawing at the platform's edge with anticipation. "To the sky!"
The launch was a symphony of movement. Hooves thundered against stone as the Pegasi charged forward, their powerful legs driving them toward the platform's edge. Wings snapped open in sequence, first the point riders, then their flanking squadrons, creating waves of color against the morning sky. The sound of two dozen sets of wings catching the wind echoed off Centrex's walls as the formations took shape.
The formations shifted as they passed over the first mountain range outside Centrex. Massive crystal peaks rose like teeth from ancient stone, their faces fracturing sunlight into rainbow shards across the riders. Some of the newer recruits tensed as they navigated the winds that whipped between the spires, but the point riders held steady, years of experience keeping their mounts on course.
"Watch the crosswinds through Crystal Pass," Reyna called back, Valkyra's wings adjusting with minute precision. "The drafts can turn fatal in seconds."
Valeria remembered her first flight through these mountains, how the sudden gusts had nearly torn her from Lamara's back. But Voss had drilled them relentlessly in these conditions, until responding to the mountain's moods became as natural as breathing.
Below them, the remnants of old battles scarred the valleys - scorched earth where soldiers had fallen, clearings too perfectly circular to be natural, places where crystal arrows had turned the very ground to glass. Most citizens of Centrex would never see these wounds in the land, these memories written in stone and soil. But the Reapers knew - they carried these maps in their blood, passed down through generations of riders.
The world transformed beneath them as they left Centrex behind. The stark metal and steel of the city gave way to vibrant forests and crystal-clear rivers, a tapestry of colors that most citizens would never witness. While those below knew only the perpetual haze of forge smoke and the endless ring of hammers on anvils, the Reapers saw the world as it truly was—wild, beautiful, and far more complex than the stories told within Centrex's walls.
The contrast hit Valeria every time they flew beyond the wall. Inside Centrex, everything obeyed strict rules of function—metal forged into weapons, trees cut for construction, rivers diverted for power. But out here, nature ruled with magnificent chaos. Colors seemed sharper, the air cleaner, even the sunlight felt different as it filtered through leaves instead of smoke. Sometimes she wondered if keeping their people locked behind walls of steel and crystal was truly protecting them, or simply hiding them from truths they weren't ready to face.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Kestrel's voice cut through the wind. "Second and third formations, spread wider. We're too bunched up for this altitude." Tempris banked sharply to demonstrate, his storm-grey wings catching a thermal that lifted him higher. The squadrons adjusted their positions with practiced ease, though Valeria noticed some of the newer riders struggling to maintain the precise spacing.
Reyna guided Valkyra into a smooth glide beside them, her methodical gaze sweeping the expanded formation. "Better. Remember your training. Up here, discipline is survival." Even her voice carried the same measured control as her flying style, each word chosen with tactical precision.
From his position near the rear guard, Voss watched them all with the patient eyes of a veteran. Pyrris's copper scales shimmered as they caught another thermal, the ancient Pegasus requiring minimal guidance from his experienced rider. They'd seen countless missions together, survived situations that had become training lessons for younger riders.
Sam leaned forward in his saddle, patting Xasus's neck as they maintained their position at Valeria's left flank. "Six hours of this," he called over the wind. "Think Bren packed enough chicken?"
Bren's response was lost to the wind, but her rude gesture told them all they needed to know. Even here, miles above the ground and heading into potential danger, their familiar dynamics remained unchanged. It was one of the things that made them such an effective team—complete trust masked by constant banter.
As Centrex disappeared behind them, swallowed by distance and morning haze, Valeria felt the familiar tension settle into her shoulders. Lamara's wings beat harder against the wind, carrying them toward Ashemel and whatever waited in the shadows of those ancient forests. Something about this mission felt different, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the way the morning light caught her father's iron pendant, or how the wind seemed to whisper warnings she couldn't quite hear.
Whatever waited ahead, they would face it together, as they always had. But as the last glimpse of Centrex's metal spires faded into the distance, Valeria couldn't shake the feeling that this mission was different.