“Are we ready?” I asked. Around me, the team of humans were quick to respond. I knew the Elder Wyrm was listening somewhere as every Talon command center around the world prepared to go to war. The Night of Fang and Fire had finally come. Tonight, among many others, the Western chapterhouse of the Order of St. George was going to fall. By any means necessary.

Then let’s begin. I took a deep, steadying breath and commanded, “Send in Alpha flight one.”

“Sir.” Immediately, one of the senior humans glanced at me, brow furrowed. “Just the one flight, sir?” he asked, as if I didn’t know what I was doing. “We have five flights and the Omega protocol on standby. Shouldn’t we send them all at once? We’re sure to overwhelm the base, and we’ll take fewer casualties ourselves.”

“No.” I narrowed my eyes at the human. “You don’t know this chapterhouse or who resides there. And, lest anyone has forgotten, this is St. George. They know how to kill dragons, and how to defend themselves from dragons. Before we throw everything we have at them, I want to know what kind of firepower they’ve got and how to deal with it. So, this is the last time I will repeat myself—send in Alpha flight one. Hold the rest in reserve until I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

I crossed my arms, watching the screens, waiting for what the night would reveal.

The match has been set into motion, St. George. Let the games begin.

Chapter 42: GARRET

GARRET

Three minutes till midnight.

Outside, the air was still. A sickly white moon hung in the sky behind a few wispy clouds, unable to pierce the darkness blanketing the chapterhouse. I stood at a window on the upper floor of the barracks, watching the sky for dragons. Behind me, the rest of my team—four of St. George’s best—sat or lay quietly on cots while I kept watch. Fifty yards away, the armory sat huddled in shadow, silent and dark. My gaze went to the spots where the snipers were hiding, Tristan among them. I wondered if he would survive this night...if any of us would survive. We’d prepared as best we could, but who knew what kind of numbers Talon would throw at us?

“All squads, this is Anvil Six,” came Martin’s voice over the radio. The lieutenant was in the armory with the rest of the squadron. “What’s it look like out there?”

“Anvil, this is Longshot Six,” came Tristan’s voice, cool and unruffled. “Nothing on our end. The sky is clear.”

“Anvil, Storm Six,” said the commander of the machine gun squad. “Same here, just sitting on our asses waiting, sir.” A few chuckles echoed that statement, and I smiled faintly.