[Draven's POV]
Blue Dragon banners stretch taut in the wind. Catapults on the foredeck crews load and angle toward our cliff batteries.
The sound carries across the water: shouted commands, the groan of loaded siege engines, the rhythmic drum-beat of oarsmen driving the warships forward.
I sweep Khaira across the southern line. Low pass, close enough that the downdraft from her wings sends spray across the nearest deck.
Ballista bolts chase us — two, three, whistling past Khaira's flank — and she rolls hard to avoid the fourth.
The bolts are designed for dragons, heavy iron shafts with barbed heads that could punch through scale at close range.
"They brought dragon-killers," Khaira says. "Aldric came prepared."
"Stay above their range. We need to draw fire, not absorb it."
Below, warriors man the southern walls. Cliff batteries return fire — catapult stones arcing toward the fleet, exploding against hulls and water in plumes of white spray.
The harbor chains hold across the narrows, forcing the lead ships to slow. Theron commands from the western battery, his voice carrying over the chaos with the steady authority of a man who was born to hold fortifications.
It's a theater, convincing, necessary theater. Every eye on the southern fleet, every defender visible on the walls, every catapult firing at maximum rate.
Aldric needs to believe his feint is working — that we've committed everything to the harbor defense.
The real war is east.
"Khaira, eastern approach. What do you see?"
Through the bond, her vision sharpens — dragon eyes cutting through distance and mist with a clarity that makes human sight feel like blindness.
The Shattered Coast resolves in razor detail: rock channels, churning surf, and there — threading through the gaps between reef teeth — movement.
"Boats, small and shallow. Twenty — no, more. They follow a lead vessel through the channels. The pilot knows the path."
Aldric's secondary force. Two hundred elite warriors in shallow-draft longboats, sliding through the rock maze guided by their smuggler pilot.
They think they're invisible and the fleet has pulled every defender south. But Riven is waiting for them.
I bank Khaira east. The turn is hard, pulling blood from my head, and I flatten against her spine as the horizon tilts.
The southern fleet falls behind us — still firing, still advancing, still playing its role in the performance.
Ahead, white scales catch the grey light.
Evelyn on Aspis, paralleling my course from the eastern cliff. The white dragon flies with the savage grace of a creature born for exactly this — wings slicing the air, body streamlined, every movement precise and predatory.
Evelyn rides low against Aspis's spine, silver hair streaming from beneath her helmet, and even in the chaos, the sight steals my breath.
Black and white, side by side.
The Alliance will hear about this, and the world will hear about this. Whatever happens today, the image of these two dragons cutting the sky together will rewrite what every house in the realm believes is possible.
"Together," Khaira says.
"Together," Aspis answers through the bond — the first time I've heard the white dragon's voice directly, resonant and fierce.
We strike the eastern force.
Khaira dives first. Shadow-fire erupts from her jaws — not flame but something darker, a concentrated blast of energy that hits the lead boats in a wave of black heat.
Wood splinters, and men scream. Two longboats shatter on impact, warriors thrown into the churning water between the reef teeth.
Aspis follows. Through Evelyn, moonlight power channels into a blinding shockwave that detonates across the channel — white light erupting in a sphere that turns the grey morning into noon for three savage seconds.
Warriors in the approaching boats throw themselves flat, hands over their eyes, formations breaking as the light sears through their vision.
The combination is devastating. Shadow-fire from above, blinding light from below — the channel becomes a killing ground of disoriented men and burning wreckage.
But Aldric's elite are disciplined.
The rear boats adjust course, pulling tight against the reef walls where the dragon passes can't reach without risking the rocks.
Officers shout commands, rallying the blinded warriors, reforming lines. The pilot vessel pushes forward through the chaos, threading channels too narrow for a dragon's wingspan, leading the surviving boats toward the eastern shore.
They're taking casualties and pressing through. These aren't conscripts breaking at the first pass — they're veterans who've trained for exactly this kind of hell.
"They're reaching the beach," Khaira reports.
I see it. The first longboats grounding on the eastern shore — warriors vaulting over the sides, boots hitting wet sand, blades drawn.
They form up with terrifying speed, shields locking into formation before the surf recedes from their ankles.
The eastern gate. Torren's unit braces at the narrow entry point — thirty fighters behind palisades, archers on the platforms, the killing corridor ready.
I see Torren at the center of the line, scarred face visible even from altitude, his sword drawn and his shield planted.
"Now," I tell Khaira.
Riven's flanking force erupts from the ridge.
Fifty warriors pouring down the slope like water, finding cracks in stone, hitting the exposed column from above while it's still forming on the beach.
The sound reaches me even at altitude — the crash of shields, the scream of steel, the deep-throated roar of fighters who've been crouching in cold scrub for days and finally have something to hit.
The beach becomes a box. Riven from above, and Torren at the gate. Aldric's elite are caught between three walls with nowhere to go, and the killing begins in earnest.
I bank Khaira for another pass. The ballista crews on the surviving longboats have repositioned — three heavy weapons angled skyward, tracking us. The first bolt screams past Khaira's wing, close enough to feel the displaced air.
"Anti-dragon fire from the boats. They're targeting our approach vector."
"Circle wide and come from the north."
I pull Khaira into a climbing turn and search for Aspis. The white dragon was paralleling our last pass over the channel — she should be on our eastern flank, banking for another moonlight strike.
She's not there.
I scan the sky. Smoke from the burning longboats drifts across the eastern approach in thick columns, grey and black against the storm clouds.
Visibility drops to nothing in the smoke banks. I search for white scales — the flash of moonlight, the silhouette of wings.
Nothing.
"Khaira, where is Aspis?"
The black dragon extends her senses through the bond, reaching for the white dragon's presence. A pause. Then:
"Separated. The ballista fire forced her south, and I cannot see her through the smoke."
Another bolt screams past — this one clipping Khaira's tail, and she roars, banking hard. I grip the ridge and hold on as the world tilts.
Below, the battle rages at the eastern gate. Riven's force drives into the column, and Torren's line holds the corridor. The southern fleet pounds the harbor.
Somewhere in the smoke that swallows the eastern sky, Evelyn and Aspis are alone, separated from us by anti-dragon fire and the chaos of a battle that is no longer following any plan.
I search the smoke for white scales and find nothing.