A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
—Article One, Section One The Dragon Rider's Codex

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Conscription Day dawns with a crimson kiss upon the horizon—perhaps an omen, foretelling the bloody hours to come. This sunrise, with its splendor, feels like a final, fading gift; one I cling to with a quiet sigh. The war collage has called my name, pulling me into its chaotic embrace on the very day I was to celebrate my birth. I have no illusions about this place. It is a crucible, one likely to be my undoing.

With a fate sealed by duty, all I can do is shoulder its weight and march forward. My heavy canvas rucksack bears down upon me like the burden of the day ahead. My feet carry me, leaden but determined, up the grand staircase to a destiny intertwined with Violet Sorrengail—my childhood friend, my anchor in the storm that looms.

I find her in a room clouded with tension, her mother and sister a tempest of fear and fury. Mira, her sister, lets the words fly like arrows, sharp and unforgiving: "You're sending her to die! No, wait—you're sending them both to die!"

A stifled retort filters through the office door, but Violet's eyes catch mine, and she breathes a silent, "Shhh." We are intruders in this frank exchange between a general and her progeny. As if punctuating Mira's point, Violet's burden threatens to topple her, but our hands find each other, and I steady her—unspoken vows of support passing between our palms.

"Damn it, Mom, she can't even handle her rucksack," Mira protests, her presence a flickering flame of protest.

But Violet is quick to her own defense, her cheeks ablaze not with defeat, but with the fire of indignation. "I'm fine!" she insists, and with a show of strength, rights herself and her load. Her determination is undiminished, a reflection of the dawn that graced our last day of innocence.

A heavy sigh escapes me, mingling with the dust motes dancing in the solemn air. Indeed, I manage my own destiny with a firm grip, but it's Violet, always more lamb than lioness, whom fate has cruelly misaligned. Every sinew in my body protests—railing against the injustice, the wasted years of meticulous preparation. I could thrive among the riders, my spirit akin to the steeds of the quadrant, fierce and unyielding. Yet, my path is irrevocably altered, not by ambition but by a bond that demands sacrifice.

"Tt's already done," Violet's mother pronounces, her uniform a monolith of resolve in the haze of conflict. Authority and motherhood war within her, each etching its claim upon her visage.

"Then undo it," Mira implores, each syllable laced with venom and desperation. "She's spent her whole life training to become a scribe. She wasn't raised to be a rider." Mira's gaze locks with mine, an apology written in the depths of her eyes. "Well, you maybe were... I'm so sorry, Emberlyn."

I offer a dismissive shake of my head, a silent bid to quell her concern. "No offense taken," I reply, the words wrapped in the cloak of composure I wear so well. Yet, beneath the surface, trepidation courses through my veins—an untamed river threatening to breach its banks.

In these chambers where futures are traded like currency, I stand resolute, prepared to escort Violet through the storm. For friendship is not a responsibility I bear lightly; it is the summoning horn that calls me to this battlefield, and I will answer with valor. The seeds of our childhood dreams, watered with hope and now sown in the blood-soaked fields of war, demand nothing less.

"Well, she certainly isn't you, is she, Lieutenant Sorrengail?" The barb, veiled in the armor of her mother's rank, is aimed with precision, yet Violet's composure remains unbreached. The General's hands, a testament to countless battles waged across ink and battlefields, plant firmly on her desk. She scrutinizes us, her gaze as piercing as the dragon effigies that guard the room's legacy in oaken splendor.

The unspoken judgement hangs in the air, static and charged. My physique, honed through discipline, might mirror the warriors of legend, but Violet, with her scholarly mien, seems miscast in this role of impending violence. The rider's mantle fits awkwardly on her shoulders, like armor fashioned for another's form.

Mira, the spitting image of the matriarch, stands as a testament to the Sorrengail lineage. Every inch the dragon rider, she exudes vitality and prowess, the very incarnation of the elite. Her hair, cropped to practicality, echoes the General's—a lineage sculpted for the skies.

I meet the General's calculating stare with silence, knowing that words wielded in this chamber could fray the threads of already strained allegiances. Instead, I stand steadfast, a bulwark for my friend who I fear might crumble under the weight of expectations not her own. For it is not the strength of one's arms, but the unyielding spirit within that defines a warrior's mettle. It is a truth I carry in my heart—a truth that gives me hope that together, Violet and I will forge a path through the fires to come, each protecting the other against the tides of fate that seek to sweep us asunder.

The dialogue of higher ranks fades into a distant murmur, receding behind as I absently run my finger over a hangnail—idle against the looming gravity of what lies ahead. As the heavy door to the office closes with a resounding click, signaling an end to negotiations and the beginning of an inexorable march toward destiny, I turn to Violet.

"Look, I'm sorry, I wish there was something I could've done," I murmur, more to myself, tightening the straps of my rucksack, feeling its weight as a mounting reminder of duty.

Violet's head tilts, her smile a break in the clouds of uncertainty. "No, no, Emberlyn. You've done enough. You got me the internship with you, and that's enough," she reassures, her words wrapping around me like armor against the smoldering guilt.

Before my own inclinations to lament further take hold, Mira's shadow looms, her steps determined thunder following in our wake. "Stop, stop, let me help," she insists, authority softened by genuine concern—a trait I've come to admire in her, above her already notable station as a commendable lieutenant and steadfast companion.

As she crouches, unburdening my rucksack, I simply observe, an eyebrow arching in silent question. "What Brennan did for me," Mira explains, voice sinking into a low pitch laced with solemn recollections and unspoken sorrows.

A surge of understanding passes through me; I squeeze Violet's hand, a subtle but anchored assurance as the vestiges of grief shadow her gaze. Mira is already on the move, her words pragmatic as scalpel cuts. "Can any of you use a sword?"

I give a confident nod. "A bit," is my cool reply, a flicker of pride kindling within. It's met with Mira's nod of approval, her attention then shifting to Violet, who falters with a shake of her head.

"T figured. Good," Mira confirms, then fixes her gaze on the practical matter at hand. "Now, drop your pack and take off those horrible boots."

Her commands ring clear, even as my partner and I share a mute exchange of bewilderment. Mira elaborates, bringing order to our chaos, "You're carrying way too much, and your boots are a death trap. You'll slip right off the parapet with those." She presents new boots and uniform to Violet as if conjuring a life-saving spell from the very air.

Books fly, each one a remnant of a life once slated for parchment rather than peril. Violet's protest is half-hearted, half-dismayed—a scholar's clinging to artifacts of a world slipping from her grasp.

"Hey, I can only take what I can carry, and I want those!" she cries out with a mixture of frustration and desperation.

With reflexes honed by more than just physical training, I intercept a flying tome, avoiding a collision with history. "Watch it," I chide lightly, my voice dusted with amusement despite the heaviness that presses in upon us.

Mira returns the gesture with a sheepish grin. "Oops," she offers, her own underlying tensions breaking for the briefest of moments.

Mira's gaze, alight with the fire of a thousand battles yet to be fought, fixes on her sister with a steely intensity. "Are you willing to die for those?" she asks, her voice resonant, echoing through the chamber and hitting Violet like a clap of thunder.

"T can carry it!" the protest erupts from Violet, defiance crackling in her voice like dry leaves underfoot. But I sense the battle of wills between siblings, both so strong yet so divergent in their strengths, is not mine to mediate.

With a gentle press of reassurance on Violet's shoulder, I excuse myself. "I'll be out in the garden. Vi, come look for me when you're done," I say, offering an avenue of escape—from the argument, from the weight of decisions, from the ever-looming shadow of war.

Her eyes latch onto mine, a silent dialogue of fear and the bond we share flaring between us. "Sure, but—" Violet starts, but her words dissolve into the thick air of the room as I slip away, leaving the sisters to their familial dance.

The corridors of this place, a castellated womb of stone and iron from which warriors are birthed, seem to sigh with the weight of history. Guards stand as silent sentinels, some granting nods of approbation that I return with the curt nod of familiarity. Past the thick walls and the echoes of whispered strategy, I push open the heavy gates.

The garden greets me, a refuge where the air is scrubbed fresh by the greenery and the scent of earth. Here, the breeze carries whispers of peace, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere within. It's a place where one can breathe, if only for a moment, and remember the world beyond the foreboding shadow of the war collage.

Leaves rustle their own stories as I find my way to a secluded bench, the stone cool and unyielding beneath me. I draw in the verdant sanctuary around me, seeking the strength that nature so effortlessly owns. Here, I shall wait for Violet, hoping she emerges with vigor renewed, ready to face the rigors of dragon riding and the trials of combat. For even as the weight of destiny presses upon us, it is in moments of reprieve that we gather our true strength.

Resting against the cool embrace of the stone wall, I allow myself a moment of stillness. Above, the cherry blossom trees perform a ballet of petals, cascading down in delicate flurries that settle upon the ancient stones and grass alike. Their dance is silent but speaks volumes of a world that carries on in gentle persistence, even as the shadow of conflict looms large over the land.

With a slow exhale, my gaze drifts toward the distant, azure speck of the sky peeking through the branches—a canvas waiting to be streaked with the fiery trails of dragons. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, not of fear, but of readiness. In my bones, I feel the stirrings of readiness for the Begaiash War College, a certainty that the crucible of challenge will temper my spirit into something formidable.

But Violet—sweet Violet, whose strengths lie in words and the whisper of pages turning—is she ready to trade the pen for the sword, the library's hush for the roars of the skyborne beasts? Can she withstand the heat of the dragon's breath and the surge of adrenaline when steel meets steel?

I cannot answer these questions, not truly. I certainly have faith in her, a belief as sturdy as the stone that supports my back. But faith is one thing, and the brutal truth of battle is another. In these quiet moments, as the sun dapples through the leaves and paints my skin with the warmth of hope, I can only wish that her courage will bloom like the flowers around us.

Time will tell, and soon. Until then, I will wait, watch, and be there to catch her should she stumble, as we step together into the unknown.

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As we traverse the fortress's spent veins, the echoes of our footsteps are swallowed by the quietude that cloaks the administrative corridors. The heartbeats of a thousand farewells below throb through the stone, a drumbeat growing in urgency as we wind closer to the precipice of parting.

Outside, I see through the windows a tapestry woven with the vibrant threads of gathered families—a farewell fresco splayed across the fields. They clutch their kin, imprinting memories into embraces beneath the towering visage of the gate. Yet the congestion of hope on the roads, with their horses and wagons, starkly juxtaposes the barren paths lining the perimeter.

Those forlorn byways, vacant and grim, await the solemn procession of defeat—the silent testament to the price of honor.

We near the threshold of departure, and Mira halts, the gravity of the moment anchoring us in place. With an imploring urgency, she enfolds Violet against her, a bastion of love amidst the growing clamor. "I love you, Violet. Remember everything I've told you. Don't become another name on the death roll." Her voice trembles, a lullaby against the din of destiny.

Respecting their sisterly covenant, I stand at a sanctioned distance, until Mira's reach breaks the barrier and enfolds me within their fold. I am swept into a harbor - a lighthouse beacon amidst the gathering storm. "And you too, Emberlyn, please," she entreats, her grasp a whispered plea for reassurance.

A smile traces my lips, finding warm sanctuary in the proximity of fellowship. "We'll both try," I offer, the words carrying the weight of solemn oaths pledged in quiet nights. She chuckles—a sound barbed with an undercurrent of fear—then retreats, relinquishing her hold.

"I know, I know... Just stay together, okay?" Mira insists, her final edict delivered.

Her command echoes not as an order but as an invocation, a call to unity that binds us even as we step through the archway and into the courtyard. There, amongst the throng of stories reaching their climactic height, we find our place.

We cast a final glance back, and then, shoulder to shoulder, Violet and I step into the swell, emboldened by the unspoken vows shared in the embrace of a sister, and the unyielding resolve that kindles within us both. Together we move through the assembly, each step a silent promise to face the unknown as one.

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Ascending the ancient turret where history is etched into the stone, we are accompanied by the thick scent of battles past. Violet and I reach the parapet, its once resolute boundary now stained with the toil of time. A hush steals my breath as I halt, fixated on a man who seems woven from the very threads of familiarity.

He stands there, a monument to human strength, black hair taunted by errant winds, dark brows furrowing in a silent interrogation of the world. The sun casts its glow on his tawny skin, shadows playing across a jaw graced with the rough kiss of stubble. Muscles coil beneath his skin with each movement, and I am caught mid-breath, observing the symphony of sinew and bone. His eyes lock onto mine, arresting in their intense shade of onyx specked with gold—a splendor so striking that it feels as though the heavens themselves dipped their brush to paint his gaze.

In the span of a heartbeat, I'm ensnared by the artistry before me—the raw elegance of a sculptor's dream brought to life. Every line of his countenance speaks of a meticulous craft, his lips a perfected work of patience and yearning.

Unearthly in his allure, he captures my stare, tilting his head in a silent query I can't decipher. With a shake of my head, I break the spell, urging myself and Violet to press on. Beside us, Rhiannon, with skin the color of earth rich with promise, emits a chuckle. "Seems like you've seen a ghost, Emberlyn," she teases.

The corners of my lips turn upward in a wistful smile as we continue our march. "Sure did, but I'm not about to let that distract me," comes my half-truth, veiled in a veneer of resolve. She nods, and the moment passes as attention shifts to Violet, the task of changing into our new boots, the necessary shedding of old skins.

I stride forward, taking the lead, when suddenly a brash shove from behind unbalances me. A man's impatience jolts through me, sending me staggering onto the exposed platform.

"Let's go. Some of us have things to do on the other side," comes the biting remark, the grating tone of it scraping against my already taut nerves.

"You're not worth the effort right now," I mutter under my breath, a mantra to restrain the tempest within. Regaining my footing against the brash play of the wind, I stand firm. The platform beneath me is a precipice and pedestal both, elevating us to the heavens while edging us towards the abyss.

The wind, with its humidity-laden tendrils, is a living entity—both a caress and a challenge upon my skin. My heightened senses awaken as they parse the currents of the air, a warrior's instinct attuning to the world's unseen forces. Steadfast, I center myself amidst the chaos of departure, prepared for the journey that beckons just beyond.

Reunited with Violet and Rhiannon, we climb the spiral staircase, the very spine of the fortress, until the daylight once again envelops us. And there he is, the man whose gaze carries the weight of midnight skies flecked with starlight, now fixed upon me with an intensity that could carve silhouettes from the very air.

"Ah, so you're the one who stared at me, aren't you?" His voice is laced with a warmth that cloaks undeniable arrogance, a challenge issued without a blade drawn.

Lifting my chin in a gesture of defiance, the embers of audacity spark within me. "So what? You're better looking than the last guys I've seen," I retort, meeting temerity with boldness as our tension dances like sparks over Tinder.

From behind, the sound of stifled laughter bubbles up from my companions. Violet snorts, her mirth barely concealed, while Rhiannon's chuckle is a low rumble of shared amusement.

The man allows the corner of his mouth to lift in a shadow of a smirk, his quirked brow a silent acknowledgment of the spar. "Let's see if the parapet will dull your tongue, Nightsahde," he counters, his tone a balance of provocation and jest.

Then, with deliberate precision, he strikes his quill upon paper, his movements quick and sure. His hand gestures towards the stretch of a stone bridge that cuts across the void like a silent challenge. "Go on then," he nods, dismissing my comment as if it were nothing more than chaff in the wind.

With a knitted brow, I step forward, the call of the void beneath the parapet beckoning. As logic and instinct collide within me, it is the lure of the unknown and the pace of adrenaline that propels me towards what lies ahead. The bridge will test more than just my nerve—it is a passage, a first trial in a succession leading to future battles. With each step, I carry the weight of my words and the strength of my resolve, steeped in the company of friends. 

Rhiannon's voice, imbued with the warmth of companionship, propels me forward with a jest that masks concern. Her encouragement is a tangible presence at my back, a gentle nudge against the inertia of trepidation. With a spirited snort, I cast her a grateful glance—my eyes, a verdant sea of determination, locking with hers for a fleeting heartbeat before facing the gauntlet ahead.

The Bridge of Death, so aptly named, lies before me like an ancient serpent, stone-cold and indifferent to the pulse of life stepping cautiously upon its back. I take a deep breath in, the air heavy with the anticipation of my peers, the scent of sun-warmed earth rising to meet me.

The journey begins—a measured stride across the stony expanse, feet pressing against the unyielding surface, the press of worn leather on stone. Each step is a note in the silent symphony of resolve; my heart thunders a staccato rhythm, yet my outward semblance is a portrait of calm—a leaf upon tranquil waters even as the storm rages beneath.

I traverse the bridge, a shadow flitting between life and the abyss, where each near miss tilts the scales between continuation and cessation. Finally, with the fortress's parapet high above, I reach the far side.

A nod of acknowledgment from a seasoned third-year greets me, their eyes bearing the weight of experience and the light of camaraderie. Closer yet, a warrior approaches, his gait announcing his intent—a muscled behemoth with twin swords slung across his back, instruments of war that sing of promise and peril. He offers a hearty pat on the back, the impact a bracing approval that needs no words. "Well done," his gesture conveys.

Turning, I face the bridge again, now just a distant observer as my comrades prepare for their crossing. In the space between heartbeats, I send forth silent vigils of hope; their progression marks the unity of our fates. There is unwavering belief within me that Violet and Rhiannon will stand beside me soon, their own tests of mettle etched into the journey we share—as inevitable as the changing tides, as sure as dawn's first light. They, too, will cross into the ranks of the tested, the bonded, the unbroken.