Kaelen leaned against one of the stone pillars that ringed the cliffside, his wings folded tight against his back as the wind combed through his luscious hair. Syllara's half-smile lingered, her amber eyes studied him in the long pause that followed.
"You wear your calm like armor," she said quietly, folding her arms. "But I know what doubt looks like. Even when it hides behind clever timing and smirking charm."
Kaelen chuckled, low and dry. "So I'm transparent now?"
"Not quite." Her gaze sharpened. "But I see more than most. And I know you. The Trial won't break you, Kaelen. If anything, it's been waiting for you."
He looked out toward the peaks, where a thunderbird wheeled in the distance. For a moment, he didn't answer.
"I wish I could believe that as easily as you say it," he murmured. "I really do."
"I don't deal in ease," Syllara replied. "Only truth."
Before either could say more, the wind shifted with the thump of approaching wings. Three figures landed nearby. They were warriors from Syllara's own contingent. All bore the Aetherwrought leathers, though theirs were marked with red enamel sigils along the sleeves which symbolized the fire division.
One of them, a tall woman with flame-colored braids and a not-so-subtle scowl, stepped forward. "Syllara, the western perimeter team is reporting arcane flux again. Council wants it checked before dusk."
Syllara's jaw tensed slightly, but she nodded. "I'll be there shortly."
The woman hesitated, eyeing Kaelen with thinly veiled curiosity, then turned and walked back toward the others.
Syllara gave Kaelen a look. "Duty never waits, even for fate."
He smirked. "Try not to start any wars before I ascend."
"No promises," she said, then added, "And Kaelen. Remember. Become what you already are."
With that, she turned, her radiant wings unfurling in a shimmer of crimson and gold as she leapt into the sky and vanished into the haze
***
Kaelen stood alone for a few moments longer before turning back into the stone corridors that led down toward the forge. The walk was long, warm with residual heat from lava flows below the mountain's skin. Runes pulsed faintly along the walls, guiding his steps deeper into the belly of the Aetherwrought stronghold.
The forge chamber roared with familiar heat and noise as he stepped inside. Sparks arced like fireflies above steel, and the rhythmic pounding of hammer on metal echoed like war drums.
Kaelen scanned the space, then spotted a tall figure hunched over one of the workbenches hammering away. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and entirely unbothered by the chaos around him.
"Kitar," Kaelen called, approaching. "Don't tell me you've been avoiding me. Again."
Kitar didn't look up right away. "If I was, you wouldn't have found me."
Kaelen grinned. "One of these days I'll teach you to loosen up. You might even laugh.
"I'll laugh when your sword doesn't explode the moment it touches dragonfire," Kitar muttered, finally straightening. His face was angular, serious, smudged with soot, and his expression eternally caught between mild irritation and grim focus. "It's not ready."
Kaelen sighed, mock dramatic. "Ah, the tragedy of it all. My greatest masterpiece, doomed to remain a lump of celestial ore on the eve of my glorious transformation. My, oh my."
"It'll be done in about a week. Maybe less, if you stop distracting me."
"What're you working on?"
Kitar stepped aside to show the nearly-finished weapon he had been hammering. It was a sleek hybrid of a longsword and a polearm, etched with the beginnings of runic inscriptions. The metal shimmered faintly with a dark-blue sheen, like midnight water. Starborne Steel, rare and nearly impossible to work with unless you had hands steady enough to thread fire through frost.
Kaelen's eyes lit with pride. "Beautiful. You've outdone yourself, as usual."
Kitar shrugged and resumed hammering.
"I want my weapon to come out just as beautiful as this." Kaelen's smile broadened as he admired the unfinished long sword.
Kitar glanced over. "So Tomorrow huh?"
"Yeah" Kaelen hesitated, then nodded. "The Trial's always been something far off. A future version of me's problem. But now it's… here."
Kitar wiped his hands with a cloth, then leaned back against the bench. "You're ready. Darien says so. And if your brother thinks you're ready, I'd trust him."
"Darien thinks in terms of conquest and ranks. I'm not sure he knows what it means to not be ready."
"But he is one of the youngest commanders in clan history," Kitar pointed out. "That doesn't happen by accident."
"I know," Kaelen said. "He's… the kind of dragon people expect me to be. Maybe I will but ..."
Pausing for a bit, he continued.
"You know what, maybe I'm just overthinking it. Whatever happens," he said, mostly to himself, "I won't let them write my story for me."
Kitar was already back to work. "Then go get some sleep. Tomorrow, you write your name in fire."
***
The Trial was not just a contest of might. It was ancient, dating back to the First Breath. The moment dragons first took form in the mortal realm. Part ritual, part revelation, the Trial tested three things. Fury, focus, and form.
To pass meant not just survival, but transcendence, awakening one's full draconic self in body and spirit. Becoming a True Dragon.
For most, the transformation happened slowly, sometimes over decades, centuries even. But the Trial condensed that evolution into a crucible of raw magic and memory. It forced reckoning. With one's past. With one's fire. With one's self.
More than a few had failed over the course of time. Failing brought about shame and reproach, and most gruesome of all, banishment from the clan. It was a belief that if you failed, it was a sign that you were incompetent and you heralded evil for the clan.
Passing the trial, which was the norm, also meant the call to very high ranking positions as a result of becoming a True dragon, leagues above the average dragon.