Read Chapter 4: The First Trial

The examination hall smelled of lemon oil and old vellum, a scent that was supposed to be calming and instead made Elara's stomach churn. She sat at the far end of the long oak table, the smallest ink pot and the thinnest quill they could find placed before her, as if the Academy expected her to disappear into the margins.

Lady Voss stood at the podium, her silver hair pinned so tightly it looked painful. She surveyed the twelve probationary riders and the full cadets with the same expression one might give a field of unbroken horses.

"You have bonded with dragons," she announced, her voice carrying without effort. "That makes you riders. It does not make you scholars, tacticians, or worthy heirs to the ancient compact between our houses and the great beasts. Today, we discover which of you are merely lucky."

Elara gripped her quill. Across the room, Cedric lounged in his seat, the silver embroidery of his House Ashford crest catching the morning light. He caught her eye and smiled slowly, then turned to whisper something to the girl beside him. Laughter rippled through the noble side of the hall.

The scrolls were distributed. Elara unrolled hers with trembling fingers and stared at the first question.

*Name the three primary flight formations used in dragon cavalry, and explain when each is appropriate.*

She knew this. She didn't know it from a book, but she knew it from watching Ignis move, from the way his wings adjusted when they caught a thermal, from the hour she'd spent clinging to his back trying not to fall off.

She wrote: *The wedge for offense, when you want to punch through. The line for carrying messages or scouting wide. The spiral for defense, when you're outnumbered and need to keep the enemy from flanking.*

The next question was worse. *Describe the proper method of saddle oiling to prevent leather rot during long campaigns.*

Elara closed her eyes. In the stables, she'd oiled a hundred saddles. But she'd never used words like "campaign" or "leather rot." She wrote what she knew: clean it, warm the oil, work it in circles with your palms, let it soak, don't rush, and for the love of anything, don't leave it in the sun to crack.

Question after question. She answered them all the same way—not with textbook language, but with the truth of calloused hands and early mornings. The other probationers scribbled furiously. Cedric wrote with elegant, practiced strokes, never pausing.

When the hour ended, Lady Voss collected the scrolls without a word of encouragement. The cadets filed out into the courtyard, where the morning sun had burned off the mist. Elara stood apart, watching Ignis circle high above, a dark shape against the pale sky.

"Stable girl."

She turned. Cedric approached with two of his cronies, a boy with red hair and a girl with a sharp chin. They moved like wolves who had already cornered a lamb.

"I want you to know," Cedric said, stopping an arm's length away, "that I intend to enjoy this. Every moment of it. Watching you fail, watching you lose that magnificent creature to someone who deserves him—"

"He chose me."

The words came out before she could stop them. Cedric's expression flickered, then settled into something colder.

"Dragons are beasts," he said. "They can be confused. Coerced. Tricked." He stepped closer, and she smelled expensive soap and something else—something sharp. "They cannot be reasoned with. But they can be tested. And when the trials come, when the examiners see that you have no lineage, no training, no—"

A shadow passed over them. Fast.

Ignis came down out of the sky like a stone, wings snapping open at the last possible moment to catch the air. The downdraft knocked Cedric's companions back a step and sent his perfectly combed hair into his face. The dragon landed between Elara and the nobles, his massive head lowering so that his golden eye fixed on Cedric with unmistakable intelligence.

Cedric went pale. He tried to hold his ground, but his hands trembled at his sides.

"Perhaps," Elara said, her voice steadier than she felt, "you should ask him what he thinks of your lineage."

Ignis exhaled. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from his nostrils, and Cedric finally stepped back. His companions followed, and the three of them retreated across the courtyard with as much dignity as they could muster—which was not much.

Elara reached out and touched Ignis's neck. His scales were warm beneath her palm.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmured.

The dragon made a low sound, somewhere between a rumble and a purr. He did not look at her. He kept watching Cedric's retreating back.

By the afternoon, the results were posted on the great bronze board outside the dining hall. Elara pushed through the crowd of cadets, her heart hammering, and found her name near the bottom of the list.

*Elara of no House: Pass (practical knowledge noted, theoretical deficiency severe). Probation continued.*

She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Pass. It was barely a pass, but it was a pass. Across the board, near the top, Cedric's name stood proud: *Cedric of House Ashford: Pass (exemplary).*

But before she could celebrate, a voice cut through the crowd.

"Remarkable," Cedric announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The stable girl passes by mentioning saddle oil and—" he consulted a scrap of paper, "—'don't leave it in the sun to crack.' Truly, the Academy's standards have fallen."

The crowd laughed. Some of it was nervous, but most of it was genuine. Elara felt her face burn. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came. What could she say? He was right. She didn't know the formations by their proper names. She didn't know history, or treaties, or the great riders of old.

She was a fraud. A lucky fraud who had been chosen by a dragon she didn't understand.

Ignis was waiting at the edge of the courtyard, a hulking silhouette against the setting sun. When she approached, he swung his head toward her, and she could have sworn there was concern in his golden eyes.

"I'm fine," she said.

He snorted. The sound was clearly skeptical.

Elara leaned her forehead against his warm muzzle. "They think I'm nothing. They think you made a mistake."

Ignis made a low sound and nudged her. Not hard—a gentle push, the kind she'd seen him use to nudge sheep out of the way when he was feeling benevolent. He pushed her again, more insistently, and she realized he was guiding her toward the Academy library, a tall stone building on the far side of the quad.

"What?" she said. "You want me to study?"

Ignis looked at her with what could only be described as profound patience. Then he looked at the library. Then back at her.

"Fine," she said. "But I don't know where to start. I can't even read half of the—"

Ignis nudged her again. Impatient this time. And when she stumbled forward, she heard a sound behind her. It took her a moment to recognize it as a laugh—a deep, rolling dragon laugh, warm and amused.

She turned. Ignis was watching her, and there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye.

"You're mocking me," she said. "You're literally mocking me."

Ignis's head dipped in something that was unmistakably a nod.

And for the first time that day, Elara laughed too. Then she squared her shoulders and walked toward the library, the dragon's heavy footsteps following her, guarding her, refusing to let her be small again.

She had passed her first trial. Barely. But there would be more, and she could not survive them on practical knowledge alone. She would learn everything. The formations, the treaties, the history. She would make them see.

But as she reached the library steps, her hand unconsciously went to the hidden pocket where the locket lay cold against her chest. The vanished rider had explored the caves beneath the mountain. The dragons were dying. And no one would tell her why.

Cedric's mockery was a problem. But it was not the problem.

She would pass her probation. She would do what no one else had done. She would find the truth before the last dragon faded into legend.