The hall trembled faintly beneath the boots of Professor Aeric Stark, the Earth Master, as he stepped forward. His arms were marked with faintly shimmering runic tattoos. Towering above the others, he looked as if he’d been carved from granite, muscular, heavy-set, skin-tanned like stone, his long chestnut beard bound in two braids. His voice was a low rumble, like a rockslide in slow motion.
“Earth endures. It yields to no one unless respected. Fail to anchor yourself, and you will fall. Some of you will become healers, some will master plants and poisons, some may master moving the elements, and others, well, we will see what the element reveals.”
Thaelyn’s breath caught again as she realized a fifth sigil was etched into the stone behind them, a faded spiral for Aether, long thought to be extinct. No professor stepped forward for it.
Finally, we have Vaelen Solen. He is the archivist and keeps track of all the tombs, archives, and history. He was around six feet, two inches tall. His build was lithe and ageless. He was clothed in a deep indigo and faded violet flowing robe. His hair was dark with silver streaks. It was tied loosely at his nape. His eyes were violet and reflective as if he were holding the stars. His presence was timeless and unfathomable. He was a man whom you didn’t meet by chance.
“As you train, you will be grouped by elemental affinity, onceyour manifestation reveals your path,” Commander Dareth said. “Until then, your instructors will evaluate your potential.”
Commander Dareth continued “You will rotate through each of their tutelage over the coming weeks until the Elemental Trials. You’ll be tested, mind, body, and soul. Those who manifest will move on. Those who do not will be either reassigned to other services in the academy or return home. Some of you may undergo the dragon bonding trials.”
He stepped forward again. “You will also study the history of the elemental cities. The realm is divided into three provinces: Crown Lands of the skies and tides, Draekmire of flame, and Eryndol of stone. Aeromir was once the fourth before it disappeared, along with the disappearance of aether magic. All the elemental High House rules, each bearing the mark of their sacred alignment. Each element is crucial to the balance of magic. Magic must remain balanced.
“The Asgar Training Academy exists above them all. Neutral. Watching. Training warriors, riders, scholars, and wielders to maintain balance and protect the realms from the forgotten horrors of the past. And perhaps,” his eyes sharpened, landing briefly on Thaelyn’s row, “the horrors yet to return.”
Whispers fluttered among the first-years. Thaelyn’s chest tightened, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Iri leaned in and whispered, “That was ominous.” Thaelyn agreed.
The wind above stirred again, dragons circling beyond the glass, always watching.
Then the general stepped forward. General Ravaryn Solas is tall, iron-backed, and austere. Her hair is steel-gray, drawn back in a severe braid. Her face bears no softness, only hard lines, battlefield shadows, and unwavering discipline. Her uniform was immaculate and fit her soldier’s frame perfectly. Her gaze could have turned molten steel to ice. Her voice is flint on flint, each word a weapon. “I will oversee your progress during trials. If you survive, and if you are chosen, you may one day ride in my skyward legions.”
Senior General Terrance Morlen was also on stage. He was the highest-ranking member at the academy and served as the HighGeneral of the King’s Army when called upon. He has a towering build with broad shoulders and thick muscles, the kind of man who once fought on battlefields rather than strategizing from a war room. He has charcoal gray hair with a stark widow’s peak. His eyes were iron-hued gray, intense and unyielding. His skin was weathered and bronzed with faint battle scars across his neck and forearms. When he spoke, his voice was deep and commanding. His aura carries the weight of authority that can bend wills and steady armies.
Commander Dareth’s voice turned darker. “Your Trials begin in two days. Get to know others. Explore the grounds of the academy. Eat. Sleep. Train. Bring nothing but your will, and prepare to find out if you are worthy. Dismissed.”
Iri leaned over and towards her dormmates. “Darian is going to start his training in dragon riding today. I want to support him. Do you want to come with me to the dragon flying fields?”
The roommates and Rhys agreed to go to the flying fields to show their support and watch the excitement.
Chapter
Nine
Beyond the Asgar Training Academy and past the wind-raked ridge of the Scorchfield dome, the land fell away into a valley carved by time and dragonfire known as Dragon Vale, known more simply among cadets as the flight flying field. The land was alive with magic, residual energy from thousands of takeoffs, landings, and skyborn duels that had scorched the earth.
To the north lay the Hollow, a natural depression in the land where cadets were sent to practice tight descents and unpredictable landings. It was bowl-shaped, lined with mossy rock and thick turf, where wind swirled in chaotic, invisible patterns that tested a dragon’s precision and a rider’s skills. Many had misjudged it. Few forgot it. And those who mastered it earned both scars and respect. The Hollow was the bane of riders and the final test before advanced aerial certification.
Farther west, the second image’s terrain rose sharper, and wilder. The Frostmire Expanse was where storm clouds constantly brewed, snow fell almost year around, and dragons spiraled the skies in silhouettes beneath a bruised colored sky. The mountains clawed upward like the spines of sleeping titans, their peaks crowned in mist and snowlight. The wind howled like a living thing, and thunder cracked without warning. It was the place reserved for final flight trials. Only dragons and riders in full sync could navigate these skies.
A squad of third-years stood across the field, out of earshot,debriefing from a training exercise led by Professor Caelira. Other cadets of various years lined the sidelines, watching the activities. The flight fields were always a popular spot to observe.
A shadow swept across the field. No, not a shadow, a presence. From the cliffside roost, a thunderous screech cleaved the sky. Winds surged outward as if drawn to the sound. Wings the size of wartime siege sails unfurled, casting an eclipse across the field. Vornokh descended like the wrath of forgotten Gods. Each wingbeat boomed and cracked like a war drum.
When Vornokh landed, the ground shook in the vicinity. The cadets already on the field stumbled. The dragons at the edge, where Professor Caelira and her cadets were situated, hissed and backed away, baring their fangs, but none dared to challenge him. A hush fell across the flight field.
From the southern tower came another sound. It was a low and mournful sound, like the tolling of bells for the dead. Commander Dareth’s dragon, the black behemoth known as Razorth, broke from the clouds. Until now, Razorth had been the largest dragon in the realm besides Senior General Morlen’s dragon, Draknar. Vornokh now holds that title. Razorth was leaner than Vornokh, but no less terrifying. His wings bore streaks of silver etched by time and war.
When Razorth landed, dust exploded outward. The two ancients faced one another, massive heads extended high, jaws parted, exhaling plumes of smoke and sparks, with no hostility between them, just recognition and a shared understanding.
Thorne dropped down and crossed the field, moving with a relaxed sort of confidence as he stepped between the two dragons. He was dressed entirely in black, wearing his flying leather pants and carrying a black fur-lined rider’s jacket. His tunic clung to his back, darkened with sweat and shaped by the lines of his muscles. Black gauntlets wrapped tightly around his forearms. Every cadet on the field, and even those nearby, turned to stare at him.
Vornokh’s voice filled his mind, gravel laced in flame: “They watch. Even those who teach you. Can you feel it, Thorne? Their silence is respect mixed with terror. Good. Let it sharpenyou.”
Thorne tilted his head ever so slightly.“You enjoy being dramatic.”
“I am not dramatic,”Vornokh growled, tail flicking like a whip across the stone.“I am old, and I’ve waited long to return to this realm and not to play court dog for children with sticks.”
Thorne smirked but didn’t answer. At the far end of the field, Commander Dareth approached with long, purposeful strides. His dark cloak trailing behind his warrior-muscled form. A diagonal scar cut down the side of his face, earned in the last elemental war, and his amber flecked eyes locked on Thorne with the cool calculation of a seasoned commander, and something quieter. Pride, maybe. “Your dragon’s descent knocked three roosts loose and broke the east barrier post.”
