He was just about to introduce his name—lips parting to speak, fingers twitching at his side—when the grand doors of the hall groaned open with a deep, resonant sound. It rolled through the chamber like thunder across distant mountains, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling and causing more than a few students to jump in surprise. The very air shifted, rippling with subtle energy as though something ancient and powerful had just stirred awake.
The doors themselves were a marvel—two towering slabs of dark oak, their surfaces veined with time and bound with iron bands etched in the likeness of writhing dragons. The craftsmanship was breathtaking: each dragon carved with exquisite detail, wings flared and jaws open in silent roars, their eyes studded with flecks of garnet that glinted ominously in the flickering torchlight.
As they swung inward with an elegant, deliberate motion, a cool breeze swept into the hall, stirring cloaks and tousling hair. Dust motes danced in the shafts of colored light pouring through the stained-glass windows above, casting flickering patterns across the stone floor like the shifting hues of a dying flame.
And then he stepped through.
The figure that entered seemed carved from a legend.
He was tall and commanding, his stride confident without arrogance. He wore armor that gleamed like starlight caught in steel, yet bore the wear of battles long past—scratches, dents, and faint scorch marks that whispered of firestorms and fury. The plates were engraved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, not with magic one could see, but with power one could feel. It clung to him like a second skin, shaped for movement, forged for war.
There was something otherworldly about him, as though he did not simply walk through the doorway but descended from a higher place—like a being touched by dragons themselves.
The murmurs that had filled the hall seconds earlier faded into absolute stillness. Dozens of students froze, the sound of their breath caught in their throats. The stillness was total. Even the torches lining the stone walls seemed to flicker less, casting steadier light as if paying respect.
His face was a chiseled portrait of quiet strength. High cheekbones framed eyes that burned with quiet intensity, so dark they seemed almost black—like windows into stormy skies. A faint, diagonal scar marked his left cheek, a pale contrast against his tan skin. It wasn't the kind of scar that disfigured. It was the kind that spoke—a silent badge of hard-earned wisdom and pain endured. His black hair, cropped close to his scalp, was windswept in front from the hall's sudden breeze, adding a wild contrast to his otherwise composed demeanor.
He stopped at the center of the hall, letting the silence linger.
The sound of his boots—heavy and deliberate—echoed in rhythmic harmony with the subtle clink of his armor, every step reinforcing that this was not just a man, but a symbol. A sentinel. A judge.
Then he spoke.
"Hello."
Just one word, but it cleaved through the silence like a blade. His voice was deep, smooth, and resonant—like the low hum of thunder before a storm. It vibrated in the chest of every listener, a sound they felt more than heard.
"My name is Duke," he said, his tone both commanding and strangely comforting. "And I will be your instructor for today."
No flowery introduction. No dramatics. Just clear, concise words filled with intent. That simplicity made them all the more potent.
He scanned the room slowly, eyes meeting student after student—holding each gaze just long enough to instill both awe and awareness. He didn't need to shout or boast. His presence did the work for him.
"I'd like to welcome you all to the Dragon Academy for Dragon Bloodborns."
A hushed breath passed through the crowd like wind across still water. The name alone carried weight—Dragon Academy—but spoken here, in this hall, by this man, it felt like a sacred rite being invoked.
"I know some of you may have heard stories about this academy," Duke continued, his voice now like the deep toll of a war drum. "Stories passed from mouth to mouth, growing taller with each telling. Tales of heroism and sacrifice. Of students who rose to become legends. Of warriors who tamed storms and shattered mountains."
A few students shifted uncomfortably. Others straightened, eyes wide with anticipation.
"Some of those stories may be true," he added. "Others... are embroidered with fear, or pride, or the desperation of a world that doesn't understand what it means to be Dragon Bloodborn."
He let the words hang for a moment, drawing the room into a deeper silence.
"But what matters most is this: You are here now. And you have work to do."
He began to pace slowly, his movements steady, deliberate. The soft jingle of his armor punctuated his words.
"You will grow stronger. In body, yes—but more importantly, in mind and spirit. You will learn what it means to carry the blood of dragons in your veins—not just the power, but the burden. You will be tested. You will bleed. You will fail."
Some students flinched. Others narrowed their eyes with resolve.
"And that's good," Duke said, pausing. "Because this world doesn't need perfect heroes. It needs resilient ones."
He turned to face them all once more.
"This academy was not founded by chance," he said, his voice lowering, becoming solemn. "It was built by the first lord of our village—who was also the first Dragon Bloodborne."
The reaction was immediate. A ripple of gasps, widened eyes, exchanged glances. A sense of awe and disbelief swept through the crowd like wildfire.
Duke raised a hand, and silence returned.
"Yes. He was the first of our kind. A being born not entirely of man, nor dragon—but something... between. A bridge between two worlds. And he wielded a power that few could comprehend."
His tone deepened further, carrying the weight of memory and reverence.
"He could command all five elements: fire, water, earth, air, and spirit—the fifth, the most elusive and dangerous of them all. Spirit is not just energy. It is will, emotion, life. It is what makes us who we are, and what threatens to unmake us."
The hall was still, every student motionless. Even the shadows seemed to lean closer, listening.
"That first lord forged this academy with his own hands, with dragonfire and sacred oaths. He laid the foundations not just in stone, but in purpose. We are his descendants. You are his legacy."
A heavy pause followed. Then Duke's gaze swept over them again, lingering on their youthful faces—some lit with resolve, others shadowed by fear, confusion, or doubt.
"You will live here. You will train here. And you will fight—not just enemies, but yourselves. Your flaws. Your limitations. Your ignorance. This place will not coddle you. It will challenge you. It will change you."
He straightened, shoulders squared.
"You've been assigned roommates and teammates. Get to know them. Trust them. They will be your lifeline when your strength falters. Alone, you will fall. Together... you will rise."
He gave a small nod.
"Rest well tonight," he said, finality in his voice. "Because tomorrow, the trials begin."
And just like that, he stepped back, arms clasped behind his back.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, like a wave breaking, the hall erupted in sound—chatter, footsteps, the scraping of chairs, the crackle of energy returning to the space. But something had shifted. The air was thicker with meaning now, with the weight of legacy and expectation.
Near one of the pillars, the boy exhaled, unaware he'd been holding his breath.
His heart still thundered in his chest as he took in the vast, echoing hall. The stone floor beneath his boots seemed colder, the walls taller. He ran his fingers along the smooth stone column beside him, where names had been etched in faded script—students who had walked these halls, fought, died, lived.
A whisper stirred in his mind.
This is real.
"I'd better get to my room," he muttered under his breath, slinging his pack over one shoulder. "Before this turns into a madhouse."
Two boys waved from across the room—bright-eyed, smiling. He barely registered them. His mind was spinning, his pulse steady but quick.
He turned down the corridor that stretched into the dormitory wing. The halls grew quieter with each step, the thunder of voices fading behind him. Here, the air smelled of old wood, candle wax, parchment, and a subtle hint of lavender—the scent of a place well-used and deeply lived in.
He passed doors etched with dragon sigils, each one unique. He trailed his fingers along the walls, feeling the grooves in the ancient wood, as if touching history itself.
Finally, he reached his door. A simple wooden plaque read: Room 17B.
He hesitated. Took a breath.
Then he pushed the door open.
The room beyond was modest—stone walls softened by warm candlelight, wooden beams overhead. Three beds, evenly spaced. A desk under a window, which framed the horizon where the sun was slowly sinking, casting gold across the land.
He stepped inside, the door whispering shut behind him. Dropped his bag at the foot of a bed. Ran a hand through his hair.
"Roommates," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Let's hope they're not idiots."
Outside, birds cried their last song of the day. Far off, the academy bell rang once, solemn and slow.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the golden sky.
Tomorrow would begin a new life.
And he would be ready.