Morning frost still clung to the upper battlements when the horns echoed across Dragon Rite Citadel.

Training day.

The Burning Yard had already filled by the time Lyra arrived.

Hundreds of initiates crowded the massive circular arena carved directly into the mountain’s outer cliffs, its black volcanic stone stained by centuries of dragonfire. High iron towers surrounded the yard where handlers watched from above beside chained war drakes restless beneath the cold wind.

Smoke drifted across the arena floor.

Somewhere overhead, dragons circled through the storm clouds.

Lyra felt their movement before she saw them.

The same unease always followed whenever dragons flew too near her.

Not hatred exactly.

Something stranger.

Like an instinct buried too deep for language.

The moment she stepped through the lower gates, conversations around her faltered.

Again.

It had only grown worse after the cavern incident.

No one spoke openly about what had happened beneath the mountain, but the silence surrounding her had changed shape. Before, the students of Dragon Rite Citadel had looked at her with disgust.

Now they looked at her with fear.

Real fear.

The kind people reserved for omens.

Lyra crossed the edge of the training grounds beneath dozens of watching eyes while instructors barked orders across the arena.

Combat formations were already underway.

Mounted riders swept through the upper air lanes atop lesser drakes while ground initiates trained below with dragonfire shields and formation spears designed for battlefield coordination. Bursts of flame periodically illuminated the gray morning mist.

Everything inside the Burning Yard revolved around control.

A rider unable to command fear would never survive dragonfire.

Cassian Arden stood near the central formation ring surrounded by elite initiates clad in silver-trimmed armor. Even from a distance, he carried the same impossible stillness that always seemed to separate him from everyone else inside the Citadel.

Silvermoon circled somewhere overhead.

Lyra could feel the dragon’s presence.

Cold.

Ancient.

Watching.

Cassian noticed her almost immediately.

His expression hardened.

Not surprise.

Expectation.

As though disaster naturally followed wherever she walked now.

“Formation positions!” an instructor roared.

The initiates moved quickly across the yard.

Lyra took her assigned place near the rear spear line while handlers above released one of the ceremonial training drakes into the arena sky.

The beast descended through the smoke in a sweep of dark wings.

Massive.

Bronze-scaled.

Its body moved with the terrifying grace all dragons possessed, ancient muscle coiling beneath armored scales as fire smoldered faintly between its teeth.

The drake landed heavily at the center of the arena.

Chains rattled loose from its harness.

Its handlers barked commands immediately.

The dragon obeyed.

At first.

Combat exercises began.

Formation lines shifted across the arena floor while the ceremonial drake moved between them in controlled attack patterns designed to test discipline under dragonfire pressure. Students raised shields against bursts of flame while instructors shouted corrections through the smoke.

Lyra tried focusing on the drills.

Tried ignoring the dragon.

But the beast had already sensed her.

She saw it happen.

Mid-flight.

The drake froze suddenly above the arena.

Its wings faltered once.

Then its head snapped toward Lyra.

The entire Burning Yard went still.

Fear rippled visibly through the handlers overhead.

“No…”

One of them pulled violently against the control chains.

The dragon ignored him.

Its pupils narrowed.

Smoke poured from its jaws.

And slowly—

it descended toward Lyra.

Students backed away immediately.

Several nearly stumbled over one another trying to clear the arena floor around her.

“Move!” someone shouted.

“Get her out of there!”

Lyra’s pulse slammed painfully against her ribs.

Not again.

The dragon landed directly in front of her with enough force to crack stone beneath its claws.

Heat rolled off its body in suffocating waves.

Around the arena, weapons rose.

Handlers screamed commands from above.

Cassian had already drawn his sword.

The drake stared directly at Lyra.

Its breathing came harsh and uneven now.

Terrified.

Not enraged.

Terrified.

The realization struck Lyra so hard she forgot to move.

The dragon lowered its head slightly.

Not submission.

Something closer to recognition.

Its massive golden eyes locked onto hers while smoke curled between them in slow spirals.

Then the drake made a sound unlike anything she had ever heard from a dragon before.

Not a roar.

A whisper.

One word.

Ancient.

Broken.

Foreign.

Lyra didn’t understand it.

And yet something deep inside her did.

The syllables vibrated through her chest like memory dragged from a dream.

The dragon recoiled violently the moment the word left its mouth.

Panic exploded across the beast’s body.

It stumbled backward with a guttural cry, wings thrashing hard enough to send initiates crashing across the arena floor. Handlers screamed as the drake launched itself skyward in blind terror.

Then it fled.

Straight into the storm clouds above the Citadel.

Silence swallowed the Burning Yard.

No one moved.

Even the instructors looked shaken.

Lyra stood frozen at the center of the arena while smoke drifted around her boots.

Cassian approached slowly through the haze.

Sword still in hand.

His expression had changed again.

Not hatred this time.

Not entirely.

Something far more dangerous.

Doubt.

“What did it say to you?” he asked quietly.

Lyra looked toward the empty sky where the dragon had vanished.

The strange word still echoed inside her mind.

Like something ancient trying to wake.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

But somewhere deep beneath the mountain—

something listening did.