บททั้งหมดของ Dawlya’s Dragon: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

61 Avi woke to the soft hum of diagnostic crystals and the faint medicinal smell of the Wing Corp infirmary. Her right arm was bound in a glowing sling, her ribs wrapped. Someone had dimmed the lights. She breathed carefully, her entire side throbbed. A figure sat in the chair beside her, elbows braced on his knees. “Joren?” she whispered. His head snapped up. Relief flooded his face. “You’re awake.” He exhaled shakily, as if he’d been holding his breath for an hour. “How do you feel?” “Like a wall fell on me.” “Well,” he said dryly, “technically, you fell on the wall.” Avi attempted a smile. It hurt. Joren leaned closer. “I told Verek what I saw. Or what I think I saw. He’s not… taking it well.” “What does that mean?” “He’s questioning the entire rotation. No one’s leaving the grounds until he’s done.” Then, more quietly, he added, “He’s furious, Avi. And I don’t think it’s just because a trainee got hurt.” “What then?” Joren hesitated. “He thinks someone took a shot at h

63 Mikan was reviewing border reports with Cain and two guards when a priority comm-request flared to life on the crystalline table. Commander Verek’s frequency. Cain’s head snapped toward it instantly. Mikan reacted first. “Cain, wait.” But Cain was already reaching for the control. Mikan grabbed his wrist. That slight hesitation… That tiny delay… It saved the comm officer from being on the screen when Cain answered. Instead, Verek’s voice came through the speaker, strained, furious, breathless. “This is Commander Verek. There has been an incident during the Wing Corp final exam.” Cain went still. Absolutely still. The kind of stillness that, in Cain, meant catastrophic danger. Mikan slowly released his wrist. “…Incident?” Cain asked, voice low enough to vibrate the table. Verek inhaled as if bracing himself. “Someone fired live ordnance into the exam field. Sunner was the target.” Mikan closed his eyes. Cain did not blink. “She engaged the shooter at high altitude. We have h

65 General Orien stood alone in the center of the chamber. No restraints. No blindfold. That, he realized too late, was worse. The chamber was carved from black crystal and living stone, its walls humming with ancient draynor magic. Above him, the banners of the Wing Corp hung motionless watching. Brieanika sat upon the throne of Draynor, crown gleaming like a restrained sunrise. To her right stood Trace. Not pacing. Not shouting. Still. That frightened Orien most of all. “You are General Orien Valcrest,” Brie said, her voice calm and perfectly balanced. Not loud, absolutely. “Commander of the Wing Corp training division.” Orien inclined his head. “I am.” “You ordered the targeted endangerment of Officer Avin Sunner during an active examination,” Trace continued, voice low. “You authorized a trainee to assassinate her.” “I authorized a test,” Orien replied, desperation creeping in. “She was dangerous. Unstable. A noble with unchecked magic.” Trace’s wings unfurled. The sound c

67 Avi faltered mid-flight. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice just a fraction of a beat where her wing clipped the airflow wrong, where her balance tuned a hair too sharply and then corrected. To a less trained eye, it would have looked like nothing. To Avi, it felt like standing on solid ground and suddenly realizing it was hollow. She adjusted her angle, banking smoothly back into formation as the Wing Corp continued their ascent drill. Cold air tore past her scales, thin and clean, the kind that usually quieted her mind. Today it didn’t. Something was wrong. There was no sound. No visual cue. No warning flare of magic. Just a pressure low and constant coiling somewhere behind her ribs. Focus, she told herself. Commander Verek’s voice carried across the comms, steady and sharp. “Hold altitude. Maintain spacing. No drifting.” Avi complied automatically. Her body knew the routine better than her thoughts did. Wings locked. Tail adjusted. Breath measured. Still, the

69 Morgan reentered the room far more slowly than he had left it. Avi felt it immediately his presence was wrong. Too focused. Too quiet. His mind, normally a calm, forest-green hum in the back of her senses, was a tight, sharp coil. Cain noticed too. He straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms uncrossing, instincts flaring. “Morgan?” he growled softly. Morgan held up a hand. “Easy. I need to speak to Avi.” Avi’s pulse jumped. “Did you find something?” Morgan nodded once, then looked at Cain. “You may stay. She’ll need you.” Cain moved to stand behind Avi, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Protective. Bracing. Morgan pulled a chair forward and sat opposite her, eyes fixed on the faint Dawlya sigil below her collarbone. “When Seppa died,” he began, voice careful, “her circle collapsed. A Dawlya circle without a leader becomes feral chaotic. Normally they tear themselves apart within years.” Avi swallowed. “But they didn’t?” “No,” Morgan said.