You sat on the worn wooden bench, your back against the cool stone wall, unwrapping the sandwich you'd made that morning. Just bread, cheese, and a thin slice of preserved meat, but it was warm and it was yours, and after six hours of mucking out stalls and hauling feed, it might as well have been a feast.

You'd just lifted it to your mouth when the sound hit.

A boom so deep it vibrated through the floor, through the bench, through your very bones. The teacup on the counter rattled. A few dust motes shook loose from the ceiling. You paused mid-bite, listening.

Silence.

Then—another boom. Closer. Followed by shouting, distant but growing louder. Boots pounding on stone. A voice—one of the senior stable hands, Cassius—barking orders through the corridor.

You sighed, settling back against the wall. Not your problem. Not your pay grade. Someone else could deal with it.

The shouting continued. Sharp, panicked. Not the usual irritated frustration of a routine breakout. This was different. Urgent. Desperate.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The booms kept coming, each one rattling the staff room's walls, and the shouting never stopped. You could hear the distant whoosh of wings, the crack of something heavy striking stone, and above it all, a sound you'd never heard before in all your years at Sanctum's Absolut.

A dragon's roar—but not just any roar. This one carried weight. Authority. It was the sound of something that knew exactly how powerful it was, and was deeply, terribly displeased.

Your sandwich sat forgotten on the bench.

You rose, wiping your hands on your trousers, and walked to the door. The corridor beyond was empty—everyone had already run toward the commotion. You could see the wide, arched opening at the far end of the hall, the one that led to the main training yard. Sunlight streamed through it, but it flickered, distorted, as if the air itself was trembling.

You stepped forward, the sound of chaos growing louder with each step.