Chapter 3
The scarred instructor approached us before breakfast. There were six of us, the same six who had stepped down from the podiums in the bonding hall, minus whatever dignity we had brought in. We waited in a loose line outside the mess hall while the aroma of porridge and hot bread wafted in from the door. The instructor surveyed us as a woman might look at a pile of clothes she’s been told to mend, but she doubted they were worth the effort. "The academy allows one second chance at bonding," she said. "It is tradition, not generosity. The difference is important." She paused to let this sink in. "Up north, in the mountains, the academy has a nesting ground where griffin eggs are laid each season. You’ll climb to the nest, select an egg, and bring it back. If the egg hatches and the griffin accepts you, you bond. If it doesn’t, you report to ground support. There will be no third try."
The boy next to me, who appeared unwell in the bonding hall, shifted his weight. The girl with red-rimmed eyes looked down at the floor. "The climb is steep. The altitude is tough. The nesting ground is exposed and guarded by wild griffins, who protect their clutch. Do not approach a guarded nest directly. If a wild griffin charges, drop the egg and run. Eggs can be replaced, but you cannot." She looked at each of us in turn. Her gaze paused on me just as long as on the others. "You must leave through the northern gate in one hour. You have until sundown." Then she walked away.
I stood in the corridor, my hands blistered and my knees sore, with the stale taste of sleep still lingering in my mouth. My stomach was empty, and my back ached from two nights spent on stone. The cloth around my thumb was stiff with dried blood. The boy beside me exhaled and said, "Second chance," to no one in particular. I didn't respond. I headed to the mess hall, ate a bowl of porridge so quickly I burned my tongue, and then went to the northern gate.
The trail was cut into the mountainside like a scar, narrow and precarious. In some sections, it was no wider than my shoulders, with the rock face pressing against my left and a drop into a grey mist and distant trees on my right. Rope guides were embedded into the stone at intervals, and I grasped them tightly as I climbed. The rough, cold ropes bit into the raw skin of my palms, and my blisters from the wire brush hadn't healed. By the second switchback, new friction had opened two blisters, and I could feel fresh blood between my fingers and the rope. As we ascended, the air grew thinner, I felt it first in my lungs, then in my legs. Each breath was half-empty, and my thighs burned with a persistent, slow ache that didn’t ease when I stopped. A wind from the north picked up, carrying the scent of rock dust and snow, and pushed against my chest like a hand.
An instructor accompanied us, a quiet young man wearing a climbing harness over his uniform and carrying a rope coiled at his hip. He stayed at the back and offered no encouragement. The six of us climbed in silence. The boy who previously looked ill in the bonding hall led at the front, moving quickly and pulling himself up steeper sections with surprising efficiency. The girl with red-rimmed eyes was at the rear, breathing heavily and pausing every few minutes to press her hands against her knees. The remaining three stayed in the middle.
I moved upward between them, focusing only on the next handhold, the next step, the burn in my calves, and the sting in my palms. Loose scree slid beneath my boots and tumbled down the slope behind me. At one point, the trail crossed a section of exposed ridge where the wind was fierce, and I had to lean into the rock face and shuffle sideways for thirty paces with nothing but my grip on the rope preventing a long fall. My torn callus caught on a rough patch of the guide rope, and I felt the skin peel back. I clenched my cheek and kept going. We reached the nesting ground about an hour before midday.
The nesting ground was a broad ledge of exposed rock near the summit, surrounded by boulders and low scrub that clung to the thin soil. A steady wind swept through the area, flattening the vegetation sideways and tugging at my hair and clothes with persistent familiarity. The sky above was close and pale, and the sun shone brightly enough to make me squint. Shallow indentations in the stone held dried grass and feathers, with eggs arranged in clusters. These eggs, about the size of melons, were speckled in shades of brown, grey, and cream, appearing warm even from afar. Wild griffins circled overhead, riding the thermal currents in slow spirals, while two others sat on the boulders at the edge of the ledge, observing with sharp, unfriendly eyes.
"Choose carefully," the instructor said. "Move slowly. Do not run. If a guardian charges, drop the egg and step back. Understood?"
We spread out. The boy at the front of the line went directly to the nearest cluster. He examined the eggs briefly, chose a mottled brown one, and lifted it with both hands, pressing it against his chest. A wild griffin on the closest boulder ruffled its feathers and shifted position but stayed still. The boy returned to the instructor with the egg held against his sternum, his face tense with concentration. The girl with red-rimmed eyes moved to a different cluster. She knelt beside it for a long time, hovering her hands before choosing. She picked up a grey egg sprinkled with cream spots and held it close to her body. She trembled when she stood but was smiling. The other three found eggs near the center of the shelf, both selecting quickly without difficulty.
I had not moved. The clusters near the center were either taken or guarded. A wild griffin had settled beside the largest nest, watching me with one flat amber eye, its body blocking the eggs from view. I did not approach. Instead, I moved toward the edge of the shelf. The rock fell away into open air on three sides. The wind was stronger here, pulling at my cloak and pushing cold fingers through the gaps in my clothing. Below, the mountain slope was covered in grey scree and scrub, with the academy buildings appearing as small, square shapes in the valley far below. Behind a boulder, partly hidden by dead scrub, was a shallow depression containing a single egg.
The egg was pale and smooth, feeling cool to the touch, cooler than the eggs resting in their sun-warmed nests. It was lighter than I expected and fit comfortably in my hands. The shell had a slight sheen, and I pressed it against my chest, feeling its weight and reassuring myself that this one was mine. I wrapped it in my cloak and returned to the instructor. He looked at the bundle I carried, nodded once, and we started our descent.
We arrived at the academy in the late afternoon. The rider garden was ready, with a section on the sunny side cleared and the flagstones warm from the full day's sunlight. Benches had been moved aside to create a spacious open area, with students gathered along the edges. First-years bonded with their griffins, second years gathered, and a few third years watched from afar. Instructors stood at intervals along the perimeter, some with arms crossed, others with hands clasped behind their backs. The scarred instructor was present, standing near the eastern arch with her arms crossed, observing.
This was a public event, the second bonding, the last chance for the six of us who had failed. The boy who climbed the fastest went first. He carefully placed his mottled brown egg on the warm stone as the sun shone on it. At first, nothing happened. Then, a thin crack appeared along the top of the shell. It widened, and the shell split open. A wet, awkward griffin chick tumbled out, its feathers flat against its body. Small enough to be held in two hands, it blinked in the sunlight, opened its beak, and made a noise like a rusty hinge. The boy knelt down; the chick wobbled toward him on unsteady legs, pressing its head against his knee. He gently placed his hand on its back and closed his eyes, sensing a passing connection, the bond between them.
The garden cheered as the girl with red-rimmed eyes stepped forward. Her grey egg split neatly in half, revealing a pale chick inside, almost white with big, dark eyes that seemed too large. The chick gazed at the girl, who then began to cry. She knelt down, and the chick crawled onto her lap. She gently wrapped her hands around it, pressing her forehead to its damp feathers. A quiet, shared moment of connection settled between them, like a breath finally being released. The next two students bonded successfully. Griffin chicks, healthy and vocal, pressing against their new riders in the ancient pattern.
My turn. I entered the cleared area, feeling the warm flagstones beneath my boots. The heat seeped through the soles, and I sensed everyone’s gaze in the garden fixed on me. I knelt, unwrapped my cloak, and set the pale egg on the stone as the sun shone on it.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Nothing happened. I waited while the garden remained still. Ten seconds turned into twenty. The egg rested on the warm, smooth, pale stone, completely motionless. I kept my eyes fixed on it, so intensely that tears welled up. I desperately wished for it to crack, pouring all my pride, stubbornness, and fear into that hope, those very feelings that had kept me at this academy despite every door closing. Gradually, a murmur arose from the edge of the garden. Someone whispered, then another shifted. Finally, a faint sound emerged, a tap from inside the shell.
A crack appeared, running jagged from the top of the egg down one side. The shell bulged as another crack formed. The tapping grew louder and more urgent. The egg rocked on the stone until the shell finally broke.
What came out was not a griffin.
It was small and dark-furred rather than feathered. Wet from the egg's fluid, its body was pressed flat against the stone surface. It had membranous, translucent wings, folded tightly against its sides. When it lifted its head, its pale, nearly colorless eyes blinked quickly in the bright sunlight. Two tiny nubs sat atop its skull, where horns might develop.
A wolf pup.
The garden fell silent instantly and completely, as if everyone's mouth had been covered. I looked at the pup, which looked back at me. It let out a faint, high-pitched whimper. The sunlight hit it directly, causing it to flinch. Its pale eyes shut tightly, and it attempted to crawl sideways, seeking shade away from the light, toward the shadow cast by my body on the stone. It pressed against my knee, its wet and hot fur trembling visibly.
"That's a wolf." A voice from the crowd.
"How did a wolf egg get into the griffin nesting ground?" Another voice.
The scarred instructor stepped closer. Her eyes shifted from the pup to me and back. Her face was a flat line. I looked down at the wolf pup resting against my knee. It had stopped whimpering and was panting quickly and shallowly, its small body radiating an odd, feverish heat. The sun was too intense for it. Everything in this courtyard felt overwhelming: the warmth of the stone, the brightness of the light, the dry mountain air. This animal was suited for the moon side, for shadows, cool stones, and the silver glow after dark. It pressed harder against my leg.
Then, a sound emerged from the eastern arch, footsteps. They were quick, multiple sets striking the flagstones with an urgency that suggested they were not quite walking but not yet running. I looked up as Risol emerged from the arch first. He moved across the courtyard in long strides, accompanied by four moon riders fanning out behind him, like a wake trailing a ship. His wolf was at his side. Seeing the animal up close for the first time, I was struck by its size, the creature was enormous.
The wolf's hackles rose, and its head lowered, swinging side to side. It emitted a deep, vibrating cry I've never heard before, a sound that resonated in my ribs before reaching my ears. The noise was unsettling, neither a growl nor a howl, but a compressed grief that bypassed words entirely. Risol stopped ten paces away and looked at the wolf pup at my knee. A flicker of relief passed across his face, like a flash of light. Then, his gaze shifted. He noticed the pup flinching in the sun, panting, pressing against me for shade. The relief faded. His jaw clenched, neck muscles tightened, and his hands hung at his sides with rigid fingers and prominent tendons. "Give me the pup."
No one moved.
"That is a moon wolf." He stepped forward, his wolf moving in tandem, the antenna still vibrating from its chest. "It belongs to my faction. It belongs to him." He referred to his father; his eyes fixed on mine. "Give it to me. Now."
I observed the wolf pup as it turned its head at the sound of its father's keening. Its pale eyes were focused on the large wolf behind Risol, and it emitted a high-pitched, thin note trying to match the same frequency but failing. I glanced at Risol, then at the garden full of onlookers, and finally at the other unbonded students, each clutching a bonded griffin chick. My gaze fell on my hands, empty, blistered, stained with rope burn, soap residue, and the dried blood from a callus torn three days ago that hadn't yet healed. The wolf pup pressed against my knee.
It was not a griffin. It was not what I had come here for. But it was the only living thing in this academy that had moved toward me instead of away.
Risol took another step. "I will not ask again."
I knelt there, uncertain what I was thinking. Honestly, I didn't have a plan. My chest felt empty, carved out by three days of rejection, leaving only the need to avoid being nothing. A wolf pup pressed against my knee, and I remembered all the bonds I had observed: the rider kneeling, hands on the animal, the warmth shared between them. I placed my hands on the wolf pup.
Its fur felt damp and soft beneath my hands. I could sense its heartbeat fluttering, like a tiny drum beneath its ribs. It looked up at me with pale eyes. I pressed forward, using the warmth from my chest, the same light that runs in all sun faction born. I had never done this before, never been taught. Still, I pushed, and the wolf pup stiffened and froze all at once, muscles tensing fully. Its wide pale eyes, mouth opening, and a scream, like something small breaking inside, escaped. Smoke began to rise from its fur.
Where my palms pressed flat against its body, the fur had turned white as the skin beneath changed. I could feel the heat rising and the tissue tightening under my hands. I quickly pulled back. The pup convulsed, kicking its legs and fluttering its wings, first opening, then folding, then opening again, the membranes stretched tight, letting in golden, sun-colored light that spread into its body. The pup shuddered, tried to stand, but its legs gave way, and it toppled onto the warm stone. I reached out to it when suddenly a silent, blinding flash erupted from the animal, blinding me and whitening my vision. The heat hit my face and hands, and I fell backward onto the flagstones. The flash lasted about two or three seconds.
When it faded, the wolf pup was gone.
The stone where it had lain was clean, as if nothing had ever been there at all. The smell hung in the air, burned fur and skin. It coated the inside of my nose and the back of my throat, and it sat there.
The garden was silent. Then Risol's wolf howled.
The sound was massive, filling the courtyard, striking the stone walls, and bouncing back louder. The animal reared, and the elk horns cast dark shapes against the sky as the howl persisted, a single continuous note climbing higher without end. Its vibration resonated in my teeth, breastbone, and skull base. Other wolves on the moonlit side of the academy responded, and the layered, escalating sound made the air feel thick with it.
I sat on the flagstones with my palms resting in my lap. The wolf pup's fur did not leave any mark. There was no sign on the stone, on my hands, or anywhere else that it had ever been, except for its scent and the sound of its father screaming.
Risol moved suddenly; I saw him approach as I remained on the ground, palms facing up, gazing at the empty stone. He crossed the distance between us in three quick strides. His face was unfamiliar, entirely locked in expression: jaw clenched, brow furrowed, mouth tight. His eyes were open, dry, and burning with intensity. He drew his arm back, but I stayed still. Part of me sensed what was coming and was unable to move. My legs remained beneath me, my hands rested in my lap, and I watched his fist approach, like watching something fall from a height, knowing it was already too late.
He hit me.
The impact took my whole world and replaced it. I felt it first in my face: the knuckles connecting with my jaw and the cracking of bones that echoed through my skull. Next, my feet left the ground, and I was airborne. The garden seemed to tilt, and the sky swung sideways. I saw the wall approaching, unable to stop it. My back collided with the stone, and the wall expelled the air from my lungs in a single forceful burst. Inside, I heard a sound from my chest. I collapsed to the ground.
The flagstones felt cold against my face. My mouth was filled with blood, warm, coppery, and seeping between my teeth and lips. I turned my head and spat; my vision blurred, and the garden appeared to tilt. I saw boots, legs, and the blurred figures of people standing very still. Above the courtyard, the sky was pale and far away. I noticed Risol standing where I once was, his fist relaxed at his side. His wolf was nearby, still howling, its sound so overwhelming it seemed to clear the air from the garden entirely. He moved a step closer to me. He was not finished. His eyes said so. And so did his body, the set of his shoulders, the angle of his weight, and the way his hand had not unclenched said that one punch was not the end of what he intended.
The scarred instructor stood between them, moving swiftly through the space despite her age and build. Her hand rested on his chest as she looked up at him without flinching, even though she was a head shorter and thirty years older. "Enough."
He could have pushed her; he was bigger, younger, and stronger. Every muscle in his body seemed ready to go through her. The tension in his arms was clear. His jaw moved, bones shifting under his skin. His gaze fixed on me over the instructor's head. His moon riders reached out to him, hands on his arms. A young man with a shaved head whispered something urgent near his ear. A girl held his wrist with both hands, not to hold him back, but to remind him of who she was and what he might lose if he persisted. His wolf pressed against his side, the howling had ceased, and the animal was trembling. Its head lowered, wings tightly folded, pressing its skull against Risol's hip with such force that he had to shift his weight.
He gazed at his wolf, a crack appearing in his expression. When he refocused on me, that sharpness vanished, leaving something even more troubling. He looked at me on the ground, blood flowing from my mouth, my palms open in my lap, and the empty stone behind me, the spot where his wolf's pup had been just sixty seconds ago.
He spat on the stone between us. "You people of the sun." His voice was hoarse, resembling something scraped across rock. "Greedy and merciless, as you have always been. From today onward, all joint trainings are canceled.”
He turned, followed by his wolf. The moon riders gathered around him, forming a wall of dark uniforms and tense faces. They then passed through the eastern arch and disappeared.
I remained on the ground, the stone cold against my back where my shirt had ridden up. Blood slowly dripped from my lip, making a small wet sound as it hit my collar. The left side of my face was swelling, skin pulling tight as the pressure grew behind my cheekbone and along my jaw hinge. The garden was silent, with everyone staring at me. Their gaze felt as persistent and unavoidable as the sun on the nesting ground, pressing on every exposed inch of skin.
The remaining unbonded students stood on the far side of the clearing, each clutching a griffin chick against their chest. The girl with red-rimmed eyes was gazing at me; her eyes, now clear of redness, were wide open. She rested her hand on the back of her griffin chick, gently stroking its wet feathers in a repetitive motion, while her expression remained unreadable.
I examined the patch of stone where the wolf pup had once been. I had no choice, Risol was going to take the pup. He was about to seize the only bond I had, the only creature that cared for me, and walk it across the courtyard to the moon side. I would have been left with nothing, again. Anyone in my position would have done the same.
The scarred instructor looked down at me without extending her hand. "Get up," she commanded.
I stood up, my legs trembling and my jaw aching. I touched my mouth with the back of my hand and saw it was bloody. The instructor looked at me with her usual indifferent expression that she had worn earlier in the corridor, in the bonding hall, and in the morning, when she had assigned me to clean the garden. "Go to the infirmary," she instructed. "Then report to my office."
I crossed the garden as the students parted ways, stepping aside as if avoiding something unwanted. I continued walking, my hands relaxed at my sides. The harness clip on my belt gently tapped against my hip with each step, still empty since the day I arrived.
