The light in the sky above went completely black. A sound rumbled over the mountaintop. It was low and boomed like thunder. A set of enormous wings spread wide like the horizon was ripping open.Vornokh. No one had seen the massive ancient dragon for a century. Dark black scales covered him, ridged and scarred by old wars. He spiraled downward, and the winds lashed the trees along the cliffs.
Vornokh descended like judgment itself. He landed sohard that the ground cracked beneath his claws. He was utterly massive compared to the other dragons. When he rose, he stood almost as tall as the highest building. His wings snapped inward with a sound that vibrated in every chest watching from above. Tension was felt throughout the arena.
Thorne didn’t flinch, but his breathing deepened. His lip was swollen and bloody from the day’s trials, yet he held his gaze. He recalled the words of the trial: “If a dragon comes before you in the Kaelthir and doesn’t complete the Reckoning, you will fall.” He had seen it happen with other cadets. Some were burned alive by the dragon as a sign of rejection, and others met their deaths as a sign of not being able to withstand the bonding process.
Thorne shifted slightly, sucking in a broken breath. The Reckoning had begun. Thorne felt an excruciating pain in his chest. It sharpened and intensified with each moment. He could feel his ribs cracking, and his lungs were burning. His own spirit was being pressed against by a force older than the mountains. It was a storm tearing through every layer of fear, pride, and weakness. Someone in the crowd motioned for him to move, to run before the dragon killed him. He didn’t move. Instead, Thorne lifted his chin high. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He whispered something. Not loud, nor desperate. Just a breath of defiance carried by the wind.
“I was born for this.”
One of Thorne’s legs trembled from injury and exhaustion. He nearly collapsed. The light in his pale blue eyes began to fade. Thaelyn saw a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the line of his shoulders. A flicker of possible defeat, perhaps. The dragon did not move. It let out a large breath as if it were still making a decision. The wind howled louder.
Thorne knelt on one knee. It was not a plea. It was a statement. He stayed perfectly still. That was when Vornokh moved. The great dragon stepped forward, and the ground shook. The cadets gasped, fear rippling through the crowd. Vornokh stopped several feet in front of Thorne. He was so massive that even from the stands, Thaelyn and the other cadets could feel the pressure of the dragon'smovements and its hot breathing. One moment passed, and then another. The dragon surged forward, growling low as he reached Thorne. To continue the Kaelthir with an ancient dragon would be agony; to resist would be death.
In a regular dragon Kaelthir, a cadet could collapse under the weight of it, their heart could stop beating by the sheer force of the bond. If Thorne’s soul held, if the spirit endured, Vornokh would next extend his mind, a bridge across theKael, the narrow crossing to reach theThir, the sacred oath. The binding was not spoken in human tongue, but written in magical fire across the marrow of the bond, and the flesh of a human would sear.
Thorne shifted slightly, sucking in a broken breath. The Reckoning had begun. Thorne stood in the dragon’s shadow, and the faint tremor of exhaustion in his stance was the only proof he was human. The wind tore at his hair. Smoke coiled from the cracks in the arena floor.
Vornokh’s chest expanded. A growl rolled out, low and terrible.Run,every instinct screamed inside of him. Thorne didn’t. Instead, Thorne lifted his chin high. Blood continued to spill from the corner of his mouth. He whispered something. Not loud, nor desperate. Just a breath of defiance. The wind carried Thorne’s words for all to hear.
“I’m ready.”
Vornokh lowered his massive head until his snout hovered inches from Thorne’s forehead. Thorne’s eyes barely flickered open. Their gazes locked. Time stilled. A pulse of bright light erupted between them. It was not just a light, it was the ancient flames. The force of it blew outward, sending cadets tumbling down, banners tore, and flags ignited in fire along the edges of the arena. The air crackled with heat and something older, deeper.
Thaelyn felt the pressure of the magic pressing against her skin. It was suffocating, ancient, a force that reached into her lungs and demanded shewatch.
Thorne took a step forward, and the moment stretched. The dragon exhaled another blast of magical, searing fire. The fire that burst between them wasn’t just flames of dragonfire. It wassomething older that rose up, black, silver, and red all at once, as if it rewrote the very fabric of the world. A shockwave tore through the arena, knocking Thaelyn backward. She threw up an arm to shield her eyes as heat seared across the stands.
Runes carved into the stone circle blazed alive beneath the dragon’s feet. Fire licked through the air like veins of starlight. The mark of the dragon was on fire all around Thorne. It burned fire across Thorne’s chest, down his right arm, and across his entire back. He was completely engulfed in flames. TheThirwas happening. When the light finally dimmed, Thorne was still standing. Barely.
Smoke rose from his skin. A burning sigil stretched down his body, glowing like molten lava. His chest heaved, eyes wide and wild, and then, slowly, he lifted his hand. The dragon bowed its head and nudged Thorne’s forehead.
Thaelyn’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. Something deep inside her shivered in response. She didn’t know why and didn’t understand it.
Iri whispered, “He just changed everything.”
Chapter
Two
The air in the healers’ infirmary was thick with lavender steam and sterile stingroot, curling from copper basins tucked beneath hanging crystals. It was quiet, except for the sharp clink of tools and the low murmur of spell-toned incantations.
Thorne Dareth lay shirtless on the bed, his torso slick with sweat, skin pale against the blood-streaked sheets. A sigil, fiery and black, etched along his chest, down his entire right arm, and across his back, was freshly burned into his flesh. It was the Thir bond mark of Vornokh. It pulsed faintly, as if still syncing with the rhythm of his heart.
A soft hiss of pain escaped him as the lead healer, Magda, pressed her palm to him. “His ribs are cracked. He suffers from Magical Exhaustion Overload. It was almost a complete elemental burnout. His heart nearly stopped when the bond surged. I’ve only seen this once before, and it wasn’t from a survivor.”
Commander Dareth, clad in dark flying leathers, stood in the doorway. He pushed back his damp, brown, wavy hair. A faint scar jagged across his jawline. He was incredibly fit, a true war hero. His blue eyes stayed locked on his nephew. “He survived.”
“Yes,” Magda murmured, hands glowing faintly blue, “by fates’ grace.”
Commander Dareth moved to the side of the bed. Thorne’s chest rose in shallow breaths. The bruises along his collarbone werealready blooming violet. Blood crusted the edge of his lip. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut.
The healer cast another rune into the air, one of stability, and whispered an incantation that hovered over Thorne’s abdomen before sinking into him like mist.
“He called for the bond?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Commander Dareth replied. “He didn’t plead. He recalled the words of the trial, ‘Those not chosen fall.’ And then Vornokh came.”
The healer’s eyes widened slightly. “Vornokh hasn’t been seen for almost a century,” replied Magda.
