The frost was still clinging to the thatched roofs of Frostleaf Village when the Empire’s men came. I was mending a fishing net outside Old Man Oliver’s hut, my fingers numb and clumsy with the cold. The morning was quiet, the only sounds the distant bleating of goats and the steady *thump-thump* of my own heart. It was a false peace.
I saw the dust first—a brown plume rising above the pine trees on the eastern road. Then came the sound: the relentless, metallic tread of armored boots and the low rumble of wagon wheels. My gut tightened. Nothing good ever came from the east, from the heart of the Orellon Empire.
“Elia,” Old Oliver’s voice was a rough whisper from the doorway. He leaned heavily on his gnarled oak staff, his face ashen. “Get inside. Now.”
But it was too late. A column of soldiers marched into the village square, their polished steel breastplates gleaming dully under the weak sun. They moved with a brutal efficiency that froze the blood. Villagers peered from behind shutters, their faces etched with a fear I knew all too well. We were a border settlement;
we knew the price of the Empire’s attention.
The commander, a man with a face like a hatchet and a captain’s insignia on his shoulder, unrolled a scroll. The parchment crackled in the silence.
“By the decree of His Imperial Majesty, Augustus the Seventh, and under the sacred seal of Marshal Marcus of the Aether Knights,” his voice boomed, echoing off theages, “all able-bodied youth of this settlement are hereby conscripted into the Imperial Service. The Empire faces a grave crisis. Your service is not requested; it is demanded.”
A wave of cold dread washed over me. *Able-bodied youth*. That meant me. It meant Liam, the blacksmith’s son. It meant Elara, who could hunt better than any of us. We were all orphans of the last border skirmish, children of a village the Empire barely remembered except when it needed cannon fodder.
“This is an outrage!” Old Oliver stepped forward, his voice shaking with a courage I couldn’t muster. “These children are under my protection. We send our taxes to the capital. This is not—”
The captain cut him off with a gesture. Two soldiers moved toward me. Their grips were like iron manacles on my arms.
“Please,” I whispered, struggling instinctively. “I’m nobody. Just an orphan.”
The captain looked down at me, his eyes devoid of any warmth. “The Marshal’s seal makes you somebody, boy. Your village’s quota must be filled.” He glanced at Old Oliver. “Resist, and the entire village will be reclassified as seditious.”
The fight drained out of me. I saw the tears in Old Oliver’s eyes, the silent apology etched on his face as he was held back. He had secrets, that old man. I’d always known it. The way he’d found me as a babe, the strange, faded mark on my wrist that he told me to always keep hidden. Now, in his despair, I saw the truth of those He knew this day would come.
I was thrown into a wagon with the others. There were no goodbyes. The Empire’s efficiency allowed for no sentiment. As the wagon lurched forward, I caught one last glimpse of Frostleaf Village, my only home, shrinking behind a curtain of dust and despair. Liam was sobbing quietly. Elia stared ahead, her jaw set, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. I just felt hollow. My world had been torn away in the space of ten minutes.
The journey to the capital was a blur of discomfort and fear. The wagon was covered, denying us even the solace of the sky. We slept fitfully on rough straw, ate hard tack, and said little. The soldiers offered no conversation, only threats. We were cargo. Property.
After days that blended into one another, the quality of the road changed. The bumpy dirt track gave way to smooth, humming stone. A deep, resonant thrumming vibrated through the wagon’s floorboards. I pressed my eye to a gap in the canvas.
My breath caught in my throat.
We were ascending. Not up a mountain, but into the sky itself. The road was a ribbon of glowing rune, arcing upward from the peak of a colossal mountain. And ahead, hanging in the clouds like a jagged piece of the moon, was a city. A city of impossibly tall towers, graceful bridges connecting floating spires, and waterfalls that cascaded into the open air, dissolving into mist. Dragons—actual, living dragons—soared between the towers, their riders tiny specks on their backs.
“Sky-Spire of the guards grunted, noticing my stunned expression. “The Aether Knights’ headquarters. Try not to gawk, recruit. You’ll see enough of it to last a lifetime. If you survive.”
The Scale-Scrapers, they called the training grounds. It was a vast, echoing chamber carved from the living rock at the base of the floating fortress, open on one side to the dizzying drop below. The air was cold and thin, smelling of ozone, leather, and musk—the scent of dragon. Hundreds of us, conscripts from all over the Empire, stood shivering in ill-fitting gray tunics.
A man who looked as though he’d been carved from granite stood before us. His armor was heavier, more ornate than the soldiers who’d taken us, and a brutal-looking scar ran from his temple to his jaw.
“I am Lieutenant Renn,” he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Your primary instructor. Forget your pasts. Forget your homes. You are nothing now. Raw material. And my job is to see if any of you are worth forging into something useful. Most of you will break. Some will be crippled. A few might die. Those are acceptable losses.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was beyond anything I could have imagined.
“The first test is simple,” Renn continued, a cruel smile touching his lips. “Survive the welcoming committee.”
From shadowed archways around the arena, massive shapes lumbered forth. They weren’t dragons, but something else—hulking, bipedal reptiles covered in thick scales, with teeth like daggers and dull, malevolent eyes. Wardrakes. I’d heard stories were used to cull the weak.
Panic erupted. The drakes charged, tails lashing, their roars filling the cavern. I saw a boy from a southern province frozen in terror before a drake’s claw sent him flying into a wall. I didn’t think. I just moved. Years of scrambling through the woods around Frostleaf, of avoiding wolves and hunting for survival, took over. I ducked, rolled, and scrambled up a pile of training equipment, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
A drake focused on me, its head swaying. It lunged. I jumped, landing painfully on its broad back, clinging to a ridge of scales. It bucked and thrashed. I held on, desperation giving me strength. I saw Elara, a training spear in hand, fighting back-to-back with Liam. She was good. Better than good. But we were all going to be overwhelmed.
“Enough!” Renn’s voice cut through the chaos. A sharp whistle sounded, and the Wardrakes immediately backed down, retreating into the shadows.
We stood panting, battered, and terrified. Less than half of us were still standing.
Renn walked among us, his eyes evaluating. “A disappointing yield.” He stopped in front of me. “You. The climber. What’s your name?”
“Elia, sir.”
“You showed initiative, Elia. A flicker of something other than pure fear. Remember this feeling. It’s the only thing that might keep you alive.” He moved on, and I felt a strange mixture of pride and terror.
Next, we were herded into an antiseelling chamber for medical examinations. A woman with pointed ears and gentle, serious eyes—a half-elf—checked us over. Her nameplate read ‘Medicar Alijah’.
She worked with quiet efficiency until it was my turn. She checked my reflexes, looked into my eyes, then placed her palms on my temples. A warm, tingling energy flowed into me.
“Hmm,” she murmured, her brow furrowing. She did it again, her touch lingering. Her eyes met mine, and for a fraction of a second, they widened in surprise. She quickly mastered her expression, but not before I saw it: shock, and a dawning curiosity.
“Your magical resistance is… anomalous,” she said softly, so only I could hear. “Off the charts for a human from a border village. Report to me for further tests tomorrow.”
She moved on, leaving me more unsettled than ever. Anomalous. The word echoed Old Oliver’s secrets, the hidden mark on my wrist. As I lay on a hard bunk in the barracks that night, listening to the moans of the injured and the haunting cries of dragons in the distance, I knew one thing for certain. My old life was gone. I was in a den of wolves and giants. And the strange power within me, whatever it was, had just made me a target. The real trial was only beginning.
