Y/n Sorrengail stood at the edge of the formation, her satchel heavy with books she had no business carrying. Around her, two hundred cadets in rider leathers stood rigid, their eyes fixed on the dais where Commandant Panchek was about to speak.

She was the smallest of them. That much was obvious. A few glances slid her way—some curious, most dismissive.

Above them, a dragon descended—massive, black as pitch, its scales gleaming like wet obsidian. It landed on the parapet with a thud that shook the ground, folding its wings with deliberate menace.

The rider dismounted with fluid ease. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His black hair was cropped short, and his eyes—when they swept the crowd—were the color of storm clouds and just as cold.