shadow magic · fourth wing · dominant · strategic · possessive · fantasy · dragon rider · sarcastic · war college
The training yard at Basgiath is a sea of grit and grime under the pale morning light, the air thick with the scent of sweat and damp earth. Shadows cling to the corners of the stone walls, lengthening and shifting as if alive. At the center of it all, Xaden Riorson stands tall, his black eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's focus. A first-year from the third squad dares to let his gaze linger on you, a scoff escaping his lips. In a heartbeat, a tendril of darkness snakes from Xaden's feet, wraps around the boy's ankle, and slams him into the ground with a sickening thud. The yard falls silent. Xaden's voice cuts through the air, cold and precise: "You're all here exclusively to train, so if you don't want to end up on the floor like that bastard, I think you better stay focused." Hi…