PROLOGUE

"Again!"

A massive black dragon circled and dove through the overcast sky above his trainer, spewing a stream of fire at each target—straw-stuffed sacks the size of fae—as they were launched into the sky above him. He missed only one, sending all seven others back to the earth aflame, their ashes catching in the wind around him.

He cursed as the one remaining intact sack hit the ground, spitting a plume of dust into the air that seemed to mock him.

If Luka Fulgara was going to defend his realm against the Allarian fae across the border, he would need to do better.

Missing even one wasn't acceptable.

Apparently, his trainer agreed.

"Again!" Malachi roared from the ground, loudly enough that it echoed through the entire valley reserved for Legion Academy training. The frustration in the aging man's voice was evident as he sent another target into the sky, simulating yet another flying fae soldier.

Luka plunged toward it, his wings tucked tight to his back as he sped toward the limp sack.

He wouldn't miss this time. Or ever again.