9. Aurora
AURORA
The Mess Hall was about as big as the grand auditorium where we’d listened to the Head Master’s welcome speech but the smell hit me long before we reached it.
Rich roasting meat, fresh bread, onions sizzling in butter, fragrant herbs, and something sweet I couldn't identify all drifted down the broad stone corridor toward us. My stomach clenched so hard it almost hurt, and I found myself walking faster without meaning to.
Jorn-o laughed.
"Hungry?"
"I think I could eat an entire Brown dragon," I admitted.
"Well, let's hope they don't hear you say that," he remarked with a grin. "Dragons are awfully touchy about being discussed as food."
I smiled despite myself as we rounded the final corner.
The Mess Hall was enormous.
Its vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow high overhead where stone blackened by centuries of dragon smoke stretched from one side of the cavern to the other.
Massive chandeliers forged from dark iron hung on heavy chains, each one crowded with dozens of glowing oil lamps that cast pools of warm golden light over the polished stone floor.
Long tables—at least thirty of them—filled the room from end to end, each one broad enough to seat forty or fifty cadets.
At the far end of the hall, banners embroidered with dragons of every color hung between towering pillars of volcanic stone, while enormous fireplaces roared merrily despite the warmth of the mountain itself.
The whole place buzzed with noise.
Hundreds of voices overlapped one another.
Wooden benches scraped against the floor.
Tin cups clattered. Somewhere a group of older cadets burst into laughter while another table was already arguing loudly over some point of strategy from a recent exam.
The sound echoed through the great chamber until it seemed as though the Old Drake itself had come alive around us.
“It’s really loud in here,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clatter and din.
"It gets louder," Jorn-o warned cheerfully. “Just wait for a feast day celebration!”
"It gets louder than this? Really?” I stared at him, but he only laughed again and led me toward a surprisingly orderly line of hungry cadets waiting with metal trays in their hands.
At the front stood a row of broad serving kettles and enormous iron roasting pans.
Behind them bustled half a dozen sturdy women in white aprons and flour-dusted sleeves, each moving with astonishing speed as they ladled, sliced, and served without ever seeming to lose track of who had received what.
"Oh…" Jorn-o sighed dramatically as we shuffled forward. "Stewed lamb again."
Again? I stared at him as though he'd lost his senses. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been able to afford any kind of meat back home—it was a rare, special occasion when my father brought home a few morsels of chicken or a chunk of pork for me to stew in a pot.
Did they really get it that often here at the Academy?
It seemed they must. The rich brown stew bubbled gently inside a kettle large enough to bathe in. Tender chunks of lamb floated beside thick slices of carrot, onions, white turnips, mushrooms, and herbs in a dark savory gravy that smelled positively heavenly.
Beside it sat fresh loaves of crusty bread still steaming from the ovens, slabs of golden butter, roasted root vegetables glistening with honey, baked apples dusted with cinnamon, wedges of hard white cheese, bowls of pickled vegetables, and baskets overflowing with crisp red pears.
I didn't think I'd ever seen so much food gathered together in one place in my life and my mouth was watering to try all of it. After months of watery broth and stale crusts, it looked like a royal feast.
"Not…again?" I echoed faintly.
Jorn-o shrugged.
"They've served that stew three times this week."
I couldn't imagine complaining. Three times in a week? I'd have happily eaten it three times a day!
The woman behind the first kettle smiled kindly at me.
"Bowl of stew, dear?" she asked.
"Yes, please." I nodded eagerly.
She dipped a generous ladle into the stew, hesitated, then added a second ladle full.
"Poor thing's all bones," I heard her mutter under her breath.
Before I could protest, she cut off a piece of fresh bread nearly the size of my head and tucked it beside my bowl.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at her.
"Of course, dearie. And you must have butter too," she declared.
A thick pat landed beside the bread.
"And vegetables."
Roasted carrots and honeyed parsnips appeared on a side plate.
"And fruit."
She gave me a bright red pear.
"And another slice of bread for growing boys."
My tray was beginning to sag under the weight.
"I…thank you so much," I managed.
She smiled without slowing her hands.
"Eat it all, now—need to put some meat on those bones if you’re ever going to stay on the back of a dragon."
"I intend to,” I promised fervently.
Jorn-o chuckled beside me.
"They always feed the First-years well. We have a lot of growing to do to catch up with the upperclassmen."
"If this is how they feed everyone," I whispered to him, "I'm never leaving."
He laughed outright.
"You'll change your tune after your fiftieth bowl of lamb stew."
I doubted it very much.
We continued down the line where another cook spooned creamy mashed roots onto my tray before a third added thick slices of roasted squash glistening with melted butter.
When we reached the end of the serving line, however, something unexpected happened.
A grandmotherly woman with silver hair looked up just as I stepped in front of her and her weathered face softened instantly.
"Oh…" she murmured as her eyes lingered on my pale hair and lavender eyes. “A Lysandra. I haven’t seen one of your kind in years!"
My heart skipped a beat. Had she somehow discovered I wasn't Auren? Then I realized she was just talking about the Great House I was from.
"You've got your father’s eyes," she said, nodding approvingly. “That pale purple—almost as pretty as a girl. And I have something just for you.”
Before I could answer, she reached beneath the counter and withdrew a small, covered crock of polished earthenware. Lifting the lid, she revealed a smooth golden pudding unlike anything I'd ever seen.
It shimmered faintly in the light from the chandeliers—not magically but almost as though tiny flecks of gold had been stirred throughout it.
She scooped out a generous serving into a small stone bowl and set it carefully on my tray.
"Dragon Custard," she said. "Made with mountain honey, fresh cream, saffron, powdered fire almonds, and Gold Moss."
Jorn-o's eyebrows shot upward.
"Lucky devil!"
I looked from him to the little bowl.
"What is it?"
"It's only served to cadets expected to bond with Bronze-wings or above," he explained. "Mostly cadets from the Great Houses get it."
The old cook nodded.
"Noble dragons burn through a rider's strength faster than common drakes do. This keeps your body nourished while your bond settles."
"It doesn't taste half bad either," another cook called with a wink.
"Though don't let the Brown riders hear you say that," a third added. "They've been trying to steal it for years."
Several cooks laughed.
I stared down at the little stone bowl and its golden contents. No wonder my father had insisted Auren must attend the Academy. The food here wasn't simply meant to fill empty stomachs—it was meant to sustain the extraordinary demands of dragon bonding itself.
"Well?" the old cook prompted gently. "Aren't you going to take it?"
"Oh—yes!" I said quickly, carefully taking the bowl from her. “But…I don’t have a dragon yet,” I added.
“That’s all right—you will soon enough. You’re a Lysandra—you won’t bond less than a Gold or Silver-wing, I wager,” she said confidently.
"Well…thank you,” I said, nodding.
She smiled.
"Eat every bite, young Lysandra. You’ll need your strength when it’s your turn in the Hatching Grounds."
"I will," I promised.
But I couldn't help thinking…
If they knew who I really was…would they still offer it to me?
I knew they wouldn’t—a woman attending the Academy was laughable at best, sacrilege at worse. And I still hadn’t determined how in the world I was going to navigate the communal bathing situation.
But for now, I just wanted to sit down and eat—to fill my belly completely for the first time in years. So I nodded politely, took the tin cup of apple cider the last woman offered me, and moved away from the line.
For once I was going to eat until I was full.