Night passed unevenly.
Ace slept through it without interruption, breathing slow and steady, one arm flung carelessly over the side of his bed, the faint glow of arcane markings dimmed to near nothing.
Alpha slept too—but restlessly. He woke up more than once, ears flicking at sounds that were never really there, heart racing before settling again.
Victor never closed his eyes.
Damien slept, but was on the brink between consciousness and unconsciousness.
And Ramien, he stared at the ceiling until it blurred, forced his sleep to come only for it to be chased away by a splitting headache. His head throbbed behind his eyes, a splitting ache that made thought feel distant and heavy.
Pain threaded through his ribs, dull and persistent, tightening every time he tried to shift.
He was familiar with this feeling.
By the time dawn bled through the windows, the pain faded as suddenly as it had come—leaving behind an empty, watchful stillness that felt worse than the ache.
Victor was the first to get dressed, Alpha's ears caught the sound of water dripping and so he stood up next, stretching and yawning like he'd slept well enough to forget where he was. Ace followed soon after, already talking about breakfast before his eyes were fully open.
Victor's speed was among the best, by the time Ace completely awoke, he was already dressed. he then cast his gaze opposite his bed.
"You sleep like you're waiting to be attacked," he said.
Damien, already sitting upright, adjusted the strap on his gauntlet. "And you sleep like a corpse with its eyes open."
Ace laughed outright. Alpha's steps paused before he continued to the washroom.
Victor didn't look away. "Corpses don't breathe."
"Neither do dragons when they're alert," Damien replied.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was measured—two instincts recognizing each other and refusing to soften.
Ramien was awake and listening but he had completely no interest in interrupting.
Just like the previous night, Victor headed for the kitchen to prepare breakfast. "Could you make some omelette and tea V?" Ace said while struggling to part with his pillow.
"No, actually I was planning to serve you all the blood of the legendary Pea white rockmons" Victor replied with a small smirk.
The response he got was "yuck" and astonished gazes.
"Ok, fine, geez" Victor replied with his hands up as he surrendered. And for the first time since entering this dorm room, Ramien saw a genuine smile on Victor's face.
Deep down, he could hear his own heartbeat pumping adrenaline into his veins.
With a deep exhale, Ramien got out of bed and prepared for his first day of school.
Classes began with order.
Blackspire Academy did not mix species for foundational instruction. Vampires moved toward their stone-lined halls. Werewolves took the open grounds bordering the inner forest. Wizards vanished into layered towers humming with spellwork.
Dragons were directed east.
The dragon block was vast—open ceilings, reinforced stone, wards etched deep into the structure itself. Applied theory filled the first sessions: aura control, suppression techniques, combat restraint. Nothing dangerous. Nothing revealing.
Normal.
Then was combat class. All the dragon students were arranged according to their names, Damien was among the ones in front while Ramien was behind.
The first two students were called forward Agrath of the Blind Flame Vs Aisle of the Youlu dragon tribe. The rules were called.
Anything and everything was acceptable except death!!.
What!!?
The students soon began to murmur amongst themselves, even Agrath and Aisle didn't start their combat as they wondered if they heard wrong. But the words were said.
Everything and anything including destroying a person's path in life was acceptable except death.
A loud laugh echoed through the block as Agrath suddenly moved, his speed comparable to that of an eagle in the human world.
He vanished from where he stood—reappearing a heartbeat later directly in front of Aisle, his fist already wreathed in blind-white flame. The impact sent Aisle skidding across the stone floor, claws scraping as she struggled to regain footing.
Gasps rippled through the watching students.
Aisle roared, wings tearing free from her back in a burst of emerald scales. She then twisted mid-slide and slammed her tail into the ground, launching herself upward just as Agrath struck again. Fire scorched the air where she'd been a second earlier.
Agrath launched himself upward, colliding with her above the arena floor.
Claws met flame.
The stone stage cracked as they crashed back down, rolling apart in opposite directions. Agrath rose laughing, shoulders rolling as if warming up, while Aisle staggered to one knee, one wing dragging slightly.
No one stopped them.
Aisle snarled and lunged again—this time lower, faster. Her shoulder slammed into Agrath's ribs, driving him back. For a moment, it looked like momentum had shifted.
Then Agrath's fists connected with Aisle's shoulder as they split apart.
Aisle skidded to the other side of the arena and everyone expected Agrath to make his move but instead, he stood still.
Upon closer inspection, Agrath had a hole in his rib area and blood dripped color green...he had been poisoned.
His face quickly went white as he lost his focus and balance. Aisle used the opportunity to knock him out of the stage.
The instructor's voice cut through the tension.
"Winner: Aisle of the Youlu dragon tribe."
The overseer of the block, a man young in body, ancient in eyes noded satisfied as he said "This school has no space for strong and brainless students only strong and wise students."
Murmurs spread fast this time.
Some in awe. Some in fear.
Damien's gaze never left the arena, expression unreadable.
Ramien felt his pulse steady—but not in relief. Something in his chest tightened instead, a quiet pressure he recognized too well.
This wasn't training.
This was preparation.
About ten fights later, two names rang out across the dragon block.
"Damien of the Ashen Line."
A pause.
"Derian of the Pride Lands."
The murmurs changed immediately.
Damien stepped forward without haste, movements economical, measured. He didn't stretch. Didn't roll his shoulders. He simply walked into the arena as though it were already his.
Derian followed.
Though still in human form, the signs of his bloodline were impossible to miss. Faint purple scales traced along his neck and collarbone, catching the light like polished amethyst. His eyes were the same dreamlike violet—too calm, too deep. Power rested on him easily, like something he'd never needed to question.
They faced each other.
The signal was given.
Damien moved first.
He closed the distance in a straight line, fast and forceful, stone cracking faintly beneath his step. His fist came down like a hammer, aimed to end things early.
Derian didn't block instead, he shifted.
A small step to the side, barely more than a lean, and Damien's strike passed through empty air. Derian's hand brushed Damien's arm—not hard, not damaging—but precise, redirecting the force away from him.
Damien turned immediately, swinging again, wider this time.
Derian flowed backward, retreating in smooth arcs, feet never crossing, never stumbling. He stayed just out of reach, guiding the fight instead of chasing it.
Damien pressed forward relentlessly—every strike powerful, every movement meant to overwhelm. When his blows landed, the stone trembled.
Derian responded with control. He slipped past strikes, redirected momentum, struck only when openings appeared—and vanished before retaliation could land.
Damien adapted.
He stopped attacking, drawing Derian closer, then slammed his elbow backward. This time, it connected—forcing Derian to slide back several steps, boots scraping against the stone.
Derian steadied himself, eyes still calm.
For the first time, Derian attacked.
His movements were sharp but quiet—quick strikes aimed at joints, pressure points, balance. Damien blocked most of them, but each impact forced him to adjust and move back several steps.
This was the first in a long time Damien met a calm and forceful resistance during a fight.
The fight locked into rhythm.
Power met precision.
Force met flow.
Neither gained ground for long.
Minutes passed.
Sweat darkened the stone beneath their feet. Cracks spread across the arena floor from Damien's strikes, while scuff marks traced Derian's endless movement.
Finally, the signal sounded.
The match was halted.
Silence fell.
Neither stood victorious. Neither knelt defeated.
Damien straightened, breathing hard but steady.
Derian relaxed his stance, equally worn, equally composed.
The instructor nodded once.
"it's a draw"
The murmurs that followed were louder than any cheer.
Damien stepped back without a word.
Derian inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.