The cold wind bit at Trafalgar's face as the wyvern cut through the night sky. Caelvyrn's words still rang in his head: Gluttony Dragon.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Only the heavy beat of wings and the hiss of air filled the silence. Trafalgar could feel the weight pressing down—Valttair was holding something in, and it was only a matter of time before it came out.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. "That dragon dies. Not later. Not when it's convenient. Now when we find it." His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, its glow faint but dangerous, like a flame waiting to flare.
Trafalgar glanced at him. His father's eyes were steel, but behind them, Trafalgar caught a flicker of something else—grief, raw and ugly, hidden under all that control.
