They moved. Vaeryn struck first, the staff sweeping low in a clean arc. Thaelyn blocked, the shock's impact rattling her arms. They circled, feet whispering across the stone. When Vaeryn feinted high, Thaelyn dodged left too quickly and stumbled.
“Stop chasing the fight,” Vaeryn said. “Let it come to you.”
Thaelyn grit her teeth, reset her stance. The following exchange was slower, measured. She let the motion flow rather than forcing it, her weight grounded through her heels. When Vaeryn struck again,Thaelyn parried and returned a strike that landed cleanly against her opponent’s shoulder.
The sound echoed, sharp and satisfying.
Vaeryn smiled faintly. “Better. You felt it that time.”
Thaelyn’s chest rose and fell with heavy breath. “I stopped thinking.”
“Exactly. The ground doesn’t think before holding you.”
They trained until the frost melted to dew. Between sets, Vaeryn made her stand still, eyes closed, palms open, breathing slowly. The stillness pressed on Thaelyn at first, suffocating in its patience. But gradually it became something else, an anchor, instead of a cage.
She could feel the pulse of the mountain beneath her, faint but steady, like a second heartbeat. The air itself seemed to move differently, slower, deliberate. When she opened her eyes, the world felt sharper.
Vaeryn regarded her with quiet approval. “Do you feel it?”
“The weight,” Thaelyn said. “It doesn’t feel heavy anymore.”
“Because it’s shared,” Vaeryn said simply. “The earth carries what you offer it. Even storms need somewhere to fall.”
Thaelyn let out a laugh, surprised by it. “You sound like Professor Caelira when she’s trying to sound wise.”
“I am wise,” Vaeryn said, smiling back. “But don’t tell her that.”
The two stood in silence for a moment, their friendship softening into something tangible. Vaeryn rested the staff across her shoulders again.
“You have too much stubbornness in you for stillness,” she said. “If you learn this, if you root yourself before you rise, you’ll stop crashing out in the sparring ring.”
Chapter
Twelve
The Fire Arena was unlike any other. Circular and sunken, it was carved directly into the raw bedrock of the southern rise, where heat lingered in the air even in the cool of morning, walled in basalt that still shimmered with the memory of the past, the arena pulsed with restrained violence. The stone bore scars from generations of combustion, cracks veined with molten glass, pockmarks where fire had once erupted from within, not without. The ground itself seemed to breathe shallow, smoke-threaded sighs.
In the center of the ring lay the Emberbrand. A glowing seal etched into the stone, spiraled with ancient fire runes that only ignited in the presence of true flame-born power. Around it, the trial stones stood in an uneven circle, each blackened from trials past. Cadets would enter alone and take their place upon a chosen stone. If Fire deemed them worthy, it would rise from beneath, or from within.
Those chosen would feel its heat rush up their spine, their veins licked with flame. It is an honor to be selected by fire. It can bring cadets one step closer to being accepted by a dragon. A dragon doesn’t automatically pick a cadet that manifests fire, but they do respect it; however, dragon fire is different.
Thaelyn stood shoulder to shoulder with her squadmates. The platform overlooked the floor below, where ancient runes had been carved in concentric rings around a massive monolith rising fromthe center. That monolith pulsed faintly with red veins like lava cooling beneath a crust of ash.
High above, the stands were full of second and third-year cadets. Dragons roosted on the edges of the stadium arena. Vornokh crouched on the ledge, smoke curling from his nostrils in lazy streams.
Commander Dareth’s voice boomed across the arena, sharp and commanding. “Fire does not forgive. It does not wait. It consumes. What it grants, it scars. If you are chosen, understand the power and the burden.”
Professor Veyne Caelira stood tall beside him, her crimson hair flaming in the sunlight. She raised one gloved hand. A spark ignited in her palm without flint or match; a living flame, hungry and elegant.
“The Trial of Flame,” she said, her voice like high wind over frozen cliffs, “is the crucible through which truth is seared free of illusion. It does not bend to fear. It does not care for pride. It burns away all but essence. There is no negotiation with flame. Only revelation.”
She walked along the platform slowly, flame hovering above her palm. “Some of you may believe you’re ready. You’ve studied your texts, honed your combat forms. But flame is not something you wield; it is something you become. One by one, you will step to the pyre,” she continued. “The fire will test your will. Your rage. Your restraint. You may burn, or you may burn brighter.”
Each cadet descended the ramp toward the heart of the arena, toward the monolith. Runes glowed faintly beneath each footstep. For some, the fire hissed and shrank away. For others, flames rose in warning, sensing danger but offering no embrace.
“Feyra Solen,” Commander Dareth called.
Feyra stepped forward. Her posture was tall, defiant, the sharp braid of her dark auburn hair swinging like a whip behind her. She moved with confident grace toward the central ring. As she approached the monolith, flames rose on either side, billowing toward her but never touching.
