Read Skyborn free: the opening chapter

The Summons: Dust and Dreams

The sun warmed the flat mesa, making the red rock glow. Dust devils spun across the dry land, like playful ghosts dancing. Lyra didn’t really see them. Her hands, stained purple from wild berries, quickly sorted the harvest into baskets. Today’s pick wasn’t much, but enough to trade for oil lamps and thread.

Old Man Tiber would grumble, as usual. He always did. But he always traded fairly, and in Pellas, that meant everything. Pellas clung to the side of the mesa like a bird’s nest, made of clay homes and winding paths. Life here was simple. It was hard work.

Lyra liked it that way.

“Slow down, you move too fast,” a voice called.

Lyra looked up, shading her eyes. Kaelen’s younger sister, Elara, leaned against a doorway, arms folded, a small smile on her face. Elara was younger, but acted like Lyra was a little kid.

“Just trying to finish before it gets too hot,” Lyra said, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“You always finish things. Relax. Maybe learn to braid your hair instead of hiding it under a cap.”

Lyra touched her practical braid. “Braids don’t pick berries.”

Elara laughed, a clear, bright sound. “No, but they might catch a Skyborn recruit’s eye.”

Lyra’s stomach tightened. The Skyborn. The dragon-riders. The best of the best. They were legends in Pellas, whispered about in secret. Stories of their bravery, their skill, their bond with the huge dragons that flew over Aeridor.

And in one week, a Skyborn messenger would come to Pellas to pick new recruits for the Academy.

It was a chance to leave. A chance to be something more than a berry picker. But it was also scary.

“Don't tease,” Lyra said, trying to sound calm. “I’m not interested in the Skyborn.”

“Oh, come on,” Elara said. “You watch them fly over for hours. You know all the dragon families. You even draw them in the dirt.”

Lyra frowned. “I’m interested in dragons, not the riders.” There was a difference, a small but important one. Dragons were old, wild, powerful. The riders… they used the dragons. They controlled them. That’s what the stories said.

---

The bell above Tiber’s shop jingled as Lyra carried in the baskets. The shop smelled of dried herbs, woodsmoke, and metal. Tiber, his face full of wrinkles, barely looked up from polishing a dragon scale.

“Berries,” he said, taking the baskets. “Not a big harvest.”

“It’s been hot,” Lyra explained. “I’ll go further up the mesa tomorrow. There’s a patch near the old ruins.”

Tiber snorted. “The ruins? Stay away from that place. Bad luck hangs around it.”

Lyra knew the stories. The ruins were all that was left of a Skyborn outpost, abandoned years ago. People said a bad storm destroyed it, but others whispered about something else. Something about the ‘aether’, the energy that connected dragon and rider. Old tales said the aether was weakening, and the outpost fell because the riders lost their connection.

Lyra had always been curious about the aether. She’d spent hours reading old scrolls her grandmother had saved, trying to understand the lost art of using it. It wasn’t useful for a berry picker, but it felt… right. Like a hidden part of her.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, knowing Tiber wouldn’t stop her. He knew she could handle herself.

He handed her a small pouch of coins. “Enough for lamps and thread. And a new knife. You chipped the blade on your old one.”

Lyra took the pouch, smiling a little. Tiber acted tough, but he always looked out for her.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just stay out of trouble.”

---

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the village. Lyra sat on the edge of the cliff, sketching in the dirt with a burnt stick. Not dragons today, but the lines of the canyon walls. The wind blew her hair around, carrying the smell of dust and sage.

She wasn’t sketching to get better at art. She was sketching to feel calm. To hold onto what she knew, knowing her life was about to change.

A shadow fell over her drawing. She looked up.

Standing before her was a Skyborn rider, in silver and blue. He was tall, with hard eyes and a sharp jaw. He held a sealed scroll.

“Lyra of Pellas?” he asked, his voice cold and official.

Lyra stood, her heart racing. She’d imagined this moment many times, but it was much more frightening in person.

“Yes,” she said, her voice a whisper.

The Skyborn messenger didn’t greet her, didn’t even say hello. He just handed her the scroll.

“By order of Lord Valerius, you are summoned to the Skyborn Academy. Report to Citadel Aeridor within the week.”

Lyra took the scroll, her fingers shaking. It was real. She’d been chosen.

But as she looked at the Royal Seal on the wax, a strange feeling came over her. It wasn’t excitement. It wasn’t happiness. It was… worry. The seal didn’t look quite right. The dragon carved into it seemed… twisted.

And a faint hum came from the scroll, a vibration that tickled her skin. It felt like an echo of something old, something lost.

Something dangerous.

Lyra stared at the seal, turning the scroll over and over. The village of Pellas was starting to glow with the warm light of oil lamps. Smoke rose from the cooking fires, smelling of roasted roots and spiced bread. It was a comforting smell, a smell of home. A home she might be leaving.

“What does it say?” a voice asked.

Old Man Hemlock, the village herbalist, had walked over, leaning on his cane. He’d seen the Skyborn messenger and his face was full of concern.

Lyra unfolded the scroll, her fingers still trembling. The writing was fancy, formal, the kind used for important announcements. She read it aloud, her voice getting stronger with each sentence.

“’To Lyra of Pellas, gifted in the ways of the earth and sensitive to the Aether. By order of Lord Valerius, you are summoned to the Skyborn Academy, Citadel Aeridor. Your unique talents are needed to help restore our fading power. Report within the week, and prepare for hard training. Failure to comply will be seen as defiance.’"

Hemlock took a breath. “The Aether? They noticed?”

Lyra looked at him, confused. “You knew?”

He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Knew? Child, everyone in Pellas knows. That’s why your grandmother settled here. This valley… it holds a bit of the old power. Weak, almost gone, but it’s here. That’s why the plants grow so well, why the herbs are strong. And that’s why you always knew what each root and leaf could do.”

Lyra’s mind spun. She’d always thought her skill with herbs was just a talent, something she’d learned from her grandmother. But it was more than that. It was connected to the Aether, to the ancient power the Skyborn were trying to get back.

“Elara never told me,” she said, her voice tight.

“She protected you. The Skyborn… they aren’t what they used to be. They were once guardians, protectors of the Aether. But power changes people, child. They want to control it, not help it grow.” He tapped the scroll with his cane. “This ‘restoration’ they speak of… it’s not about saving the Aether. It’s about using it.”

Lyra’s worry grew. “But why me? There must be others who are more skilled, more… connected.”

“Perhaps,” Hemlock said, his gaze distant. “But the Skyborn have been searching for years. The Aether is fading quickly, and their own children… they lack the sensitivity. They can use the energy, yes, but they can’t feel it. They can’t understand its secrets. Your grandmother believed you were different. That you could reconnect with the Aether.”

He paused, looking at her. “Be careful, Lyra. The Skyborn Academy is a beautiful cage. They will try to change you, to break you down and rebuild you in their way. Don’t let them.”

Lyra spent the next few days getting ready. It wasn’t about gathering things, though Tiber insisted on giving her a strong travel pack and plenty of dried meat and fruit. It was about preparing herself. She spent hours in Elara’s workshop, a small, messy space filled with jars of herbs, bundles of roots, and labeled scrolls. She carefully packed her grandmother’s most prized things: a stone mortar and pestle, a leather journal with plant drawings, and a small, smooth stone that felt warm to the touch.

She also spent time with the villagers, saying goodbye. Old Man Hemlock gave her a pouch of special seeds, plants that could grow anywhere. Mara, the weaver, made her a shawl with protective symbols. Even Tiber, gruff as always, smiled and patted her shoulder.

Lyra wasn’t foolish. She knew the Skyborn Academy wasn’t a kind place. She’d heard stories, whispers of harsh training, of students who disappeared. But she also knew she couldn’t ignore the summons. Not when the fate of the Aether, and maybe the world, might depend on her.

On the morning she left, she stood at the edge of the mesa, looking back at Pellas. The village was a cluster of stone houses among the red rocks, bathed in the golden light of the rising sun. It was a simple life, a quiet life. But it was her life.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of dust and sage. She wasn’t leaving Pellas behind. She was carrying it with her, in her heart, in her skills, in the knowledge her grandmother had given her.

A Skyborn rider, in polished silver armor, waited for her at the base of the mesa, on a huge winged creature, a skyrunner, its feathers the color of storm clouds.

As she walked closer, she noticed something strange. The skyrunner seemed… weak. Its wings drooped, and its bright eyes were dull. It didn’t look at her.

The rider, a woman with a hard face, didn’t welcome her, didn’t even speak. She just pointed to the skyrunner.

“Mount,” she ordered.

Lyra hesitated, a prickle of unease running down her spine. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The skyrunner wasn’t just tired. It was… fading. Like the Aether itself.

She glanced back at Pellas one last time, a silent promise in her eyes. She would survive. She would learn. And she would find out the truth about the Skyborn’s desperate search for power.

Then, with a determined look, she climbed onto the skyrunner’s back, and they soared into the vast, empty sky. The journey to Citadel Aeridor had begun.

The Royal Seal

The rider’s grip tightened on the reins as the skyrunner banked sharply, heading toward a range of mesas that clawed at the clouds. Lyra gripped the bird’s coarse feathers, trying not to look down. The canyons below were a dizzying maze of red rock and shadow. The skyrunner barely seemed to notice her weight, barely even breathed properly.

“We’ll reach the Citadel before nightfall,” the rider, Captain Ryla, said without looking at Lyra. Her voice was as cold and sharp as the wind. “Be grateful. Few from the outer villages receive a direct summons.”

Lyra didn’t feel grateful. She felt…watched. The captain’s gaze flicked over her every few moments, assessing, judging. And the skyrunner’s sluggish flight only increased her worry. What was happening? Why send a failing creature for such an important task?

“What’s wrong with your skyrunner?” Lyra asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Ryla’s lips curled into a tight smile. “It’s served its purpose. Don’t concern yourself with such things.”

Lyra clenched her fists. She was concerned. She could feel the creature’s dwindling energy, its fading connection to the Aether. It reminded her of Old Man Hemlock, growing weaker with each passing season.

---

Hours crawled by. The landscape changed, the red canyons giving way to jagged peaks of black stone. Finally, they saw it. Citadel Aeridor.

It wasn't a castle, not exactly. It was a city built into the largest mesa, a swirling labyrinth of towers and bridges carved from the rock itself. Dragon-riders soared between the structures, their dragons gleaming in the afternoon sun. The sight should have been awe-inspiring, but Lyra felt a growing sense of dread. The Citadel felt… oppressive.

They landed on a wide platform carved into the mesa face. A dozen Skyborn recruits stood waiting, looking stiff and uncertain in their practice armor. They stared at Lyra with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

A man in elaborate silver and gold armor strode forward. He carried a seal, a heavy disc of polished obsidian etched with a swirling dragon. It was the Royal Seal of Aeridor, and its presence confirmed the seriousness of the summons.

“Lyra of Pellas,” he announced, his voice booming across the platform. “You have been summoned by order of Lord Valerius, Protector of Aeridor. Present yourself.”

Lyra stepped forward, her heart pounding. Lord Valerius. She’d heard his name spoken with reverence in Pellas, a powerful leader who had brought stability to the kingdom after years of conflict. But Old Man Hemlock had warned her about power, about those who sought it at any cost.

The man took the seal, examined it closely, then handed it to Lyra. It felt strangely cold in her hand.

“This seal signifies your acceptance into the Skyborn Academy,” he said. “It also carries a direct order. You will undergo training, and if found worthy, you will become a dragon-rider, a protector of Aeridor.”

Lyra looked up at the man, at the towering Citadel behind him, at the dragons circling overhead. It all felt…wrong.

“What if I don’t want to be a dragon-rider?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Want has little to do with it. You have been chosen. This is not a request.”

A murmur ran through the assembled recruits. Kaelen, a tall, arrogant-looking boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, scoffed.

“Another village girl who thinks she can handle the skies,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “She’ll be begging to go home before the week is out.”

Lyra ignored him, focusing on the man with the seal. “My grandmother… she taught me about the Aether. About the connection between humans and dragons. She said the Skyborn… they don’t always respect that connection.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “Your grandmother was a woman of… unusual beliefs. The Skyborn serve Aeridor. We protect it from those who would harm it.”

“Protect it how?” Lyra pressed. “By controlling the Aether? By forcing dragons to obey?”

The man’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Enough. You will fall in line. You will learn to obey. And you will serve Aeridor.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Lyra standing on the platform, feeling more alone than ever.

---

She was led to a spartan dormitory, a stone room with a narrow cot and a small window overlooking the vast canyons. The other recruits eyed her with suspicion, whispering amongst themselves. Kaelen followed her, a smirk on his face.

“So, the little Aether-whisperer arrives,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “What makes you so special? You think you can just waltz in here and change centuries of tradition?”

“I don’t want to change anything,” Lyra said, unpacking a small pouch of herbs and dried fruit. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand? You don’t understand anything. You’re a farm girl, playing at being a dragon-rider.”

“I grew up among the mesas, the canyons, the dragons,” Lyra said, meeting his gaze. “I know this land. Maybe I know it better than you.”

Kaelen laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. You can probably tell me what each rock tastes like.”

“At least I wouldn’t underestimate someone because of where they come from,” Lyra retorted.

Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t mistake my amusement for weakness. I come from a long line of Skyborn. My father is a Lord, a commander of the Citadel guard. You’re nothing.”

“I’m someone who cares about the dragons,” Lyra said quietly. “And I won’t let anyone harm them.”

Kaelen straightened up, his expression hardening. “We’ll see about that. Tomorrow, we begin training. And tomorrow, you’ll learn exactly what it means to be a Skyborn.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Lyra alone in the cold stone room. She looked out the window, at the distant mesas, at the dragons soaring through the sky.

Something was definitely wrong. The Citadel wasn’t what it seemed. And Kaelen… he was hiding something. She could feel it.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the canyons, a single thought echoed in Lyra’s mind. Old Man Hemlock’s warning. The Skyborn are not what they appear to be. They seek the Aether for their own purposes. Be careful, Lyra. Very careful.

A guard rattled the door, handing her a slate. “Lord Valerius requests your presence in the Grand Hall. Immediately.”

Lyra’s breath hitched. This wasn't part of the usual orientation. What did Lord Valerius want with her? And why now?

She looked back at the seal, still clutched in her hand. The obsidian felt colder than ever. It wasn’t a symbol of acceptance. It felt like a brand.

…It felt like a brand.

Lyra smoothed the worn fabric of her tunic, a knot forming in her stomach. The Grand Hall was the heart of the Citadel, reserved for important ceremonies and audiences with Lord Valerius himself. For a new recruit to be summoned there so quickly… it was unsettling.

The corridors were vast and echoing, polished stone reflecting the flickering torchlight. Guards stood rigid at every turn, their faces impassive. Lyra passed training yards where Skyborn practiced aerial maneuvers on scaled training constructs, the air thick with the scent of ozone and the rhythmic beat of wings. They barely glanced at her, focused solely on their drills. She was an anomaly, an outsider, and they made no effort to acknowledge her presence.

Finally, she reached the Grand Hall. Two towering bronze doors, etched with scenes of dragons and Skyborn in glorious battle, stood slightly ajar. A guard stationed before them nodded curtly. "Enter."

The Hall was immense, easily large enough to house the entire Skyborn contingent. A vast mosaic depicting the history of Aeridor covered the floor, shimmering with inlaid gemstones. Banners displaying the kingdom’s colors, sapphire blue and silver, hung from the vaulted ceiling. At the far end, seated on a raised dais, was Lord Valerius.

He was a striking man, tall and imposing, with silver hair swept back from a stern face. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, scanned her with an unnerving intensity. Around him stood a dozen Skyborn, all clad in polished armor, their expressions carefully neutral.

Lyra walked forward, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. She stopped before the dais and lowered her head in a gesture of respect, though she felt none.

"Lyra of the Mesa Winds," Lord Valerius said, his voice resonating with authority. "You have been brought here by the Royal Seal, a summons that is not issued lightly. Do you understand the gravity of this occasion?"

“I do, my Lord,” Lyra replied, keeping her voice steady.

Valerius gestured towards a table beside him. On it rested a scroll, sealed with the same obsidian seal she possessed. But this one was larger, more elaborate, its surface etched with intricate symbols.

“This is the Royal Summons,” Valerius explained. “A direct request from Queen Isolde herself. It details a matter of utmost importance to the kingdom, a threat that requires the unique skills of a dragon-rider. Specifically, an Aether-whisperer.”

Lyra’s eyebrows rose slightly. The Queen? This was far beyond anything she had anticipated.

“For generations,” Valerius continued, “the Skyborn have served as Aeridor’s protectors, the guardians of the Aether and the dragons. We maintain the balance, ensuring the prosperity of our land. But a shadow has fallen upon Aeridor, a darkness that threatens to consume us all.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Skyborn. “There are whispers of unrest in the southern provinces, reports of corrupted Aether readings, and… troubling signs from the dragons themselves.”

He turned back to Lyra. “Queen Isolde believes your ability to connect with the dragons, to sense the Aether’s flow, is crucial to uncovering the source of this threat. She tasks you with a mission, a journey to the heart of the Shadowlands, to find the cause of this corruption and restore balance.”

Lyra was stunned. A mission? To the Shadowlands? The very name evoked fear and dread. The Shadowlands were a desolate, blighted region, shrouded in perpetual twilight, said to be haunted by creatures twisted by corrupted Aether. No Skyborn willingly ventured there.

“My Lord,” she said slowly, “with all due respect, I am just a recruit. I have much to learn before I can undertake such a dangerous mission.”

Valerius’s lips curved into a thin smile. “You underestimate yourself, Lyra. Your arrival was not a coincidence. The Queen herself insisted on your inclusion in the Skyborn ranks. Your lineage… your connection to the ancient ways… they are not insignificant.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Aeridor is not as unified as it seems. There are factions vying for power, lords who resent the Queen’s authority, and whispers of rebellion brewing in the shadows. They see the dragons as tools, weapons to be controlled, not as sentient beings to be protected. This mission… it’s not just about saving Aeridor from the external threat. It’s about preserving the very soul of our kingdom.”

Lyra’s gaze drifted to the obsidian seal in her hand. She was caught in a web of political intrigue, a pawn in a game she didn’t understand. The pressure from her community to join the Skyborn, the initial excitement of learning to fly, now felt tainted.

"I… I need time to consider this, my Lord," she said hesitantly.

Valerius raised an eyebrow. "Time is a luxury we do not have. The corruption is spreading. The dragons are growing restless. Queen Isolde expects an immediate response. Your journey begins at dawn."

He paused, then added, his voice laced with steel, “You were summoned here for a reason, Lyra. The Royal Seal is not a request. It is a command. You will obey. And you will serve Aeridor.”

The weight of his words settled upon her, crushing her spirit. She looked around the Grand Hall, at the faces of the assembled Skyborn, and saw not camaraderie, but expectation. They were waiting to see if she would fall in line, to see if she would become just another cog in their machine.

She knew, with a chilling certainty, that her life had changed forever. The open skies of the mesas, the freedom of riding the wind, seemed a distant memory. She was no longer a simple Aether-whisperer. She was a weapon, a tool to be wielded by a kingdom on the brink of war. And the journey to the Shadowlands, she suspected, was just the beginning.

The sample ends here.