Thaelyn’s brows furrowed. “What’s his problem?”
“He’s always intense,” Darian said with a shrug. “Don’t take it personally. So, how about that party? I’ll pick you up around eight.”
Feyra elbowed Thaelyn under the table.
Thaelyn hesitated, then nodded once. “Fine. But I’m only going for a little while.”
Darian grinned, satisfied. “I’ll take what I can get.” He gave a small, mocking bow before walking back toward his table. The eyes of half the hall following him as he made his way back to his table.
Thaelyn tried to focus on her food, but her pulse hadn’t slowed. She caught herself glancing toward the dragon riders’ table again. Thorne hadn’t returned to his seat; he stood behind his chair, jaw tight, eyes unreadable as he listened to his squadmates. When oneof them spoke, his expression hardened. He looked furious. She forced herself to look away.
A wave of heat swept through the hall, and the lanterns flickered. A woman in crimson robes strode onto the dais, her silver and black cloak gleaming with faintly glowing runes. The air itself seemed to bow around her.
“That’s Professor Caelira,” Vaeryn whispered. “Fire-wielder. Head of Elemental Studies.”
Thaelyn’s stomach knotted.
The professor’s gaze was razor-sharp as it swept the hall. “You were accepted into the Asgar Training Academy because you possess potential. Potential means nothing without manifestation, and nothing beyond that without control.”
The room fell utterly silent.
“Over the coming weeks,” Professor Caelira continued, her voice carrying like a blade, “you will face trials to determine your elemental affinity. Some of you will manifest early. Others will require more extreme methods. If you do not manifest any magic, you will be reassigned or dismissed.”
Thaelyn swallowed hard.
“Those who survive the trials,” Caelira went on, her hand lifting, fire blooming above her palm like a living ribbon, “may earn the right to enter the dragon trials called the Kaelthir. Fire wielders are given preference, as they are more likely to endure the Thir.” The flame twisted, reflecting in her eyes. “A dragon chooses its rider, not the other way around.” The fire vanished with a hiss. Professor Caelira’s gaze cut sharply toward the officer ranked tables. “Squad Leader Dareth, you are summoned to the Council Room. Immediately.”
Thorne’s chair scraped against the stone. He stood without a word and left the hall, the weight of a hundred eyes following him. When the door shut behind him, Professor Caelira’s voice rang out one last time. “All are dismissed.”
The hall erupted in motion, benches scraping, and cadets spilled into the aisles. Thaelyn stayed seated for a moment, staring at the glowing embers still curling from the chandeliers above. Her pulsehadn’t steadied. She didn’t know why, but the sound of Thorne Dareth’s voice still echoed in her mind.
‘You don’t belong at that party.’
As Iri and Feyra began to chatter beside her about what to wear to the party, Thaelyn couldn’t shake the feeling that she would go, if only to prove that Thorne was wrong about her.
Chapter
Four
It was not merely a room; it was a crucible. Stone, silence, and power, where bloodlines weighed loyalty against legacy, and dragons, older than crowns, listened only to truth.
Thorne walked the corridor toward the council room, each step echoing off the carved arches. The air was cold enough to bite, yet heat crawled under his skin. He drew the hood of his cloak lower, its crimson-stitched insignia catching the torchlight. To any passerby, he looked composed, with shoulders straight and a sure stride. Inside, a slow boil churned beneath the surface of his restraint.
“You hide behind their rules,”Vornokh’s voice curled through his mind, ancient and disdainful.
“I survive by them,” Thorne answered silently.
“Survival is a poor excuse for servitude.”
The words seared like embered iron. Thorne forced a breath through his teeth and focused on the rhythm of his boots, with proper control. The discipline steadied him. He wanted to remain composed and in control.
Two sentinels stood at the corridor’s end. Their armor was black and gold. Their spears crossed before the great wooden doors.
“Squad Leader Dareth,” one said, voice hollow through his helm. “The High Council requests your presence.”
Thorne inclined his head. He didn’t ask why. He already knew. The doors groaned open. Warm air struck him. It was full of smoke, resin, and candle wax, the scent of judgment.
Inside, the chamber glowed with low torchlight and rune-lined sconces. Shadows moved along the walls like chained beasts. The council sat at a crescent table made of black stone. Each member was robed in their rank’s color: gold for the Chancellor, gray for the Generals, iron for the Commander, deep earth-green for Professor Aeric. Their faces were composed masks, but Thorne could taste the tension. It was thick as ash.
