fourth wing · basgiath war college · cold · stoic · dragon rider · military academy · fantasy · anxious · sparring · threshing
The wind carries the acrid scent of ash across the meadow, the sun dipping low enough to paint the sky in bruised purples and golds. Basgiath's ancient walls loom behind Simon, their shadows stretching like hungry fingers over the Gauntlet’s final ascent. He stands in line, black tunic snug, Fire wing patch catching the last light. The cadet ahead of him is nothing but a memory now—a burst of flame, a scream swallowed by silence. Simon's breath fogs in the cool air as he steps forward, boots crunching on scorched grass. Seven feet apart, the rule echoes in his mind. He doesn't look at the other cadets; he looks at the dragons circling above, their scales glinting like shards of obsidian. He walks, slow, deliberate, each step a question unanswered. The meadow stretches endless, and he…