Lyra had never seen so many dragons in one place before.
They circled high above the Royal Dragon Academy like winged sentinels, their scales catching the morning light in bursts of gold, bronze, obsidian, and flame. Each time their shadows passed over her, she fought the urge to flinch.
She wasn't afraid of dragons.
She was afraid of the people riding them.
The nobles. The lifeblood of the Crown. They stood on the training grounds in perfect rows, polished armor gleaming, glyph-blades at their hips, smug smiles carved into their perfect faces.
She didn't belong here.
And the way they looked at her—like she was a smudge on a crystal goblet—made that painfully clear.
"Move it, peasant," someone sneered as she passed the courtyard gates.
Lyra bit the inside of her cheek and kept walking. Her boots—new and stiff—pinched her heels with every step. The uniform they'd given her was too tight across the shoulders, and the Academy seal—a silver dragon over a black flame—felt like a brand against her chest.
A boy no older than her—tall, with ink-dark curls and sea-glass eyes—slid up beside her with a grin.
"First day and they've already tried to kill you with fashion," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
He held out a hand. "Nico Brightwing. Trainee Second Class. Disappointment to my parents. Partial to sarcasm."
Despite herself, Lyra took it.
"Lyra," she said.
"Ah, yes. The infamous Flameborn." Nico gave her a dramatic once-over. "Honestly? Expected you to have horns. Maybe a pitchfork."
"You're hilarious."
"I try." He grinned. "Stick with me, Ashwyn. I'm a professional in survival. Mostly by hiding behind stronger people. Which—lucky me—might now include you."
She almost smiled.
Their first training session was a blur of humiliation.
The instructor, a hulking brute named Captain Rennic Stone, marched across the fire-scorched field barking commands like thunder. He didn't bother hiding his distaste.
"Flameborn or not," he growled, "you're all filth until you prove otherwise."
They practiced flame channeling. Lyra's first attempt singed her eyebrows. Her second attempt cracked the ground. Her third attempt nearly incinerated a trainee named Belric, who promptly wet himself and ran off screaming.
Rennic didn't laugh. But he did smirk.
By noon, her arms ached, her uniform was scorched, and her skin was dusted with soot.
Worse, she could feel it again.
That strange pull under her ribs. Like her power was breathing. Like something old and wild inside her had been… disturbed.
At lunch, Nico sat beside her without asking.
"Welcome to the funhouse," he said, dropping a roll onto her plate. "Eat. You'll need strength to survive tomorrow's trial."
She paused mid-chew. "What trial?"
He blinked. "You haven't heard?"
She shook her head.
Nico leaned closer. "Every first-year has to attempt the bonding ritual. If you don't connect to a hatchling within three days, they boot you back to whatever cave you crawled out of."
Lyra swallowed. "What happens if the hatchlings reject you?"
"Then you get rejected," he said. "Publicly. Loudly. Sometimes explosively."
Her stomach turned.
That evening, she was escorted to the Dragon Hatchery.
The room smelled of smoke and heat and something ancient. Dozens of baby dragons—barely the size of deer—hissed and snarled behind enchanted glass. Their eyes tracked her.
The handler, a thin man with inked runes down both arms, spoke in a low voice.
"Approach slowly. Do not shout. Do not make sudden movements. And do not, under any circumstance, bleed near the flameclaws."
"Got it," Lyra muttered.
She stepped into the center of the enclosure.
Nothing happened.
The dragons watched her. Blinked. Snorted tiny sparks. One licked its claws.
She moved clockwise, letting her fingers brush the glass.
Still nothing.
Then—
A ripple.
At the far corner, in the darkest enclosure, a hatchling moved.
Its scales shimmered like molten garnet. Its eyes—bright crimson with slits of gold—locked onto hers. Unlike the others, it didn't hiss.
It tilted its head.
Lyra approached.
The glass between them felt warm.
Suddenly, the hatchling surged forward and slammed into the barrier—shattering it into shards.
Lyra fell back, heart hammering, as the beast stalked forward… and stopped.
Its nose touched her boot.
She didn't move.
The dragon sniffed her once… and then let out a small, echoing chirp.
The handler gawked. "Gods above…"
The other dragons hissed and backed away.
The garnet hatchling curled its tail around Lyra's leg.
"Name it," the handler said hoarsely. "If you don't, it'll go feral."
Lyra's lips parted.
"Vesper," she whispered.
The hatchling purred.
Two hours later, she was summoned.
Not to the barracks. Not to the mess.
To the High Priestess's chamber.
Lyra was led into a candlelit hall with flame-lit banners and walls carved with dragon scripture. At the far end stood Velora Emberlyn, robed in white, her hands folded.
"Impressive," she said, voice like velvet fire. "Very few dragons break the barrier."
Lyra stood straighter. "You set me up."
"Of course." Velora smiled. "How else would I know what kind of fire you carry?"
"I'm not your weapon," Lyra snapped.
Velora's eyes glinted. "You're not. Yet."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Velora stepped forward and held out a small obsidian shard. In its center, a golden glyph pulsed.
"This is your bondstone," she said. "It links you to Vesper. It will also monitor your power."
Lyra didn't take it.
Velora's smile didn't fade. "You will take it. Because deep down, you want to learn who you are. What you are. And only I can give you the answers you seek."
Reluctantly, Lyra reached out and closed her fingers around the stone.
It felt alive in her palm.
That night, in the stillness of the trainee barracks, Lyra stared out her narrow window at the moons above the Academy.
Vesper was curled up at the foot of her bed, snoring softly, ember smoke drifting from his nostrils.
She touched the obsidian shard, now hanging on a chain around her neck.
A voice echoed in her memory.
"She doesn't look like a Flameborn. She looks like a mistake."
Lucien Valmer.
Cold, unreadable, infuriating.
She didn't know what game he was playing, or why he was the only one who didn't seem afraid of her.
But she'd seen his eyes when he looked at her.
He wasn't afraid.
He was watching.
Waiting.
Like her fire might be the one thing left in this world that could melt his ice.