Mugu did not stop.
He flew for days, driving the wyvern across the ocean without rest, urging it far beyond its limits. Its wings beat slower with each passing hour, its breaths growing ragged and uneven. By the time Soltheon's coastline came into view, the creature was barely holding itself aloft.
A day of flying later.
It fell from the sky.
The wyvern crashed into the forest below, its body tearing through branches before slamming into the earth. It gave one final, hoarse roar that trembled through the trees, then went still.
Mugu was thrown from its back. He struck a tree and slid down the trunk before landing hard on the ground. The impact did not kill him. He simply lay there, staring up at the sky through the broken canopy.
His chest felt hollow. As if something vital had been scooped out of him and left empty.
For years he had been driven by rage, by hatred, by resentment that burned so fiercely it had carried him across continents.
