Chapter 7 #2
“All living things have weaknesses,” Selen replies.
“Even dragons.” She indicates specific points on the diagram.
“Joints where scales thin to allow movement. Eyes, of course. But the primary vulnerability is here.” Her finger taps a spot just behind the dragon's jaw.
“The fire sac. Puncture it before it ignites through the mouth, and the dragon's own flame will consume it from within.”
Nyx leans forward, studying the diagram with narrowed eyes. “How do you get close enough to strike there without being burned first?”
“That,” Selen says with the ghost of a smile, “is what you're going to learn.”
She moves to a weapons rack I hadn't noticed before, partially concealed behind a screen.
Unlike the crude training weapons we'd seen yesterday, these are finely crafted—specialized spears with barbed tips, curved blades on flexible handles, and what appear to be grappling hooks attached to coiled wire.
“Dragon killers,” Selen explains, lifting one of the spears. “Designed to penetrate scale and sever the tendons controlling wing movement.”
Lira reaches for one of the hooked weapons, but Selen stops her with a sharp look.
“Not yet. Before you touch a weapon, you need to understand your opponent.” She returns to the table, spreading out what appear to be hide samples.
“Dragon scale varies in thickness and flexibility.
The neck and underbelly are most vulnerable, but also most heavily guarded by the dragon's natural posture.”
For the next hour, she leads us through a dizzying array of information.
Dragon anatomy, flight patterns, attack behaviors—the knowledge comes faster than I can fully absorb.
I find myself leaning forward, memorizing details with an intensity that surprises me.
Each vulnerability, each weakness feels like a potential key to survival.
“This is all academic,” Selen says finally, rolling up the diagrams. “Now for something practical.”
She moves to the small door behind the tapestry and unlocks it with a key from her belt. “Follow me. Speak to no one.”
We exchange wary glances but obey, filing through the doorway into a narrow, spiraling staircase that ascends through the mountain's heart. The steps are worn smooth from centuries of use, and the walls bear ancient carvings depicting dragons in flight, in battle, in death.
“These tunnels predate the empire,” Selen explains as we climb. “Built by the mountain fae who first learned to bond with dragons, before the imperial conquest.”
“I thought dragon-bonding was a myth,” Nessa says, her guard's training evident in her suspicious tone. “The only way to control them is through subjugation.”
“Of course, according to the imperial annals,” Selen replies neutrally. “I meant to say ‘supposedly’ learned to bond.”
I frown as I glance over at the handler, but her face remains a passive mask.
Barely a minute later, we emerge onto a narrow walkway overlooking a vast cavern unlike any I've seen before.
The ceiling soars hundreds of feet above, opening to the sky through a jagged rent in the mountain's peak.
Sunlight streams down, illuminating a lush interior—vegetation clings to the walls, fed by streams that cascade from unseen springs.
The air is warmer here, humid but fresh.
And there, in a clearing below, are dragons.
They're smaller than I expected—none larger than a draft horse—but no less magnificent.
Five of them prowl the enclosure, their scales shimmering in the sunlight.
Unlike the chained beasts I'd glimpsed during transport, these move with fluid grace, their wings half-unfurled as they bask in the light.
“Juveniles,” Selen explains, leading us along the walkway to a viewing platform. “Not of combat training age, but past the hatchling stage.”
“They're not restrained.” The bald woman suddenly breaks her silence, her voice higher pitched than I had expected it to be—or just strangled with tension. She hangs back behind the rest of us and looks as though she is considering fleeing the spot.
“Not at the moment,” Selen replies calmly.
The handler’s voice gives me a thread of reassurance, and, despite my own nerves, I study the dragons carefully.
Each is distinctly different—one bears scales of deep crimson that catch the light like rubies; another is sleek and black with silver markings along its spine; a third is mottled green and brown, its coloration perfect for forest camouflage.
“What do you see, Four-Three-Seven?” Selen asks suddenly, her voice quieter, her eyes fixed on me.
I hesitate, conscious that my answer matters.
“They move differently,” I say finally. “The red one keeps to the higher rocks, watching. The black one patrols the boundary, constantly aware of its surroundings. The green one stays near the water. And the silver—” I pause, noticing the smallest dragon, almost hidden in the shadows. “The silver one is watching us.”
Selen nods, approval flickering briefly across her features. “Good. You're observing behavior patterns, not just physical characteristics. Dragons have distinct personalities and hunting styles. In the arena, recognizing these patterns can mean survival.”
“Are we to fight these?” Lira asks, eyeing the red dragon as it stretches its wings in a shaft of sunlight.
“No. These are currently reserved for breeding, not fighting.” Selen leans against the railing.
“Though at some point—when they’re past prime breeding age—they’ll be shifted to the combat enclosures.
Understanding their natural behaviors will help you anticipate what you'll face later. The combat dragons are honed for aggression, but the basic instincts remain.”
I study the silver dragon, which has indeed fixed its gaze on our platform. Its eyes are unsettlingly intelligent, pupils contracting as it tracks our movements. Unlike the others, which seem content to ignore us, this one shows active curiosity.
“That silver one,” I say, pointing. “It's different.”
“Perceptive,” Selen acknowledges. “That's a rare variant. Mountain-silver hybrid. They—”
“What in the emperor's name is going on here?” The booming voice shatters the relative calm.
Trainer Voss emerges from a side tunnel, his misshapen face contorted with anger. Behind him, two handlers stand at attention, hands on their weapons.
“Handler Selen,” he growls, limping toward our group. “Explain yourself.”
Selen straightens, her posture shifting subtly from instructor to commander. “Advanced training, Trainer Voss. As authorized by Commander Marrek.”
“Advanced training?” Voss spits the words. “You bring raw recruits to observe juveniles like they're on a noble's garden tour?” He gestures angrily at the dragons below. “They aren't pets to be studied!”
“Fear without understanding leads to mistakes,” Selen replies, her voice cool. “These recruits showed potential. I'm developing it.”
Voss's eyes narrow as he surveys our small group. His gaze lands on me, recognition darkening his features. I can almost hear him thinking, You. The street rat with the smart mouth.
I keep my expression neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
“As you are aware,” Voss continues, turning back to Selen, “juveniles are kept isolated for a reason. They're to view us as threats, not as observers to be tolerated!”
I watch the dragons below, noting how the silver one's posture has changed—its head lowered, muscles tensed, responding to the aggression in Voss's voice even from this distance. Not mindless killers then. Perceptive. Reactive. At least, these ones.
“These recruits need practical training,” Selen says, her voice remaining level despite the tension crackling between them. “Theory and observation build foundation—”
“Theory?” Voss cuts her off with a bark of laughter. “The arena doesn't care about theory. Blood is the only teacher lowlifes and outlaws understand.”
The dragons grow more visibly agitated. The red one spreads its wings, hissing. The black one paces faster, its tail lashing against the ground. The silver one stares directly at us, pupils narrowed to slits.
“This ends now,” Voss snaps. He turns to the handlers behind him. “If Handler Selen believes these recruits are ready for advanced training, then let's give them real advanced training. Take them to the combat pits. Put them with the advanced recruits.”
Selen steps forward. “These recruits aren't yet combat-ready. They haven't even—”
“By your own admission, they're special,” Voss interrupts. “Worthy of advanced methods. So let's advance them.”
He fixes his gaze on her in challenge, and I wonder if he knows she countermanded his starvation order last night; if this is some kind of deliberate revenge. The Ironhold’s very purpose is to breed violence and rivalry. Naturally, it would infect and seep into more than the recruits.
A tense silence stretches between them, and I can practically hear my heart hammering in my ribcage. I can see Selen calculating, weighing options.
Then her jaw tightens. “Very well,” she concedes, her voice cold. Her expression returns to an utterly passive mask, as if she couldn’t give a single damn about us—as if this had been her plan all along. “Take them.”