The training ground was a flat, dusty circle of packed earth behind the Air Center. Arianda stood in the center, her hands held out before her. She felt different. The loose tunic and trousers Sage had given her now stopped well above her wrists and ankles. When she glanced down at her shadow, stretched long in the morning sun, it was unmistakably taller, thinner. A stranger’s silhouette.

“Stop admiring the view,” Sherief Holt’s voice cut through the air. He leaned on his staff a few yards away, his loose green robes shifting in a breeze he seemed to command. “Your body is catching up to the knowledge you’re drinking in. It’s normal. Now, the earth.”

Balor Grimfoot stood to her other side, arms crossed over her stout frame. “Feel the grit under your boots, girl. Not just the top layer. Feel the compacted stone three feet down. The loose soil is six inches under that. Hold the image of it in your mind.”

Arianda closed her eyes. She pushed her awareness down, past the leather of her soles. She felt the layers, just as Balor said—a crumbly topsoil, a denser clay, then the unyielding bedrock foundation of the plateau Zoel was built upon. It was a massive, sleeping weight.

“Good,” Balor grunted. “Now, air.”

“The pocket around your left hand,” Sherief instructed, his tone clinical. “Density it. Make it a solid wedge.”

Arianda opened her eyes, focusing on her left hand. She pulled the air molecules together, compressing them until the space above her palm shimmered like heat haze. It was a taxing focus, a mental clenching that made her temples ache.

“Now,” Balor said, stepping closer. “You have the earth. You have an air wedge. Don’t move the whole damn mountain. Use your wedge on a single point in the soil map. A precise strike.”

Arianda’s breath hitched. She held both concepts in her mind simultaneously: the vast, heavy earth and the small, concentrated force of air. It was like trying to thread a needle while carrying a boulder. She directed the compressed air downward, aiming for a specific point in the crumbly topsoil layer.

There was a soft *phut* sound. Dust puffed up in a tiny cloud no wider than a coin at a spot two feet in front of her toes.

Sherief let out a sound that was almost a laugh—a short exhale through his nose. “Minimal output.”

“But perfect precision,” Balor countered, a note of pride in her voice. She walked over and nudged the tiny depression with her boot. “You shifted exactly what you aimed for. No more, no less.”

From the sidelines, Zariel chirped softly. The silver dragon was no longer a creature that could curl in Arianda’s lap; she was now the size of a large hound, her scales gleaming like polished mercury in the sunlight. As Arianda had struggled to combine elements, Zariel had been calmly practicing alone. A small whirlwind of autumn leaves danced obediently around one clawed forefoot, while with a mere flick of her snout, she caused a dozen smooth stones to rise from the ground and orbit her head like tiny moons.

Arianda watched her companion’s effortless control, and a familiar frustration bubbled up—not hot and angry, but cold and heavy. Zariel wasn’t just learning; she was *remembering*. Arianda was building every skill from dust and willpower.

“Again,” Sherief said, his dark eyes missing nothing—not her growth spurt, not Zariel’s display, not the tight line of Arianda’s jaw.

They drilled for an hour. A precise air burst to destabilize an opponent’s footing by shifting a handful of earth under their heel. A subtle lift of a stone from the ground to trip them as they stumbled back. Minor tricks, as Sherief called them. Battlefield economics: maximum effect for minimum magical expenditure.

Arianda caught on quickly to the concepts—the *why* and *how*—but every execution felt like wringing water from a stone. Her magical output was a shallow well compared to what they expected from someone with dual attunements.

“Your power isn’t in raw force,” Balor said finally as they took water from a clay jug Sherief produced from his robes seemingly out of nowhere.

“It’s in finesse,” Sherief finished for her.

________________________________________________

Across Zoel, in a shaded courtyard dedicated to fire novices who needed to learn control away from flammable structures, Simon Wells was drenched in sweat.

A single candle flame danced on a stone pedestal before him. He wasn't trying to shape it or throw it. His entire world had narrowed to one task: keep it steady. Keep it exactly as it was. The wax had pooled and reset three times. He'd started before dawn. The first time he lost focus—a stray thought about breakfast—the flame had roared up into a brief, towering spire before guttering out. He'd relit it with a snap of his fingers, a trick he'd mastered easily. The holding was the hard part.

By mid-morning, his shoulders screamed from tension. His brow dripped salt into his eyes. He barely noticed Raphaela, the red dragon whelp, sleeping curled around the base of another cold pedestal, a wisp of smoke curling from her nostrils with each snore. Simon's entire being was poured into that tiny point of light. His limit had been twenty minutes. Now he pushed past forty. The flame wavered. His concentration, a taut wire, began to vibrate. He felt it slipping, the familiar panic began to rise in his chest.

"You're strangling it."

Sage's voice was calm beside him. Simon flinched, and the flame jumped. He didn't dare look away. "I'm holding it."

"You're clinging. You're white-knuckling control. That's not mastery. It's desperation." Sage moved into his peripheral vision, the older man's hands tucked into his sleeves."Set your limit in your mind. Feel what twenty minutes of perfect steadiness feels like in your muscles, in your breath. Remember that feeling. Now lock it in."

Simon tried. He identified the specific ache between his shoulder blades, the even rhythm of his breathing, and the slight tremor in his hands that meant he was at capacity. He mentally 'set' that sensation as his marker.

"Now," Sage said softly," look at that cloud. See its shape? Count the leaves falling from that birch tree over there. Distract yourself."

"I'll lose it," Simon gritted out, the flame flickering again.

"You won't. You have your limit locked in. You'll feel that specific strain *before* you break. If you feel it slipping, tighten back to your set point. But if you don't...let your mind wander. The flame isn't your focus. It's your heartbeat. You don't think about your heartbeat. It just is."

It sounded impossible. Simon risked a glance at Sage. The man's expression was serene. Simon looked back at his flame. He forced himself to look past it, focusing on a slow-moving cloud scudding across Zoel's eternal blue sky. He counted its puffy contours. One. Two. A leaf spiraled down, yellow against green. He tracked its fall.

The candle flame burned on. Unwavering. Perfectly steady. Simon wasn't holding it anymore. Not with all his might. It was just...there. A part of him, a function he had set and now maintained subconsciously. A profound, sweaty relief washed over him, followed by awe. This wasn't about making a big fire. This was about making fire obey him so completely that he could forget about it. This was what Sage meant by second nature.

____________________________________________

Back at the training circle, Arianda wiped dust from her face with her too-short sleeve. Balor and Sherief were conferring quietly, a few paces away. Zariel padded over and nudged Arianda's hand with her cool, smooth snout. Arianda looked down into golden, liquid eyes that held an intelligence far beyond her own youthful appearance.

"You make it look so easy," Arianda whispered, fingers tracing the ridge above Zariel's eye. Zariel made a soft, rumbling sound deep in chest. It wasn't words, but feeling flowed through their bond: a sense of patience. of time being different for dragons. of Arianda's progress being exactly what it should be. It carried no judgment, only quiet assurance. Arianda leaned against Zariel’s silver flank, drawing comfort from the solid presence. She watched mentors talk, saw the way Balor gestured. Sherief nods once, sharp and decisive.

They weren't just teaching tricks. They were building a survivor. They were preparing her for the world Serena Walker had warned her about, where choices were preserved, not given. Her taller shadow stretched out before merging with Zariel's larger, darker one. They were both growing, changing, becoming something new together. In a quiet dusty circle under watchful eyes, Arianda Finch, who used to trace edges, commits them to memory and begins to trace new edges herself

The training grounds were quieting, the late afternoon sun stretching shadows long and thin across the worn earth. Arianda’s stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the hour. She gave Zariel’s neck a final pat and turned toward the path leading to the communal dining hall, her silver companion falling into step beside her.

They rounded a corner of flowering hedges and nearly collided with two other figures. A boy with his arm bound in a sling—Kira, and a girl with bright eyes and a green dragon at her heel. Lilith.

Kira’s gaze swept over Arianda, lingering on her ink-stained thumb, her too-short sleeves, the silver dragon at her side. His lip curled. “Mutant,” he muttered under his breath.

Lilith elbowed him sharply in his good side. “Did you learn nothing from that beating Simon gave you?” Her voice was firm, but not unkind.

Arianda froze. “Simon?”

Lilith’s expression softened with understanding. “You’re Arianda, right? Simon’s friend. He didn’t tell you?” She shot another look at Kira, who was studying the ground intently. “Kira here got mouthy about you and how weak you were. Simon took exception. Things got… fiery.”

The pieces clicked into place—Simon’s absence from their shared meals, his strained look during their brief passings, Sage’s private lessons in control. He’d broken Kira’s collarbone defending… what? Her? A cold knot formed in Arianda’s stomach.

She looked past Kira’s hunched shoulders and angry eyes, focusing on Lilith. “I didn’t know.”

“Obviously,” Kira grumbled, but there was less heat in it now.

“We were just heading to dinner,” Lilith said, her tone deliberately bright. She crouched slightly, her eyes wide with fascination as she looked at Zariel. “He’s beautiful. Silver! I’ve never seen that before. This is Moss.” She gestured to her own dragon, a creature of dappled green scales who stood a head taller than Zariel and sniffed the air with apparent disinterest.

Zariel chirped a greeting, dipping his head. Moss simply blinked.

“Would you like to walk with us?” Arianda asked the question quietly, directing it to both of them.

Lilith beamed. “Yes!”

Kira shifted his weight, his good shoulder lifting in a half-shrug. “Whatever.”

Arianda paused, “You know, I get that teasing is something we would have done back home, but here, maybe we should look past that. I can forgive you for calling me a mutant.”

He glares momentarily before Lillith elbows him again. Then his eyes met Arianda’s hazel eyes for a fleeting second. “Sorry. For… you know. Judging you.” The apology seemed to physically pain him.

She shrugs, “Well, I’ve always been made fun of for having an ink-stained thumb; how is being called a mutant any different?”

They fell into an awkward step together along the gravel path. Lilith chattered about wind magic and how Moss loved tossing leaves. Kira was silent. Arianda listened, her mind still turning over the image of Simon fighting for her honor in a place where she had none.

The dining hall was a cavernous space of warm stone and long wooden tables already filling with students and their dragon companions. The smell of roasted vegetables and fresh bread cut through the lingering scents of sweat and magic from the day. And there, at a table near the back, was Simon.

He saw them enter—saw Arianda walking beside Kira and Lilith—and his face went carefully blank. He set down his fork.

Arianda excused herself from Lilith's ongoing story about Moss burying a warden's staff and made her way to Simon's table alone.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey." His brown eyes searched hers, wary.

"I just heard what happened."

Simon looked past her shoulder to where Kira was settling at a distant table with Lilith's help."Yeah."

"You didn't have to do that," she said softly.

"Yes," he said, the word immediate and solid. "I did." He finally looked at her directly. "He was wrong."

Arianda traced the grain of the wooden table with her ink-stained thumb.”You are right HE was wrong, you didn’t have to hit him to defend me.”

“I didn’t,” Simon replied stoically. “He placed a hand on me, and I defended myself. I just lost a tad of control.”

“Lost a tad of control? He looks like you nearly tore his shoulder off!” She lets out a soft sigh, then looks at his healing cheek before wiping a finger across it. "Even so…. thank you."

A slow smile touched Simon's lips with a slight flush to his cheeks, then, easing the tension from his face. "Don't mention it, Ari."

_______________________________________________

Across Zoel, in Sage's private study lined with scrolls and glowing crystals, four wardens stood around a central table.

"Her output is negligible," Sherief stated flatly. "But her precision is surgical."

Balor Grimfoot crossed her stout arms. "She learns combinations quickly. The theory is there. The power... isn't."

Sage listened, his hands tucked into his sleeves. "So we agree. Her path is finesse. Subterfuge. Minor tricks."

"It will not be enough," Serena Walker said. Her voice was calm water over sharp stone. She turned her gaze on Sherief.

“For the coming tide?” Sage replies, “Well, of course not, plenty will come once the rumor spreads of someone who can use the entire spectrum, when that occurs, we will have no lack of possible threats to the girl.”

"As if anyone would dare assault us when you use one such as *him* to back you up. Who would dare challenge the Night Wind Wraith?" Serena says, her eyes drilling at Sherief.

The air in the room chilled. Sherief Holt did not move, but his loose robes went utterly still against his body.

Sage's voice cut through the silence. "That is no longer his calling. Serena."

"He almost taught an assassination technique to a child on day one!" Serena retorted. "Thank providence she was too dense to catch on."

Sage faced her fully now. "Let it go. Sherief taught what he felt she needed to defend herself. Ruthlessly. If she ever needs to. For now, the question is how we protect her before she can protect herself."

Sherief spoke, his tone devoid of emotion. "Our companions keep watch. They are not all-knowing. Perimeters must be set. Rotations established. We need help from the Zarinthar in keeping the perimeter clear of threats. The kingdoms beyond are stirring. They will have heard rumors of a silver dragon by now, if not soon."

Sage nodded slowly, a deep weariness in his eyes. They were no longer just teachers. They were sentinels, and their charge was a girl who could barely shift a handful of dust.

_____________________________________________

The dining hall's noise faded behind Simon as he pushed through the heavy oak door into the cool night. The training yard was empty, the moon a silver coin above the silent peaks. He’d stayed out past curfew, the single candle flame now a steady, unwavering bead of light on the stone bench before him. He held the feeling Sage had described—a low, warm hum in his chest—and watched the flame. It didn’t flicker.

Raphaela, curled at his feet, lifted her head. Her blue eyes narrowed at a movement near the tree line.

Simon let the flame snuff out. A figure moved with a purposeful, ground-eating stride along the perimeter path. The moonlight caught a flash of red hair in a long braid. Balor Grimfoot.

She wasn’t heading toward the Earth Center. She was walking beyond the marked training grounds, past the lantern-lit paths, into the deeper shadows where the forest began to thicken. Simon shared a look with Raphaela. The little red dragon gave a soft, inquisitive chirp.

“Just a look,” Simon whispered.

He followed, keeping to the patches of darkness, his scout’s instincts from back home taking over. Raphaela flitted from shadow to shadow beside him, silent as smoke. They moved beyond the last training post, where the gravel gave way to soft pine needles.

Balor stopped in a small clearing. Others were already there.

Simon crouched behind a fallen log, his breath catching. He counted five, six figures. And they were not alone. Each had a companion, but none were dragons.

A woman stood with a sleek, blue-furred creature that moved with a liquid grace—a Rat, its whiskers twitching. A man leaned against a tree, a massive Green Tiger lounging at his feet, tail flicking. There was a Rooster with brilliant red plumage, where its wings should be, stood thin arms with feathers that looked like blades. He would almost describe it as looking like a popular pokemon, a cross of both Combusken and Blaziken. A Snake coiling around its person’s arm like living jade, the end of its body vanishing into the dark. And in the center, facing Balor, was a creature that made Simon’s blood run cold. It stood on two legs, powerfully built, with the torso of a man and the head of a Brown Ox. It resembled a Minotaur. Its breath plumed in the night air, and it held a stone axe casually over one shoulder.

Balor reached out and placed a hand on the Ox-man’s thick forearm. A greeting. A conversation in low tones began, the words too muffled to catch. This was not a clandestine meeting. This was a gathering. A familiar one.

Simon’s mind raced, stitching together gaps he hadn’t known were there. He had never seen Sherief with a companion. Or Serena. Or Sage. He’d just assumed… but the wardens’ quarters had no dragon perches. No scales littered the floors. He thought of the training halls, filled only with dragon whelps and their human partners. He had assumed they were in the Dragon Kingdom based on the maps he was introduced to. This was a different Zoel.

Balor nodded to the Ox-man, then turned and began walking back toward the main grounds. The others melted into the forest with their companions, silent and efficient.

Simon waited until the last sound of footsteps faded. He stood, his legs stiff. Raphaela nudged his hand with her snout, her scales warm. He looked down at her, this piece of his new life, and felt the world tilt. Dragons were not the only magical creatures here. They were just the only magic *they* were being shown.

He moved quickly back to the dormitory, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The hallway was dark and still. He slipped into his room, closing the door softly behind him.

Raphaela curled on her stone sleeping pad, her eyes glowing in the dark. Simon didn’t light a candle. He lay on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams.

Why hide the others? Were they not trusted? Or was it protection? The Ox-man’s axe looked well-used. The Tiger’s claws were not for show. These were warriors. Sentinels.

He thought of Arianda, asleep in her room with her silver dragon. Was she alright? Were these their guardians? The weight of it pressed down on him. They were children playing with sparks in a yard, while real soldiers stood in the dark woods beyond.

Sleep, when it came, was thin and restless. He dreamed of silent forests filled with watching eyes that were not dragon eyes, and of Arianda walking ahead, unaware of the shadows shifting just beyond the path.