right thing standing up to his father against the breeding cages, no matter what it cost him personally.
Tristan did his best to assist Nyk with his duties, since Ersken was busy tending the apprentice mounts, but he sensed he was more of a hindrance than a help. Every sound from the stronghold above—the bells tolling the hour or the shout and clang of servants going about their usual work—caused Tristan to jerk upright or strain his hearing, often knocking over barrels of feed or stumbling into Nyk in the process.
Lunch came and went, and still there was no message or word from Fallon’s Riders. Patrols rarely took this long—and if they did, a pigeon was usually sent with an update. The commander remained poised atop the battlements, and the atmosphere in the stronghold was tense.
By midafternoon Tristan couldn’t sit still and had taken to pacing in front of the enclosure. His father had told him off for doing the same thing out on the walls, where everyone could see, so he’d returned to the bottom of the Eyrie.
Nyk seemed stressed too, or maybe Tristan’s mutterings and shuffling feet were putting him in an agitated mood. He had accidentally stepped on Nyk’s toes more than once, and he expected he was one stomping away from being told off, when a horn blast echoed off the stone walls rising all around them.
Tristan froze, and didn’t move again until the second and third blasts sounded.
He stared up at the sky, brows knit together.
“Does that mean . . . did they light another signal?” Nyk asked, looking between Tristan and the upper levels of the Eyrie. “Is there another attack?”
Tristan shook his head slowly, uncertainly. Yes, he was about to say, though he didn’t want it to be true. What other reason would they blow the horn three times? “I have to go,” he said, and ran up the stairs. Nyk’s footsteps sounded in the stairwell just behind him, and together they emerged into the courtyard.
Tristan’s heart sank. He could actually see the thick column of smoke that was rising in the distance, visible over the soaring cliffs to the east. This wasn’t the original signal, and it was clearly from a different village altogether.
Two raiding parties?
Tristan found his father and waited impatiently as he spoke to some guards. The instant they were dismissed, Tristan spoke.
“That looks like it’s coming from Petratec,” he said. “Someone has to go.”
The commander must have recognized the look on his son’s face, because he answered the unasked question with a forceful jerk of the head.
“Absolutely not—you’re not ready,” he said, and Tristan deflated. “I will go.”
Tristan forgot his disappointment at once. His father was about to go to battle. Tristan had been barely a year old the last time his father had been in combat, and the reality of the situation hit him in a way it hadn’t yet. For the commander to get personally involved . . . things must be truly dire.
His father hailed Beryk and gave him instructions. With a nod, his second-in-command hurried back to the Eyrie with the other Riders from their patrol in tow. The swell of energy within the complex changed, anticipation crackling in the air. The commander was about to fly out to meet raiders, preparing for the first aerial battle since the Blood War.
The Phoenix Riders were truly back.
His father turned to him. “Tristan, you will be in charge in my stead,” he said.
The breath caught in Tristan’s throat. “Me?” he asked faintly. The world seemed to shrink around them, until it was just Tristan and his father. A tingling, weightless sensation swept through his body. “But—you just said I wasn’t ready, and after last night . . .”
The corner of the commander’s lips quirked ever so slightly. “I asked you to show me your leadership skills, and you did. I respect your conviction and your willingness to sacrifice your own ambition for what you believe is right. Just because I don’t want you flying blind into a dangerous situation for your very first patrol does not mean I don’t think you a worthy leader and a valuable asset to the Phoenix Riders.”
Tristan swallowed thickly, and to his intense embarrassment, the back of his eyes pricked with coming tears.
His father’s amusement shifted and his expression turned soft. “You’ll do well, Son,” he said at last.
“Thank you, Father,” Tristan said, his voice as steady as he could make it. He raised his chin and straightened his spine.