Three days had passed since Trial Two.
But the forest hadn't left her.
It haunted the corners of Seraphina's mind—how quiet it had been. How cruel. How precise. No one talked about what they saw. Not even Mira. Not even Cato.
But they all trained harder.
Harder than before.
Like they were trying to burn away whatever the forest had shown them.
That morning, Seraphina stood in one of the upper combat rings, sweat dripping down her spine, wrists aching from endless blocking drills. Mira sparred nearby, dodging low strikes with sharp precision while Cato wiped blood from his lip for the third time that day.
Instructor Varik paced like a warden. "Again! No mercy. You are not here to practice. You are here to become."
The sun blazed above them. The stone radiated heat. Their bodies moved like weapons, faster, sharper, quieter.
Seraphina moved through the final combo, and for once, her mind was quiet—focused. She dropped into a crouch, slid left, and struck her training dummy square in the chest.
Thud.
"Not bad," said a voice behind her. "But you're still flinching with your left shoulder."
She turned.
Lorian Nightshade.
He stood just outside the ring, arms crossed, his silver-blond hair catching the sunlight like frost spun into gold. His expression was unreadable, as always—cool, calculating, but his eyes were fixed on her with sharp interest.
"Do I flinch?" she asked, breathless.
He tilted his head. "Only when you're about to do something stupid."
Seraphina wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "You watching me now?"
Lorian ignored the question. "You're reckless. Fast. You fight like someone who's never been protected in their life."
She blinked. "That's because I haven't."
A pause. His lips curved—just slightly. Almost like approval.
"Follow me."
"What?"
"You've earned it."
"Earned what?"
"A lesson. A real one."
They walked in silence for a while.
Past the Arenaforge. Past the dragon towers and the rookery. To the edge of the cliffs where no other recruits were allowed. Only leaders and bonded riders trained here. It was private. Quiet. Sacred.
The stone platform overlooked the sky. It felt like standing at the edge of the world.
Seraphina stared at him as they stopped. "So, what's the lesson?"
Lorian reached down and picked up a dull practice blade. He tossed it to her.
"Fight me."
She laughed, once. "You're serious?"
"I don't offer twice."
She caught the blade and immediately shifted into a defensive stance. Lorian drew his own.
The clash of metal rang out like thunder.
He was fast—faster than anyone she'd ever trained with. But Seraphina didn't fall back. She matched him strike for strike, even when he spun low and caught her wrist. She twisted out of it and landed a solid hit against his ribs.
He froze.
Then he grinned.
Actually grinned.
"Again."
They trained for nearly an hour.
Lorian didn't speak much, but his movements taught more than any words. He fought like a shadow—controlled, elegant, devastating.
But every now and then, he let something slip.
A soft word. A glance. A flicker of… something.
"You don't know what you are yet," he said quietly, circling her. "But it's waking up. I can feel it."
"You mean my magic?"
He shook his head. "No. I mean you. Your will. Your fire."
She hesitated. "You always talk like you know me."
"I don't."
"Then why—"
"Because I remember what it felt like to have everything taken from me. And to come out stronger."
That shut her up.
Lorian finally lowered his blade and looked at her—really looked at her. His eyes were pale silver, but in the light, they glowed faintly like moonlit steel.
"Don't let them tame you, Seraphina Vale. Not this faction. Not the dragons. Not the blood that's waking in your veins."
"Be dangerous."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
He turned, walking back toward the tower, leaving her standing at the edge of the cliffs, the wind in her hair, her blade still warm from the fight.
That night, when she lay in her cot staring at the ceiling, Seraphina didn't dream about the forest.
She dreamed of silver eyes and firelight.
And a power inside her, clawing to be known.