My knees still shake from the weight of my future as well as potential lives I was forced to taste, but I force myself upright. I stand at the edge of the marble circle while the siblings turn their attention to the rest of the cohort.
Detached that is the only word for it. I feel dislocated from my own body, as though I hover three steps outside myself, watching a pageant whose outcome has already been written. It's easier that way: glass between me and the next round of suffering.
The dragons move with a deliberate symmetry: Saphiel glides left, Kharon right, then they weave back together two blades. The first to receive their focus is Rye. Her shoulders stiffen when Saphiel's jewel-bright muzzle glides down. Kharon's horn taps the back of her skull, and she jerks. Her hair, usually a straight and long, lifts in static arcs. Her lips move around silent words no doubt reliving her own alternate lives.
Tears spill, steam on her cheeks, then freeze when they meet Saphiel's frosted breath. Kharon withdraws. Rye crumples forward barely catching herself before her head smacks into the floor. She only trembles.
Zaria steps up next with deliberate grace, chin high, dark eyes narrowed as if daring them to find her lacking. Saphiel's touch reaches her first, a gentle brush along the forehead. Kharon follows, and Zaria's entire body locks. A single spasm ripples down her spine. Her mouth opens but nothing emerges, no voice, no scream. Only a perfect tear slides over her cheekbone, catching sunlight like a tiny prism before it drops to the marble. When the dragons pull away, she exhales so hard her knees buckle. She rights herself in a heartbeat, though, wiping the tear with a practiced flick. Mask restored. She try's so hard I smirk.
Dominic is third. He tries to square his shoulders but the sling tugs him crooked, the set of his jaw daring the twins to notice weakness. Saphiel's nose hovers; Kharon's taloned horn barely grazes his temple. Dominic clenches his eyes shut so tight deep lines score his brow. Sweat floods from every pore in an instant, so much that it darkens his tunic in a heartbeat. I can almost smell the salt tang from where I stand. Seconds crawl; his teeth chatter. Then the dragons release him. The sweat sheen remains but, to Dominic's credit, he doesn't sway. He bites his lower lip until it bleeds, refusing to fall, I smile at everyone's refusal to kneel.
Imara moves forward without coaxing. She all but dances under Kharon's looming shadow, eyes shining with rapturous fire. She clasps her hands as though in prayer, smiling so wide I can see every tooth. Saphiel's delicate snout settles on her brow. Imara actually giggles - giddy, child-pure and when Kharon's horn touches her, she laughs outright, a joyous peal echoing off the dome. The sound makes my skin crawl, not because it's ugly but because it's so unguarded, so full of faith. I like Imara truly I do but in this moment she embodies everything I distrust: blind devotion, the conviction that power must be good simply because it is greater. I bite off a sneer before it can curl my lips, remind myself she is not my enemy.
Vihaan approaches next. Cocky, perpetual smirk Vihaan except the smirk is gone, replaced by a rictus of dread. His shoulders shake. As the dragons converge, he tries to bolt. Reflex, pure terror. But the moment Kharon's gaze snaps to him, he freezes, pinned like a moth to dark glass. They touch him together. Vihaan's knees give. His eyes roll back, whites showing, a wet stain blooms on his trousers. There is no shame in it, not here, but his own mortification will be crueler than any punishment. When the twins withdraw, Vihaan slumps sideways onto the floor. I stare in slight shock as I realize he's passed out. He had the exact opposite reaction to Imara how interesting.
I wait for Lucian, bracing, but I am not ready for the violence that seizes him. He tries to mask fear behind that calm strategist posture, hands clasped behind his back. The dragons touch horn and nose and Lucian's composure detonates. A raw, animal scream tears from his throat, as if someone was peeling his skin. He thrashes, palms clawing at his temples. Then he folds in half and sobs. Ugly, broken sobs that sound like a lifetime of battles lost.
The impulse to reach for our private link is immediate. I push a thread of thought outward: Lucian? Nothing. A blank wall. I hammer harder, feel echoes bounce back like stones thrown at iron gates. It isn't him blocking me it's deliberate interference. The dragons have wrapped us in isolation, ensuring each trial remains solitary. That insight chills me deeper than the shard of future tyranny I just witnessed. Their power eclipses even the bonds of Lucians mark of power.
Finally, Niko. He shuffles forward, throat bobbing. The dragons lower, and Niko's mouth opens in silent awe. I watch him flinch, watch his shoulders jerk as memories lash him. His face crumples; tears streak in clear rivulets. But he does not scream, does not faint. When the ordeal ends, he wipes his eyes on his sleeve and steps back with quiet dignity.
And just like that, it is finished. The dragons regard us, one on either side.
Kharon's chest inflates first. I see furnace-glow pulse between obsidian plates. Saphiel mirrors him, frost-white steam curling from sapphire nostrils. Instinct snarls warning through my gut. I barely shift my weight when both dragons open their maws and unleash a torrent of flame that rolls across the terrace.
For one crazed second my body acts on raw survival: I pivot, intent on diving out of the way. Too slow. The fire swallows us gold at the center fading to blue at the edges, and i know that fire is hotter than any forge any mark. I clench my eyes, expecting muscle to char, bone to crack.
It doesn't burn. It permeates. Heat pours through every pore, neither painful nor mild, but intimate like lying under fever-warm quilts on winter nights. The brands on my skin ignite in chorus, sending waves of electricity racing along sinew and nerve. I gasp; breath tastes like embers tamed into honey. Seconds five, maybe ten and the blaze gutters. Smoke trails whip into nothing. I look down expecting scorched leather, melted buckles. Everything is intact. I flex and feel no different.
We pass you, a voice rings inside my skull—deep, layered, masculine-feminine. Both dragons speak opposite halves of one utterance.
Children of the Empire, Saphiel intones.
We bless you with our breath. Go forth in service to the gods. Remember that the soul is strong, where the heart is weak.
Then the dragons pivot as one, unfurl drums-of-thunder wings, leap skyward. The shield above parts for them. Silence floods in, so dense I hear my own pulse. Then Lucian laughs. It starts as a ragged exhale, becomes a tremulous chuckle. Tear tracks glitter on his cheeks, but relief loosens his shoulders. His laugh hooks into my lungs until I release a shaky snort of my own. Niko wipes his face with the back of his hand, half-smiling. Even Vihaan who apparently had awoken lets out a hysterical giggle before clamping a hand over his mouth.
A single pair of hands clap slow and deliberate. Julian steps forward and something like pride tugs one corner of his mouth. A smirk? Almost.
"Marvelous," he says, voice resonant. "You pass. And with that, your punishment for tardiness is concluded."
He turns that faintly amused stare toward Evanaora. She pouts, scarred face twitching in disappointment as if she was upset no one was eaten. For once, her appetite for carnage remains unsated.
Julian returns his attention to us. "Welcome to the Academy, children." His tone shifts, transforming into formal cadence. "We have been expecting you."
Evanaora flits to his side, sighs dramatically. "Do remember to bathe," she says, eyes sliding across our sweaty, soot-smudged bodies with disgust. "Dragon breath may be holy, but you all still smell like dead goats."