Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From A War of Wyverns by S.F. Williamson Language is the greatest weapon in a war between humans and dragons—and one translator has the power to change the world. By S.F. Williamson | Published on December 4, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from A War of Wyverns, the sequel to by S.F. Williamson’s YA fantasy A Language of Dragons—publishing with HarperCollins on January 6, 2026. As a sculptress, Ravenna Maffei has always shaped beauty from stone but she has a terrible secret. Desperate to save her brother, she enters a competition hosted by Florence’s most feared immortal family, revealing a dark power in a city where magic is forbidden.Now a captive in the cutthroat city of Florence, Ravenna is forced into a dangerous task where failure meets certain death at the hands of Saturnino dei Luni, the immortal family’s mesmerizing but merciless heir. But as he draws her closer, Ravenna realizes the true threat lies beyond Florence’s walls.The Pope’s war against magic is closing in, and Ravenna is no longer just a prisoner but a prize to be claimed. As trusting the wrong person becomes lethal, Ravenna must survive the treacherous line between a pope’s obsession and the seductive immortal who might be the end of her—or surrender her power to a city on the brink of war. The sky is dark and full of dragons. I hurry through the streets of London, my umbrella tilted at an angle not to shield my face from the rain but to hide it. There are almost as many Guardians of Peace on the ground as there are Bulgarian Bolgoriths in the sky. A small mound of rubble blocks my path, left over from one of last week’s attacks. It could have been caused by rebel bombs or by the army of Queen Ignacia, Britannia’s dragon queen. Both groups are locked in their own individual battles with the Prime Minister. But judging by the stone pillar knocked clean off its base by what could only be the swipe of a tail, I’d guess the latter. As I reach the Tube station, the first rays of sunlight stretch up over the gray buildings, bringing the capital’s night curfew to an end. Rebellion happens in the shadows, after all. I climb onto the Underground train, my fake class pass hanging around my neck. PENELOPE HOLLINGSWORTH AGE 17FIRST CLASS I sit opposite an elderly man in a singed coat. He peers at me from beneath bright posters plastered above the carriage seats. Two women in military dress link arms in front of two buildings—I recognize the white stone of 10 Downing Street and the red brick of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics. They are encircled by a string of words in a looping, feminine font. WYVERNMIRE AND HOLLINGSWORTH UNITED IN THE FIGHT AGAINST REBELS I bury my face in yesterday’s copy of The Pimlico Bulletin—a non-partisan newspaper—and am met with another slogan. “The Truth for Every Class,” I mutter under my breath as I scan the headlines. PM ALLIES BRITANNIA TO BULGARIANSWHERE IS QUEEN IGNACIA? POSSIBLE SIGHTINGS ON PAGE 3 WESTERN DRAKE GUTTED ON KENT FARM: HUMAN REMAINS RETRIEVED FROM ITS SECOND STOMACH I open to the first page and see a black-and-white photo of a familiar manor house. BLETCHLEY PARK: A NATION’S SECRET? A lump rises in my throat as I toss the paper to the ground. Memories surge: a gunshot, blood beneath my fingernails, a face crowned with dead leaves. My hand reaches for the wooden swallow around my neck. If Atlas were here now, he’d mock the Prime Minister for thinking she can manipulate Europe’s fiercest dragons to extend her empire. For thinking that Britannia would bow to dragons who had massacred their own human population. If Atlas were here, he’d be slipping into the public houses and coming out with new recruits to the rebel cause, using nothing but his courage and his crooked smile. But he’s not here. Because he’s dead. Buy the Book A War of Wyverns S.F. Williamson Buy Book A War of Wyverns S.F. Williamson Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget All I can do now is continue what he started at Bletchley Park and help win the war for the Human-Dragon Coalition. Only a skilled linguist can obtain the secret weapon the rebels need. And if languages can honor Atlas’s memory, then I’ll learn a hundred tongues and more. The sun has risen as I reach Claridge House, the home of Rita Hollingsworth. She lives in Mayfair, only a few streets away from the Academy for Draconic Linguistics, which she founded at the age of thirty-five. I insert my key in the lock of the servants’ door. A thick, spiked tail trails down the wall above me. It belongs to Clementius, the Western Drake on the roof, one of the few British dragons who hasn’t fled the encroaching Bulgarian presence in London and who is secretly Hollingsworth’s rebel guard. I head straight for the stairs, counting the yellow diamonds on the patterned carpet as I climb several floors. Hollingsworth insists I travel between my home and hers before the morning rush hour. If anyone were to recognize me, my cover as her visiting niece could be blown. The walls feature portraits of her extended family—pretty cousins and ancient uncles stare out into the quiet house. I hear a scullery maid lighting the fires and a creak from the top floor. I imagine the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics rising from her bed, her hair still in rollers. The image is so ridiculous it makes me snort with laughter. I open and close the office door softly. The room is vast, with high windows that overlook the street below. A large desk stands beneath a painting of a pair of Sand Dragons basking on a beach, the pearly moonlight captured in delicate brushstrokes. Beside it is an ornate mirror and for a moment I stare at my reflection. My thick hair is cut so short that it only just grazes my collarbone, and dark shadows lurk beneath my eyes, making my skin even paler than usual. I tread across the maroon rugs toward the door in the corner, past the desk littered with empty cigarette boxes and books about Bulgarian dragons, one opened to an index page with the words— blood, blue diamond, Bolgorith. Something catches my eye. A sketch in black pen, half hidden beneath the Remington typewriter. It’s me. And beneath it, a title. Vivien Featherswallow, Draconic Translator My fingers linger over the paper, but I don’t touch it, my mind not quite believing it’s real. The depiction is different than the government’s wanted posters of me, the ones Hollingsworth has collected and burned every day before they can be seen. My face is prettier, my eyes large and doe-like, whereas the wanted posters depict me with a long, lank braid and a frown. Neither sketch is quite right, each telling a story that is not quite true. “For the Coalition newspapers,” says a voice. I spin around. Hollingsworth is standing in the doorway, wearing a blue silk dress and a belt embroidered with silver dragons. She looks me up and down like she has done every morning for the last three months, taking in my man’s mackintosh and donated leather brogues, as if she expected me to arrive with a limb missing or my hair aflame. My decision to find my own accommodation rather than live here with her is not one Hollingsworth understands. “Morning,” I say, my face growing hot as I realize she probably thinks I was snooping around her desk. “I’m supposed to be undercover. What do you want rebel newspapers printing a sketch of me for?” She gives me a thin-lipped smile. “A rebellion must have a face, must it not? People need to know they’re in good hands.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Me, the face of the rebellion? Has Hollingsworth forgotten that a mere few months ago, I was trying to translate a secret, ultrasonic dragon language called the Koinamens to win the war for Prime Minister Wyvernmire? “We won’t publish it until you’re safely out of London,” she says, her voice as deep as treacle. Safely out of London. Does that mean she finally thinks I’m ready? I stare at the words beneath the sketch again and let out a small sigh. Draconic Translator. The title is one I’ve waited for my entire life. It’s oddly satisfying to see who I am printed in black and white, to be given a distinct definition of myself, a neat box to fit into amid the chaos my life has become. The door in the corner leads to my own workspace, an office within Hollingsworth’s that used to be a cupboard. I set my satchel down on my small, pokey desk. The four walls that box me in like a dracovol in a cage are plastered with research papers—maps of various islands, handwritten pronunciation guides, and lists of dietary habits. And tacked on top of them is a rudimentary drawing that Hollingsworth sketched in front of me. Three Bulgarian Bolgoriths, two black and one red. General Goranov and his siblings. Britannia has been in a three-way civil war between the human government, the rebels, and Queen Ignacia since last year. And now that the Prime Minister has allied with the Bulgarian Bolgoriths— betraying her promise of peace to Queen Ignacia—barely a day goes by without a rebel attack on London. I know a Bolgorith, but she was born in Britannia. Chumana, the pink dragon who set fire to 10 Downing Street before following me to Bletchley Park. “If we eliminate Goranov and his siblings,” Hollingsworth told me a few weeks ago, “the Bulgarian presence in Britannia will crumble.” The servants and Hollingsworth’s secretary think I’m here after having jumped at the chance to spend the war working for Britannia’s beloved Chancellor instead of sewing shirts for the soldiers like other First Class girls. And it’s not exactly a lie. I am working for Hollingsworth. But my true reason for being here, my mission, isn’t to help Britannia fight the rebels. It’s to help the rebels fight Prime Minister Wyvernmire and her army of Bolgoriths. It’s to learn the language of the Hebridean Wyverns. I’ve met wyverns before, thanks to my parents’ work in dragon anthropology. But the Hebridean species is different. They’re small, two-legged dragons with a cultural heritage that rivals that of any human community. They can supposedly be found on the Isle of Canna in Scotland, although they haven’t been sighted in years. It’s my job to learn everything about them, from their traditions to their tongue, so that when the rebels find them—and Hollingsworth seems adamant that they will—then I will somehow be able to communicate with them. And convince them to help the rebels win the war. Of course, the minor detail of how these wyverns can make the Human-Dragon Coalition the victor in a three-way civil war has not yet been disclosed to me. I sit down as London’s traffic screeches outside and reach for a scrap of paper on my desk. It’s a note from Hyacinth, Hollingsworth’s secretary—and another debutante working for the war effort to escape the dutiful drudgery of First Class girlhood. Dearest Pen,Party? Tuesday at 8 o’clock, 36 Churton Street in Pimlico. Pretty please.H She’s invited me several times already, ignoring my protests (“It’s after curfew”) and my excuses (“I can’t leave my roommate, she gets lonely”). Her insistence is mildly annoying and the invitation goes against every rule in the how-to-be-an-undercover-rebel book, but part of me is glad that Hyacinth wants me around. She’s been a good friend to me these past three months. Of course I can’t attend the party. What if somebody recognizes me? The journal of Patrick Clawtail, Oxford Fellow of Celtic Languages and dragon enthusiast, lies open on the desk where I left it yesterday. Hollingsworth gave it to me when I started working for her, right after Marquis landed our plane on Eigg. I only spent a few days on the island that houses the Coalition Headquarters before Hollingsworth sent for me. Leaving my cousin and my sister, Ursa, behind was almost as hard as losing Atlas. The journal details Clawtail’s interactions with the Hebridean Wyverns over the course of four years, ending abruptly in June 1866 when he was executed by the government for “inciting unrest between humans and dragons.” It’s made of black leather and written in faded ink. Random clippings—a feather, a tuft of fur, and a green leaf that is still green but has long since lost any odor—are dispersed between daily entries, descriptions of the island, and recordings of the Hebridean Wyverns’ complex language, which Clawtail named Cànan-Channaigh—Scottish Gaelic for “language of Canna.” He coined an English word for their language, too: Cannair. I have managed to grasp its basic grammatical rules, but Clawtail fills several pages with his attempts to convey the meaning of many complicated words, so many that I lose myself in them. It seems he eventually gave up on the task. The later pages of the journal are entirely dedicated to the wyverns’ culture and customs, with not a single reference to language. It doesn’t give me much to work with. Clawtail and his family were supposedly the last people to lay eyes on the wyverns before they retreated farther inland when the government came for the Clawtails, and while his journal begins with enthusiasm at being able to study the wyverns’ tongue, it ends with a hurried, unfinished entry. A voice behind me says, “Tensions between humans and dragons in Britannia were on the verge of explosion when that was written.” Hollingsworth has appeared silently in the doorway, her eyes on the journal. “Clawtail had a history of campaigning for the recognition of Celtic languages such as Scots, Scottish Gaelic, and Norn, and he began doing the same for dragon tongues,” she continues. “He sent his written recordings of Cannair to several universities by dracovol, thinking the wyvern protection would keep him and his family safe, but the government decided that his highlighting of individual heritages was intended to create division and therefore a threat to British unity. They executed him for treason on Canna just as the corrupt Peace Agreement was signed.” I nod, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of annoyance. She’s already told me all this. Clawtail was the first person ever to study dragon tongues. He was an anomaly. “You, with your uncanny ability to learn languages at an impressive speed, can learn Cannair. That’s why you are the face of the rebellion, Vivien. Because you will be the one to go to the wyverns and request an alliance. They are our only hope of winning this war.” You’ve already told me that, too, I glower silently. And yet here I am, still in London, still ignorant as to why these wyverns are so important. I cannot send you to the wyverns until the wyverns have been found, Hollingsworth tells me every time I ask why I can’t go to Canna now. I can’t wait to be there, to rally the wyverns to the cause and to see Wyvernmire’s face as the rebels bring her and her Bulgarian Bolgoriths down. She’s the reason for the suffering of the Third Class, for the segregation of humans and dragons, for this war that has already killed hundreds. She’s the reason Atlas is dead. Hollingsworth hands me a sheet of paper. It’s my latest translation for the Academy—I do a few each day just in case a wartime inspector ever asks to see Penelope Hollingsworth’s work. It’s a statement in Drageoir sent over from France, condemning Wyvernmire’s alliance with the Bulgarian dragons. Hollingsworth has taken a red pen to it, scratching out and underlining words. “What’s wrong with it?” I say. “Your translation is too literal, Vivien.” She pats her silver, corkscrew coils. “You can hardly expect it to be approved.” “Too literal?” I stare at her corrections. The Dragons of the French Third Republic are incensed disappointed by the British alliance with the immoral controversial dragons of Bulgaria. “But… you’ve changed the meaning,” I say. “You’ve mistranslated the statement.” “I have interpreted it differently than you, which is a translator’s right.” I scan her face for a trace of humor, any indication that she might be testing me. “It’s a translator’s duty to translate in context, to give the words the meaning intended by the source language, or at least get as close to it as we can,” I tell her. “The Academy is obligated to translate and publish any communications that come in from foreign dragons—” “You forget the Academy is currently being run by Wyvernmire’s government,” Hollingsworth says sharply. “Her definition of duty is not the same as yours.” I throw the paper down. “So you’re going to let this pass?” “If I want to maintain my persona, I must,” Hollingsworth replies. She walks back to her desk and sits down, her eyes lingering on the sketch of me. “Language is a weapon, Vivien. Wyvernmire is using it and you will, too, soon. In fact, it may be the last weapon the rebels have.” “When are you going to send me to Canna?” I ask. “I’ve learned the wyvern tongue as best I can. Have the rebels found them yet?” Hollingsworth takes a sip of her tea and grimaces. “Cold,” she mutters. She rifles through a stack of papers, ignoring my question. I feel my neck flush with anger. Has she forgotten what she told me when she brought me here? Your linguistic capabilities are the best chance the Coalition has. I turn back to the journal. My years of studying, my languages, my translations have all been building up to this. To making contact with the Hebridean Wyverns and saving Britannia. Atlas believed that my languages are a way I’m called to love and Dad once told me that they would save me. So what is Hollingsworth waiting for? She expects me to work for the Coalition yet treats me like a child. My eyes fall on Hyacinth’s note and I wonder if my black skirt and jumper would pass as party clothes. If it’s a rebel Hollingsworth wants, a rebel she shall get. Excerpted from A War of Wyverns, copyright © 2025 by S.F. Williamson. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>A War of Wyverns</i> by S.F. Williamson appeared first on Reactor.