The arena noise died behind them, sealed away by layers of stone and distance.
Nino walked in silence, Vyrn padding beside him on clawed feet that clicked softly against the cobblestone. The dragon's gait was uneven—one hind leg favoring the other just slightly—but it kept pace without complaint.
No chains.No handlers.
That alone drew looks.
They emerged into the outer training grounds, a wide stretch of hardened earth bordered by low stone walls. Training pylons stood scattered across the field, some scorched black, others cracked clean in half. The air smelled of dust and burned residue, sharp enough to sting the nose.
Several newly bonded riders were already there.
Their dragons were impossible to miss.
One crouched low to the ground, massive shoulders rolling as heat shimmered around its jaws. Another beat its wings experimentally, each movement stirring gusts of wind strong enough to kick up debris. Laughter and loud voices filled the space, riding on confidence that hadn't yet been punished.
Nino stopped near the edge of the field.
Vyrn did the same, folding its wings tight against its sides.
A knight instructor approached, armor heavier than those in the arena, his presence marked by scars rather than polish. His gaze flicked from Nino to Vyrn—and stalled.
"That's yours?" the knight asked.
"Yes," Nino replied.
The knight stared a second longer, then exhaled through his nose. "Unfortunate."
He raised his voice. "All riders! Initial assessment! Simple commands only—no full output!"
A dragon nearby snarled, flames licking between its teeth before being forcibly swallowed back. Its rider laughed, slapping its scaled neck.
Nino didn't move.
The knight pointed toward a stone marker twenty paces away. "Basic lift. One wingbeat. Don't embarrass yourselves."
One by one, riders stepped forward.
Power answered eagerly.
Dragons surged upward in bursts of wind and heat, claws tearing furrows into the ground. Cheers followed each display, instructors nodding, scribes recording.
Then eyes turned.
Someone snorted. "Hey—Verhain! Let's see it."
Nino looked down at Vyrn.
"Just try," he said quietly. Not a command. A request.
Vyrn lowered its body, muscles tightening. Its wings unfolded—slowly, carefully—revealing the uneven membranes, the old tears that had healed wrong. It beat them once.
Dust stirred.
Nothing else happened.
A second beat followed, stronger, strained. Vyrn's claws scraped furrows into the ground as it lifted—no more than a foot—before dropping back down with a dull thud.
Silence.
Then laughter.
"That's it?"
"That thing can't even hover."
The knight instructor rubbed his temple. "Again," he said, not unkindly. "Last chance."
Vyrn tried.
Its wings trembled as it forced power through muscles that weren't meant for this. For a heartbeat, it managed to lift again—higher this time.
Then the wing gave.
The dragon stumbled, collapsing onto its side with a rough exhale. Its claws dug instinctively into the dirt, body curling inward, bracing for pain that didn't come.
Nino stepped forward immediately, placing himself between Vyrn and the watching crowd without thinking.
"I'm fine," he said before anyone could speak. "Assessment complete."
The knight studied him, then the dragon.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'd say so."
He raised his voice again. "Verhain—ground duty only. No aerial drills. Keep it out of the way."
Out of the way.
Nino nodded once. "Understood."
Behind him, Vyrn pushed itself upright, shaking dust from its scales. Its eyes never left Nino's back.
As the training continued and power shook the field, Nino stayed where he was—quiet, ignored, dismissed.
Exactly where a background character was supposed to be.
The training ground grew louder as the assessments continued.
Wings beat the air into submission. Fire scorched stone. Commands were shouted with confidence that hadn't yet been tested by death. Each successful display drew approving nods from instructors and open admiration from the watching knights.
Nino stood at the edge of it all.
He kept Vyrn close, one hand resting lightly against the dragon's shoulder as if to anchor both of them to the dirt beneath their feet. The dragon's breathing was steady now, though its muscles still trembled faintly from the failed attempt.
No one came to check on them.
That was fine.
A pair of riders passed nearby, their dragon—a broad-backed creature with gleaming scales—snorted as it caught Vyrn's scent. Its rider laughed.
"Careful," he said loudly, not bothering to lower his voice. "You'll crush it just by landing too close."
The other rider smirked. "Maybe that's mercy."
Nino didn't respond.
Vyrn's tail flicked once, sharp against the ground, then stilled.
An instructor's shadow fell over them.
"You," the man said, jerking his chin toward Nino. "If your dragon can't fly, make it useful."
Nino looked up. "How?"
"Ground drills. Endurance. Obedience." The instructor's gaze was blunt, professional. "If it survives, it might carry supplies. If not—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Nino nodded anyway. "Understood."
They were directed toward a cleared strip of earth along the outer wall, far from the main exercises. The stone here was older, cracked by years of use. Few people looked their way now.
Nino exhaled.
"Sit," he said softly.
Vyrn complied immediately, folding its legs beneath its body with a smoothness that didn't match its earlier struggle. Its eyes stayed alert, tracking movement across the field without turning its head too far.
Nino noticed that too.
He set his pack down and loosened the straps, retrieving a waterskin. When he offered it, Vyrn sniffed once, then drank carefully, claws braced so as not to tear the leather.
"Slow," Nino murmured. "Good."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Vyrn's pupils narrowed slightly again, the faintest response to approval.
Across the field, a roar shook the ground. A dragon slammed down hard, landing poorly. Its rider cursed as instructors rushed forward.
Nino's gaze flicked there—just long enough to register torn wing membrane and blood darkening the dust.
The dragon thrashed.
Vyrn shifted closer to Nino without being told.
It was a small movement. Protective. Unremarkable.
Except no one had trained it to do that.
"Endurance drill," an instructor barked from a distance, clearly uninterested in nuance. "March. Ten laps. Keep pace."
Nino looked at the length of the training circuit. Then at Vyrn's injured wing.
"We'll walk," he said.
He started forward at a steady, unhurried pace.
Vyrn followed.
One lap passed.
Then another.
Dust clung to scales. Sweat soaked Nino's collar. Around them, the training ground thinned as riders finished assessments and were dismissed.
By the fifth lap, Vyrn's breathing had deepened—but it didn't slow.
By the seventh, a scribe paused mid-note, glancing up with a frown.
By the ninth, Nino felt the bond pulse—once—firm and steady, not strained.
They finished the tenth lap without collapsing.
No applause followed.
Just a few lingering looks.
The instructor who'd sent them out glanced over, then away. "Huh."
That was all.
Nino knelt beside Vyrn, checking the wing carefully. The damaged membrane hadn't torn further. The trembling had stopped.
"Good enough," he said quietly.
Vyrn lowered its head, resting it against Nino's shoulder for half a second before pulling back, as if embarrassed by the contact.
Nino froze.
Then, slowly, he relaxed.
Around them, power still ruled the training ground.
But in the shadow of that noise, something small and stubborn refused to break.
The training horn sounded once—short and final.
Drills halted across the field in uneven waves. Dragons settled, some reluctantly, others collapsing where they stood. Instructors regrouped near the central marker stones, slates and scrolls exchanging hands with practiced efficiency.
Nino remained where he was.
Vyrn sat beside him, wings folded tight, posture low but stable. Dust clung to the seams of its scales. Its breathing was slow now, controlled.
Too controlled.
An evaluation officer approached, robes trimmed in the silver thread of the dragon covenant. His eyes moved from Nino to Vyrn and lingered there longer than courtesy required.
"Rider," he said. "Step forward."
Nino obeyed.
The officer flipped open a slate, scanning rows of runes that shifted as he read. "Nino Verhain. Western branch." He glanced up. "Dragon designation?"
"Vyrn."
The officer nodded once, then looked down again. "Class confirmed. Fledgling. Low tier."
He raised his voice slightly, just enough for nearby scribes to hear. "Flight capability: insufficient. Combat aptitude: negligible. Mana output: unstable."
Each word landed like a stamp.
"Official status," the officer continued, stylus pausing for emphasis, "Failed Dragon."
The scribe nearby etched the mark into a stone tablet. The rune flared briefly—then dulled.
It was done.
Nino inclined his head. "Understood."
No protest. No argument.
That, more than the verdict, drew a glance of mild surprise from the officer.
"Ground assignment only," the man added. "No independent deployment. Your dragon will not be listed for aerial units."
"That's acceptable."
The officer closed the slate. "You may go."
He turned away without another word.
The world moved on immediately.
Riders celebrated or sulked. Dragons were led away by handlers. Medics tended wounds that mattered to command. No one spared a second glance for the rider whose future had just been quietly erased.
Nino walked back to Vyrn.
The dragon lifted its head as he approached, eyes clear despite exhaustion. It shifted its weight carefully, making space beside it.
"Failed," Nino said under his breath, not accusing. Just acknowledging the label. "That's fine."
He crouched and checked the wing one last time. The damaged membrane was swollen but intact. No fresh blood. No tremor.
Then he paused.
"Wait"
He leaned closer.
Along the inner edge of the wing, beneath the old scar tissue, something faint traced the skin—thin lines, almost invisible unless caught at the right angle.
Runes.
Not carved.Not branded.
Naturally formed.
They didn't glow. They didn't pulse. They simply… existed, woven into the membrane like veins that didn't belong.
Nino straightened slowly.
Runes like these weren't supposed to appear on a Fledgling. They were a trait of higher classes—dragons with established lineage, power shaped over centuries.
"Did you always have those?" he murmured.
Vyrn blinked at him once.
Then, deliberately, it folded its wing tighter, hiding the markings from view.
Nino's breath caught.
No surge of power followed. No revelation. The bond remained quiet, unassuming.
Around them, the training ground emptied, the echoes of strength and failure fading into routine.
Vyrn leaned closer, its forehead resting lightly against Nino's shoulder—brief, steady, intentional.
Nino let it happen.
A failed dragon.
Marked, dismissed, forgotten.
And carrying something that should not exist.