The simulation plays out in real-time, and I find myself holding my breath as I watch her score climb on my tablet. The numbers fluctuate wildly as the scenario progresses—sometimes spiking with brilliant tactical decisions, other times dipping when she makes choices that seem counterintuitive to the simulation’s algorithms.
It takes several minutes before the green light ignites over Raven’s side of the simulator, accompanied by a soft chime that seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The final scores display on my tablet, and I feel my heart sink slightly: she’s half a point behind Luke, missing first place by the narrowest of margins.
The room erupts in whispered conversations as students process the results. Some seem relieved that the untouchable princess of dragons isn’t as perfect as her reputation suggests. Others look disappointed, having hoped to witness something truly legendary.
“Up next—first years report to archery with Abraxis Havock, second years report to spycraft with Leander Crosse,” I announce, watching the class pack up their belongings. The rustle of papers and zip of backpacks fill the air, accompanied by the nervous chatter of students discussing their performances and what they might mean for their futures.
Raven remains behind as she packs her things with deliberate care, ignoring the glances and whispered comments from her departing classmates. When the room empties and only the soft hum of electronics remains, she moves to hug her birth father. I catch the scent of sea salt and night air that always clings to her as she embraces Thauglor, then Klauth, before leaving with silent steps.
Together, we move to watch her simulation replay on the main screen. The tactical display shows her movements in precise detail, and I’m struck again by how differently she approaches problems compared to traditional military doctrine.
She made several minor errors, but other than those minor mistakes, her performance was nearly flawless. The errors themselves are puzzling—they’re not the mistakes someone with her training should make, and they all seem to cluster around specific types of scenarios.
“I don’t understand why she made those moves,” Thauglor says aloud, his brow furrowed as he studies the screen. His voice carries the frustration of a parent who can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with his child.
“Your family is the exception, not the rule. She has the best of the best in her nest.” I gesture to the simulation display, where her unconventional but effective strategies play out like poetry in motion. “She made judgment calls based on what she’s witnessed, not what commonly happens.”
We rewatch the simulation again, and my analysis holds true—she’s been trained by legends and fights like one. Her tactical decisions reflect the influence of Thauglor’s strategic brilliance, Mina’s ruthless efficiency, and the combined wisdom of the most decorated warriors in dragon history.
I grab my things and head toward the door, the weight of my tablet familiar in my hands. “Isn’t this your free period?” Klauth asks, his voice carrying a note of curiosity.
“Yeah. Raven needs me. She’s been struggling with archery.” The admission tastes bitter on my tongue, like acknowledging a personal failure. “Unlike her mom, she’s not perfect at everything. Raven has to fight to master some things. I think she’s compensating for something—I haven’t figuredout what yet.”
I leave her family in the simulation room, their murmured conversation fading behind me as I stride through the corridors. All I know is my mate needs help, and I hope she’ll let me provide it. I have my suspicions about what’s wrong with Raven’s archery, a theory that makes my protective instincts flare like an open flame.
Until I can prove it, I just have to help her the best I can, even if she doesn’t know why I care so much. Even if she can’t understand that every moment she struggles is another moment of agony for me, watching from the sidelines while the bond between us remains unacknowledged and unfulfilled.
Chapter 14
Raven
Archery—thebane of my existence.
Green fletchings and a blue background create a visual nightmare I can’t escape. For whatever reason, when those two colors are combined, I can’t see them with either my human or dragon eyes. It’s like trying to spot shadows in absolute darkness. The arrows might as well be invisible, and the targets blur into meaningless smears of color.
Thorne and Orpheus are the only ones who know about my issue—and that I’m mostly deaf on my right side. The silence in that ear is a constant companion, like having cotton stuffed permanently in place. Sounds from that direction come muffled and distant, if they come at all.
I can’t let anyone else know there’s something wrong with me. A huffing laugh escapes my lips, bitter, and self-deprecating, as I move to the far right of the gathering. This position lets me hear everything Abraxis says through my good ear, his gruff voice carrying clearly across the stone courtyard.
“We’ve switched it up today. We will be using moving targets and alternating colors.” The announcement sends ice through my veins. I catch the moment Abraxis’s scarred face turns toward Corvis, and when Corvis nods in understanding, my stomach drops like a stone.
Fuck.He would be the one to catch on about the color issue. His silver eyes are too observant, too knowing. I look down and away, drawing in a deep breath that tastes of autumn air and my growing panic. The familiar scent of bowstring wax and leather fills my nostrils as I try to steady my fraying nerves.
My eyes search the courtyard desperately, and there’s Mom sitting on a beam of the vertical training gauntlet like a statue of judgment. Her golden eyes track every movement below with predatory focus.Son of a bitch.At least my birth father isn’t here to witness my inevitable humiliation.
I glance toward the academy entrance, and my heart sinks further.Well, fuck me running—he’s here too.Thauglor’s massive frame fills the doorway, his sapphire eyes so like mine already focused on the archery range with paternal concern.
Per usual, as soon as you shoot, you can leave and go to lunch. The rule that usually feels like freedom now feels like a countdown to execution. I watch the other students take their turns, their arrows singing through the air with confident whistles. I tally their mental scores as the session progresses, each successful shot a reminder of what I can’t do.
My stomach knots tighter with each passing minute, the anxiety building like pressure in a sealed vessel. The courtyard smells of nervous sweat and determination, but all I can smell is my fear. Thankfully, we have twenty-four first years this year, so I can hang back and delay the inevitable for a while longer.
When the last students leave with confident strides and satisfied expressions, the courtyard falls eerily quiet except for the soft whisper of wind through the stone archways. I string my bow with hands thattremble slightly, the familiar action providing little comfort. The bowstring settles into the nocking point with a soft snap that sounds unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Are you okay?” Abraxis asks, his voice gentle despite his intimidating appearance. The concern in his tone makes my chest tight with emotion.
Sadly, I glance up at him and shake my head. The movement feels like admitting defeat before the battle has even begun. My biggest secret is about to be exposed to everyone who matters, and there’s nowhere left to hide.
The first target pops up with a mechanical whir—white against the stone backdrop. I nail the bullseye with authority; the arrow burying itself in the center with a satisfying thunk. For a moment, hope flickers in my chest like a candle flame.
