Lyra couldn't sleep.
Not because the barracks were noisy, or because Vesper had taken up the entire foot of her bed like a smug overgrown cat.
But because tomorrow, she'd either become a dragonrider… or be thrown out of the Academy in disgrace.
She stared at the ceiling beams, the faint glow of her bondstone pulsing gently against her chest.
The Trial of Flame.
A ceremonial test meant to prove a rider's control over their dragon and magic. Some students trained for years before attempting it.
She'd had five days.
"Don't die," Nico Brightwing whispered across the bunk row the next morning.
"I'll try," she muttered, adjusting her gloves. Her uniform had been cleaned and pressed—too crisp, too formal. She felt like a stranger in it.
"Seriously," he added, hopping off his bed. "There's a betting pool on whether you combust midair or fall face-first into the pit. I may or may not have bet against you."
Lyra arched a brow.
"But only for the odds," he added with a grin. "Don't let me down."
She didn't smile. Not this time. Her nerves were too tight. Her heartbeat too fast.
Today wasn't just a trial.
It was a verdict.
The Trial Grounds were carved into the mountainside like a coliseum of flame and stone. Tiered seats circled the main arena, which was etched with ancient glyphs that glowed faintly in the morning light.
Hundreds of spectators filled the rows—nobles, instructors, Flameguard officers, and other students. All of them watching. Judging.
At the highest platform stood the Council of the Crown, robed in red and black, their faces hidden behind dragon-carved masks.
At their center sat Velora Emberlyn, flanked by two royal guards with twin obsidian blades. Her expression was unreadable.
And beside her—of course—stood Lucien Valmer.
He didn't wear a mask.
He didn't need one.
His face was already unreadable stone.
Lyra stepped into the center of the circle, her breath white in the cold air.
Across from her, a heavy iron gate rumbled open.
Vesper emerged, flanked by two handlers.
The crowd murmured.
The garnet dragon was larger now—his growth rapid, unnatural even. His crimson eyes scanned the crowd, then locked on her.
He didn't roar. He didn't snarl.
He walked straight to her and lowered his head.
Lyra placed her hand on his snout.
The bondstone pulsed.
The glyphs beneath her feet ignited.
A deep voice rang out from above.
"Candidate Lyra Ashwyn. Flameborn. Bonded. Under the eye of the Crown, you stand before us to prove your control, your purpose, and your allegiance."
The arena grew deathly silent.
Velora's voice followed, soft but unyielding.
"You may begin."
Lyra swallowed hard and climbed onto Vesper's back.
He was fast.
The moment her legs locked around his scaled body, his wings snapped wide, and they launched into the sky.
Wind howled. The arena blurred below. She clung to the reins as Vesper rose in tight spirals, his movements sleek and confident.
Then, without warning, fire erupted from his jaws.
It wasn't random.
It was art.
He painted flame across the sky, weaving glyphs with his breath—symbols Lyra mirrored with her hands, casting glowing sigils midair.
The crowd gasped.
Even the masked council members leaned forward.
No first-year had ever attempted aerial glyphcasting during a Trial. It was reckless. It was impossible.
And Lyra made it look like dance.
She and Vesper dove in sync. Twirled through a ring of conjured fire. Dipped so low their bellies grazed the arena floor before shooting back into the sky.
She felt alive.
For the first time since her village burned, she wasn't afraid.
She was fury and grace and control.
But then—
Something shifted.
A tremor in her chest.
The glyphs in the air flickered. Her vision doubled.
The bondstone burned hot—too hot.
Vesper shrieked and wobbled mid-flight.
Lyra's heart dropped.
No. Not now.
The fire magic inside her surged—wild, too much, as if something had just broken open.
She clutched her head, pain searing behind her eyes.
And then—
She saw it.
Not the arena.
Not Vesper.
But a vision:
A city burning.
A dragon screaming in chains.
Lucien's eyes glowing with frost as blood stained his lips.
Her own hands, wreathed in gold flame—destroying everything.
She snapped back with a scream.
Vesper roared.
They spiraled downward, fire leaking uncontrolled from his maw.
The arena scattered in panic.
Lyra struggled to grip the reins—but her hands burned.
She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
And then—
A figure leapt from the stands.
One smooth motion. A blur of silver and blue.
Lucien.
He vaulted from the platform, frost already coiling from his palms. As Lyra and Vesper spiraled past, he caught her wrist in mid-air.
His other hand touched Vesper's side.
The dragon froze. Mid-plummet.
Frost laced his wings. Calmed his fire.
Lucien landed on the ground in a slide of ice and ash, cradling Lyra against his chest, Vesper landing beside them with a shaky groan.
The crowd was stunned silent.
Lyra gasped, her vision clearing.
Lucien didn't speak.
He just looked down at her, expression unreadable.
But she saw it.
Just for a moment—
A flicker of fear.
Not for himself.
For her.
Velora descended the steps slowly.
All eyes turned.
She walked to where Lyra lay and stared down at her like a disappointed mother.
"She's not ready," one council member muttered.
"She's dangerous," another said.
But Velora raised her hand.
"No," she said. "She's more than ready."
She turned to Lucien.
"And you," she said coldly. "You've made your first mistake."
Lucien met her gaze.
"I make no mistakes."
Velora studied him.
Then smiled. "We shall see."
That night, Lyra sat on the edge of the Frostgarden wall.
She didn't know why she came here—only that her legs had carried her, and no guards had stopped her.
Lucien was there. Waiting.
"I didn't ask for help," she said quietly.
"You would've died," he replied.
"I've died before."
Lucien looked at her. "Not like that."
They sat in silence for a while, snow drifting softly around them, steam rising from the heat of her skin and the chill of his breath.
"Why did you really jump?" she asked finally.
Lucien didn't look at her.
But his voice was low.
"Because I've seen what happens when prophecy is ignored."
Lyra turned toward him.
"And what do you see now?"
His eyes met hers.
"Fire that doesn't want to burn the world."
She breathed in—then out.
And whispered,
"Then help me make sure I don't."