Chapter 4: Trial of Flames
Dawn broke cold and gray over Drakemoor’s volcanic spires, but the training yard burned with unrelenting heat. Black smoke coiled upward from charred target dummies, and the air hummed with the restrained power of thirty-seven newly bonded dragon pairs. Every trainee’s nerves were frayed, every gaze sharp with competition—and most of those gazes were fixed on me.
My ancient hatchling lingered at my feet, her scaled body cool against my calves. I’d named her Nyra the night before, a quiet, old name that had felt right the moment it crossed my mind. She’d rumbled in agreement, her silver eyes glowing faint, as if she’d waited centuries to hear it.
Nyra did not behave like other hatchlings. While the others chirped, bounded, and craved constant attention, she was still, watchful, her senses stretched thin across the entire yard. Through our Soul-Weave bond, I felt everything she did: the tremor of stone beneath the drills, the quiet hostility coiling in my fellow trainees, the faint, lingering frost of shadow magic clinging to the yard’s outer edges—magic that could only belong to Kaelen Voss.
I coughed softly, swallowing the copper tang that always rose when I pushed my body too hard. My lungs had not improved overnight. If anything, the Soul-Weave had amplified my fragility, tying Nyra’s immortal, ancient power to my broken, failing flesh.
“Rider trainees!” Commander Solis’s voice cut through the yard, sharp and authoritative. She stood at the front of the training grounds, her Ember dragon loomed behind her, wings half-spread to cast a wave of warmth over the stone. “Today you begin live bond combat drills. Your dragon’s strength is now yours. Your weakness is theirs. A broken link dies first on the battlefield—and Drakemoor does not keep weak links.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Malachi stood two rows beside me, his Tempest hatchling darting circles around his ankles. He shot me a warning glance, his jaw tight. I knew what he was thinking: everyone wanted to test me. The weak girl who’d stolen a forbidden ancient dragon.
Solis gestured to the line of charred dummies at the yard’s center. “First drill: flame synchronization. Your dragon channels elemental power through your bond. You stabilize it. Fail to hold the weave, and the fire will burn you before it burns the target.”
One by one, trainees stepped forward. Ember hatchlings unleashed roaring bursts of orange fire; Tempests wove crackling lightning through their flames; Thornscales layered burning thorns over the blaze. Each bond glowed bright, steady, synchronized—proof of compatible, ordinary soul-weaving.
Then it was my turn.
The yard went quiet. All movement stalled. Every eye locked on me and the silent black hatchling at my feet.
I stepped forward, my boots crunching on ash and burnt stone. “Nyra,” I whispered, the name settling light in my chest. “Channel.”
Nyra lifted her head. Her silver eyes flared.
No fire erupted. No lightning crackled. No thorns sprouted.
Instead, shadow spilled from her scales—thick, inky, swallowing the morning light. It coiled up my legs, wrapped around my wrists, and flooded the Soul-Weave thread between us. The air turned ice cold, so frigid it made my bones ache, a stark contrast to the yard’s lingering heat.
The shadow shot forward, slamming into the dummy. It did not burn. It eroded. The wooden structure withered, turned black and brittle, and crumbled into fine ash in a single heartbeat.
Dead silence.
Solis stared at the pile of ash, her golden eyes wide with disbelief. “Shadow flame. No modern hatchling wields pure shadow element.”
“Because it’s not modern.”
The low, cold voice came from the yard’s shadowed observation ledge. Kaelen Voss stood there, his indigo cloak drifting in the hot wind, his silver gaze fixed solely on me. His massive Shade dragon coiled lazily behind him, red slitted eyes watching Nyra with ancient, knowing recognition.
Kaelen descended the stone steps, his boots silent against the charred ground. The other trainees shrank back instinctively. Even the loudest, most arrogant seniors feared the Wing Commander—young, brutal, unforgiving on the training field.
“First Brood dragons do not wield elemental fire,” Kaelen said, stopping beside Solis. His eyes never left mine. “They wieldvoid. They unmake what ordinary dragons burn.”
A trainee at the back of the crowd scoffed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Unmake? Or cheat? She’s too weak to bond a real dragon. This thing’s a monster she dug up from the dead.”
My muscles tensed. Nyra rumbled, low and dangerous, her shadow flaring wider.
Before I could react, the trainee lunged. He was a broad, brute-force boy with an Ember hatchling, the same one who’d shoved me off the Scorch Stairs days prior. He charged forward, fist raised, aiming to knock me off balance and break my focus with Nyra.
He thought my fragility was a weakness to exploit.
He was wrong.
Nyra’s shadow surged on its own, uncommanded. It shot upward, wrapping around the boy’s wrist mid-strike. He screamed, yanking back as frostbite blackened his skin in an instant. The shadow did not harm me—it defended me, instinctively, perfectly.
The boy stumbled backward, clutching his injured hand, his face white with shock and rage.
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened. “Training yard combat without authorization. Assault on a fellow rider trainee.” His voice was cold, unyielding, no trace of mercy. “You’re dismissed from the Rider cadre. Reassigned to infantry frontlines effective immediately.”
The boy gaped. “Sir—she’s the one with the forbidden dragon—”
“I saw who struck first.” Kaelen’s tone left no room for argument. “Drakemoor punishes treachery, not uniqueness.”
The boy was dragged away by yard guards, spitting insults and threats. The remaining trainees fell utterly silent, their lingering hostility masked by fear. No one dared test me now—not with Kaelen’s unspoken protection hanging over my head.
Solis recovered first, clearing her throat to regain control of the yard. “The drill continues. The rest of you, pair up for bond-resilience sparring.”
As the others scattered to pair off, Kaelen stepped closer to me, his voice dropping to a private murmur only I could hear.
“Your dragon defends you without your order,” he said. “The First Brood bond is deeper than modern weaving. It’s not a partnership. It’s a devotion.”
I lifted my chin, ignoring the faint burn in my chest. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
His silver eyes searched mine, sharp and unreadable. “It should. Devotion from an ancient dragon makes you powerful. Powerful people die fast in this citadel.”
He paused, glancing down at Nyra, who stared up at him with equal, ancient wariness. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost reluctant.
“But I’ll be watching. Not to expose you. To see who’s brave enough to try and break you first.”
I held his gaze, understanding settling cold and heavy in my bones. The boy was just the first. My forbidden bond, my unique gift, my mother’s tainted legacy—every part of me was a target now.
And Kaelen Voss, the man who should hate me most in the world, had just become my only quiet protection.
— End of Chapter Four —
My ancient hatchling lingered at my feet, her scaled body cool against my calves. I’d named her Nyra the night before, a quiet, old name that had felt right the moment it crossed my mind. She’d rumbled in agreement, her silver eyes glowing faint, as if she’d waited centuries to hear it.
Nyra did not behave like other hatchlings. While the others chirped, bounded, and craved constant attention, she was still, watchful, her senses stretched thin across the entire yard. Through our Soul-Weave bond, I felt everything she did: the tremor of stone beneath the drills, the quiet hostility coiling in my fellow trainees, the faint, lingering frost of shadow magic clinging to the yard’s outer edges—magic that could only belong to Kaelen Voss.
I coughed softly, swallowing the copper tang that always rose when I pushed my body too hard. My lungs had not improved overnight. If anything, the Soul-Weave had amplified my fragility, tying Nyra’s immortal, ancient power to my broken, failing flesh.
“Rider trainees!” Commander Solis’s voice cut through the yard, sharp and authoritative. She stood at the front of the training grounds, her Ember dragon loomed behind her, wings half-spread to cast a wave of warmth over the stone. “Today you begin live bond combat drills. Your dragon’s strength is now yours. Your weakness is theirs. A broken link dies first on the battlefield—and Drakemoor does not keep weak links.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Malachi stood two rows beside me, his Tempest hatchling darting circles around his ankles. He shot me a warning glance, his jaw tight. I knew what he was thinking: everyone wanted to test me. The weak girl who’d stolen a forbidden ancient dragon.
Solis gestured to the line of charred dummies at the yard’s center. “First drill: flame synchronization. Your dragon channels elemental power through your bond. You stabilize it. Fail to hold the weave, and the fire will burn you before it burns the target.”
One by one, trainees stepped forward. Ember hatchlings unleashed roaring bursts of orange fire; Tempests wove crackling lightning through their flames; Thornscales layered burning thorns over the blaze. Each bond glowed bright, steady, synchronized—proof of compatible, ordinary soul-weaving.
Then it was my turn.
The yard went quiet. All movement stalled. Every eye locked on me and the silent black hatchling at my feet.
I stepped forward, my boots crunching on ash and burnt stone. “Nyra,” I whispered, the name settling light in my chest. “Channel.”
Nyra lifted her head. Her silver eyes flared.
No fire erupted. No lightning crackled. No thorns sprouted.
Instead, shadow spilled from her scales—thick, inky, swallowing the morning light. It coiled up my legs, wrapped around my wrists, and flooded the Soul-Weave thread between us. The air turned ice cold, so frigid it made my bones ache, a stark contrast to the yard’s lingering heat.
The shadow shot forward, slamming into the dummy. It did not burn. It eroded. The wooden structure withered, turned black and brittle, and crumbled into fine ash in a single heartbeat.
Dead silence.
Solis stared at the pile of ash, her golden eyes wide with disbelief. “Shadow flame. No modern hatchling wields pure shadow element.”
“Because it’s not modern.”
The low, cold voice came from the yard’s shadowed observation ledge. Kaelen Voss stood there, his indigo cloak drifting in the hot wind, his silver gaze fixed solely on me. His massive Shade dragon coiled lazily behind him, red slitted eyes watching Nyra with ancient, knowing recognition.
Kaelen descended the stone steps, his boots silent against the charred ground. The other trainees shrank back instinctively. Even the loudest, most arrogant seniors feared the Wing Commander—young, brutal, unforgiving on the training field.
“First Brood dragons do not wield elemental fire,” Kaelen said, stopping beside Solis. His eyes never left mine. “They wieldvoid. They unmake what ordinary dragons burn.”
A trainee at the back of the crowd scoffed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Unmake? Or cheat? She’s too weak to bond a real dragon. This thing’s a monster she dug up from the dead.”
My muscles tensed. Nyra rumbled, low and dangerous, her shadow flaring wider.
Before I could react, the trainee lunged. He was a broad, brute-force boy with an Ember hatchling, the same one who’d shoved me off the Scorch Stairs days prior. He charged forward, fist raised, aiming to knock me off balance and break my focus with Nyra.
He thought my fragility was a weakness to exploit.
He was wrong.
Nyra’s shadow surged on its own, uncommanded. It shot upward, wrapping around the boy’s wrist mid-strike. He screamed, yanking back as frostbite blackened his skin in an instant. The shadow did not harm me—it defended me, instinctively, perfectly.
The boy stumbled backward, clutching his injured hand, his face white with shock and rage.
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened. “Training yard combat without authorization. Assault on a fellow rider trainee.” His voice was cold, unyielding, no trace of mercy. “You’re dismissed from the Rider cadre. Reassigned to infantry frontlines effective immediately.”
The boy gaped. “Sir—she’s the one with the forbidden dragon—”
“I saw who struck first.” Kaelen’s tone left no room for argument. “Drakemoor punishes treachery, not uniqueness.”
The boy was dragged away by yard guards, spitting insults and threats. The remaining trainees fell utterly silent, their lingering hostility masked by fear. No one dared test me now—not with Kaelen’s unspoken protection hanging over my head.
Solis recovered first, clearing her throat to regain control of the yard. “The drill continues. The rest of you, pair up for bond-resilience sparring.”
As the others scattered to pair off, Kaelen stepped closer to me, his voice dropping to a private murmur only I could hear.
“Your dragon defends you without your order,” he said. “The First Brood bond is deeper than modern weaving. It’s not a partnership. It’s a devotion.”
I lifted my chin, ignoring the faint burn in my chest. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
His silver eyes searched mine, sharp and unreadable. “It should. Devotion from an ancient dragon makes you powerful. Powerful people die fast in this citadel.”
He paused, glancing down at Nyra, who stared up at him with equal, ancient wariness. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost reluctant.
“But I’ll be watching. Not to expose you. To see who’s brave enough to try and break you first.”
I held his gaze, understanding settling cold and heavy in my bones. The boy was just the first. My forbidden bond, my unique gift, my mother’s tainted legacy—every part of me was a target now.
And Kaelen Voss, the man who should hate me most in the world, had just become my only quiet protection.
— End of Chapter Four —
