The black silhouette perched atop the monster's back crouched low, syncing its breath perfectly with the creature's wingbeats.
No reins were visible, yet the monster's flight was utterly steady, without the slightest waver.
In that moment, Salma knew for certain.
It was dominating the beast beneath it.
"There was a rider on its back."
Salma spoke with his eyes closed.
Gardon listened in silence.
"At first, I could only make out the shape, but it was about the size of a Sarun-Ke."
Salma's wings trembled again. The healer paused in applying the ointment.
"It was clad in armor. Full body armor. But not the crude iron plates of the orcs."
Salma continued.
"The armor was like interlocking scales, layered and fitted with barely any gaps. It looked black at first, but when moonlight grazed it, a deep, shadowy indigo emerged."
Salma fell silent, but Gardon didn't respond immediately.
A brief hush settled.
"What about the helmet?"
Gardon's brow twitched slightly.
"It was wearing one."
Salma nodded.
"But it wasn't shaped like the helmets of the Sarun-Ke or the elves. It was elongated at the top..."
Salma's beak parted.
"The face was hidden. A faceplate covered it, and through the slits in the helmet, only red eyes gleamed."
The room grew still.
The healers stopped their work. The winged soldiers held their breath.
"It wasn't orcs!"
Salma declared firmly.
"Grand Warlord! Orcs couldn't craft armor that refined. They don't have bodies that balanced."
"Could it have been a minotaur?"
"Absolutely not."
Salma shook his head.
"Minotaurs don't ride winged beasts like that. They're a ground-fighting race."
Salma paused, then closed his eyes again.
In his memory.
The gray monster with massive wings banked sharply. Tilting its wings, it twisted its body, shifting direction fluidly. Its movements were graceful, like a fish gliding through water.
And the rider moved.
A hand came into view.
The back and palm were encased in black gauntlets, with joints and fingers connected by leather.
Though wrapped in iron and hide, those fingers were long. Similar to a Sarun-Ke's, but slimmer, more delicate—like an elf's.
That hand pulled on the reins. Leather and chain straps looped around the monster's neck.
The beast responded instantly, turning its head, folding its wings, and diving steeply toward Salma.
Salma veered sideways, beating his wings. He evaded by a hair's breadth as the monster streaked past.
The wind lashed at him, and gray scales slashed across his vision.
Then the tail whipped in.
It was a long tail, tipped with spikes, each segment reinforced with iron plates.
Salma barely dodged. The tail grazed the edge of his wing. A few feathers scattered into the air.
The monster climbed again. With one powerful wingbeat. The distance between them widened in an instant.
And the rider drew a spear fixed to the saddle in front of him on the wyvern's back, yanking it free in one swift motion.
It was a long spear. The tip honed to a razor edge, the shaft black, with only the blade gleaming silver.
The rider raised the spear, aiming it. His gaze locked on Salma.
The monster charged once more.
Wings flared, accelerating explosively toward Salma.
Salma spun sharply, twisting his body and dropping downward, evading the spear by the slimmest margin.
The spear skimmed overhead, scraping the metal of his helmet.
Blood trickled from his forehead. Not much, but it seeped into his eyes. His vision tinted red.
Salma flared his wings immediately, righting himself. Then he countered.
Manifestation.
Blue light shimmered from Salma's wings.
The light took form, becoming a hand that gripped a spear.
Salma hurled the spear at the rider.
It sliced through the air with a shrill whistle.
But it missed.
The rider leaned low.
Pressing close to the monster's neck, he let the trajectory glance off harmlessly.
The spear cut through empty space and plummeted downward.
At the same time, the monster's maw gaped open.
Crimson flames burst forth in a short blast, heating the night sky.
Salma reacted instantly.
With one mighty wingbeat, he folded his wings, angled his body upward, and soared higher.
Stray flames licked the tips of his wings, sparking tiny embers. The smell of burning filled the air.
Salma climbed even higher.
His breath grew ragged. His wings felt heavy. Heat and tension gripped his body simultaneously.
And he realized.
'I can't win.'
This wasn't a fight. It was a one-sided hunt.
Salma felt bewildered. Not the sting of defeat.
In the sky, he was being pursued.
He had always been above. Looking down, the one chasing.
But now it was different. Salma decided to retreat.
He called to the winged soldiers, gathered the survivors.
And fled.
"That's how I made it back."
Salma opened his eyes.
His voice was drained, subdued.
Gardon stood motionless, his expression hardened.
"That monster..."
Gardon finally spoke.
"I've seen records of it."
Salma looked up.
"In Undur Nabazarr's writings. Accounts of the northern wastelands."
Gardon continued.
"A winged beast that soars the skies. A fire-breathing monster. They call it a wyvern."
"Wyvern..."
Salma echoed the name slowly. It wasn't unfamiliar. Just a long-buried memory.
He couldn't speak for a moment. He lowered his gaze, sifting through recollections.
"...I've seen one before."
Salma said cautiously.
"It was a long time ago. During an expedition to the northern wastelands. Not in battle, and we didn't encounter it up close."
He paused to steady his breath, then went on.
"I spotted it from afar. Too distant to make out clearly."
Salma shook his head. It wasn't a vivid enough memory to elaborate on.
"So I forgot about it. It was barely a memory at all. The one back then... didn't seem tamed."
Salma's wings fluttered.
"But that rider was handling the monster—the wyvern—with complete mastery. As if..."
"Like the Sarun-Ke griffon riders."
Gardon finished, and Salma nodded.
"Exactly. Like the Sarun-Ke griffon riders. But that wyvern rider wasn't a Sarun-Ke."
Gardon's gaze remained fixed on Salma.
"...Why do you think that?"
Salma paused to choose his words, then shook his head.
"I don't have solid proof to call it certainty. Just..."
Gardon completed the thought.
"There are no Sarun-Ke in the wastelands."
Salma lifted his head.
"From what I know, that's true. You've led dozens of expeditions and never once seen a Sarun-Ke in the wastelands, right? Let alone one standing shoulder-to-shoulder with orcs or minotaurs..."
Gardon trailed off briefly.
"That's hard to imagine."
Salma nodded slowly.
"The chances of it being a Sarun-Ke are slim."
He took a breath and continued.
"And as for it not being an orc or minotaur... I'll show you proof."
Salma extended a wing toward the table beside the bed. A manifested hand appeared. The blue-glowing hand lifted a tray from the table.
On the tray lay arrows.
"This is the evidence."
Salma said.
The manifested hand raised one arrow from the air. He held it out toward Gardon.
Gardon took it.
His casual grip tightened as he examined it properly.
Gardon's eyes narrowed.
It was an arrowhead.
Triangular and perfectly balanced to an almost excessive degree. The edges were thin, curving subtly inward toward the tip.
The surface bore engravings. Too deep for mere decoration, too intricate for a simple mark.
Swirling lines, tangled like vines. Each one distinct yet merging into a single flow without overlapping.
Gardon's gaze shifted naturally to the shaft.
Clearly carved from wood, yet no grain was visible. No knots, no slight warps.
It was straight as if grown in that form from the start.
The fletching was black. Bird feathers. From what bird, he couldn't tell. But they were evenly trimmed and attached at precise angles.
"This... isn't something an orc could make."
Gardon murmured.
"Orc arrows are sloppy. The heads hammered crudely, shafts crooked, fletching slapped on haphazardly."
Gardon lifted the arrow, holding it to the light.
"This is different. Crafted by a master. With care and intent."
"Precisely."
Salma replied.
"And minotaurs don't use bows."
Gardon nodded.
"True. They wield axes and spears. They scorn bows as weapons for the weak."
Gardon set the arrow back on the table. Then he looked at Salma.
"So who are they?"
Salma didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Not orcs, not minotaurs. Beings who tame wyverns, craft exquisite arrows, and lure foes into prepared ambushes."
Gardon's voice lowered.
"An unknown enemy is marching toward Damu."
The room fell silent.
The healers stood frozen, none daring to move first.
The winged soldiers by the walls remained rigid, stifling even their breaths.
It was a silence that allowed no further words.
Salma drew a deep breath and spoke.
"I'll head out again."
His tone was resolute.
"This time, I'll rouse the Kina of the Mosrow Clan and face them with full force."
"No."
Gardon said firmly.
"You're still recovering. Not fit for the battlefield."
"I'm aware of that."
Salma raised his head.
"But the situation doesn't afford us the luxury to wait."
Salma countered.
"I'm the Warchief of the Mosrow Clan. My soldiers are dead. Sebire fell right before my eyes!"
Salma's voice quivered.
"I can't swallow this humiliation, this shame. I must go out again and pay them back!"
"Fighting on emotion leads to defeat."
Gardon said coolly.
"Vengeance can wait until you're healed. Rest now."
"I can't rest!"
Salma shouted.
He tried to rise from the bed. His wings flared. The healers rushed in urgently.
"Warchief!"
"Let go!"
Salma swung a wing. One healer was shoved back, tumbling to the floor.
"I have to go out now! Before those bastards reach Damu!"
"This isn't the time to go!"
Gardon roared.
His voice filled the entire room. The walls vibrated. The windows rattled.
The healers froze. The winged soldiers couldn't move.
Even Salma hesitated. But soon he spread his wings again.
"I'm going anyway."
Gardon asked.
"Why the rush? The enemy hasn't reached here yet. We have time."
"We don't have time!"
Salma cried out.
"That wyvern's eyes... those eyes looking down on me. I have to face them again."
Salma's beak trembled.
"That night, I felt death. For the first time. I've fought countless battles, but never has death come so close."
Salma's wings drooped limply.
"And I fled. Abandoning Sebire! To save my own life!"
His voice choked.
"This humiliation... this shame..."
Salma bowed his head.
"I can't bear it."
Gardon said nothing. He simply watched Salma.
A long silence stretched.
Then Gardon spoke.
"Only the living can take revenge."
His voice was gentle. Yet firm.
"If you die now, you achieve nothing. You can't wash away the shame, can't avenge your soldiers."
Gardon stepped closer.
"Rest. Recover your strength. And prepare properly."
"But..."
"That's an order."
Gardon cut him off.
"I'm the Grand Warlord of Damu, and you're a warchief of Damu as well. Obey my command."
Salma's beak quivered. Anger, shame, frustration swirled together.
But he couldn't respond. Gardon was right. It was an order.
Gardon turned away. He walked toward the door.
"I'll return later."
Gardon paused at the threshold.
"Until then, compose yourself. And think. About how to fight."
Gardon opened the door. Light from the corridor flooded in.
"They're an enemy we don't know. But Damu is a place they don't know either."
Gardon stepped out. His plate armor creaked, the sound fading into the distance.
Only Salma remained in the room. Along with the healers and winged soldiers.
Salma slumped back onto the bed. His wings hung limp. Strength ebbed away.
"I have to go out again..."
Salma muttered.
"To repay this humiliation..."
His voice trembled, laced with mingled rage and shame.
The healers approached cautiously. They resumed applying the ointment.
Salma didn't resist. He simply bowed his head, reliving the previous night.
Sunlight poured through the window. Warm sunlight. Peaceful sunlight.
But in Salma's mind, it was still that night. The dark sky. Arrows raining down. Sebire falling. And the descending gray wyvern with its rider atop.
Red eyes.
The wyvern rider's red eyes, looking down.
Salma closed his eyes.
'When we meet again...'
'I will...'
Wind blew in from the window, gently fluttering the curtains.