The corridors of Dragonhold Academy were ancient. Carved from the bones of a mountain, they had stood for over a thousand years, watching generations of young dragons train, fight, and either rise to glory or fade into mory.
The walls were lined with portraits of famous alumni. Dragon Generals. Cosmic Lords. Heroes of the Border Wars. Varyan knew them all—his mother had made him morize the histories before she died.
*Know your enemies*, she used to say, her voice weak but her eyes sharp. *But more importantly, know who claims to be your ally. The difference is smaller than you think.*
He passed the portrait of General Maris Valdris, the current head of House Valdris—the second most powerful house in the empire after Gilverc. She was depicted in full battle armor, her golden dragon-scale cloak draped over one shoulder, her expression cold and calculating.
House Valdris controlled the dragon-scale trade. They were wealthy, pragmatic, and famously neutral in the endless political feuds between the great houses. They sold to everyone and allied with no one.
Rumor said they were negotiating a marriage alliance with House Ashford. If true, that would shift the balance of power significantly. Two of the top three houses joining forces would make even Gilverc nervous.
Further down the hall hung the portrait of Lord Caspian Drakonus, head of the third great house. House Drakonus styled themselves the "Keepers of the Old Ways." They believed in pure dragon bloodlines, ancient rituals, and the superiority of noble houses that could trace their lineage back to the original Dragon Gods.
They also believed that half-bloods—like Varyan's mother—were an abomination.
Varyan had learned to avoid Drakonus students entirely. They didn't just bully him. They looked at him like he was a stain on the floor. Sothing to be cleansed.
The newest portrait belonged to House Ashford—the rising house. Lord Corin Ashford had been a common soldier fifty years ago. Now he was one of the wealthiest n in the empire, elevated to nobility for his service in the border wars.
His portrait showed him in simple but expensive clothing, his expression sharp and ambitious. He had the look of a man who had climbed a mountain and was already looking for the next peak.
House Ashford had no ancient pedigree. They had no dragon god ancestors. What they had was money, ruthlessness, and a hunger for power that made the older houses nervous.
Varyan's own house had no portrait in the main corridor anymore. It had been removed thirty years ago, during the decline, and moved to a dusty side hall that no one visited.
*That's where we belong now*, Varyan thought bitterly. *In the forgotten hallway.*
The dining hall was crowded when he arrived. Long tables filled with students from every noble house, ranked by status. The front tables, closest to the high table where faculty sat, were reserved for Gilverc, Valdris, Drakonus, and Ashford.
The back tables, near the kitchens, were for everyone else.
Varyan sat at the farthest back table, in the corner, facing the room. He always sat facing the room. Old habit.
"Still alive, Roverc?"
A tray slamd down across from him. A girl with mousy brown hair and sharp eyes sat down without waiting for an invitation.
Lira Toren. No house. Her family were rchants who had paid for her admission—one of the few non-nobles allowed to attend. They had probably sold half their business to afford the tuition.
"Still breathing," Varyan replied. "Unfortunately."
Lira snorted. "Dramatic. I heard Kaelen cornered you after the assembly."
"News travels fast."
"Bad news always does." Lira stabbed a piece of at with her fork. "You know, you could make this easier on yourself. Just apologize to him. Bow a little. He'd leave you alone."
"Bow to a Gilverc?"
"Bow to survival."
Varyan considered it. He had considered it a hundred tis. Every night, lying in his cramped dormitory, listening to the sounds of other students laughing and talking in their proper rooms.
But every ti he thought about lowering his head, he rembered his mother's voice.
*We are Rovercs*, she had said, weak and feverish on her deathbed. *We do not bow. We endure.*
"Maybe tomorrow," Varyan said.
Lira rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Thank you."
They ate in silence for a while. The dining hall buzzed with conversation—students gossiping about the assembly, about upcoming training exercises, about which houses were forming alliances and which were feuding.
Varyan listened without appearing to. He had learned to filter useful information from noise.
*House Valdris is negotiating a marriage alliance with House Ashford. House Drakonus is furious about it. General Theron Gilverc is lobbying for a new border offensive. Three students from minor houses have disappeared in the last month—ruled runaways.*
That last piece caught his attention. Three students disappearing in one month was unusual. Dragonhold Academy was isolated. Running away ant crossing miles of monster-infested wilderness.
Possible. But unlikely.
He filed the information away.
After lunch, Varyan walked to his next class—Combat Fundantals. The training yard was a large open courtyard behind the main building, covered in packed dirt and ringed with weapon racks.
Instructor Voss, a retired soldier with a scarred face and no patience for noble titles, was already waiting.
"Pairs," Voss barked as the students assembled. "Sparring drills. No killing blows. Try not to embarrass yourselves."
Varyan looked for a partner. No one t his eyes.
Then Kaelen stepped forward.
"I'll partner with Roverc," Kaelen said, smiling. "He looks like he needs the practice."
Voss raised an eyebrow but didn't object. The instructor believed in letting students work out their own problems—as long as no one died.
The other students ford a loose circle around the training yard. They knew what was coming.
Varyan picked up a wooden practice sword. It felt light in his hands. Too light. He preferred daggers—smaller, faster, easier to conceal.
But in the training yard, you used what you were given.
"Begin," Voss said.
Kaelen attacked imdiately. No warning. No courtesy. He swung his practice sword like a club, relying on brute force rather than technique.
Varyan dodged. Barely. The wooden blade whistled past his ear.
"Too slow," Kaelen taunted, swinging again.
Varyan blocked this ti. The impact jarred his arms. Kaelen was stronger. Much stronger.
*Don't fight his fight*, Varyan thought. *Be faster. Be smarter.*
He stopped trying to block and started moving. Sidestep. Duck. Pivot. He didn't attack—just avoided. Kaelen's swings grew wilder, more frustrated.
"Stand still!" Kaelen shouted.
"No," Varyan said simply.
The watching students murmured. They had expected a beating. Instead, they were watching Kaelen make a fool of himself, swinging at air while Varyan flowed around him like water.
Kaelen lunged. Varyan wasn't there. The bigger boy stumbled, off balance, and Varyan saw his opening.
He didn't take it.
Instead, he stepped back and lowered his sword.
"I yield," Varyan said.
The circle of students muttered in confusion. Kaelen stared at him, chest heaving, face red with embarrassnt and rage.
"You—you didn't even fight!"
"I don't need to fight to know I'd lose," Varyan said calmly. "You're stronger. Faster. Better trained. Why would I give you the satisfaction of beating ?"
He walked off the training yard. Voss didn't stop him.
Behind him, Kaelen scread in frustration and threw his sword across the yard.
Varyan smiled. Small victories.
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