Swiftbeak spent much of the journey high above, sharp ears and attentive ears trained on the ground below and the road ahead. High enough to ride the thermal currents of warm air rising from the sun-baked ground, he flapped rarely and glided easily, the hours passing smoothly in a state of transcendence. To be one with the clouds, to see hills and cliffs and the horizon and know there was nothing keeping you from them; that you were going only where you chose to go, and nothing could tell you otherwise. For a moment, his loyalty to those below felt more a chain than a blessing, but one look down on the shining armor and dutifully trotting horses dispelled that momentary bitterness. He could easily have freedom, if he chose to take it; purpose? Friends? They were infinitely rarer to him, and worth protecting over anything.