Page 27 of Cursed with the Dragon Prince
He nods, leaving his webbed wings wide. His brow furrows as he nods, settling his hand on my shoulder as we stand face to face.
I relax my neck, releasing tension through my shoulders. All I have to do is surrender—my wings are cramped and fervent. Wisp’s reassuring calm wraps around my chest and radiates up my shoulders until I become so light, I rise to my tiptoes.
Exhaling, I settle, and the sensation sighs out of me, rippling down my back. My wings expand.
They rustle, rushing, eager to stretch
They extend too far.
My wingtips press against the cavern’s wall, but I can’t stop. They’re still expanding, my wingspan much larger than I expected.
The force of it pushes me off balance. Already on my toes, it’s easy to stumble. I stagger, tottering over the ledge. I’m falling…
down…
down…
down…
I close in on the jagged rocks, already wincing. In my eagerness to spread my wings, I didn’t think about how to wield their power.
Desperate, I try holding them wide—the wind rushes against them, and I want to soar—but I’m caught in a nosedive and can’t find lift.
“Tighten your core. Arch your back,” Drakon commands.
I do as he says, and while my fall slows, I’m still crashing. The rocks seem bigger this close, the lava hotter.
Drakon wraps his arms around me, and I stop just above ground. The rocks shine in the sunlight as I celebrate my escape. He lifts me up, supporting me, until we’re suspended in the center of our protected canyon.
I’m safe.
My breath heaves and body shakes. Nothing like a death-defying fall to invigorate every cell of my being. My throat rumbles, and suddenly I’m laughing.
That was…thrilling.
“Careful,” Drakon chides.
I might be laughing, but he’s clearly not.I scared him. His seriousness settles me, and my laughter stills. I steady myself in his arms, my feet dangling as my slackened wings depend on his support.
We’re stationary upon the air, and I see my wings are shades of purple, complementing the royal purples and light pink hues of my scales. The ribbing is dark and moody, the webbing vibrant.
Scales, wings, and a torn, gossamer skirt—what would my family say if they saw me liberated this way? This transformation has cemented the space between us.
Grief chokes through me, making me shudder as loss cycles through me. My heart pulses, the emotions mingling throughout my blood until a screaming sob wrenches from my throat.
I howl, alive and dead and reborn.
Through it all, Drakon holds me. He’s not afraid of my screaming, and it’s a relief to no longer screech into my pillow. As screams turn to sobs, he waits, supporting me over black rocks that shimmer and lava that hisses.
My outrage becomes determination, and I flick my wings, turning them up and out, twisting down and low. Every movement is work, and often, my body doesn’t quite obey, but the effort of learning focuses me.
Drakon seems encouraged, and he returns me to the ledge of our cavern. He stays in the air, holding a position opposite me, and we face each other—me on earth and him on air—as he reviews wing positions.
Some postures are better for lifting, others for gliding. He shows me how to turn, practicing left and then right. We practice from the safety of the ledge, and I mirror his movements, tweaking until he’s satisfied. We build a routine, exercising my wings from one posture to the next, and I memorize them in my body.
Soon he adds another exercise, telling me to shift, pulling the wings in and out, practicing changing my body on command. I expand and contract, my wingtips brushing against the cavern’s wall as I learn my wingspan.
It tries my patience, the fatigue and repetition—the constantly getting somethingwrong—but the promise of flight is enchanting. The work is our distraction from the silent clan.
