Chapter 3 And so it begins
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Metel_Pen
Getting sticky.
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Jim stared down at the empty duffle bag laying open across his bed. It looked wrong somehow. Too empty. Too expectant. Like it already knew it was about to drag him somewhere unpleasant. For a long moment he simply stood there scratching absentmindedly at his beard while the morning light spilled through the cabin window behind him.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight. The cabin was quiet. Peaceful. The sort of quiet that only existed when nobody was actively trying to kill anyone. It had been a long time since he'd packed for anything beyond academy duties. A very long time.
Truth be told, Jim wasn't entirely sure he remembered how anymore. Riordan had become home before he'd even noticed it happening. The grounds. The dragons. The students. The routines.
The familiar faces. The simple comfort of knowing where he'd be sleeping each night. For the first time in years he'd stopped living one day at a time waiting for the next disaster. Stopped expecting trouble around every corner. And now here he was again. Packing for the Umber lands.
The thought sat heavily in his stomach.
"Come on you old bugger," he muttered to himself. "Start simple." He pointed at the duffle.
"Socks and drawers. Work your way up." Practical problems first. Always practical problems first. Worrying about monsters could come later. Jim grabbed five pairs of thick woollen socks from the nearby wardrobe and folded them neatly into the bag alongside several sets of underwear. Cold wet feet killed morale faster than monsters ever did.
He'd seen entire units become miserable after two days of marching with soaked boots. Men could endure fear. Cold feet was where they drew the line. He tossed in a few pairs of trousers next, followed by undershirts and several rough travelling shirts that already smelled faintly of smoke and pipe tobacco. The scent clung stubbornly to almost everything he owned these days. His spare leather boots followed soon after.
They landed heavily in the bottom of the bag with a dull thud.
"Wet boots are a nightmare," Jim muttered. That lesson had been learned painfully somewhere in the freezing mud of the eastern campaigns years ago. Three weeks of rain. Two weeks of misery. One very memorable fungal infection. Not an experience worth repeating.
He reached over to the little shelf near his bed and grabbed two small wooden boxes of pipe tobacco before hesitating briefly. Then added a spare pipe. Because if he was going back into the Umber lands he was absolutely going to need something calming that wasn't alcohol. He considered adding a third pipe. Then decided that might be admitting weakness. Jim knelt slowly beside the bed, joints crackling loudly in protest, and reached underneath.
His fingers brushed old wood. For a second he paused. The movement stopped completely. Then slowly dragged the chest out into the light. The iron feet scraped softly across the floorboards. It was old.
Solid oak reinforced with black iron bands worn smooth with age. Scratches marked the surface along with faint burn marks from places long forgotten. The chest had travelled almost as much as he had. Different camps. Different wars. Different lives.
Jim lifted it onto the bed with a grunt and unlatched the lid. The hinges creaked softly. The smell hit him immediately. Old paper. Leather. Oil.
Smoke. Memory. The smell of years. Inside lay several leather-bound books alongside neatly folded papers of commendation and service records tied together with faded red ribbon. Jim stared at them quietly for a moment. The ribbons had once been bright.
Now they looked tired. Like everything else in the chest. Then gently lifted them aside. He'd never known what to do with commendations. People gave them to you for surviving things you'd rather forget. Beneath them rested a small weathered leather notebook.
Its edges were worn soft from use. The corners had rounded from years spent being pulled from pockets and packs. Jim picked it up carefully.
"Gonna need that," he murmured. The notebook disappeared into the duffle. Maps. Notes. Routes. Places to avoid.
Things he never wanted to forget. And things he desperately wished he could. The sort of knowledge nobody ever wrote into proper guidebooks. Then he reached deeper into the chest. His expression shifted slightly as his fingers closed around cold metal. The feeling was instantly familiar.
Slowly, Jim lifted out his old armour. Dark steel caught the morning light. Not rusted. Never rusted. Just aged. The deep grey-black sheen of true carbon steel.
Forged in dragon fire. Heavy enough to matter. Heavy enough to trust. The armour unfolded slowly as he lifted it free. Piece by piece. Scarred in places.
Dented in others. Not enough to weaken it. Just enough to prove it had done its job. Jim ran a hand across the breastplate. His fingers traced old marks left by blades, claws, and things he preferred not to think about. The steel felt cool beneath his palm.
Familiar. Comforting. Like greeting an old friend he hadn't seen in years. Old enough to have stories attached to every dent. Jim ran his thumb slowly across one rough patch near the ribs where the steel had warped inward years ago. A spear had struck there once.
Hard enough to crack ribs clean through. He could still remember the impact. The sudden loss of breath. The pain. The certainty, for one brief moment, that he was about to die. Hadn't spared him the pain.
But it had saved his life all the same. Jim exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Still ugly," he muttered to the armour. The armour, wisely, offered no opinion. Jim smirked faintly. It had always been a better listener than most people. He lowered it carefully into the duffle alongside a pair of leather-armoured greaves scarred from years of use. The bag suddenly looked much heavier now.
Much more real. Less like a collection of supplies. More like preparation. Jim closed the chest slowly and slid it back beneath the bed where it disappeared once more into shadow. The familiar scraping sound echoed softly through the cabin. For a moment he remained standing there quietly.
Looking at the packed bag. At the armour. At the life he'd built here. The little cabin. The academy. The students constantly getting themselves into trouble.
The dragons. The routine. It occurred to him that leaving felt stranger than it should have. Then the cabin door creaked open behind him. Jim didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Emile stepped into the room.
"You good, lad?" Jim asked quietly. Emile stood near the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets. The young man looked uncomfortable. Not frightened. Just thoughtful.
"I'm okay," he replied. Jim grunted softly. He knew a forced answer when he heard one. Years of military service had made him very familiar with them. The cabin had grown strangely quiet again now that the reality of leaving had settled properly between them. Neither of them seemed entirely sure what to say.
Jim adjusted the strap on the duffle bag resting across the bed before turning to look fully at Emile.
"You take care of Auline while I'm gone," he said. "And when you head down to the paddock, be careful with some of those young drakes." Emile nodded.
"They're young," Jim continued. "Which means they're idiots."
"That sounds familiar." Jim pointed a finger at him.
"Difference is drakes can accidentally remove your arm when they're being idiots." Emile smiled faintly.
"I recommend bringing Auline down with you when you're handling them," Jim said. "Gets them in line quickly enough. She doesn't suffer fools no matter the species." That earned a quiet laugh from Emile. The tension eased slightly. Just enough.
"I will, Jim. Don't worry." Jim gave a small nod. For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. Just honest. Then Emile asked quietly:
"How long d'you think you'll be gone?" Jim scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
"I don't know, lad." That was the truth of it. And they both knew it.
"Depends how good their lead is. Depends how good their plan is." He snorted softly. "Depends how competent the team actually turns out to be." Which worried him more than the monsters honestly. People caused most disasters. The monsters merely finished them.
"A few weeks at least, I reckon." Emile nodded slowly. His expression suggested he wasn't particularly thrilled by that answer. Then suddenly:
"Here." Jim frowned as Emile reached behind his back and produced a bottle along with Jim's old hip flask. The sight caught him slightly off guard.
"It's the cheap stuff," Emile said. "Just how you like it." Jim stared at the bottle. Then at the flask. The old flask looked strangely familiar sitting in somebody else's hands.
"And I filled your hip flask too." A small smile tugged at Jim's face despite himself.
"Cheers, lad." For a second he looked genuinely caught off guard by the gesture. Jim wasn't particularly good at emotional moments. Most of the time he handled them by pretending they weren't happening. Or by insulting somebody. Or leaving.
"I know how you like a nightcap," Emile said awkwardly. "And if things get stressful..." He shrugged slightly.
"At least you've got a drink to relax with." Jim nodded once.
"Aye." Simple answer. But it meant more than that. He slid the bottle carefully into the duffle bag before tucking the filled hip flask into one of the pockets of his old wax coat. The familiar weight settled comfortably against his side.
"Ooh wait a sec," Emile suddenly blurted. Then turned and hurried out of the room before Jim could respond. Jim watched him disappear with a raised eyebrow. The cabin door banged lightly behind him.
"What's the soppy lad doing now?" he muttered to himself. He shook his head. Honestly. Give a young man one dragon and a bit of confidence and suddenly they started acting sentimental. A few seconds later Emile came rushing back into the cabin holding something wrapped in cloth. Jim's eyes narrowed immediately.
Emile unwrapped it carefully. The cloth fell away a little at a time. A familiar shape emerged beneath it. A sword.
"Here," Emile said, holding it out. "Take this too." Jim blinked. For a moment he simply stared at it. Then shook his head immediately.
"Nah lad. Can't do that. It's yours now."
"I know," Emile replied. "But you gave it to me because I had use for it and needed it." He held the sword out more firmly.
"I don't right now." His eyes met Jim's.
"But you do." The room went quiet again. The sort of silence that only appeared when both people knew exactly what was being said without needing to say it aloud.
"When you come back," Emile added, "you can give it back." Jim's gaze lingered on the weapon. Emile glanced down toward the belt knife hanging at Jim's hip.
"With respect…" he said carefully, "…I don't think that little thing's gonna cut it where you're going." Jim snorted softly at the accidental wording. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Didn't even mean that, did ya?"
"No."
"Shame. It was decent." Then slowly Jim reached out and took the sword. The familiar weight settled into his hand immediately. Comfortably. Naturally. Like greeting an old friend.
Carefully, he drew the blade. Steel whispered softly from the scabbard. Morning sunlight caught the edge, gleaming bright silver across the cabin walls. The reflection danced briefly across the ceiling. Clean. Sharp.
Razor edged. Jim could tell instantly Emile had maintained it properly. Taken care of her. That mattered more than he'd admit aloud. A neglected weapon told you a lot about a person. A maintained one told you even more.
Jim turned the blade slightly in the light before nodding once.
"I'll bring her back, lad," he said quietly. Emile nodded.
"See that you do." Jim slid the sword carefully back into its battle-worn scabbard. The old leather creaked softly as the blade disappeared home. The sound was strangely familiar. For a moment his hand lingered on the hilt. Then he placed it gently atop the duffle bag beside the rest of his gear.
The sight of it there made everything feel painfully real now. No longer just talk. No longer just rumours and old stories. No longer something happening in a few days. He was leaving. Again.
The realisation sat heavily in his chest. Jim turned back toward Emile and stepped closer. For a second he looked like he might say something meaningful. Something wise. Something worthy of the moment. Instead, he held out his hand.
Emile stared at it briefly before reaching out and gripping it firmly. Jim's grip was rough and solid, worn by years of sword hilts, shovels, dragon tack, and hard living. The handshake lasted a fraction longer than either of them would ever admit was necessary.
"I'll see ya when I'm back, lad," Jim said. Emile nodded once.
"You better." Simple words. But neither of them treated them lightly. Jim released the handshake and pointed a finger toward him.
"And whatever you drink from my booze cupboard…" A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"…make sure you bloody replace it." Emile laughed softly.
"I'll do my best."
"No," Jim corrected. "Do better than your best. Some of those bottles are older than you."
"I'm pretty sure one of them's older than the academy."
"Aye and still tastes better than half the faculty." That earned a proper grin from Emile now. The first genuine one in a while.
"I'll make sure Auline's looked after too," he said. Jim nodded absently. Then suddenly froze. His expression changed immediately.
"…Ah shit." Emile blinked.
"What?" Jim rubbed a hand over his face.
"I haven't even told her yet." The words hung in the air. Both men immediately understood the problem. As if the world itself had been waiting for the comment— A deep rumbling growl vibrated from outside the cabin window. The glass rattled softly in its frame.
Both men slowly turned. A massive amber eye stared back at them through the glass. Unblinking. Watching. Jim sighed. Of course she'd heard that.
"Right." The eye narrowed slightly. Smoke curled lazily from the edges of Auline's nostrils, fogging the window. The dragon looked deeply unimpressed. Which, Jim reflected, was usually a bad sign. Emile folded his arms.
"I've already made her aware," he admitted. Jim looked at him.
"You what?"
"She noticed you packing armour and weapons." Emile shrugged slightly. "Didn't take a genius." Outside, Auline let out another low rumble that sounded deeply unimpressed. The cabin window rattled softly. Jim pointed accusingly toward the dragon.
"Now listen here—" The amber eye narrowed further. Judgement radiated from it. Emile wisely took a step backward. Years of experience had taught him there were some arguments you simply didn't want to be standing near when they started.
"I think," he said carefully, "you may need to give her a lot of fuss before you leave." Jim stared at him. Then at the dragon. Then back at him.
"…I hate that you're probably right." The eye vanished from the window. A second later came the loud unmistakable sound of something very large dramatically collapsing onto the ground outside. The cabin shook slightly. Jim closed his eyes.
"She's doing it on purpose now." Emile shrugged helplessly.
"She learned from the best." Jim chose not to respond to that. Mostly because it was difficult to argue. Jim sighed the deep exhausted sigh of a man who had somehow ended up emotionally manipulated by a dragon.
"Right then," he muttered. Auline let out another dramatic rumble from outside.
"Aye aye, I'm coming." The rumble immediately stopped.
"Manipulative bastard." Jim stepped out of the little cabin into the cool summer air to comfort and explain to a three-ton apex predator that he would not, in fact, be present tomorrow morning to provide her daily bowl of tea and morning attention. Life was strange sometimes. The academy grounds were quiet now, most students either still sleeping off celebrations or enjoying the first real morning of summer freedom. Sunlight spilled across the hills surrounding Riordan while a light breeze rustled through the grass and trees. The air smelled of summer.
Fresh grass. Warm earth. Wood smoke drifting from distant chimneys. Auline sat waiting outside the cabin like a deeply offended mountain. Her tail lashed slowly across the grass as Jim approached. Each sweep flattened patches of wildflowers.
"Oh don't gimme that look," he muttered. The dragon lowered her massive head toward him with another unhappy growl. The sound vibrated through his chest. Jim scratched beneath her jaw scales carefully. The rough scales were warm beneath his fingers.
"You'll survive a few weeks without me." Auline snorted hot smoke directly into his face. Jim coughed.
"Right. Fair point." The dragon seemed very pleased with herself. Her amber eyes stayed fixed on him. There was too much intelligence in dragon eyes sometimes. Made conversations uncomfortable. Especially when you suspected they were winning.
"I've got work to do," Jim said quietly, continuing to scratch along the rough scales near her neck. "And apparently I'm the only idiot stupid enough to do it." Auline rumbled low in her throat.
"Aye well, that's hardly new information." The dragon nudged him hard enough to nearly shove him off balance. Grass crunched beneath his boots. Jim barked out a laugh despite himself and rested a hand against the side of her snout. The scales there were scarred in places. Old marks.
Old fights. Just like him.
"I'll come back." The words came easier than he expected. Maybe because he wasn't entirely sure he believed them. Auline stared at him for several long seconds before finally letting out a slow grumbling breath and settling slightly into the grass. The tension seemed to leave her all at once.
"There she is," Jim muttered. "That's less murder-y." Auline closed her eyes. One enormous wing shifted slightly as she settled more comfortably into the hay and grass. By the time he finally left the paddock nearly an hour later, the morning sun sat much higher in the sky. The academy had fully awakened. Students moved along distant pathways.
Voices drifted across the grounds. Dragons lounged in nearby paddocks. Life carried on. Jim walked slowly down the long road leading away from Riordan Academy with his duffle slung across his back, sword hanging at his hip, and pipe clenched between his teeth. The academy stood behind him atop the hill, all towers, dragon pens, and ancient stone catching the summer light. From a distance it looked almost peaceful.
Home. Strange thought. There had been a time when Jim would have laughed at the idea. Jess had told him transport would arrive to collect him from the academy gates. But Jim couldn't bring himself to wait. He hated waiting.
Waiting meant thinking. Thinking usually led to memories. And memories were bastards. Patient bastards. The sort that waited until you were alone before showing up. So instead he walked.
Steady. Purposeful. Boots crunching softly against the dirt road while pipe smoke drifted lazily behind him in the morning breeze. The familiar weight of the sword rested against his hip. The duffle sat heavily across his shoulder. Old armour.
Old habits. Old roads. Birdsong echoed faintly through the trees bordering the road. Far off behind him came the distant roar of dragons. The sound faded gradually as he moved farther from the academy. With every step Riordan became a little smaller behind him.
As Jim walked, the quiet morning was eventually broken by the distant rhythmic sound of hooves striking dirt. Clop. Clop. Clop. Jim glanced up through the thin curl of pipe smoke drifting from his mouth. A black carriage was approaching down the road at a steady trot, pulled by two broad dark-coated horses whose tack gleamed faintly in the sunlight.
The animals moved with the easy confidence of well-trained road horses. Strong. Steady. The sort bred more for endurance than speed. The carriage itself was plain but sturdy, all reinforced wood and black iron trim with heavy shutters over the windows. Built to travel.
Built to survive bad roads. Built to keep moving when common sense suggested turning around. Atakin. Had to be. Nobody else travelled around looking that aggressively suspicious. Jim slowed slightly as the carriage drew closer.
The wheels rolled over the dirt road with a low rhythmic rumble. Dust kicked up behind it in lazy clouds. The driver sat high on the bench wrapped in a long dark coat despite the warming summer morning. Older bloke. Grey beard. Scar across the nose.
Looked like someone who'd stabbed at least three people professionally. Possibly before breakfast. The carriage slowed. Then finally rolled to a halt beside him with a soft creak of suspension and snorting horses. One of the horses flicked an ear toward Jim. The other looked completely unimpressed by his existence.
The driver looked down at Jim for several long seconds.
"You Jim?" the older man asked gruffly.
"Aye," Jim replied. The driver jerked a thumb toward the carriage behind him.
"Hop in." Polite fellow. Jim approved. People who got straight to the point were generally easier to deal with. Jim stepped forward and pulled open the carriage door. The hinges creaked softly.
The inside was dimly lit and surprisingly comfortable. Padded seats. Blankets. Storage compartments beneath the benches. Enough room for several people if they didn't particularly like one another. Which, Jim suspected, was probably the standard Atakin arrangement.
He tossed his duffle bag inside with a heavy thud before pausing with one hand on the door. The academy sat far behind him now. Small atop the distant hill.
"How far we going, mate?" he asked. The driver gave a dry little grunt.
"I'd get settled in." Jim raised an eyebrow.
"It's a long one." That wasn't exactly reassuring. Then again, neither was most of what he'd heard that morning. Jim nodded once anyway and climbed inside. The carriage rocked slightly beneath his weight as he settled onto one of the benches. The cushions compressed with a soft sigh.
Outside, the driver clicked his tongue at the horses and the carriage began moving again with a steady jolt. The wheels rolled forward. Riordan slowly began slipping away behind them. Jim leaned back heavily against the cushions. For a moment he simply listened. The creak of wheels.
The steady rhythm of hooves. The faint rattling of gear stowed somewhere beneath the carriage. Leather shifting. Wood flexing. Harness chains clinking softly. A journey sound.
A soldier sound. The sort of noises that eventually became background music after enough years on the road. Jim reached up and tapped the ash from his pipe out the small side window before sliding it carefully back into his pocket. A gust of warm summer air drifted briefly through the opening before disappearing again. Then he pulled his old waxed flat cap down low over his eyes.
"No greater admin than sleep," he muttered to himself. The carriage rocked gently as it rolled along the road. Jim folded his arms across his chest and settled in for the long ride. His armour sat packed away. His sword rested nearby. The academy was behind him.
The Umber lands waited somewhere ahead. That sounded like tomorrow's problem. Gods knew when he'd next get a proper night's sleep.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the sunlight. The cabin was quiet. Peaceful. The sort of quiet that only existed when nobody was actively trying to kill anyone. It had been a long time since he'd packed for anything beyond academy duties. A very long time.
Truth be told, Jim wasn't entirely sure he remembered how anymore. Riordan had become home before he'd even noticed it happening. The grounds. The dragons. The students. The routines.
The familiar faces. The simple comfort of knowing where he'd be sleeping each night. For the first time in years he'd stopped living one day at a time waiting for the next disaster. Stopped expecting trouble around every corner. And now here he was again. Packing for the Umber lands.
The thought sat heavily in his stomach.
"Come on you old bugger," he muttered to himself. "Start simple." He pointed at the duffle.
"Socks and drawers. Work your way up." Practical problems first. Always practical problems first. Worrying about monsters could come later. Jim grabbed five pairs of thick woollen socks from the nearby wardrobe and folded them neatly into the bag alongside several sets of underwear. Cold wet feet killed morale faster than monsters ever did.
He'd seen entire units become miserable after two days of marching with soaked boots. Men could endure fear. Cold feet was where they drew the line. He tossed in a few pairs of trousers next, followed by undershirts and several rough travelling shirts that already smelled faintly of smoke and pipe tobacco. The scent clung stubbornly to almost everything he owned these days. His spare leather boots followed soon after.
They landed heavily in the bottom of the bag with a dull thud.
"Wet boots are a nightmare," Jim muttered. That lesson had been learned painfully somewhere in the freezing mud of the eastern campaigns years ago. Three weeks of rain. Two weeks of misery. One very memorable fungal infection. Not an experience worth repeating.
He reached over to the little shelf near his bed and grabbed two small wooden boxes of pipe tobacco before hesitating briefly. Then added a spare pipe. Because if he was going back into the Umber lands he was absolutely going to need something calming that wasn't alcohol. He considered adding a third pipe. Then decided that might be admitting weakness. Jim knelt slowly beside the bed, joints crackling loudly in protest, and reached underneath.
His fingers brushed old wood. For a second he paused. The movement stopped completely. Then slowly dragged the chest out into the light. The iron feet scraped softly across the floorboards. It was old.
Solid oak reinforced with black iron bands worn smooth with age. Scratches marked the surface along with faint burn marks from places long forgotten. The chest had travelled almost as much as he had. Different camps. Different wars. Different lives.
Jim lifted it onto the bed with a grunt and unlatched the lid. The hinges creaked softly. The smell hit him immediately. Old paper. Leather. Oil.
Smoke. Memory. The smell of years. Inside lay several leather-bound books alongside neatly folded papers of commendation and service records tied together with faded red ribbon. Jim stared at them quietly for a moment. The ribbons had once been bright.
Now they looked tired. Like everything else in the chest. Then gently lifted them aside. He'd never known what to do with commendations. People gave them to you for surviving things you'd rather forget. Beneath them rested a small weathered leather notebook.
Its edges were worn soft from use. The corners had rounded from years spent being pulled from pockets and packs. Jim picked it up carefully.
"Gonna need that," he murmured. The notebook disappeared into the duffle. Maps. Notes. Routes. Places to avoid.
Things he never wanted to forget. And things he desperately wished he could. The sort of knowledge nobody ever wrote into proper guidebooks. Then he reached deeper into the chest. His expression shifted slightly as his fingers closed around cold metal. The feeling was instantly familiar.
Slowly, Jim lifted out his old armour. Dark steel caught the morning light. Not rusted. Never rusted. Just aged. The deep grey-black sheen of true carbon steel.
Forged in dragon fire. Heavy enough to matter. Heavy enough to trust. The armour unfolded slowly as he lifted it free. Piece by piece. Scarred in places.
Dented in others. Not enough to weaken it. Just enough to prove it had done its job. Jim ran a hand across the breastplate. His fingers traced old marks left by blades, claws, and things he preferred not to think about. The steel felt cool beneath his palm.
Familiar. Comforting. Like greeting an old friend he hadn't seen in years. Old enough to have stories attached to every dent. Jim ran his thumb slowly across one rough patch near the ribs where the steel had warped inward years ago. A spear had struck there once.
Hard enough to crack ribs clean through. He could still remember the impact. The sudden loss of breath. The pain. The certainty, for one brief moment, that he was about to die. Hadn't spared him the pain.
But it had saved his life all the same. Jim exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Still ugly," he muttered to the armour. The armour, wisely, offered no opinion. Jim smirked faintly. It had always been a better listener than most people. He lowered it carefully into the duffle alongside a pair of leather-armoured greaves scarred from years of use. The bag suddenly looked much heavier now.
Much more real. Less like a collection of supplies. More like preparation. Jim closed the chest slowly and slid it back beneath the bed where it disappeared once more into shadow. The familiar scraping sound echoed softly through the cabin. For a moment he remained standing there quietly.
Looking at the packed bag. At the armour. At the life he'd built here. The little cabin. The academy. The students constantly getting themselves into trouble.
The dragons. The routine. It occurred to him that leaving felt stranger than it should have. Then the cabin door creaked open behind him. Jim didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Emile stepped into the room.
"You good, lad?" Jim asked quietly. Emile stood near the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets. The young man looked uncomfortable. Not frightened. Just thoughtful.
"I'm okay," he replied. Jim grunted softly. He knew a forced answer when he heard one. Years of military service had made him very familiar with them. The cabin had grown strangely quiet again now that the reality of leaving had settled properly between them. Neither of them seemed entirely sure what to say.
Jim adjusted the strap on the duffle bag resting across the bed before turning to look fully at Emile.
"You take care of Auline while I'm gone," he said. "And when you head down to the paddock, be careful with some of those young drakes." Emile nodded.
"They're young," Jim continued. "Which means they're idiots."
"That sounds familiar." Jim pointed a finger at him.
"Difference is drakes can accidentally remove your arm when they're being idiots." Emile smiled faintly.
"I recommend bringing Auline down with you when you're handling them," Jim said. "Gets them in line quickly enough. She doesn't suffer fools no matter the species." That earned a quiet laugh from Emile. The tension eased slightly. Just enough.
"I will, Jim. Don't worry." Jim gave a small nod. For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. Just honest. Then Emile asked quietly:
"How long d'you think you'll be gone?" Jim scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
"I don't know, lad." That was the truth of it. And they both knew it.
"Depends how good their lead is. Depends how good their plan is." He snorted softly. "Depends how competent the team actually turns out to be." Which worried him more than the monsters honestly. People caused most disasters. The monsters merely finished them.
"A few weeks at least, I reckon." Emile nodded slowly. His expression suggested he wasn't particularly thrilled by that answer. Then suddenly:
"Here." Jim frowned as Emile reached behind his back and produced a bottle along with Jim's old hip flask. The sight caught him slightly off guard.
"It's the cheap stuff," Emile said. "Just how you like it." Jim stared at the bottle. Then at the flask. The old flask looked strangely familiar sitting in somebody else's hands.
"And I filled your hip flask too." A small smile tugged at Jim's face despite himself.
"Cheers, lad." For a second he looked genuinely caught off guard by the gesture. Jim wasn't particularly good at emotional moments. Most of the time he handled them by pretending they weren't happening. Or by insulting somebody. Or leaving.
"I know how you like a nightcap," Emile said awkwardly. "And if things get stressful..." He shrugged slightly.
"At least you've got a drink to relax with." Jim nodded once.
"Aye." Simple answer. But it meant more than that. He slid the bottle carefully into the duffle bag before tucking the filled hip flask into one of the pockets of his old wax coat. The familiar weight settled comfortably against his side.
"Ooh wait a sec," Emile suddenly blurted. Then turned and hurried out of the room before Jim could respond. Jim watched him disappear with a raised eyebrow. The cabin door banged lightly behind him.
"What's the soppy lad doing now?" he muttered to himself. He shook his head. Honestly. Give a young man one dragon and a bit of confidence and suddenly they started acting sentimental. A few seconds later Emile came rushing back into the cabin holding something wrapped in cloth. Jim's eyes narrowed immediately.
Emile unwrapped it carefully. The cloth fell away a little at a time. A familiar shape emerged beneath it. A sword.
"Here," Emile said, holding it out. "Take this too." Jim blinked. For a moment he simply stared at it. Then shook his head immediately.
"Nah lad. Can't do that. It's yours now."
"I know," Emile replied. "But you gave it to me because I had use for it and needed it." He held the sword out more firmly.
"I don't right now." His eyes met Jim's.
"But you do." The room went quiet again. The sort of silence that only appeared when both people knew exactly what was being said without needing to say it aloud.
"When you come back," Emile added, "you can give it back." Jim's gaze lingered on the weapon. Emile glanced down toward the belt knife hanging at Jim's hip.
"With respect…" he said carefully, "…I don't think that little thing's gonna cut it where you're going." Jim snorted softly at the accidental wording. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Didn't even mean that, did ya?"
"No."
"Shame. It was decent." Then slowly Jim reached out and took the sword. The familiar weight settled into his hand immediately. Comfortably. Naturally. Like greeting an old friend.
Carefully, he drew the blade. Steel whispered softly from the scabbard. Morning sunlight caught the edge, gleaming bright silver across the cabin walls. The reflection danced briefly across the ceiling. Clean. Sharp.
Razor edged. Jim could tell instantly Emile had maintained it properly. Taken care of her. That mattered more than he'd admit aloud. A neglected weapon told you a lot about a person. A maintained one told you even more.
Jim turned the blade slightly in the light before nodding once.
"I'll bring her back, lad," he said quietly. Emile nodded.
"See that you do." Jim slid the sword carefully back into its battle-worn scabbard. The old leather creaked softly as the blade disappeared home. The sound was strangely familiar. For a moment his hand lingered on the hilt. Then he placed it gently atop the duffle bag beside the rest of his gear.
The sight of it there made everything feel painfully real now. No longer just talk. No longer just rumours and old stories. No longer something happening in a few days. He was leaving. Again.
The realisation sat heavily in his chest. Jim turned back toward Emile and stepped closer. For a second he looked like he might say something meaningful. Something wise. Something worthy of the moment. Instead, he held out his hand.
Emile stared at it briefly before reaching out and gripping it firmly. Jim's grip was rough and solid, worn by years of sword hilts, shovels, dragon tack, and hard living. The handshake lasted a fraction longer than either of them would ever admit was necessary.
"I'll see ya when I'm back, lad," Jim said. Emile nodded once.
"You better." Simple words. But neither of them treated them lightly. Jim released the handshake and pointed a finger toward him.
"And whatever you drink from my booze cupboard…" A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"…make sure you bloody replace it." Emile laughed softly.
"I'll do my best."
"No," Jim corrected. "Do better than your best. Some of those bottles are older than you."
"I'm pretty sure one of them's older than the academy."
"Aye and still tastes better than half the faculty." That earned a proper grin from Emile now. The first genuine one in a while.
"I'll make sure Auline's looked after too," he said. Jim nodded absently. Then suddenly froze. His expression changed immediately.
"…Ah shit." Emile blinked.
"What?" Jim rubbed a hand over his face.
"I haven't even told her yet." The words hung in the air. Both men immediately understood the problem. As if the world itself had been waiting for the comment— A deep rumbling growl vibrated from outside the cabin window. The glass rattled softly in its frame.
Both men slowly turned. A massive amber eye stared back at them through the glass. Unblinking. Watching. Jim sighed. Of course she'd heard that.
"Right." The eye narrowed slightly. Smoke curled lazily from the edges of Auline's nostrils, fogging the window. The dragon looked deeply unimpressed. Which, Jim reflected, was usually a bad sign. Emile folded his arms.
"I've already made her aware," he admitted. Jim looked at him.
"You what?"
"She noticed you packing armour and weapons." Emile shrugged slightly. "Didn't take a genius." Outside, Auline let out another low rumble that sounded deeply unimpressed. The cabin window rattled softly. Jim pointed accusingly toward the dragon.
"Now listen here—" The amber eye narrowed further. Judgement radiated from it. Emile wisely took a step backward. Years of experience had taught him there were some arguments you simply didn't want to be standing near when they started.
"I think," he said carefully, "you may need to give her a lot of fuss before you leave." Jim stared at him. Then at the dragon. Then back at him.
"…I hate that you're probably right." The eye vanished from the window. A second later came the loud unmistakable sound of something very large dramatically collapsing onto the ground outside. The cabin shook slightly. Jim closed his eyes.
"She's doing it on purpose now." Emile shrugged helplessly.
"She learned from the best." Jim chose not to respond to that. Mostly because it was difficult to argue. Jim sighed the deep exhausted sigh of a man who had somehow ended up emotionally manipulated by a dragon.
"Right then," he muttered. Auline let out another dramatic rumble from outside.
"Aye aye, I'm coming." The rumble immediately stopped.
"Manipulative bastard." Jim stepped out of the little cabin into the cool summer air to comfort and explain to a three-ton apex predator that he would not, in fact, be present tomorrow morning to provide her daily bowl of tea and morning attention. Life was strange sometimes. The academy grounds were quiet now, most students either still sleeping off celebrations or enjoying the first real morning of summer freedom. Sunlight spilled across the hills surrounding Riordan while a light breeze rustled through the grass and trees. The air smelled of summer.
Fresh grass. Warm earth. Wood smoke drifting from distant chimneys. Auline sat waiting outside the cabin like a deeply offended mountain. Her tail lashed slowly across the grass as Jim approached. Each sweep flattened patches of wildflowers.
"Oh don't gimme that look," he muttered. The dragon lowered her massive head toward him with another unhappy growl. The sound vibrated through his chest. Jim scratched beneath her jaw scales carefully. The rough scales were warm beneath his fingers.
"You'll survive a few weeks without me." Auline snorted hot smoke directly into his face. Jim coughed.
"Right. Fair point." The dragon seemed very pleased with herself. Her amber eyes stayed fixed on him. There was too much intelligence in dragon eyes sometimes. Made conversations uncomfortable. Especially when you suspected they were winning.
"I've got work to do," Jim said quietly, continuing to scratch along the rough scales near her neck. "And apparently I'm the only idiot stupid enough to do it." Auline rumbled low in her throat.
"Aye well, that's hardly new information." The dragon nudged him hard enough to nearly shove him off balance. Grass crunched beneath his boots. Jim barked out a laugh despite himself and rested a hand against the side of her snout. The scales there were scarred in places. Old marks.
Old fights. Just like him.
"I'll come back." The words came easier than he expected. Maybe because he wasn't entirely sure he believed them. Auline stared at him for several long seconds before finally letting out a slow grumbling breath and settling slightly into the grass. The tension seemed to leave her all at once.
"There she is," Jim muttered. "That's less murder-y." Auline closed her eyes. One enormous wing shifted slightly as she settled more comfortably into the hay and grass. By the time he finally left the paddock nearly an hour later, the morning sun sat much higher in the sky. The academy had fully awakened. Students moved along distant pathways.
Voices drifted across the grounds. Dragons lounged in nearby paddocks. Life carried on. Jim walked slowly down the long road leading away from Riordan Academy with his duffle slung across his back, sword hanging at his hip, and pipe clenched between his teeth. The academy stood behind him atop the hill, all towers, dragon pens, and ancient stone catching the summer light. From a distance it looked almost peaceful.
Home. Strange thought. There had been a time when Jim would have laughed at the idea. Jess had told him transport would arrive to collect him from the academy gates. But Jim couldn't bring himself to wait. He hated waiting.
Waiting meant thinking. Thinking usually led to memories. And memories were bastards. Patient bastards. The sort that waited until you were alone before showing up. So instead he walked.
Steady. Purposeful. Boots crunching softly against the dirt road while pipe smoke drifted lazily behind him in the morning breeze. The familiar weight of the sword rested against his hip. The duffle sat heavily across his shoulder. Old armour.
Old habits. Old roads. Birdsong echoed faintly through the trees bordering the road. Far off behind him came the distant roar of dragons. The sound faded gradually as he moved farther from the academy. With every step Riordan became a little smaller behind him.
As Jim walked, the quiet morning was eventually broken by the distant rhythmic sound of hooves striking dirt. Clop. Clop. Clop. Jim glanced up through the thin curl of pipe smoke drifting from his mouth. A black carriage was approaching down the road at a steady trot, pulled by two broad dark-coated horses whose tack gleamed faintly in the sunlight.
The animals moved with the easy confidence of well-trained road horses. Strong. Steady. The sort bred more for endurance than speed. The carriage itself was plain but sturdy, all reinforced wood and black iron trim with heavy shutters over the windows. Built to travel.
Built to survive bad roads. Built to keep moving when common sense suggested turning around. Atakin. Had to be. Nobody else travelled around looking that aggressively suspicious. Jim slowed slightly as the carriage drew closer.
The wheels rolled over the dirt road with a low rhythmic rumble. Dust kicked up behind it in lazy clouds. The driver sat high on the bench wrapped in a long dark coat despite the warming summer morning. Older bloke. Grey beard. Scar across the nose.
Looked like someone who'd stabbed at least three people professionally. Possibly before breakfast. The carriage slowed. Then finally rolled to a halt beside him with a soft creak of suspension and snorting horses. One of the horses flicked an ear toward Jim. The other looked completely unimpressed by his existence.
The driver looked down at Jim for several long seconds.
"You Jim?" the older man asked gruffly.
"Aye," Jim replied. The driver jerked a thumb toward the carriage behind him.
"Hop in." Polite fellow. Jim approved. People who got straight to the point were generally easier to deal with. Jim stepped forward and pulled open the carriage door. The hinges creaked softly.
The inside was dimly lit and surprisingly comfortable. Padded seats. Blankets. Storage compartments beneath the benches. Enough room for several people if they didn't particularly like one another. Which, Jim suspected, was probably the standard Atakin arrangement.
He tossed his duffle bag inside with a heavy thud before pausing with one hand on the door. The academy sat far behind him now. Small atop the distant hill.
"How far we going, mate?" he asked. The driver gave a dry little grunt.
"I'd get settled in." Jim raised an eyebrow.
"It's a long one." That wasn't exactly reassuring. Then again, neither was most of what he'd heard that morning. Jim nodded once anyway and climbed inside. The carriage rocked slightly beneath his weight as he settled onto one of the benches. The cushions compressed with a soft sigh.
Outside, the driver clicked his tongue at the horses and the carriage began moving again with a steady jolt. The wheels rolled forward. Riordan slowly began slipping away behind them. Jim leaned back heavily against the cushions. For a moment he simply listened. The creak of wheels.
The steady rhythm of hooves. The faint rattling of gear stowed somewhere beneath the carriage. Leather shifting. Wood flexing. Harness chains clinking softly. A journey sound.
A soldier sound. The sort of noises that eventually became background music after enough years on the road. Jim reached up and tapped the ash from his pipe out the small side window before sliding it carefully back into his pocket. A gust of warm summer air drifted briefly through the opening before disappearing again. Then he pulled his old waxed flat cap down low over his eyes.
"No greater admin than sleep," he muttered to himself. The carriage rocked gently as it rolled along the road. Jim folded his arms across his chest and settled in for the long ride. His armour sat packed away. His sword rested nearby. The academy was behind him.
The Umber lands waited somewhere ahead. That sounded like tomorrow's problem. Gods knew when he'd next get a proper night's sleep.