Silva stood tall atop the makeshift stage, her royal posture as poised and elegant as ever. The sunlight filtered through the drifting clouds, catching the glint in her pale golden hair as her piercing ice-blue eyes swept across the crowd of students gathered on the sports field.
Her gaze halted.
Dead center.
"..."
No words were needed. Everyone could see exactly where she was looking.
Silva was staring—no, drilling—into Zack.
That stare carried the same glacial pressure as the wind of a snowstorm, calm yet sharp enough to slice skin. She hadn't forgotten. And more importantly, she hadn't retracted her words.
That day, she had humiliated him in front of the entire class. And had she been a man, Zack might've decked her across the jaw without hesitation. But even if he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to hit a girl—especially not one wrapped in the thick layers of nobility, royalty, and political landmines.
So instead, he had challenged her.
"If I win the race… you'll take back what you said."
Silva had looked him dead in the eye and, with a flick of her braid and a voice as indifferent as snowfall, replied, "That would be fine."
It wasn't a dramatic reaction. She hadn't laughed. She hadn't mocked him.
She had simply accepted the terms, as if his challenge were a minor inconvenience she'd entertain before afternoon tea.
But for Zack… it was everything.
Now, standing tall before the audience, Silva broke her silence. Her voice, smooth and frigid, spilled over the field like the whisper of winter returning.
"One must give their all in any competition. That is the legacy of my family… and I will accept nothing less."
Then, as quickly as she'd arrived, she stepped down from the stage.
Silva's descent was elegant, yet effortlessly commanding. Her slender legs swung over the saddle of Lancelot, her par, with an alluring smoothness, and in a single, graceful motion, she mounted the beast.
Her skintight riding suit left little to the imagination—crafted from shimmering threads of silk, it hugged her curves, outlining her toned legs and supple waist. Every movement she made accentuated her natural grace and unbending strength, turning the field into a runway of dominance.
A hush followed her return to the lineup. Sparse applause fluttered weakly around the field, dulled by the shock of her icy, superior tone.
"What's with that attitude?"
"Tch. It's Lancelot that's impressive—not the rider."
"She's just riding her family name. Didn't the First Paladin used to be a knight of Alethia? That means they're not even royal by blood—just some lucky soldier who married up."
"Heh. Typical. Just like her brother…"
Zack's ears twitched.
The whispers came from a trio of girls nearby—students from his own year, voices low but bitter, their words steeped in envy and disdain. At first, he ignored them. But that last part…
"That brother's sister…"
His jaw tightened.
They were talking about Prince Elohkar.
The Dragon Slayer. The disgraced heir.
Though born the eldest son of the Royal Knight House, Elohkar had shattered the kingdom's most sacred taboo: he killed his own dragon.
No one knew why. He died before he could speak.
Publicly executed—his name erased from the royal archives, his statues removed, his legacy buried beneath layers of shame and silence.
To bring him up now, during a festival meant to celebrate bonds between dragons and riders… was downright cruel.
"…She really doesn't have it easy," Zack murmured, a hint of sympathy tugging at his chest.
For a moment, he saw Silva not as a haughty noble girl, but as a young woman carrying the weight of a broken name—one she had no choice but to uphold with icy pride.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.༄
The race was moments away from beginning.
The contestants had been arranged according to the results of the previous mock competitions. Normally, the highest scorers would have the advantage of starting in the front.
But this year… things were different.
Roderika's suggestion had turned the tradition on its head.
"The strongest should prove themselves from the bottom up," she had said. "Let's make things interesting."
And so, the worst-performing riders were placed at the front—while the top performers were sent to the very back.
Silva, of course, was at the very rear.
Zack, too.
Despite being allowed to enter the race using a borrowed par—Liquid—thanks to a rare exception from the Student Council, his placement had been purposefully put alongside Silva's. Equal parts fairness… and spectacle.
But Zack didn't mind. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
Not just a race—but a reckoning.
A chance to silence the memory of her words… with victory.
The tension in the air was palpable. Dozens of dragons lined the field, their bodies taut with anticipation. The crowd surrounding the field buzzed like a storm, cheers rising in waves as the countdown neared its end.
Neither Silva nor Zack exchanged a single word.
Their silence was thick, electric. Their rivalry needed no preamble.
Zack focused his breathing, feeling the pounding of his heart against his ribs. Even during training, he had never felt this alert—this alive.
"On your marks!"
The voice rang out from above.
Everyone looked up.
Roderika, radiant and commanding, stood atop her par, Lainn. Not on the saddle—on Lainn's head. Arms akimbo, her long legs spread in a confident stance, her flame-red hair whipping in the wind.
Her tight formal uniform had been slightly unzipped due to the heat, teasing a glimpse of her full, well-shaped cleavage underneath. She wasn't just here to lead—she was here to perform.
Her thighs, smooth and strong, gripped the side of Lainn's massive head as if she and the dragon were a single, seamless being. Her boldness sent a ripple through the crowd—a mixture of admiration and awe. No reins. No saddle.
She was in complete sync with her dragon. Wild. Unchained.
She raised a polished magical carbine, its barrel gleaming under the sun. The tip glowed with arcane energy, crackling with the power of an Oracle spell loaded into the chamber.
The field fell silent.
Only the deep, rhythmic breathing of dragons and the erratic thumping of a thousand hearts could be heard.
"Get set—!"
She pulled the trigger.
A flash of divine light shot skyward, illuminating the heavens with a blinding flare before the deafening boom of the gunfire echoed across the field.
And then—
The race exploded into motion.
Fifty dragons roared to life, surging forward in a wave of raw power and primal grace, tearing up the ground beneath them. Dust and wind kicked up in their wake, blinding, wild, exhilarating.
The Stradias—dragons selected for show—had smoke bombs tied to their tails. As they took flight, the trails of smoke burst into plumes of vibrant color—seven brilliant hues twisting into a rainbow arc across the sky.