Chapter 1

  The Hall of Bonds smelled like wet stone and the sweat of forty-two people trying not to move. I stood on the third podium from the left. The wood, worn and pale from hundreds of predecessors, creaked under my weight. The hall was carved into the mountain, and shadows hid the ceiling. Its slick walls had condensation streaming down in thin, crooked lines that pooled at the bottom. I could feel the coldness of the floor through my boots.

  Forty-two podiums in a wide crescent meant forty-two first-years waiting to be chosen by a griffin. The instructors said the griffins would come through the eastern arch, walk the crescent, and when one stopped at your podium, you would kneel. An old and sacred process that had never changed since the first Sun riders had come into existence.

  I picked the callus on my thumb, observing its arch. Half the hall kept stealing glances at me. The king's daughter had enrolled at the Riders Academy. A boy, two podiums away, whispered to the girl next to him. She covered her mouth and laughed as she looked at me. I pressed my thumbnail into the callus until the skin turned white.

  "Stand straight." The instructor's voice bounced off the stone walls. She was stocky, grey-haired, with a scar that pulled the left side of her mouth into a permanent frown. "Arms at your sides, eyes forward. The griffins will not approach you if you fidget." I dropped my hands.

  The eastern arch illuminated with a warm, thick light as the first griffin emerged. All voices in the hall fell silent. It appeared smaller than I had anticipated, with tawny feathers edged in gold and a sleek, low-moving feline body. Its flat amber eyes seemed to see everything and nothing at once. Talons clicked softly on the stone as it moved along the crescent, passing first and second on the podium.

  It brushed past me, but I stayed still, keeping my face neutral. I kept my arms by my sides and my chin level. I watched the Griffin halt four podiums away, in front of a tall, dark-haired boy. The boy knelt as if he'd practiced it countless times. The griffin pressed its beak against his chest. He exhaled softly. The moment was over.

  The second griffin arrived, followed by the third, each unique in appearance. One had feathers so dark they seemed wet; another was pale and heavy-boned with a scarred beak. They moved through the hall with the slow disinterest of animals accustomed to this routine. One by one, they selected their targets. The girl two podiums to my right was chosen, as was the boy who had been whispering. The surrounding podiums emptied, and I stood on my worn wooden circle, waiting.

  Twelve griffins passed. Then fifteen. Twenty.

  My thumb was bleeding, though I hadn't noticed when the callus tore. A thin line of blood streaked toward my wrist, prompting me to curl my fingers into my palm to prevent it from dripping onto the podium. The last griffin entered through the eastern arch. It was lanky, with a notched ear and dull, faded feathers. It looked at the six of us still there. Six podiums remained. The griffin tilted its head, examined us with one yellow eye, then turned and left the way it came. The hall's silence shifted, becoming that tense kind just before someone says something nobody wants to hear. The instructor stepped forward, "Step down. Those not chosen in the first bonding will be reassigned to ground support roles pending secondary assessment."

  Ground support, steady hands, armor polishers, the ones who never left the dirt. I stepped down from the podium, my legs stiffening as the stone floor jolted up through my knees. The five others who weren't chosen already headed toward the western exit, a girl with red-rimmed eyes and a boy whose lips were pressed so tightly they turned colorless. I followed them, keeping my back straight, pressing my bleeding thumb against my trousers' seam, avoiding eye contact, because I knew exactly what they were thinking.

  The king's daughter. Not even a griffin wanted her.

  The rider garden wasn't a traditional garden but a spacious courtyard with packed earth and grey stone, enclosed by low walls and open to the sky. Some trees had been planted along the edge but were battered to one side by the mountain wind, looking nearly dead. Stone benches lined the walls, and a rusty crank well sat near the center. A long wooden rack with practice lances chained at the hafts, their chains rusted and orange. This was the only place where sun riders and moon riders shared space; elsewhere, a barrier kept them apart. Here, the air felt normal, no static on your skin, no muffled sounds, and no strange light distortion, just a courtyard with poorly shaped trees and rusty chains.

  After the ceremony, the chosen riders had been led here, but I was not meant to be among them. Ground support candidates were supposed to report to a building on the academy's east side, but I ignored the turn and kept walking. No one stopped me or showed enough concern to intervene. I sat on a stone bench near the wall, feeling the cold grit through my trousers. I pressed my thumb against my knee; the blood crusted at the edges of the tear, but the center remained raw, and the pressure made it sting, giving me something to focus on. Around me, first-years clustered in groups, their voices high and rapid with excitement from being chosen. Some already had griffins with them, perched on low walls or pacing in tight circles as they adjusted to new bonds. One girl had her face buried in her griffin's feathers, laughing and crying simultaneously. I looked away from her.

  The moon riders were on the far side of the courtyard, easily distinguished even without their uniforms. Their animals differed notably: they rode winged wolves, most crowned with elk horns that arched back in broad, bony curves. These wolves were larger than griffins and moved very differently, sturdy shoulders, thick limbs built for stamina, with wings folded close to their sides like packed sails. They also had a distinctive smell, ranging from the sharp musk of damp fur to a metallic scent hidden underneath, reminiscent of old blood or rusted iron.

  I was watching the wolves when I heard him.

  "Your seat is wrong."

  The voice was quiet and effortless, belonging to a young man standing near the practice lance rack. He looked down at a girl seated on the back of a young, winged wolf. The wolf was still juvenile, with tiny horns barely grown, shifting unsteadily like an untrained horse. The girl's hands clenched the saddle’s front, her fingers white from tension. The man stood with arms relaxed at his sides. Tall, dark-skinned, and lean, not from youth but from years of training. His head was closely shaved. His jaw was sharp and firm. He wore the moon rider uniform, but made different from the others’, a darker fabric, a tighter fit, with three small, stitched marks at his collar indicating third-year rank.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "You're sitting too far back on the cantle," he said coldly. "Your center of gravity is behind the wing joint. Every time he banks, you slide. When you slide, you grip with your knees. When you grip, you pinch the girth strap. When you pinch the girth strap, he bucks." He paused, and the silence was more intense than the words. "When he bucks at altitude, they don't recover the body, they recover what's left of it." The girl on the wolf made a small, strained sound. "Move your seat forward. Now." She didn’t move; her arms trembled visibly, even from twenty paces. He stepped closer. "Move forward or get off. I don't train people who can't handle simple corrections."

  I stood up instinctively, acting without hesitation. My legs carried me past the ground support building, the turn I was meant to take, and every exit I could have used that day. I crossed the courtyard with my torn thumb throbbing and my pulse pounding in my ears. I had no plan, only the image of that girl's white knuckles and the man towering over her, as if she were something he was uncertain whether to save or discard. "She heard you."

  He turned, and his eyes swept over me in a quick glance. My face and sun faction uniform came into view, with dried brown blood on the seam of my trousers. "The entire courtyard heard you," I said. "She's a first-year and has only been on that wolf for five minutes."

  "And?" The word was flat.

  "And maybe you could give her more than five minutes before you start listing ways she could die."

  He looked at me. His expression remained steady, but something behind his eyes shifted. "Should I tell her she's doing well?" he asked. "Should I give her a moment to build her confidence? Let her develop bad muscle memory in a harness she doesn't understand, on an animal that could kill her if she loads its wing incorrectly at speed?" He tilted his head slightly. "Is that your professional advice?"

  "My suggestion is to stop terrorizing her."

  "I'm correcting her. You'd know the difference if you knew anything about riding."

  The sound of my boot on the courtyard ground echoed as I shifted my weight and the wind carried a sharp scent of wolf musk between us. The wolf behind him tossed its head, snorting, a strand of saliva hitting the packed earth near my foot. "I can tell when someone is scared," I said.

  “Good. She ought to be afraid.” He kept his gaze steady. "Fear keeps first-years alive during orientation. Comfort can be deadly. Do you know how many riders we lost in first flight drills last year? Four. Want to know what they had in common?" He paused for emphasis. "Instructors who were too gentle with them."

  I opened my mouth, but he spoke first. "You're sun faction," he said. "You ride griffins. Griffins are forgiving because their flight mechanics are symmetrical, with equal wing load and thrust distribution. A griffin can carry a terrible rider and still compensate, making a poor student appear competent." His eyes locked onto mine. "Winged wolves, however, don't compensate. An asymmetric load at high speed causes the animal to roll. If her seat is misaligned by two inches, the wolf can invert, and the harness might fail. She would fall." He paused and added, "From that height, it takes about four seconds to fall. That's not enough time to scream."

  He glanced at the empty clip on my belt where a griffin's lead harness should have been. "So, when I tell her to move her seat," he said, "I need her to actually move. I don't need a sun rider with no mount and no standing here to tell me how to manage my riders."

  No mount.

  "I," I said. The word lingered in the silence between us. He had already resumed his attention on the girl on the wolf. "Two inches forward. Slide your hips. Hands where they are." The girl moved slightly. It was a subtle shift, but it was enough to make the wolf stop fidgeting. Its weight settled into its haunches, and its wings, which had been half-raised and twitching, folded neatly against its ribs.

  There. His voice remained steady, though his words slightly eased. "Winged wolves gauge pressure through the saddle. Sitting too far back shifts the weight behind the wing joint, which the animal interprets as a command to climb. Meanwhile, your hands on the cantle signal hold. These conflicting commands trigger panic." He laid his hand flat on the wolf's side, and the animal grew still under his touch. "The correction takes two seconds; the crash happens faster. That's why I don't ask gently." He looked at me again, and I was still standing silently, arms at my sides, my bleeding thumb, with nothing to respond. He seemed to know I had no words, and his face showed he had probably known before I even opened my mouth.

  "You're the king's daughter," he said.

  "Lynith," I said.

  "I know your name," he said while looking at me. "Risol, third year, with the Moon faction, and three consecutive Riders Cup victories. I mention this so you realize I don't need your advice on training my riders."

  Everyone at the academy knew the name: Risol, the moon rider who had secured the Cup three years in a row on a winged wolf, despite the sun faction's griffins being faster, more agile, and superior in every way. He was the moon riders' response to every dismissal, budget cut, and council vote that marginalized them. His victories weren't just wins; they were symbols of leverage. I had walked across a courtyard to confront him about his technique, without a mount, a bond, or any credentials that would make him take me seriously. My face reddened; the heat from embarrassment started at my jaw and spread upwards, an uncontrollable flush. "Right," I muttered, the only word I could summon.

  He didn't acknowledge it and was already facing the girl again. "When I say bank left, shift your weight into your left hip, not your knee, your hip. The saddle transmits pressure through the stirrup plate to the girth. The wolf senses the shift and adjusts its bank angle. Ready?" The girl nodded, appearing pale, but her grip on the saddle had slightly loosened. The wolf turned its head to her with one light eye, and she met its gaze steadily. He had terrified her but also fixed her. The entire exchange lasted less than a minute.

  I paused for a moment, counting to three, then turned and walked back across the courtyard. The packed earth crunched under my boots as I sat on my bench. The stone felt cold, and grit pressed into my palms as I gripped the edge. I pushed my thumb against my knee, feeling the raw, torn callus pulse in sync with my heartbeat. Across the courtyard, Risol guided the girl through a series of weight shifts, his voice sharp and clipped: Drop your left shoulder. More. Hold. The wolf moved slowly beneath her in gentle arcs. She was attentive. He instructed her to release the cantle with her right hand, which she did. The wolf banked, and she stayed on. He didn’t look back at me.

  I remained seated for a while, observing shadows glide across the courtyard walls as the sun moved. I watched the first year with their new griffins, gently stroking feathers and murmuring names. I glanced at my hands, one clean, the other streaked with blood. The harness clip on my belt hung empty at my hip, and each time I shifted, I felt it tap against the leather, serving as a subtle, constant reminder of what I lacked.

  Candidates for ground support needed to assemble at the east building before sundown. They would bring a cot, a uniform, and a mop, essentially a secure place in the margins where the king's unbonded daughter could be kept without shame. I pressed my thumbnail into the raw spot where my callus had once been. The pain was sharp, but I stayed seated, deliberately avoiding standing or walking toward the east building. I held my ground.

  Welcome to Sun Rider!

  This is a story I’ve been crafting for a while, and I’m so excited to finally share Lynith’s journey with the Royal Road community. If you enjoy royal underdogs, deadly academies, and unique bonds, you’re in the right place.

  

  Launch Week Schedule: Chapters 2 & 3 are coming up next! If you like what you see, please consider hitting Follow, it helps a lot during these first few days.

  

  Thanks for reading!