The walls of the city loom far above, the mountain path winding up the slope towards the great castle. Darkness shrouds the camp set below in the cooling desert sands. Hushed voices carry throughout the camp, soldiers guarding the entrances or on patrol. Standing along the main pathways torches flicker inconspicuously. Dinner conversation can be heard through the thick drapes of the tents.

  Tahir pulls the dry fabric of his hood further down his snout, keeping his footsteps silent as he weaves between tents. He drags himself around a corner as guards stomp past, armour rattling with their footsteps. He breathes out, hushed as he recalls Bezek, his son left alone in the fortress, their home. What would happen to him if he was captured? Who would take care of him if these troops found him? Muntasir has wanted to get his talons on Bezek for years, ever since the dragonet showed his potential when sparring with Tahir. No, he can’t think about that now. He must focus on the success of the mission, not the possible outcomes of what this mission might entail. He must save his home from those who wish to destroy it. He slinks between the shadows of tents, feathered tail brushing the sand behind him to make it appear as though a large snake has passed through.

  Darkness engulfs him as he enters the largest tent set in the centre of the camp. He spots movement in the far corner, the sleeping Lord his target. A knife flashes as Tahir buries it beside the sleeping dragon’s head, pinning the note sent by Muntasir to the mat beneath.

  He can only breathe after he exits the tent, a whisper on the sand as he moves away from the guards on their regular route. He uses the shadows to avoid the eyes of watchful soldiers, dark fingers clawing at his hood and the sash tied around his shoulders. He knows his journey home will be long, as the trek up the pass is narrow and winding, barely wide enough for two dragons to walk side-by-side.

  As he discreetly trots towards the mountain, he notices the movement of torches behind him. Had the sentries spotted him? Why would they follow him? He appears to be a messenger from one of the cities, eager to be home. His normally white robes have been switched for the greys of messengers to sell the ruse. He slows to a walk, turning his head fully to face the approaching figures. One of the soldiers is a wingless, an unusual sight within the invaders' army, his long body and graceful horns plated in armour, making him look harsher than the serpentine build would normally allow. His partner is bulky, likely a hard-hitter and slower than the wingless but can easily catch up if Tahir decides to propel himself over them with his wings. The sharp spines on the soldier’s tail, shaped like a morning star, are the biggest threat to Tahir, as they can easily slice through the thin membrane of his wings and ruin his escape plan. His skills are in stealth, not combat, even with the weapons training and talon-to-talon combat sessions each member of the fortress was required to participate in.

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  “You! Halt!”

  Tahir stops, relaxing his shoulders, and opening his wings slightly in preparation for a fight. He takes note of the weapons within reach on his body, a knife strapped to his foreleg, several throwing knives in a holster beneath his sash, and the dagger strapped to his hind leg.

  “Turn and face us.”

  “What is it you want? I am returning with news from the city.” The wingless circles around to block his escape, leaving his partner to lead the interrogation.

  “Returning, eh? We saw another like you leaving the fortress at nahar. Care to explain?” The soldier’s footsteps clank as he shifts, watching his prey with wary eyes.

  “There are many of us who come and go. You should know this if you observe our actions so closely. Perhaps you saw one of my brothers?” Tahir turns to face the wingèd soldier, blade ready to drop into his talon. There is little light bar the torch the soldier carries, meaning that if Tahir puts it out, they will be left to fight by the light of the moon.

  “No. You came into our camp. The Lord spotted that feathered tail of yours. Your tracks give you away, messenger! You will come with us.” The guard drops the torch, the sand extinguishing the flames. With his back turned, the wingless pounces onto his exposed flank, dragging him to the ground. Clamping a leather strip around Tahir’s jaws, the wingless pins him. Claws dig into his wings, pulling them to his sides.

  Tahir looks up at the wingèd before him and snarls. He rolls, trying to dislodge the wingless on top of him, but the wingèd clasps his forelegs, making him freeze.

  “Time’s up, killer,” the wingless hisses in his ear, “You will be tried for your actions.” As the wingless slinks out from beneath him, the wingèd drags him back towards the camp, indifferent to the sand coating Tahir’s clothes and body. Tahir has only one thing racing through his mind: Bezek. His son would grow up without his father. Their enemy has captured him. He is unlikely to see his home again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ is his last thought before everything goes black.

  Nahar - In-world name for midday, or the peak of the sun’s path.