“And if I can't control it?” I eye the drake's gleaming teeth.
“Then we learn something about your limitations.” He tips the vial again, letting a drop fall onto my palm. “Either way, I gain knowledge.”
I bite back a retort about being his laboratory rat. As much as I hate being used, I can't deny my own burning curiosity. What if I really can communicate consistently with these creatures? What if the ashblood in the training pit wasn't a fluke? What if I can influence… adragon?
The fire drake's nostrils flare as it catches the scent of blood. Unlike the storm wing's curious approach, this creature grows more agitated, its scales flushing a deeper crimson. The fire-sac beneath its jaw pulses with heat.
“Just be… cautious,” Zeriel mutters, his body tensing. “Fire drakes are volatile.”
I extend my hand, palm up, trying to project calm despite my racing heart. The drake hisses, a sound like steam escaping a kettle, then lunges at the bars again. This time, instead of breathing fire, it snaps its jaws just short of my fingers.
And by some miracle, I don't flinch. Something tells me showing fear would be disastrous.
Instead, I try mimicking the chirruping sound I made with the storm wing. The fire drake pauses, head tilting in confusion. I make the sound again, softer this time.
The pressure builds in my head once more, but differently—hotter, more chaotic. When the connection forms, it's like plunging into a furnace. The drake's emotions burn through me: rage, hunger, frustration. There's intelligence here too, but it's more primal, more focused on immediate needs than the storm wing's contemplative nature.
“It's different,” I gasp, struggling to maintain the connection without being overwhelmed. “More... raw.”
“Can you control it?” Zeriel asks, his voice distant through the roaring in my ears.
I concentrate, trying to push a single thought through the chaos—calm. The fire drake's breathing slows slightly, its posture shifting from aggressive to wary. It's not submission, not even close, but it's something.
“I think... maybe...” I manage, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort.
Zeriel moves closer to the bars, studying the drake's behavior. “Interesting. It's responding to you.”
Encouraged, I try another approach. I visualize the drake stepping back from the bars, creating distance between us. To my amazement, the creature retreats two paces, though its eyes never leave mine.
“It worked,” I breathe, astonished.
“This… changes things,” Zeriel says quietly, and I feel as though he’s talking more to himself than to me. “If you can influence their behavior even slightly during the trials...”
“I could get you killed just as easily,” I point out.
A smirk crosses his lips. “You could try. But you already know where you’d be without me.”
“Or I could kill you by accident,” I add. “This isn't exactly precise control.”
He doesn’t even blink. “There’s time to refine it.”
The connection with the fire drake weakens, my lack of concentration clearly having an effect. The creature shakes its head as if clearing something, then retreats to the back of its enclosure, watching us warily.
“Let's try another approach.” Zeriel raises the metal rod. “This is used by handlers to direct dragons during training.”
“You want me to hurt them?” I ask, recoiling.
“No.” He exhales. “I can do that myself. I want to see if you can achieve with your connection what others require pain to accomplish.”
He demonstrates, making a motion with the rod that mimics a command to turn left. “During trials, champions sometimes use these to guide dragons through obstacle courses. The rods deliver shocks when the dragon resists.”
I take the rod reluctantly, feeling its weight. “So instead of shocking them, you want me to... what? Ask nicely?”
“Essentially.” He moves us to another enclosure, this one containing a smaller green dragon with a ridged back. “This is a marsh runner. Less aggressive than fire drakes, more trainable.”
We repeat the process with the blood, and this time I'm prepared for the connection. The marsh runner's mind feels different again—cooler, more fluid, with thoughts that flow like water rather than burn like fire.
I make the turning motion with the rod but focus on projecting the intention rather than threatening punishment. The marsh runner hesitates, then smoothly turns left, following the arc of the rod without touching the bars.
