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Ataya’s pulse hit against his ribcage, heavy and alive with momentarily debilitating panic as he watched his sister go under the first time — so small under waves now twice their height or greater, like a leaf caught in a pull to head over a waterfall. Magic twisted in every direction, coiling under the call of the great beasts above them and with it came rain, and the boom of dragon roar. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers shook.

And this was all his fault.

When Akara called out for him moments before being dragged under again, something in him snapped, cracking like a brittle spire of ice against unyielding rock. “No…” He shook his head, breath creating a frost on his lips as the muscles in him bunched. “Get away from her—get away from her!”

He couldn’t do anything useful — couldn’t manipulate the water to tug her closer or calm the waves to allow her to resurface or fight the magic of the dragons directly to aid her in coming free of its clutches. Instead, raindrops froze on his skin, the surrounding ocean gathered thin layers of slush, loose as fragments of shed skin which caught in the waves — the byproduct runoff of his magic in his panic — and Ataya raised his hands. His first several attempts at getting their attention were futile. Natural as it felt to him, his aiskala magic was unpracticed to him, new, and wild in his veins. It spiked outwards at his call, but dissipated before reaching high enough to even touch the dragons, let alone catch their attention, resulting in little more than a fog of frost rolling over the waves. Useless. So, he turned to the magic inherited from his father.

Eurielle was not at his back, which made his reserve and control over diabi spells significantly less than he would have preferred under any other circumstances. In the moment, however, he was satisfied with calling on enough coils of dark energy to reach them, and shift their focus. The instant he succeeded with one, the entire scene changed. Coming face to face with a live dragon easily fifty times his own body weight — if not significantly more — was not an experience Ataya wanted to relive anytime soon. Seconds later, preceded only by a roar that shook over the ocean like thunder, came a pillar of ocean.

This time, Ataya’s aiskala magic answered with barely a cue. It skittered up the shaft of water, sinking into it, expanding the particles and locking them together, hardening it — until, unfortunately, instead of water, it was a battering-ram of ice lodging itself against the ship with an ominous crack. Ataya swallowed, and if his limbs had been shaking before, their previous state had done no justice compared to what they were doing now.

“Please don’t sink,” he whispered in a repeating mantra that tripped over itself, “please don’t sink, please, please—”

Another wave, high and dark enough to blot out parts of the stars, rose up before him. Ataya cringed, and pushed on instinct — a pulse that rippled over the surface of the wave like a net, freezing only the outer layer of shape and then struggling to sink in, and in. He couldn’t be entirely certain how thoroughly he froze it through, only that one moment the wave was stopped, and the next moment it was sinking. A massive, irregularly shaped hunk of ice twisting haphazardly into the surf, thrown this way and that by the storm. Heavy, and potentially sharp, with great currents following in its wake.

And his sister was still caught in the ocean with it.

If it hit her…

“AKARA!”

Seconds later, something dove off the side of the ship.

Ataya felt as though he watched the moments to follow in a daze, only half aware of his own actions. The water where his sister had last sunk spiralled, pirouetting downwards and then rising up again like a water spout through the rain, over the rail, and to the deck of the ship with a spill and crash. Ataya scrambled up the side of the boat on the makeshift ladder he’d created there earlier, avoiding the battering ram from earlier — which looked, fortunately, as though it had not actually punctured the hull, simply froze itself to it — before tumbling messily onto the deck. He had but a moment to process the sight before him: his sister, soaked and coughing in his uncle’s arms — of course it had been Lithian, who else would have turned themself into a waterspout for her in a moment’s notice? — his mother, and others in the crew.

He supposed it was foolish to have thought the ordeal might have been his alone. There were dragons attacking the ship, and in retrospect — on a ship full of adults, many trained for years in combat — it seemed very silly not expect them to partake in the occasion. He moved immediately towards his sister nonetheless, falling to his knees at her side and brushing his fingers over her cheek, mentally keeping tabs on his element so as not to let it turn the dampness coating her to frost.

“Akara — Akara, sister, I’m sorry—I’m sorry…”

“Inside,” his uncle’s voice cut in and Ataya looked up. “Get her inside, somewhere safe, both of you, and stay there until this is over. Do you understand?”

“I—”

Lithian notched his head, and Ataya’s gaze flicked once to his mother, but it seemed apparent her opinion was precisely the same, and so moments later, he was tugging at his sister’s hand, prepared to head below deck.

“Me?” Ataya blinked, brow pinching together in confusion between panted breaths. His heart still felt as though it were trying to climb its way out of his chest, but at least now the rush was more thanks to exertion than panic, since he had his sister at his side. “I’m fine,” he said. “You—you were the one who…”

At the memory of her going under, thinking how small she seemed in that moment — and how helpless he had been to do anything but make the situation worse — he winced and swallowed, pushing the thoughts away with a shake of the head. He hoped, while simultaneously realizing the chances were slim, that their mother wouldn’t insist on retelling this tale to their father when they arrived home. Just the thought brought about a wince and a grimace. It was his fault. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be grounded to the house until the following spring for his errors.

“I’m alright,” he repeated, lower lip slipping between his teeth as he squinted back up the ladder leading to the deck. Dragon cries echoed about the ship overhead, the sounds accompanied by the pounding of rapid footsteps and shouts of the adults above. “Probably better than I’ll be when Father finds out…maybe you should…stay here…” He touched his fingers to the ladder uncertainly, debating. “I’d like to at least watch them fight…I wonder how many there are — it sounds as though more came — do you suppose it’s common?” he asked, already starting to push his way up again.

“I’m not—” Ataya began, but as his sister soon followed in his wake, he abandoned his argument and focused on climbing. Once out, he crouched on the deck, ducking behind the nearest solid structure available — which happened to be several large crates of cargo strapped tightly to the deck — and left room for his sister as he watched.

More dragons had certainly joined in from the first three, though it looked as though their numbers were being worn back. Their mother fought like a whirlwind, wild and darting between her foes, her bladed boomerang cutting through the sky at her command obedient as an executioner. Lithian called in pillars of water up from the sea like the battering ram arms of a great beast, forcing the predators to and fro at the whim of their own element and, when they rushed in to attack, bent back the driving magic of the peisios as they came, throwing the weight of their water back at them.

Ataya’s pulse raced to watch it all. Quick with excitement and stutter-happy at the sea of magic before him in all flavors. Not just his mother and uncle, but those of the crew, intermeshing and mingling. Magic did such thrilling things when woven together. His bare toes curled against the deck, frosting to surface to give him friction and hold him still — the same with his fingers against the cargo — when the ship gave a great sideways lurch, and he hunkered, dropping his weight lower still towards the deck.

It seemed, though, overall as the battle went on, that the dragons were easily outmatched, their numbers being beaten back one by one, leaving nothing but their glimmering souls and a slightly more battered for the wear ship in their wake. When it all finally went quiet and it seemed safe enough to show themselves, Ataya went to stand.

He did not make it to a full stand. Halfway into the motion, he aborted it, gaze darting sidelong and narrowing out at the night sky where a very familiar pulse of magic waited — and grew stronger — with every beat of crisp, white wings. The rain had stopped, but moments later, if the air had been cool, it plummeted to frigid in the span of a handful of breaths. Chill like a blanket rippled over the deck, and in its wake, the dampness left by the peisios frosted over, turning the planks, railing, ropes and sails ice white.

Ataya swallowed, simultaneously thrilled and humbled by the raw force of their magic, their presence alone wielding a far greater force than he could hope to control at the moment.

The temptation to join in itched beneath his skin, though he knew his mother would never forgive him his recklessness. He shot a glance towards his sister instead, eyes alight with his interest.

“Well,” he said, “it’s certainly been more exciting than the way up…”

At Akara’s frown, Ataya gave a half wince. “I mean, after you were safe, it got exciting…not—” He didn’t get the opportunity to progress far into his explanation. The dragon’s roar, and then his sister’s hand sent him scrambling back, feet scraping against the planks to press himself back against the rise of the ship’s steering deck. “Mama—”

He breathed out as the dragon was beat back, his pulse still thrumming messy and wild in his chest as he watched it bleed and gargle. His mother’s words washed over him, unheard. His attention, instead, was riveted to the dying dragon: the blood on its snout, the slow weak scrabble of its claws, the rise and fall of its sides, and the white push of its weakening breath as its wings twitched. Drawn in surely as a mind entranced, Ataya edged forward and leaned down to touch his palms flat to the deck, eyes holding those of the dying dragon as his magic crept outwards.

Black, creeping magic that seeped like ink — or blood — across the panels of the frosted ship and towards the dragon. On reaching it, it crawled upwards, catching at the dragon’s maw and staining the white scales of its snout like wet soot on snow. When it reached the dragon’s nostrils, spilling inwards and sinking into its skin, it began writhing anew, fighting the invasion. Ataya’s breath came out cold, his eyes losing focus to his magic as he pushed harder, pulse quick in his excitement.

What would it feel like, to control such a beast? Feel the power of each beat of its pulse under the grip of his magic, breathing only at his will, beating its wings to the rhythm he chose?

Then, with a last surge of strength and willpower, the aiskala snarled, lunging its wounded body forward and snapping its maw at him. Ataya’s dovaa magic spiked like an instinctive reaction, spiring out in a line of icicle needles across the floor in the wake of his backwards scramble. One particularly large one skewered the dragon through it’s open mouth, and out the opposite side of its skull. After two dying twitches, it stilled completely, cold breath rippling out over Ataya’s stunned and still body.

Several long moments later, after reminding himself how to breathe, mostly, he frowned. Stupid thing. It had interrupted him.

When he turned his attention back to his actual surroundings, it looked as though the excitement elsewhere was over, too. Clearing his throat, Ataya glanced around his sister. “Perhaps we should head…below…de…eh…” On receiving an uncharacteristically hard stare from his uncle, Ataya offered up his version of a ‘sheepish’ grin. “Give me a few moments,” he said, “and I’ll come up with a very convincing and logical explanation for why my sister and I are still above deck…”

Quirking one eyebrow, Lithian glanced over his shoulder, looking to locate their mother. “I believe you have until…she gets to you, so. I would make it quick.”

Wisely guessing that his mother was not in the mood for games, Ataya obeyed without a word, scurrying below deck a half step in front of his sister. Whatever happened above in the aftermath was lost to him, but worth it, he supposed. They had still seen the fight — and partaken in it in some small portion — and though the comfort of his cot was appealing, he found his mind still racing with the events of the past hour. His sister, in particular. Despite the overall thrill, the quiet and shadows of the end result left him to replay the worst in his mind again, and again.

He should have been more powerful.

There must have been something he could have done, if only he had known how. Their uncles or parents would not always be around, and he did not want to need them around in order to keep his sister — and himself, for that matter — safe. His helplessness in that moment, how absolutely useless he had been despite everything he had learned to date, bothered him more than anything.

At length, once things quieted around them and the ship seemed to ease back into its state of slumber, Ataya peeked over the edge of his cot and down, scanning the darkness for a lump that might be his sister. “Akara…?” After but a half second’s silence, he added hastily: “I’m not looking to get us in any more trouble, I just thought…”

He frowned at the thought, not having truly considered it much until now, the moment before he’d been ready to put it to his tongue. While once upon a time, the suggestion would not have been odd in the least, he realized that now that they were growing older, such things took on less appropriate connotations, should anyone think to judge them. And someone would think to judge them if they ever knew. Brow furrowing, he pushed the thought away. They had done this often as small children, and in the wake of nearly losing her, he wanted his sister near to him. No one was here to spit lies, regardless.

“If you were still…cold, or upset from earlier, you could sleep with me…” he offered. “I’m sorry I got you into trouble.”

Ataya flushed, shifting his weight back to make room for her. “It was fun…after you were safe,” he said. “I…” He frowned, debating and hesitant before he let the words out. When they came, they were quieter, a hushed and frustrated admittance. “I haven’t been that scared in a long time…” He shook his head. “I should have been able to help you, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything…” His lower lip disappeared between his teeth and received a stern chewing for its mistake, rubbed nearly raw in his distraction. “I’ll be better next time. I’ll train harder outside of the things Father tries to teach us and make myself useful. More powerful…and I’ll be able to save you, whatever happens.”

In the silence that followed, the room felt too dark, too quiet, and there was too much space between him and the other half that he’d nearly lost forever due to raw ineptitude. After only a moment’s hesitation, Ataya rolled, layering his hand over her waist and tucking against her back as he shut his eyes.

“We’ll both be stronger. You’ll see,” he murmured, the tail end of the statement fading into a soft yawn. “Everyone will see…”