“Aw, jeez, Bristal! My wings are tired! Can’t we stop for a quick swim or some food? Please?”

“Quit your complaining, Mork. We’re almost there!”

Morchymond flapped wearily, his feathers straining to stay aloft. Far below, he could just make out the Sea of Deatwelf, stretching to the horizon in every direction. It was a perfect day for lounging in the cool water, slurping up snails in the sun. But no, he had to fly six hundred miles today with Bristal.

He remembered the Revive Scroll in his pack. It still had one charge left. He could probably reach it while flapping if he focused on the rhythm… down… up… down… up and grab!

Smack!

He tumbled headlong into a jet stream, dizzy with Bristal’s red palm-print across his face. The girl frowned. “Mork! That scroll is for emergencies only!”

“I was only looking at it…” Mork shouted. He swooped and resumed his place at the girl’s side. He wished there was room for him in her stylish little gyrocopter, because his wings were really seriously starting to hurt.