The bells rang before the sun even considered rising.
One deep, metallic toll that echoed like thunder through the stone towers of Ember Academy.
Seraphina blinked into darkness, the echo still ringing in her ears. Her legs ached from the trial. Her ribs felt like they'd been beaten with rocks. Every part of her wanted to stay still—just five more minutes of sleep, maybe even silence.
But Drakestorm didn't allow stillness.
And silence here meant falling behind.
Another bell rang.
This time followed by footsteps—loud, sharp, deliberate. Voices barked commands down the hall.
"All Drakestorm recruits—gear up! You have five minutes to report to Arenaforge or you'll be scrubbing dragon dung for a week!"
Someone cursed on the other side of the wall. Seraphina shoved off the thin blanket and yanked open her trunk. Her fingers found the uniform before her eyes adjusted—the sleeveless crimson tunic with black piping, the reinforced leggings, the leather bracers stitched with the Drakestorm sigil: a dragon's fang wrapped in flame.
She had barely fastened her boots when Mira banged on her door.
"Come on!" Mira hissed, already dressed with her braid slung over one shoulder. "I am not getting dropped from dragon training because you need to stretch!"
"I didn't even get to breathe," Seraphina muttered, but followed.
Outside, the air was colder than she expected. Not winter-cold, but sharp—the kind that scraped your lungs when you breathed too fast.
They weren't the only ones marching across the upper stone bridge. Dozens of other recruits in crimson filed toward the cliffside arena, their eyes heavy, their movements mechanical. No one talked. No one smiled.
"So this is what hell looks like," Cato mumbled behind them.
Seraphina snorted. "Hell probably gives you breakfast."
The Arenaforge wasn't what she expected.
It was massive—half-stadium, half-war camp. Carved into the cliff's edge, it overlooked the sea far below. Waves crashed somewhere beneath the fog, but the air up here tasted like smoke and steel.
There were seven combat rings, each a perfect circle carved from black stone and scorched with dragonfire. Flames danced in iron sconces between columns etched with runes, and high above, bleachers wrapped around the perimeter—where second-, third-, and fourth-years already gathered to watch.
"Where are the other factions?" Mira whispered, scanning the crowd.
A third-year laughed from above. "Still sleeping. Poor Moonveil has meditation this morning. Bet they're sipping tea and crying about auras."
"They don't train with us?" Seraphina asked.
Cato leaned in. "Nope. Each faction has their own drills, their own schedule. We're Drakestorm. That means combat, dragons, and bleeding before breakfast."
Great.
A heavy-set man with a shaved head and arms like stone walked into the center ring. His cloak was black, embroidered with dragon-scale patterns, and his voice rolled like thunder.
"I am Instructor Varik, and I do not care if you are tired. I do not care if you're still sore from yesterday. Ember Academy has no patience for weakness, and Drakestorm devours the weak."
The crowd above murmured with excitement. Recruits shifted uneasily on their feet.
"Every morning, before food, before rest, before you even think about what you are—you fight. One-on-one. In front of the entire house. No weapons. No magic. Just will."
He turned, eyes sharp as blades. "If you vomit, clean it. If you cry, hide it. If you break, you're gone."
Kaelen Stormfire and Lorian Nightshade stood above, watching silently from the upper ledge—one bathed in flame-colored light, the other in shadow.
Instructor Varik snapped his fingers.
"Group Seven, into the first ring. You're up first."
The ring was warm beneath their boots. It radiated a low hum of old magic—like the stones remembered every fight they'd ever seen.
Seraphina lined up with her group. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum. Mira was next to her, rolling her shoulders.
"Try not to break someone's nose," Mira whispered.
"No promises," Seraphina muttered.
The first pair stepped forward. A girl from Group Three faced off with a scrawny boy from Seven. Within seconds, she flipped him on his back with a crack that made the whole arena flinch.
"Next!"
Mira's name was called. She faced a burly recruit who clearly thought he could intimidate her with size.
Bad idea.
She ducked under his first swing and drove her palm into his gut so hard he doubled over with a wheeze.
"Next!"
Cato stepped up and lost his match—barely—but earned cheers for lasting longer than anyone expected.
Then…
"Seraphina Vale."
Her name rang like a dare.
She stepped into the ring, heart hammering. Across from her stood a tall, sharp-eyed recruit who looked like he trained in his sleep.
"You're the crate girl," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Don't worry—I'll go easy."
"That'll be your mistake," she replied, deadpan.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Varik raised his hand.
"Begin!"
The boy lunged. She twisted, letting instinct take control. He threw a punch. She ducked. Another—she sidestepped and struck his side with a jab that made him grunt. He spun to catch her from behind, but she bent low, slammed her elbow into his thigh, and sent him toppling.
He landed hard.
"Winner: Seraphina Vale."
By the time the last match ended, the sun had barely begun to rise.
But they weren't done.
Varik led them to the Drakehall, a massive training deck that jutted out over the cliffs, with anchor points carved for dragons and runes glowing faintly beneath the surface.
"Each afternoon, you'll train here," Varik said, "until the dragons know your name. You'll study their moods, their patterns, their instincts. And when the time comes to ride, you'll already belong in the sky."
Lorian stepped forward, voice low and sharp.
"You don't bond by luck. You bond by power. They'll feel it in your bones. If you don't have enough? They won't even land for you."
Kaelen added, "You'll fly when you're worthy. And if you're not… you fall."
No one asked if they meant literally.
The wind screamed across the platform as several dragons soared above—massive shapes outlined by firelight and morning mist. One let out a sound that felt like thunder splitting the sky.
Seraphina looked up—and for just a moment, she could have sworn one of them looked back.
That night, when she crawled into bed, bruised and aching and alive, she smiled.
She had survived her first fight. She had held her ground. She had stood in the dragon's shadow and did not run.
Drakestorm wasn't built for the soft.
It was made for the dangerous.
And something inside her was starting to burn.