The bridge swayed beneath Kaelara Veyne's boots.
It wasn't wide enough for fear.
Two fraying ropes and uneven wooden planks stretched across a chasm so deep the mist at the bottom never cleared. Wind howled up from the abyss, clawing at her cloak, whispering promises of bone-breaking stone and merciful oblivion.
Don't look down.
Kaelara fixed her gaze on the far end of the Crossing, where Skylance Citadel rose from the mountain like a blade driven straight into the sky. Black stone towers pierced the clouds, banners snapping violently in the wind—crimson and gold, the colors of the Concord.
Behind her, boots scraped against wood.
"Move faster," someone snarled. "Or fall already."
Laughter followed. Nervous. Cruel. Relieved it wasn't them.
Kaelara swallowed, her throat dry despite the cold. Her joints screamed in protest with every step. Old injuries flared—her knee, her shoulder, the faint ache along her ribs that never truly faded. She'd learned long ago how to move through pain without showing it.
Showing weakness here was a death sentence.
She tightened her grip on the side rope, fingers numb. The wind surged, rocking the bridge violently. Several cadets screamed. One slipped.
A sharp cry cut through the air—and then stopped.
No one looked back.
Kaelara forced herself to breathe. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Slow. Controlled. The same technique her father had taught her during long nights bent over battle maps.
Fear clouds strategy, he'd said. Breathe, and think.
Her father was dead.
Officially.
The thought struck harder than the wind. She shoved it aside and took another step.
The Crossing was the first trial of Skylance Citadel. Not a test of strength or magic—but of will. Those who froze, panicked, or hesitated were claimed by the abyss.
The Concord called it necessary.
Kaelara called it murder dressed as tradition.
She reached the halfway point when her knee buckled.
Pain lanced up her leg, sharp and blinding. Her breath hitched. The bridge lurched again, and this time she screamed as her fingers slipped, skin tearing against the rope.
Strong hands grabbed the back of her tunic.
"Idiot," a low voice growled.
She was hauled upright, slammed against a solid chest. The cadet behind her was tall, broad-shouldered, his balance effortless despite the storm.
Their eyes met.
Steel-gray. Cold. Assessing.
Riven Ashfall.
She knew his name before anyone whispered it. Everyone did. Top-ranked. Stormbound. The High General's son. Rumored to have killed a man during training and slept soundly after.
"Keep moving," he said, releasing her abruptly. "I won't save you twice."
"I didn't ask you to," Kaelara snapped, though her voice trembled.
Something flickered in his gaze—surprise, perhaps—before his expression hardened again.
"Good," he said. "Because weakness doesn't belong here."
He moved past her, sure-footed, as if the bridge were solid ground.
Kaelara watched him for half a heartbeat.
Then she moved.
Each step after that was agony. Blood slicked her palm where the rope had burned her skin raw. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred.
But she reached the end.
Hands seized her arms and dragged her onto stone just as her legs gave out completely.
She collapsed onto the cold ground, chest heaving, ears ringing.
A horn sounded.
The Crossing was complete.
Out of the one hundred and twelve cadets who'd stepped onto the bridge that morning, only ninety remained.
Kaelara lay there, staring at the sky, and wondered how many would still be alive by nightfall.
---
They were given exactly one hour to recover.
No healers. No water beyond what they carried. No sympathy.
Skylance Citadel's inner courtyard buzzed with low voices and restless energy. Dragons circled high above, massive shadows passing over stone.
Kaelara sat apart from the others, binding her torn hand with a strip of cloth ripped from her sleeve. Across the yard, Riven Ashfall stood with a small group of elite cadets, their posture relaxed, confident.
He didn't look at her again.
Good.
She didn't need his attention.
What she needed was survival.
A bell rang.
Commander Thalos Krynn stepped onto the dais, his presence alone silencing the courtyard. Tall, scarred, eyes like chipped obsidian, he surveyed them with open disdain.
"Welcome to Skylance Citadel," he said. "Most of you will die here."
No pretense. No ceremony.
"Those who survive will become riders. Weapons. The last line between Aeralis and annihilation." His gaze swept over them—and paused, just briefly, on Kaelara.
Her stomach twisted.
"Tomorrow," Thalos continued, "you will face the Claiming."
A ripple of fear passed through the cadets.
Kaelara's pulse thundered in her ears.
The Claiming.
Where dragons chose.
Or killed.
High above the citadel, unseen by human eyes, something ancient stirred within the Pyraxis Range.
A dragon opened one burning, shadowed eye.
And for the first time in centuries—
It felt called.