The capital, carved into the base of the kingdom's highest peak, rose in spiraling tiers—like the coils of a slumbering serpent turned to stone. And there, at its summit, awaited their fate.
The place of training. The site of the Dragonrite.
The climb began.
Twenty-two candidates followed behind Councilor Arté—the youngest head of the royal council in centuries. A man revered for his sharp wit, feared for his brutal honesty. No words of comfort left his mouth. Only a glance over his shoulder, as if daring them to fall behind.
They ascended the narrow stone path, winding through the clouds like a spine toward the heavens. The capital shrank beneath their boots, towns and towers becoming specks in the distance.
For some, the climb felt endless.
Legs trembled. Sweat dripped. Breaths turned shallow.
The higher they climbed, the thinner the air.
Even the cries of distant wyrmwings—a native, lizard-like species with wings—grew fainter. Each step became a burden, as if they dragged a mountain behind them.
Then—finally—they reached the summit.
As Johnquis stepped forward, the view stole the breath from his tired lungs.
The summit was vast, terraced with ancient stone, wide enough to host an entire army. From here, the entire kingdom of Tiamat stretched in every direction—a canvas of forests, rivers, and cities. The air was sharp, pure, and cold. But the view? Unforgettable.
"I didn't know this place was built on top of my home..." Johnquis murmured.
At his side, one candidate passed him.
"Woah! So this is the famous capital summit, where legends are born!" Hunter's voice echoed across the vast space. "You hear that? It's echoing! AWHOOO!" He howled like a wolf.
"Behave yourself, Hunter," his brother Killian said sharply.
Every candidate froze, awe washing over fatigue.
"…Huff… huff… I can't feel my legs…" Eligant of Goldenwings groaned, sinking to the ground.
"I'm thirsty. I need water," he muttered, eyes half-lidded as he stumbled toward a fountain.
Just then, the sound of wingbeats sliced through the sky.
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP.
He turned—and saw it.
A massive wyrmwing glided down into a coliseum-like structure ahead. Several figures dismounted.
"WHAAAT?!" Eligant cried. "They flew up!? They flew! But we had to climb—ugh!"
His legs gave out. He collapsed in frustration as a few nearby candidates laughed, slapping him on the back.
Others chuckled, but most remained silent, studying the structures around them.
A few whispers snaked through the air behind Gravier.
"So, we'll share the same ground with him? The son of sin..."
"Don't worry about him. He won't even make it to the Dragonrite, just like his father—a coward."
"Hahaha!"
Gravier bristled, ready to confront them, but someone laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Pay them no mind. People speak of what they don't understand, right?" Princess Eira's voice was calm and steady.
Gravier turned to meet her gaze, his eyes widening as a flash of recognition passed over him. He was reminded of something—or someone. His breath caught.
Before the moment could stretch further, Arté's voice cut through the tension.
"Come on, candidates! Double time!"
At the summit stood the Dragonrite training camp—an impressive network of stone and steel: sleeping quarters, dining halls, wash areas, training yards, stables, a towering watchtower, and more.
But the largest and most intriguing structure of all was a circular, enclosed arena at the center.
The candidates were led to waiting chambers just outside the arena—private alcoves carved into the rock, furnished only with benches and a single basin of water. There, they rested. Watched. Waited.
Outside the coliseum, the murmurs of a crowd began to swell—soft at first, like distant thunder, but growing louder. Heavier. A rising tide of anticipation.
Then came the call.
A horn blared from somewhere above, deep and solemn, its tone echoing across the summit like a dragon's roar.
Councilor Arté stepped into the alcoves. His sharp eyes swept over the candidates with measured scrutiny, as if memorizing each face before history claimed them.
"It is time," he said.
At the back, a candidate from House Silverspine spoke up, "What!? We just got here—"
Councilor Arté looked at him.
"Eek!"
The candidates rose—some with steady poise, others with trembling limbs. Sixteen sons of nobility. One princess. Some filled with fire, others hollow with fear. But none could turn back now.
They followed Arté into the coliseum's inner corridor. The stone walls narrowed. The air was cool and smelled faintly of steel, dust, and something older. And then—
Light.
They stepped into the open.
The combat pit was vast—an arena carved directly into the summit's heart, ringed by thousands. Stone stands soared into the sky, packed with nobles, knights, commoners, priests. The roar of the kingdom's heartbeat surrounded them. Flags bearing the sigils of the great and lesser houses fluttered in the wind.
All of Tiamat was watching.
At the highest balcony, beneath a canopy of woven gold, sat the royal family—the King and Queen, their expressions unreadable. Their children—Prince Vanhart, Prince Novakris, and Princess Ellaris—stood awaiting their brother Johnquis and sister Eira.
To one side of the arena stood the Dragonborn—those already chosen, already transformed. Silent. Towering. Inhuman. Their armor shimmered. They watched not with interest, but with judgment. Their eyes fixed on Johnquis—the prince said to hold great promise.
Gravier's gaze lifted to the crowd, where people glared down at him with mixed emotions. He could feel their hatred, their suspicion—and beneath that, something else.
Curiosity.
He walked without flinching, taking his place in the ring.
One by one, the candidates spread across the circular pit, each standing beneath the sigil of their house. Nine symbols burned onto the stone floor. Seventeen young souls, about to be tested.
A second horn sounded.
Arté stepped forward, his voice sharp and commanding as it rang across the arena.
"People of Tiamat! Behold your future! The sons—and daughter—of the bloodlines that have stood since the First Flame! Today, they face the first trial of the Dragonrite—the Trial of Combat!"
Thunderous cheers erupted from the stands. The roar of the kingdom filled the arena like crashing waves.
Arté raised a hand, and silence fell.
"Their strength will be tested here. Only those deemed worthy may approach the blood."
He turned toward the massive gate set into the far wall of the arena—its surface bolted with iron.
"Now," he said grimly, "let them face what brought us blood. What stole our kin. What turned man into monster. The Twisted!"
A deep, grinding creak echoed through the arena as the gate began to open.
From the darkness, only the sound of clinking chains came first—slow, heavy, deliberate.
Two knights stepped forward, dragging something behind them.
And then—
A flash of red light.
The creature lunged, snarling, its chains straining as it threw its weight forward. The knights barely held on.
The Twisted shrieked—a wet, feral sound that chilled the bone.
Its skin was ghastly white, stretched too tight over a body too long, too thin. Its limbs bent the wrong way. Ribs and joints jutted from beneath the flesh like broken branches. It stood twice the height of a man, its claws dragging deep grooves in the stone floor.
And its eyes—glowing red—seemed to stare straight into the souls of the candidates.
The crowd gasped in unison.
Some candidates flinched, stepping back. A few whispered prayers under their breath.
Johnquis stood firm, eyes wide—not with fear, but with pity.
As if he saw beyond the horror, to what it once was—a human. And to end its suffering, he had to end it.
Gravier, by contrast, did not waver. His eyes locked onto the creature, jaw clenched. Ready.
A killer's stare.
Arté stepped forward once more.
"I will form two groups. Each will face a Twisted. This trial is not only about strength. It tests your teamwork, your instincts, your will to fight—and, above all, your heart to kill what must be killed."
The candidates swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over them.
"Your houses should have trained you for this moment. If not—" Arté's smile was cold, "—good luck."
The candidates' eyes grew wide—some with fear, others with resolve. But the crowd cheered them on, their voices rising in a thunderous wave.
The Dragonborn moved to their posts among the spectators, silent sentinels poised to intervene—if it came to that.
These candidates, even before they took their first breath, knew the truth written into their blood:
They were born to kill the Twisted… or become one of them.