Chapter 3 #2
Thaelyn looked down the rows of tables, faces she didn’t yet know, names she hadn’t learned, but all of them tied together by the same insignia stitched at their collars, the same fire in their eyes.
For the first time since arriving, she let herself breathe.
Maybe this was how it began, not with triumph or magic or dragonfire, but with a shared meal and the quiet understanding that no one was alone.
She lifted her cup, listening to the hum of voices around her, and thought that maybe this hall wasn’t just where cadets ate.
It was where they became something more.
By the time she reached the table and slid onto the bench beside Iri, the tension in her limbs began to fade.
The noise, the heat, the closeness, it was overwhelming, yes, but also something else.
It felt like the heartbeat of the academy itself. Here, cadets learned each other’s voices, memorized each other’s tempers, shared food and fear in equal measure. Here, rivalries would be born, and so would loyalty.
Thaelyn let her fingers brush the grain of the table, tracing the shallow grooves worn smooth by generations of cadets before her. This may be how belonging began, not with certainty, but with the simple act of sitting among others who were trying to find their place, too.
"I'm so nervous. I’m going to throw up," Feyra muttered beside her.
Iri rolled her eyes. “Do it on someone who deserves it. Preferably one of the iron-brained brutes who nearly crushed us on the way in.”
“That was Orion Tallen and Rhyslan Archer,” Vaeryn said, scanning the hall with a strategist’s gaze, her pale braid swinging as she surveyed the room.
They moved as a single thread through the crowd, dodging shoulders, slipping between the older cadets whose laughter sounded sharper, harder. They found a place halfway down the central row: close enough to hear, far enough not to be noticed. It felt right. Safe, for now.
The air shifted. It began as a ripple, subtle as the change before a storm. Then came the silence. Voices faltered mid-laugh, utensils stilled midair, and all eyes turned toward the entrance. Thaelyn followed their gaze. Thorne Dareth had arrived.
Even before she recognized his face from the Kaelthir, she knew it was him.
The air itself thickened around him, heavy and electric, as though he carried the memory of dragonfire beneath his skin.
His black rider’s coat moved like liquid shadow, brushing the floor as he walked.
Bruises ringed his jaw, and a thin scar carved down the side of his throat.
He moved carefully, slower than he should have, every step deliberate.
Whispers rustled like wind through leaves.
He survived the Kaelthir.
They said he burned.
He shouldn’t have lived.
Thaelyn’s stomach tightened. She’d seen him from afar, bound in flame and fury, a living inferno before Vornokh’s massive wings. He would need several weeks before he was healed from the injuries he endured during the Kaelthir. And yet here he was, unbroken.
He sat near the front. The light from the stained glass painting his shoulders in red and gold. Around him gathered the others, the infamous and highly skilled Dragon Riders’ Circle. They were being whispered about from most of the first-year cadets since the morning drills had began.
The largest among them, Brynnek Duran, was built like a fortress, with broad shoulders, gray eyes, and hands that looked as if they’d been carved to wield war itself.
Beside him, Garric Winters sat straight-backed and still, streaks of silver glinting through his dark hair.
His expression didn’t change when he spoke, though others leaned in to hear him.
Rowan Kestrel, quiet and sharp-eyed, watched the room as though measuring it, calculating distances, exits, and threats.
Rory Avenlock, a third-year, sat relaxed with her boots propped up on one of the empty chairs.
She had just come in from flying patrol by the looks of her tousled hair and dragon rider leathers.
Sorren Vex was barely visible at all, his face half-shadowed beneath a fall of black hair.
Thaelyn had to blink to be sure he was even there due to his amazing cloaking magic abilities.
Then there was Darian Vale. He was nothing like the others. Sunlit skin, an easy smile, and a kind of effortless grace that didn’t belong in a room made of stone. His laughter carried, low and warm, a sound that made heads turn for reasons that had nothing to do with rank.
Thaelyn’s gaze lingered longer than she meant to. And he noticed.
“Oh Gods,” Feyra whispered. “You got caught staring.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” Vaeryn confirmed, smirking.
Before Thaelyn could argue, Iri lifted her hand high and called across the room, “Darian, come here!”
Thaelyn choked on her drink. “Iri, what are you doing?”
Too late. Darian stood, with his roguish grin deepening. “Excuse me, boys and Rory,” he said to his table, and sauntered toward them as if the entire hall belonged to him.
Thaelyn’s hand slipped. Water splashed down her front. Perfect.
Darian’s grin widened. “Making an impression, are we?”
Heat rose along Thaelyn’s neck. She opened her mouth, but Iri beat her to it.
“Thaelyn, this is my brother Darian. Don’t let the smirk fool you, he’s insufferable.”
“That’s slander Iri,” Darian said, flashing a grin. “I’m the family favorite.” His gaze flicked back to Thaelyn. “So, Thaelyn, what’s your plan for surviving the trials?”
“I plan to pass them,” Thaelyn said evenly.
He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious. I like it.” His grin turned teasing. “There’s a second and third-year gathering tonight in the East Tower Field. Music, drinks, maybe a few dares. You should come. Bring your friends. I could give you some pointers about the trials.”
Before she could answer, another voice cut through the noise. It was cool, sharp, and commanding.
“They’ve barely been here a week, and you’re already dragging her into your idiocy?
” Thaelyn turned. Thorne stood a few paces away, arms crossed, with the faintest sheen of anger in his eyes.
The bruises along his jaw darkened in the candlelight.
He looked like something forged of shadow and restraint.
“You don’t want to go,” he said to Thaelyn. His tone was quiet but firm.
Thaelyn’s pulse jumped. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s training. You’ll be useless if you’re half-dead from exhaustion. You’re just an initiate.”
“So noble, Thorne,” Darian muttered.
Thaelyn lifted her chin. “I can decide where I belong.”
Something flickered in his expression. It was gone as quickly as it came. “Suit yourself.” He turned on his heel, his dark coat shifting around him like smoke.
Iri exhaled softly. “Thorne’s definitely in a mood.”
Thaelyn frowned, still watching him go. “What did I do?”
Darian leaned closer, his grin easy again. “You challenged him. That’s a rare talent.”
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 one of 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 pulse hadn’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.