If I get caught here, I won't be sent home.
I'll be killed.
My footsteps are almost silent on the cold stone floor. But my heart's pounding so loud it feels like it's echoing through the whole place. I'm holding my breath, trying not to make a sound. I press my back against the wall as torchlight moves down the hall. Two guards pass by. Armed. Wearing black robes. Gold dragon emblems on their chests—their symbol of power, and the lie they've been protecting.
They walk right past me without noticing.
I wait. Then keep moving.
I shouldn't be down here. No student is allowed below the third floor. This is a total no-go zone. Anyone caught here is labeled a traitor. And traitors at Obrynd don't get trials. They get erased.
But I need to know.
The egg's been pulsing since last night. Under my bed. Warm. And every time I touch it, I hear that voice again.
"We're not animals. We're kings. And you… you're one of us."
I'm not crazy.
But I know this isn't random.
I turn into a narrow hallway. The end is pitch black—no light at all. The air feels heavier here, making it harder to breathe.
At the end, a door. Black steel. No handle. Just a small hole in the center, surrounded by a faintly glowing purple crystal ring.
A magic seal.
I swallow hard.
I know what this means. This isn't just some "stay out" warning. This is a restricted area even instructors can't enter without direct approval from the Grand Master. I've heard rumors—people who went in never came out. Their bodies were found three days later—eyes open, mouths wide, but their brains… empty. Like they'd been sucked out.
I grip my small knife.
A fisherman's blade. Plain iron. From Tidewell. From home. From my dad. Used to slice fish. Now I'm using it to break imperial secrets.
I slide the tip into the seal's crack.
Nothing happens.
I push deeper. Twist slowly.
The purple crystal flickers. Dims. Flickers again.
Then—
Click.
A tiny sound.
I hold my breath.
No one comes.
I push the door.
Heavy. Creaks.
Behind it, a narrow passage sloping sharply down. Black stone steps. The air gets thicker. Colder. Cuts into my skin.
I go in.
The door shuts behind me on its own.
Click.
Locked.
No way back.
Doesn't matter.
I keep going.
Fifteen steps. Then a room.
Big.
Dark.
Dim purple crystal lights hang from the ceiling. Their glow reflects off glass walls. Rows of large transparent shelves.
And inside them…
Eggs.
Hundreds.
Floating in thick purple liquid. Each one chained with thin, glowing lines—magic control links. Around them, strange machines: tubes, long needles, low-humming devices.
I step forward.
My legs are shaky.
One egg pulses.
Then another.
Then another.
I get closer. Press my hand against the glass.
The liquid's warm.
They're trapped.
Still alive.
But not allowed to hatch.
I swallow the nausea.
This isn't a breeding facility.
This is a prison.
I walk to the center of the room. A long table. Scrolls. Notes. Diagrams.
I grab one.
Official handwriting. Imperial seal.
Title: PROJECT SILENT WYRMS.
I read.
Objective: Produce rideable dragons with zero risk of rebellion.
Eliminate shapeshifting ability.
Suppress pure fire breath.
Brain manipulation at the embryo stage.
Install Dragon Chains to limit self-awareness.
Result: Dragons with no memory, no instincts, no will. Only obedience.
I drop the scroll.
My hands are shaking.
I can't catch my breath.
I knew the academy dragons were weird. Empty eyes. Weak wings. Can't talk. Can't fight back. I thought that's just how they were. I thought that's why they needed riders.
Turns out…
They're broken before they're even born.
Destroyed so they can never become what they're supposed to be.
I turn to the shelves.
At the pulsing eggs.
I see a crack in one. Small. But I can see… something inside. Eyes. Red. Wet. Blinking.
Like a newborn.
Not allowed to be born.
I step back.
Bump into the table.
Another scroll falls.
I pick it up.
Historical archive.
Official imperial document.
Title: THE CULLING – 100 YEARS AGO.
In year 127 of the Empire, the Morpher race—half-human, half-dragon beings—were declared an existential threat.
After a major rebellion, the entire population was slaughtered.
Aetheris Peak burned. Skywardens were shot from the sky.
No survivors.
Survivors: 0.
I laugh.
Loud.
But not because it's funny.
Because I'm angry.
Because I hate it.
Because the world I believed in my whole life is built on a mountain of corpses and lies.
I grew up worshipping the Empire.
Trained since I was six.
Cried when I failed physical tests.
Was proud when I got chosen as a Dragon Knight candidate.
Would've died for them.
And now?
I know the truth.
Dragons aren't monsters.
They're victims.
And me?
I'm part of the machine that's enslaving them.
I drop to the floor.
Feeling sick.
Feeling broken.
But then…
I see it.
In the corner of the table.
An old file.
Handwritten.
Almost erased. But still readable.
Four words, written small, hidden under a pile of papers.
Like someone tried to hide it.
But didn't do it perfectly.
I read them.
"Five survived. Hidden in the Storm Veil."
Five survived.
Hiding in the Storm Veil.
I stare at the words.
Repeat them.
Again.
And again.
Five.
Not zero.
Not extinct.
They're still alive.
Beings who can shapeshift.
Who can speak.
Who can fight back.
And they're out there.
Somewhere.
Beyond the eternal storm.
I remember my dream.
The man with golden eyes.
Trapped in a storm.
Calling my name.
"You've finally come, Kyla. I've been waiting for you a hundred years."
I'm not crazy.
I wasn't dreaming.
I was being called.
And the egg I've been hiding?
That's not random either.
I stand up.
Clutching the paper.
I have to get out.
I have to leave.
I have to—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Footsteps.
From outside.
Down the hall.
I freeze.
Torchlight appears under the door.
Then…
The door creaks open.
A shadow appears.
Not a regular guard.
Taller.
Darker.
Long robe. Inverted dragon emblem on his chest—symbol of the Dragon Master.
He stands there.
Doesn't come in.
Doesn't leave.
Like he knows.
Like he's waiting.
I back up behind the table.
The document still in my hand.
The egg in my room.
The map in my boot.
The dream in my head.
I don't have a weapon.
I don't have an exit.
I don't have an excuse.
If they find me here…
I'm not a student anymore.
I'm a dead girl.