I roll up my sleeve, exposing the pale skin of my forearm. Klauth drives his talon into my flesh—the pain sharp and immediate, like a fiery brand. He sinks his scale into the hole he made, and I watch in fascination as my skin knits around it, the flesh healing with unnatural speed. A flood of power rushes through me, making my vision blur momentarily.
“Thank you, Father,” I say, looking up at Klauth with new understanding. From what I’ve read, lines of succession are sometimes changed with a scale—a binding that goes deeper than blood.
I am the chosen successor, his heir apparent.
My life has taken a hard right turn, spinning into territory I never imagined. The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders like a mantle, heavy but somehow fitting.
Allister is going to be pissed…
Chapter 13
Corvis
It’s beenthree weeks since Raven was made Klauth’s successor. The memory of that moment still sends chills down my spine. I watched her kneel before her father in the ancient rite. Then, there was the raw power that flooded through her when Klauth’s scale merged with her flesh. The entire academy is still buzzing with the implications. A female heir apparent is unprecedented, and it’s shifted the balance of power in ways that ripple through every conversation, every glance exchanged in the corridors.
Oddly enough, Allister was relieved he didn’t have to do“boring shit”for the rest of his life. His exact words, delivered with the cavalier attitude that proves exactly why he wasn’t suitable for leadership.
The bell rings with its sharp metallic clang, and I hear the students out in the hallway—voices mixing together in a symphony of conversation and nervous laughter. There’s an edge to their chatter today, an undercurrent of tension that speaks to what’s about to happen. Glancing over at Balor, he smirks, the expression making his scarred face look almost boyish. “It’s time to see if my son and Raven took after their mother.”
The anticipation in the air is thick enough to taste. These simulation rankings don’t just determine academic standing—they shape entire futures. The top performers get their pick of elite postings, comfortable positions at prestigious forts, and opportunities to serve under legendary commanders. The bottom tier gets sent to the most dangerous outposts, places where survival rates hover around fifty percent and glory is measured in how long you last rather than how much you achieve.
The students file into the room, their footsteps creating a rhythmic drumbeat against the polished stone floor. I can smell the nervous sweat despite the cool temperature, watch hands fidget with weapons and gear. Some try to mask their anxiety with bravado, but their eyes give them away—darting between the simulators and the ranking board with barely concealed desperation.
Balor stands at the door, shaking a bucket filled with tokens that clink together like tiny bells. The sound cuts through the nervous chatter, bringing an immediate hush to the room. Every token has its match somewhere in the bucket, and that random pairing could mean the difference between facing a pushover or going up against someone who could destroy their ranking in a single match.
The first and second years are in the simulation class today, which means all four children from Balor’s nest are here. The irony isn’t lost on anyone—the children of the most decorated combat instructor in Shadowcarve’s history are about to prove whether genetics and training can overcome raw talent and desperation.
Speaking of his nest, all four siblings walk in together like a coordinated unit, moving with the fluid grace that marks them as apex predators. Their very presence changes the atmosphere in the room—conversations die, breathing becomes more shallow, and every other student suddenly looks like prey animals who’ve just noticed the wolves have arrived.
They take tokens from the bucket, the metal cool against their fingers, then move as one to the bench on the far side of the room. The positioning gives them a clear view of the door—always thinking tactically. Belle and Azalea flank Raven and Orpheus, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if danger presents itself. It’s a formation I’ve seen them use countless times, born from years of being targets simply for who their parents are.
Once all the tokens are distributed, their metallic rattling finally silenced, I move to the front of the room. The scent of oil and metal from the simulators fills my nostrils, mixing with the nervous energy radiating from the students like heat waves. These machines represent more than just training equipment—they’re judgment day compressed into digital form.
“For some of you, this is your first time with the simulators, so we’ve handed out tokens to match you to a machine. Whoever is at the machine with you is your opponent. The machine will do a coin toss and assign offense or defense at random.” I hear Balor behind me, the scratch of chalk against blackboard as he writes the students’ names in careful columns. “As you can see, this will count in class ranking—not only for assignment after graduation but also for the better accommodations at the forts.”
The weight of that statement settles over the room like a heavy blanket. I watch faces pale as the reality sinks in. This isn’t just another class exercise. These scores will follow them for the rest of their military careers, determining everything from their initial posting to their advancement opportunities. A poor showing here could mean decades in some gods-forsaken outpost where the mortality rate makes veteran soldiers weep.
A male in the back raises his hand, his voice carrying a note of desperate hope. “Is it true that a mated male doesn’t have to fight? That it becomes optional?”
The question sparks immediate interest throughout the room. Heads turn, conversations stop, and suddenly everyone is hanging on the answer. For many, finding a mate represents the ultimate escape route—a way to avoid the meat grinder of military service while still maintaining honor and social standing.
Balor moves forward, his boots clicking against the floor with military precision. “In true mate situations, yes. After the bond is verified at the Temple of Bahamut.” His voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen too many young soldiers march off to wars they’d never return from.
“There’s a difference?” Azalea asks, tilting her head like a curious bird as she looks at Balor. Her green and black hair catches the fluorescent light, creating an almost hypnotic pattern of colors.
“Yes.” He looks down at his hands—scarred, weathered things that have seen more battles than most people see in nightmares—then back up at her. “There are chosen mates like your dad and Leander. Then there are political alliances, strategic partnerships, bonds built on mutual respect and shared goals. Then there are the marriages where they symbolically exchange bites, but it doesn’t form a bond.”
His face lights up with a warmth I’ve rarely seen, and he exhales. The transformation is remarkable—for a moment, the hardened warrior disappears, replaced by someone remembering the most precious thing in his life. “When you find your mate and the bond clicks...” He gets a distant look in his eyes before clearing his throat roughly. “Hopefully, one day you’ll experience it. I don’t have the words to explain the feeling.”
My chest tightens at his words, and I feel my silver scales along my throat warm with emotion. If only he knew how desperately I want to experience that bond with the black-winged beauty sitting across the room. The irony burns—I could save her from all of this, from the rankings and the danger and the military machine that’s designed to consume young dragons like her. All I have to do is claimher.
But she has to want it too.
She has to choose me.
“Anyway. Please stand and match your token to the simulator, and let’s begin,” I say quickly, pulling the class back on course before my thoughts can wander further into dangerous territory.
The atmosphere in the room shifts again as students rise to their feet. The casual conversation is gone now, replaced by the focused intensity of predators preparing for battle. This is what they’ve trained for—not just the technical skills, but the mental fortitude to perform under pressure when everything depends on the outcome.
