The emergency horn was still vibrating in Nino's bones when the gates opened.
That long, resonant call—meant to pull men toward their deaths—lingered as a pressure behind his ears as the column began to move. Boots struck stone in a disciplined rhythm. Armor creaked. No one spoke. Whatever words had existed back in the yard were left behind with the silence that followed the horn.
They passed through an arched corridor wide enough for siege wagons, its walls etched with faded reliefs of dragons in flight. Not heroic carvings—these showed talons tearing into shields, fire swallowing ranks of soldiers, riders reduced to silhouettes clinging to scales.
The message was not subtle.
When they emerged, the space opened violently.
The Grand Taming Arena spread out before them in a vast circle of stone, descending in tiered rings like a colossal bowl carved into the earth. Tens of thousands of seats rose upward, already filling with nobles in dark cloaks, officers in dress armor, and robed clergy whose sigils marked them as priests of the dragon covenant.
Noise crashed down on Nino all at once.
Cheers. Laughter. The murmur of expectation.
He felt it hit his chest like a physical thing.
At the center of the arena stood twelve stone pylons arranged in a wide arc. Each was carved with runes that glowed faintly, their light steady and cold. At the base of every pylon rested a crystal—some clear and brilliant, others cloudy, dull, or visibly fractured.
Nino didn't need anyone to explain what they were.
Dragon taming crystals.
This was the ceremony that decided everything.
They were guided to the arena floor, nobles first, rank by rank. The crowd's attention sharpened as each group entered. Names were called from above, announced by heralds whose voices carried unnaturally far.
A young man stepped forward ahead of Nino. His crystal flared the moment his hand touched it, light bursting upward in a violent spiral. The crowd roared approval as a shadow shifted within the glow.
Power was celebrated here. Loudly.
Nino stayed where he was, eyes forward, breathing measured.
Don't stand out.
That thought anchored him more firmly than fear.
He scanned the arena without moving his head. Knights lined the perimeter—elite Dragon Knights, their armor etched with burn marks and claw scars that no amount of polishing could hide. High-ranking officers stood with arms crossed, evaluating not courage or character, but utility.
Above them, in a section set apart by space rather than decoration, sat figures whose presence bent the atmosphere around them. Dukes. Commanders. Weapons wearing human shapes.
Nino did not look too long.
A dragon's roar rolled across the arena, deep and satisfied. Somewhere above, wings beat once, stirring the air. The crowd responded with a wave of sound that bordered on reverence.
He exhaled slowly.
This is earlier than it should be, he thought. But the ceremony still happens. That means the story hasn't broken yet.
Not completely.
A priest stepped onto the arena floor, robes heavy with embroidered sigils. His hair was silver, his expression unreadable, his eyes sharp in a way that suggested he'd seen more failed contracts than successful ones.
"Step forward when your name is called," the priest said, his voice amplified by magic rather than volume. "Choose your crystal. The dragon that answers will be bound to you—for life or for death."
No one laughed at that line. They never did.
Another name rang out. Another noble stepped forward. Another surge of light, brighter than the last.
The crowd loved escalation.
Nino felt the moment approaching like a tightening wire. His pulse stayed steady, but only because he forced it to. This was the first point where he could ruin everything by doing too well.
Strong dragon.Strong rider.Early death.
That was how extras like him disappeared faster than footnotes.
His name echoed through the arena.
"Nino Verhain."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The sound carried anyway.
A few heads turned. Not many. The Verhain branch didn't inspire curiosity.
He stepped forward.
The stone beneath his boots felt colder here, closer to the pylons. The crystals were arranged with no attempt at fairness. The clearest ones—brilliant, flawless—were positioned where everyone could see them. Guards stood nearby, more ceremonial than necessary.
The worse ones sat farther along the arc. Dull. Clouded. Ignored.
Nino's gaze slid over them without hesitation.
A priest noticed. His brow creased slightly.
"You may choose," the priest said, extending a hand toward the crystals.
The arena waited.
And Nino, standing under tens of thousands of watching eyes, moved toward the most unremarkable crystal of them all.
The moment Nino changed direction, the air shifted.
It wasn't loud at first. Just a ripple—like a wrong note struck in the middle of a performance. A few heads tilted. A few brows furrowed. The priest's extended hand hesitated, fingers tightening slightly as Nino walked past the brightest crystals without a glance.
He didn't slow down.
The flawless crystals radiated heat and light, their surfaces alive with slow, internal motion. Standing near them felt like standing too close to a bonfire. Even without touching them, Nino could feel their pull—an invitation wrapped in danger.
He ignored it.
Each step carried him farther from the center, toward the end of the arc where the stone floor was darker, more worn. The crowd's murmur followed him, swelling as realization spread.
"Is he—?"
"Wait, that one's—"
A short laugh broke out from somewhere in the upper tiers.
Nino stopped in front of a crystal that barely deserved the name.
It was smaller than the others, its surface clouded and uneven. Hairline fractures webbed across it, catching the light in dull, lifeless angles. Where the other crystals pulsed with contained power, this one looked tired.
Spent.
The priest turned fully toward him now.
"Verhain," he said, not masking his surprise. "That crystal has not answered in years."
Nino placed his hand on it anyway.
The stone was cold. Not the clean cold of polished crystal, but the dead cold of something left too long in shadow.
"I know," Nino said.
The priest searched his face, as if expecting to find arrogance or fear. He found neither—only intent.
A ripple of laughter moved through the stands, no longer restrained.
"Did he get lost?"
"Western branch, right? Makes sense."
"Maybe he thinks pity gets you a dragon."
Nino didn't look up.
Let them laugh, he thought. Laughter doesn't kill you. Attention does.
He closed his fingers around the crystal.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
The priest's lips parted, already forming the words to halt the attempt. A few knights along the perimeter shifted, some in mild embarrassment, others in interest.
Then the crystal cracked.
Not loudly. Not violently.
A thin line split across its surface, lightless and quiet, like ice breaking beneath still water.
The laughter faltered.
Another crack formed, branching outward. The fractures deepened, spreading under Nino's palm. The cold seeped through his skin, up his arm, and settled behind his ribs with an unfamiliar weight.
The runes carved into the nearby pylon flickered.
Dim light bled from the crystal's core—gray, not white or gold. Weak. Unimpressive.
But present.
The priest inhaled sharply. "It's responding"
The arena leaned forward as one.
The ground beneath the crystal trembled, just enough for Nino to feel it through the soles of his boots. Dust fell in thin streams from the pylon above. The light pulsed once—twice—each beat slower than the last.
A shape formed within the glow.
Small.
Too small.
The crowd went silent, confusion replacing mockery.
The light collapsed inward, folding in on itself until it vanished entirely. What remained was not a blazing silhouette or a roaring beast clawing its way into the world.
It was a hunched form on the stone.
A dragon.
But not the kind they had hoped for.
The priest stared, his expression unreadable now, voice low as he spoke the words that sealed Nino's choice.
"Summoned and bound."
Nino's knees buckled as pain slammed into his chest, sharp and sudden, stealing his breath. He dropped to one knee, palm still pressed to the ruined crystal as something else pressed back—from the inside.
The contract had begun.
Around him, whispers returned, this time edged with disbelief rather than laughter.
"That's it?"
"That's a dragon?"
Nino clenched his teeth, vision blurring as the bond tightened, sinking into his blood, his bones, his breath.
Through the haze of pain, he felt something else.
Not power.
Not hunger.
A presence.
Quiet.
Watching him back.
The pain didn't fade.
It deepened.
Nino's breath came out in a harsh, broken pull as the contract finished carving itself into him. The sensation was not fire or lightning, as the stories liked to exaggerate. It was pressure—slow, invasive, as if something invisible were pressing its way into his chest and refusing to leave.
His palm slipped from the shattered crystal and struck the stone floor.
The cold there grounded him. Barely.
A low sound echoed across the arena.
Not a roar.
More like a rasped breath.
The shape at the center of the summoning circle stirred.
It pushed itself upright with an awkward motion, claws scraping stone. The creature's body was smaller than a warhorse, its frame lean to the point of frailty. Dull, uneven scales clung to it in muted shades of gray-blue, several cracked or missing entirely. One wing unfolded partway, then folded back in with a faint shudder.
A ripple of laughter rolled through the stands.
"There's no way—"
"That's a fledgling, right?"
"Too small. Too thin."
The dragon lifted its head.
Its eyes were not blazing gold or infernal red. They were pale, clear, and sharp—far too aware for something so unimpressive. They flicked around the arena, cataloging sound and movement with precise, economical turns of the head.
When they found Nino, they stopped.
The connection snapped into focus.
Nino gasped as something settled fully into place inside him. The pressure locked, not painfully now, but firmly—like a door closing and being barred from the other side.
The priest stepped closer, robes whispering against the stone. He circled the dragon once, then looked down at Nino with an expression that had shifted from surprise to something closer to disappointment.
"A Fledgling," he announced. His voice carried easily, amplified by the arena's enchantments. "Malformed."
The word landed hard.
The dragon reacted—not with aggression, but with stillness. Its tail curled slightly inward. One claw tightened against the stone.
Nino pushed himself upright, breath still unsteady. His chest burned where the contract sigil had formed beneath his skin, though no mark showed through the fabric.
"What class?" an officer called from the stands.
The priest didn't hesitate.
"Low Fledgling. Combat viability unconfirmed."
Unconfirmed was generous.
A few knights shook their heads. Others smirked openly.
"So that's Verhain's dragon."
"Figures."
The dragon shifted closer to Nino, placing its body subtly between him and the nearest knight. The movement was instinctive, protective in a way that didn't fit its classification.
Nino noticed.
He didn't smile.
He didn't react at all.
Drawing attention—even positive attention—was a mistake.
The priest raised a hand. "State the name, rider."
Nino blinked. "Name?"
"The dragon's name," the priest said. "If you have one."
Nino looked down at the creature.
Up close, the damage was clearer. Old scars traced one side of its neck. The membrane of its wings was thin, mended in places with tissue that hadn't healed cleanly. This dragon hadn't failed once.
It had survived failing.
A name surfaced in his mind without thought, carried along the same quiet channel as the bond itself.
"Vyrn," Nino said.
The dragon's pupils narrowed slightly.
The priest nodded. "Recorded."
He stepped back, already losing interest.
The arena had moved on. Another name was being called. Another crystal was flaring with brilliant light somewhere behind Nino.
The world had judged and dismissed him in the span of a minute.
Nino straightened fully now, one hand resting briefly against his chest as the last echoes of pain faded into a dull, constant presence.
Vyrn stood at his side, small, scarred, silent.
A failed dragon.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Nino felt something settle into certainty.
This was survivable.