“You will not be allowed to summon your dragons to carry you,” Ledor added. “Only their magic may guide you. Those with unstable bonds may find the bridge unstable as well. We will choose your partners.”
My stomach twisted.
“Barmon. Bern,” Major Ledor called, voice echoing across the grounds like a drawn blade. “You’re up.”
Jax and Ferrula exchanged a quick nod. No dramatic glances, no whispered strategy. Just a shared look that saidWe’ve got this.
They stepped forward without hesitation, shoulders squared and boots hitting the earth in perfect rhythm. Koddos let out a growl of encouragement from the cliffside while Narvea crouched like a coiled spring, with her eyes focused and tail twitching.
The Crescent Bridge shimmered above them. Fractured platforms suspended by ancient magic, pulsing faintly as if sensing their approach. A gust of wind cut across the valley, tugging at Ferrula’s clothing and Jax’s hair, but neither flinched.
Ferrula went first.
She took the lead like she did everything else, in full stride and without apology. Her movements were quick and decisive, almost too fast to follow. The first leap was nothing. The second was longer, the air around the stones growing hazy with magic. She didn’t hesitate, twisting midair and landing in a roll that brought her to her feet with effortless grace.
Jax followed just behind, slower but steadier, his movements powerful and precise. His magic pulsed like a heartbeat around his limbs, stabilizing each step with subtle bursts of energy—never flashy, but deeply rooted. Ferrula looked back only once, and that was all it took. He gave her a nod, and they moved again.
At the midpoint, they switched.
Jax stepped forward, lifting a hand slightly to guide the rhythm now, and Ferrula dropped back with a smirk, unbothered by ceding control. His magic shimmered beneath her boots with each platform she crossed, giving her the extra lift when the steps began to spiral in a dizzying twist.
Together, they moved like they’d trained for this all their lives.
No shouting. No faltering. Just movement and trust.
When they reached the final platform, the bridge emitted a slight hum, and the last step solidified fully beneath their feet as if accepting them.
Cheers rose from our squad, but neither Ferrula nor Jax looked surprised.
They turned and jogged back down the ridge, and Ferrula ran her hand over her shaved head with a smirk.
“Easy,” she said, brushing a speck of dust from her leathers as they rejoined us.
Jax just gave me a sideways grin. “No pressure, right?”
Two members of Iron Fang were already stalking toward the starting point before Major Ledor had even finished recording Ferrula and Jax’s successful run.
“Dalric. Monn.” His tone didn’t carry even a whisper of encouragement.
The two men nodded curtly, rigid in that Iron Fang way that always made it seem like they were on the verge of barking orders at someone, even each other.
They took off across the Crescent Bridge with military precision, every motion clipped and exact. But that was the thing about precision, it didn’t leave room for instinct.
The moment the platforms began to shift, subtly reacting to the emotional resonance between rider and dragon, Dalric’s balance faltered.
Monn was just a breath behind him when it happened.
One foot missed its mark, and Dalric slipped, arms pinwheeling before one hand caught the jagged edge of a hovering stone. His boots dangled in open air, the magic below surging and crackling like it was punishing hesitation.
Gasps rose around the field.
“Fail,” Major Ledor said coldly, before turning his back on them.
Two sets of stairs shimmered at the edge of the broken bridge, conjured from Major Ledor’s magic. The men scrambled on with blank expressions and stiff, synchronized movements, as they descended. The pair muttered curses under their breath while Dalric’s face flushed a dangerous red.
The murmurs in the crowd didn’t help.
More pairs followed from Crownwatch, Stormforge, and Warborn. Some stumbled. Some fell on the bridge. A few leaped across the final platform with triumph scrawled across their faces. But for each success, there were more missteps, more humbling defeats. The stairs at the base of the ridge grew more crowded with disgruntled cadets nursing wounded pride.
