Imprint

Chapter Twelve: Preparations | Part 6

When the spells were finished, Rhea stacked her suitcase on top of Benn’s and levitated them out the door ahead of the trio. They made haste down the trail to the gates. The shadow of the wards left an almost imperceptible tickle on Thirtyx’s skin, but while it was mildly annoying, it made him feel safe.

Thus, he didn’t shrink away when he spotted the headmistress beside the massive caravan, the likes of which Thirtyx had only seen in books or projections. A dozen or so carriages lined the street, strung together with glowing purple fibers. A heavy snorting noise drew Thirtyx’s attention to the front of the convoy, and his breath caught. A ghostly mass of purple light appeared to scratch at the ground. When it stilled, it settled into the clear shape of a dragon.

Thirtyx had learned plenty about draconic imprints in his history classes, but he’d never imagined he’d see one in person—especially not for a task as menial as transporting a caravan of children to an exam. In his mind, they were elite war machines, cast by the most skilled Dragonfolk sorcerers to turn the tide of wars. Dredging an echo of one’s ancestors through the centuries did not seem like a task to be taken lightly.

“Grimmaries!” The headmistress screeched. “You’re late! In, in, in. It takes a lot of energy to keep that imprint going, so they want to make good time.”

A pair of workers took the twins’ bags. They each gave Thirtyx a frantic hug, and he wished them luck before they clambered into the only carriage with an open door. Fortunately, Azirenne seemed too intent on seeing off the caravan to pay Thirtyx much mind. He considered leaving then to get ahead of the crowd, but his desire to watch the wild contraption in action rooted him to the spot. Once the workers closed the doors on the luggage cart trailing behind the carriages, an ethereal roar sent a shiver down Thirtyx’s spine, rendering him awestruck by the merging of ancient past and insignificant present.

The imprint flapped its gargantuan wings, drawing up a gale that billowed through the crowd. Thirtyx squinted through the dust and saw the beast take flight, gliding slowly and low to the ground, its guiding sorcerer planted at the caravan’s helm, arms spread wide.

As the carriages picked up speed, the onlookers waved to the students inside, most of whom had their faces plastered to the windows. Mingled dread and loneliness settled into Thirtyx’s gut.

There was no use dwelling on it here. Thirtyx ducked his head and centered himself in the throng of students shuffling back toward campus. He didn’t dare look up to see if the headmistress had clocked his position.

His classmates had, though. “Wanted to make sure the prince and princess actually left, Venmagalion? So you could tell your anarchist buddies where to attack the convoy?”

Thirtyx ignored them.

“Maybe he was double checking that they’d be pinned down in the carriages, unable to get to Grimmary while his pals attack the king again.”

Thirtyx ignored them.

“Could they get to Grimmary, though? I heard the night we were on lockdown, they snuck out—somehow went all the way to the palace and back in a single night! And you know how they did it, don’t you, Venmagalion?”

Thirtyx tried his very hardest to ignore them.

“If the twins can get out, something else can get in! Were Rhea and Benn really stupid enough to tell a Verith about their secret escape route, so he could lead an assassin straight into our school—”

“You could just ask me, you know!”