On Wings of Thunder (On Wings Saga 1)

by M. D. Grimm

  Chapter Two

  “And so the One Who Brought the Light divided the universe into three realms,” the knowledge keeper said. “The Upper Realm was made for the angels, the Lower Realm for the demons. The Middle Realm was made different from the first two, with no commanding species to rule it. It is a wild, untamed place. It is one that awaits a guiding hand. It is unknown when the One Who Brought the Light will fill it and what manner of creature will rule it, but we might yet see in time.”

  Trystan barely listened. He didn’t need to. He’d heard it all before. They all had. For the unchosen the same information was regurgitated again and again. He had no vocation, which meant his schooling merely continued to keep him out of mischief.

  It was one of the reasons why the knowledge keeper never even attempted to engage the class of ten, himself and the other unchosen. They never had classes with the other students, and each day the knowledge keeper would change so the keeper wouldn’t have to suffer such indignities two times in one week.

  Trystan rolled his eyes as the droning continued. He stared out of the window, thinking of the carving and the way his blood had reacted.

  “The Lower Realm is dark, filled with fire and despair,” the knowledge keeper said. “The inhabitants are the complete opposite of noble angels: they are fickle, brutal, and disordered. They are indulgent and decadent, and they live on violence and blood. Most of their strength comes from their ability to harness fire, but as angels can harness the cold, that is hardly an advantage. However, it is their fickleness and infighting that prevents them from giving much of a challenge to angels. This means that angels are always quick to triumph in battle.”

  Trystan shifted in his chair, antsier than usual. He didn’t mind school, not really, but there was nothing to stimulate his mind. He was quick to learn and always remembered what he was taught. He only had to do something once to remember how to do it again, no matter how much time passed in between. He wrote papers with professional clarity and was always polite and courteous. That being said, he didn’t like anyone. Well, that wasn’t true. He liked his sister, Annalise. She was always kind to him and was the only one never ashamed to be seen with him in public. Even others of the unchosen didn’t like to hang around with their own kind, despite having grown up together. Trystan knew their names, their families, just as they knew him. But they were hardly friends. There was something to be said for strength in numbers, but the thing about the unchosen was to look upon another like you was only to remember your own shame. The unchosen were better off being ignored.

  Most of the time Trystan didn’t mind it.

  Nineteen years and he never once had a friend.

  He absently picked at the bandage overing his wound. The nurse hadn’t asked any questions, merely treating him efficiently before sending him on his way. Unchosens were the most frequent to be treated for wounds—the common victims of violence. Just the other day he’d heard that one of the elderly unchosens, a woman named Lillian, had been attacked in her own home. Someone had torn off one of her wings before shoving her out a window. Of course, no one saw anything. No one knew anything. Everyone simply shrugged and said it wasn’t a great loss. What did unchosens contribute to society, anyway?

  Trystan shook his head, trying not to think of Makhail but failing. While Trystan was certainly his favorite target, the other nine in the room had also been the victim of Makhail’s humor. Bullying unchosen wasn’t exactly approved of, but it wasn’t discouraged either. Apparently he should be punished and made to feel ashamed for his entire life for being born as he was. For putting a hitch in the perfection of the angelic world.

  When the class finally ended, Trystan surged out of the room, walking down corridors with glass barriers. In the next few days, the walls and ceilings would be removed, allowing the walkways to be in the open air. The stormy weather grounded flight, and Trystan knew it was the reason he was bullied most during this season—they had to let out their energy somewhere… or on someone.

  It was early evening, and most days he’d be on his way down to the mess hall for some food. But not today. Or at least not yet. He wanted to go back to that well and get another look at that carving. It had haunted him the entire day, distracting his mind from geography, political science, and history, never far from his mind. His curiosity burned to know more about it. He would have to make sure to bring some light with him this time. A couple of pixies in crystals should suffice. With that thought he snuck into a storage room and quickly collected five of the small crystals that held tiny glowing pixies captive. He shoved them into his bag and continued on his way. He moved with the crowd, listening to the laughter, the chatter, the bustle around him. He was surrounded by it but not part of it. He would never be part of it.

  As he turned a corner and was about to descend some stairs, he saw the bully squad ascending them. Makhail looked in a particularly happy mood, which meant he’d want to spread that happiness to Trystan by stomping on his head. Trystan blamed his prettiness for the attention most unchosen didn’t get. Not all angels were beautiful. Most of the unchosen were even less attractive than the chosen. But for some reason, Trystan was blessed—or cursed—with a slim body, delicate features, heavy-lidded golden eyes, and pale-gold hair that shimmered whenever he moved his head. His wings also received covetous glances—they were white and glossy, with a faint golden sheen not all wings had. He usually shimmered them intangible whenever he wasn’t flying to avoid those glances.

  Not wanting another round of teasing and abuse, Trystan backed up and changed direction. It would take longer to get to the Center Garden, but he wouldn’t be molested along the way.

  The Center Garden was a small piece of the Middle Realm transplanted centuries ago to the Upper Realm, and it was Trystan’s favorite place to be. He liked to sit there for hours alone, enjoying the quiet and peace. He had no direction in life, so he could often take time to simply bask. It held actual dirt, trees, rivers, and small animals. The garden sat on a large stone platform that jutted up from between the clouds and was set right next to the emerald spires of the school and the sapphire spire of the library.

  That was what made the hole or well that Trystan had discovered so interesting. It was a pocket inside that solid slab of stone, and if there was one, could there be more?

  Trystan hurried down another glass corridor, barely noticing the capital city that rose up all around him. Emphoria was the heart of the Upper Realm, the jewel of the angels. She was all color and vibrancy, glass and steel. Towers rose in spires above the clouds, jutting toward the ever-dark sky with twinkling stars. Shimmering surfaces reflected light, absorbing the heat from the glaring red sun. Glass walkways connected each building, creating patterns and spirals, so if one was to look down upon the city, they would see an intricate design, a kind of art.

  Personally, Trystan always found this place cold. Distant. Aloof. Much like angels themselves. Angels were cool to the touch, some colder than others. Trystan was no different. He was an angel and part of this place, like it or not. There was no warmth in the Upper Realm, no rounded edges. Everything was cold and hard, sharp edged and uncompromising. Planned and determined, nothing was a happy accident, nothing was left to chance. Everything was logical and quantified; everything was unblemished and perfect, which was why unchosen were so undesirable. They proved the angelic system was flawed. But what could he do? It was home. Every other city of the Upper Realm was like Emphoria. And the Upper Realm itself stretched far beyond the horizon on all sides, a world of clouds and stars and spires with the sun and moon rotating around them. He wouldn’t survive living in the Middle Realm, with its unpredictable nature and untamed wilderness, and strange beasts on the hunt. He once thought the Middle Realm was simply the Center Garden but bigger. Yet his studies led him to the realization that the Center Garden held all the peace and beauty without the dangers. And he certainly never considered the Lower Realm.

  Trystan shivered at the thought of demons. Angels were
at constant war with their cousins, and the angelic armies were always on alert for new attacks. Trystan had witnessed a dozen assaults by the dark ones, and it was something that frightened him but also intrigued him. He didn’t want to be intrigued, he shouldn’t be, but he always pressed his face against the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark beasts. His roommates would cower under their beds or inside their closets. But not him. He’d read descriptions of what demons looked like, but he rarely managed to see one up close.

  Not that it mattered. He’d never be a soldier or a guardsman. He’d probably end up doing maintenance work or cleanup, or some other demeaning job. He was given a basic education on basic topics. He could read efficiently, he was in good physical shape, and he could follow orders. Not that he liked to… and only when someone was watching him.

  Trystan entered the garden and ran down the paths, past the colorful flowers, the weeping willows, the rivers and ponds, and massive waterfall. He loved this place. It gave him peace and true beauty—a living beauty with warmth and rounded edges.

  He easily found the well again and looked around. Not seeing anyone, he crouched, moved aside the covering, and jumped back into the hole. His used his wings to slow his descent and landed lightly on his feet. After shimmering his wings intangible, he pulled out the crystals and shook them. Angry, the pixies lit up and cast light into the well, illuminating everything, banishing the darkness.

  Grinning, Trystan set the crystals along the walls and knelt over the carving again, squinting. He still couldn’t make out what the design was, but he noticed with a start that his blood in the grooves hadn’t dried. It was still glistening as if newly shed. Amazing.

  “Magic,” he murmured. It had to be. Something magical was in this place, this carving. He was sure the well had been here before the garden, and that meant it had been centuries or more since this carving was created. But why?

  Unable to resist, Trystan unwrapped his hand and aggravated the wound, causing blood to well once again. He cringed against the sting but never made a sound. Blood dripping, he moved it along the design. Just as before the red droplets were drawn to the grooves. Trystan continued painting the carving, moving across the floor, determined and slightly obsessed with seeing what the red revealed. Why did his blood react in such a way? What sort of magic was this?

  He’d grown dizzy by the time he reached the top of the design and the last droplet hit the stone, happily sliding into place. Trystan pushed to his feet, staggering slightly, and rewrapped his hand. Stepping back, he picked up two crystals and held them over what he had revealed.

  Stunned, he froze, his breath hitching.

  Dragon.

  The carving was unmistakably that of the profile of a dragon’s face. Sharp features like that of a bird, but with a heavy eye ridge and large horns sweeping back behind its head, the design was truly a work of art. Trystan’s blood seemed to have given it life, and the light from the crystals created slight shadows that tricked him into thinking there was movement in the stone. The eye of the dragon was in heavy shadow cast by the eye ridge. The mouth was closed, but Trystan could imagine the teeth.

  Trystan realized then it was wonder he felt, not fear. The beast was regal, almost princely in the way he was posed, his head at such an angle as to show haughtiness and a sense of arrogance and pride. All these things Trystan sensed as he knelt once again, taking in the beauty he had discovered.

  He shook his head slowly, lowering the crystals.

  “Why in all the cosmos is there a dragon carving in the bottom of a well underneath the garden?”

  For some reason he directed the question at the dragon. He rolled his eyes at himself.

  “Get a grip on your sanity, angel. The carving isn’t alive. No matter how much it looks it.”

  Yeah, he talked to himself a lot. That was what happened when you didn’t have friends.

  Trystan sat on the side closest to the mouth, as if face-to-face with the beast. He leaned back against the wall, staring.

  “Why are you here?” he whispered. “Why would angels have created you? You’re a demon.”

  Dragons were once the highest ranking in the demon hierarchy. As far as Trystan knew from his studies, all the dragons had died out. There was an abundance of famous legends about them, but one legendary dragon surpassed them all. It was a tale to inspire nightmares, a beast who could block out the sky with his girth, could set all the realms on fire with a single breath. Trystan had been fascinated by the wild tales, the ones his sister told him as a child. Such tales weren’t told in school and especially not to the unchosen. He’d learned much of what he knew of dragons from Annalise. But much of that knowledge had faded.

  He smiled slightly. “Just my luck I discovered you. I can’t even ask anyone why you’re here. I can’t even ask my sister.” He shrugged. “That’s all right. I’ll just break into the library tonight, see if there are any books about you.”

  Trystan leaned forward and lay on his stomach, propping his chin in his palms, his elbows on the stone. He couldn’t stop staring, and despite his growing hunger, he didn’t want to leave.

  The dragon was just too beautiful.

  “I’d really love to know who carved you. I don’t think even our best artists could replicate the life your creator put into you.” He paused. “Great, I really am talking to a stone carving. Do I really expect you to talk back? I must if I keep asking you questions. By the Light Bringer.”

  Trystan sat up and laughed at himself. He ran his fingers through his hair before touching the dragon’s snout. The rest of the stone was cold, as stone should be. But as he pressed his fingertips on that portion of stone, heat met his skin. Trystan flinched, jerking his hand back. His eyes widened.

  “Yep, definitely magic. Weird magic.” Trystan narrowed his eyes. What was that dragon’s name? The most famous of his kind, the destroyer of worlds, the enormous beast? Trystan scrunched up his face, struggling to remember.

  He looked at the carving and slowly reached forward, heart pounding, and touched the snout once more. Heat flared again, but this time he didn’t remove his shaking hand. The stone warmed his skin as if… as if the carving really was alive. Dragons were said to have been warm, right? Because of the fire inside them?

  And then he knew. He knew the name.

  “Asagoroth,” he whispered.

  The stone trembled underneath him. Trystan gasped and scrambled to his feet, his wings becoming visible and spreading wide. The crystals knocked and danced along the stone, the pixies becoming angrier, their light shining brighter. Even as Trystan’s heart clenched in fear and shock, the trembling stopped. Just like that, everything was still.

  Trystan swallowed hard. “Okay, time’s up.”

  He hastily gathered the crystals and, without a backward glance, leapt out of the opening. He covered the hole once again and flew away, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  The beast stirred, rumbling with frustration. He was awake now. He was awake and aware and alive and wanting. He desired and he yearned as he pulsed in the dark, his heat scorching his prison. The One had been there. He’d sensed him, heard him; he’d felt the One’s touch as acutely as he once had. But the beast knew he had to be patient. He had to wait. It wasn’t time yet, but soon. Very soon. The spell would take three days from the first drop of blood. Now there were only two left. He would wait for the first crack…. Then he would burst free and take back what was his.

  He opened his large, fierce eyes in the darkness. He curled his claws of steel in the black. Wings of shadow and despair yearned to open, to feel the wind, to own the sky once again.

  Not yet. His growl rumbled in his chest, in the stone. Not yet. He’d been patient for a millennium. He could wait two more days.

  Chapter Three

  It wasn’t hard to sneak into the library, as there were no alarms or guards. Most of the authorities wouldn’t think someone would sneak into the library. Angels liked order. They liked taking commands. Trys
tan figured because he was unchosen, he was a little more inclined to shove those rules aside and conveniently forget about them.

  It was late night when he crept out of his bedchamber without rousing his roommates. He used the window and flew silently, staying in the shadows of the spires, determined to remain undetected. It was harder than it sounded, considering his wings and hair reflected any light source, no matter how faint.

  The library rose up like a brilliant sapphire next to the emerald school. The air was crisp under his wings, against the feathers, which meant the gentler season had certainly arrived. It felt nice. It felt free. Smiling, Trystan hovered in front of a large, ornate window depicting an angel holding the Spear of Power toward the sun. Apparently, that etching depicted the high chancellor during the rebuilding of Emphoria after the Great Battle. The same battle where the angels defeated Asagoroth.

  He carefully balanced his toes on the narrow windowsill and managed to work one of his own plucked feathers through the narrow gap, slipping it under and pushing up the latch. The window creaked slightly as he swung it open, and he froze, holding his breath. Minutes ticked by. When he heard no one, he exhaled and slipped through the opening, shutting it behind him. He had to take a moment to find his bearings. Everything looked different in the dark. Still crouched, Trystan pulled out a single small crystal and shook it. The pixie lit up, and it was enough light to see his way through the stacks and to read should he find the books he was looking for. It would be in the restricted section. All tomes pertaining to the history of demons, more than general information of their kind, were in the restricted section. Only the knowledge keepers could view that material.

  Skulking through the shadows, Trystan made his way easily enough. The library was enormous, with towering ceilings, three levels, spiral staircases, and thousands upon thousands of books, some written as recently as that year, others dating back centuries. One had to get permission to see the ancient volumes because of their fragility.