105 AC
The sun rose gray and slow over Dragonstone, casting long shadows across the black stone battlements. I hadn't slept. My hands were raw from scrubbing soot from my leathers, and still the scent of burnt flesh clung to me, thick and accusing.
Togar was gone. Burned, buried, and vanished from the ledgers of the world. But his absence would raise questions. Dragonkeepers did not simply vanish on this island—especially not ones who had served since the days of Jaehaerys.
I avoided the other keepers that morning. Walked the paths by the cliffs with my hood drawn low, the sea wind biting against my face like penance. Each gust carried a whisper, and each whisper sounded like blame.
Silverwing watched me from the heights. She did not come down. As if she, too, needed distance.
By midday, Maelion found me.
He said nothing at first. Just walked beside me, silent. His robes were dust-stained, and he carried a small, bound tome—one of the old record books.
"There is talk," he finally said, eyes on the horizon. "Of shadows moving near the western cliffs. Of smoke where none should be."
I said nothing.
He opened the book and showed me a page. Togar's name. Inked neatly beneath the registry of those tasked with Silverwing's care.
He turned it slowly. The page was now marked. A thin red line scratched across the name.
"The others think he slipped on the rocks," Maelion continued. "That he was careless. Old. The sea took him."
Still, I said nothing.
He looked at me then. Not with anger. Not even surprise. But sorrow.
"There will be no questions. Not yet. But keepers gossip, and gossip becomes suspicion. And if Silverwing is ever seen flying with a rider..."
I looked up to where she perched.
Maelion closed the book. "You are no longer a boy chasing dreams. Whatever you do now—every flight, every word—must be measured."
I nodded, slowly. "I didn't want him dead."
"Want has nothing to do with it," he said. "You made a choice. And choices burn longer than fire."
That night, I returned to Silverwing. She came to me this time, slow and steady.
We did not fly.
I only rested against her flank, head bowed to the scales.
The sky above was empty, but I felt the weight of wings.
And far across the Narrow Sea, war still simmered, not in steel—but in whispers.
And in secrets with ash on their breath.