You'd think after getting kicked out of Amazon boot camp barefoot and daggerless, I'd be done with them.
But no. Of course not.
Because apparently, I didn't get enough Sisterhood trauma during my little forced sabbatical in the land of rocks, ideology, and endless shouting.
Nope. I had to see them again.
From below.
This time with gryphons.
Yeah. gryphons.
No, I didn't see any when I was forced to practice marching in a phalanx formation, and dodging lectures about womb purity and war discipline. But everyone talked about them. In whispers. Like they weren't just beasts, but something holy.
"Sacred bondmates."
"Chosen aerials."
"Wings of the Matron's Will."
And I figured it was all crap. Myths. Symbolic horseshit.
Turns out—nope.
Real.
Huge.
And absolutely fucking terrifying.
We were maybe a day's ride from the marshlands, keeping low, avoiding roads. Dragon still sore from our last escapade—something involving a ruined monastery, a fake relic, and a very persistent widow with a sword.
We knew there were Sisterhood patrols in the region. Heard it in the last tavern. A warning. "They're on alert. Looking for a dragon and a girl. Matching your description... a mouthy wench and a gouty dragon."
So, yeah. We were already trying to keep a low profile.
And doing a shit job of it.
I should've known something was wrong when the wind went quiet.
When the birds just… stopped.
Dragon paused too. Wings stiff. Head low. That twitchy way he gets when his old instincts kick in—those ones from the era before stories had names.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't look at me.
"gryphons."
"Don't joke."
"I never joke about gryphons."
They came in silent. You'd expect thunder, wingbeats, something loud. But no. Just a shadow. A rush of air. A shriek that hit the spine first and the ears second.
Three of them. In formation. Descending like wrath wrapped in feathers and bronze.
The riders wore red cloaks and death stares. Spears in hand. No hesitation.
They weren't looking for prey.
They were looking for us.
"Down," I hissed.
But it was already too late.
They'd spotted us.
The Dragon moved—diving, low and fast, trying to use the terrain—but one of them flanked instantly. A captain, judging by the way she barked orders and moved like she owned the air.
"How did they find us?!" I shouted.
"Because they're Amazons on fucking gryphons," he growled, banking hard. "They don't lose targets. They archive them."
The first lance missed me by a breath. I ducked in the last moment, hair yanked free by wind. I caught a glimpse of the rider's eyes—calm. Focused. Like I was just a tick to squash.
They weren't here for negotiation. This was an execution.
Dragon tried to get altitude, but they boxed him in.
And when the Captain dove, he had to turn and meet her.
They clashed in mid-air—her lance scraping off his shoulder, his claws trying to rip at the gryphon's wings. Fire caught one of the flanking riders—sent her spiralling—but it wasn't enough.
Another spear clipped his wing. Blood hit the trees below like hot rain.
I don't remember much of the next part. Just flashes.
The screaming of a gryphon as it limped away, one eye seared shut.
The Captain circling once, just once, like a wolf reconsidering a wounded bear.
And then they were gone.