“But what type of magic do you need to aim at its heart, and why? You need to be specific with your responses.” Professor Vao insisted, almost with a bit of frustration or disappointment.
“Sunheart and Moonveil magic,” I answered. “Dragons are ancient born of magic. They don’t just channel it; they are magic. They don’t draw power from the sun or the moon as we do. Alone, Sunhearts or Moonveils can only wound them, regardless of the type of dragon they are. To destroy them, we must pierce them with both sunfire and shadow. When a dragon dies, the wildweavers who control it die too.”
“Now we know why the Siren stole you from Emberkeep,” Professor Vao said, a flicker of realization in his tone. My eyes dropped to the floor beneath his gaze.
“I can see you in war, Miss Solenhart,” he added, voice steady but thoughtful.
A few murmurs rippled through the back of the class.
“Hardly see her in war,” someone muttered, followed by a few quiet laughs. I didn’t look up but the heat rising beneath my skin felt like fire.
“Students, please, no mocking in my class. What happens if you kill the wildweaver? What happens to the dragon?”
“The dragon is a free creature again,” Rowan responded almost immediately. “We don’t want free dragons. Those of us in the Dragontail Legion need to kill them all.” A female voice rang out from the back, echoing through the atrium. Murmurs rippled across the room, and my breath caught at the words.
There was so much hatred toward dragons that some wanted them all dead, regardless of whether they were bound to wildweavers or not. I could almost understand it. We had suffered for so long.
But free dragons, in theory, wouldn’t be attacking us.
“Order. Order in my class. This is not a market. I know that is an interesting debate topic, but not for this class. Next question. What type of dragons will you find out there?”
“Magma dragons, fire dragons, ice dragons, and lightning dragons,” Tran responded with confidence.
“And what type of magic can a wildweaver master?” Vao asked, his gaze sharp, challenging Tran to answer again.
“They master the same magic their dragon breathes,” Tran said firmly. “For example, a wildweaver bound to a lightning dragon will wield lightning along with additional, unknown traces of magic, just like us Moonveils and Sunhearts.”
A chill crept up my spine. The air in the room shifted, heavy with something ancient and wrong. wildweavers were parasites of magic. They were chaos given form and far more powerful than any of us dared to admit.
Chapter 8: Hall of Mirrors
The next day started at dusk. Like every day that would follow during my time at Elarion, I found myself in the Hall of Mirrors for the first time. It shimmered, pulsed, and thrummed with magic so sharp it felt like it could slice through skin. It wasn’t just beautiful, it was deadly.
A polished mirror stretched beneath my boots like frozen glass. Around me, walls, floors, even the domed ceiling above. Every inch reflected us back a thousand times. Standing inside a blade, I realized, meant no shadows and no flaws. There were only endless duplications of every fear you held.
Dusk was chosen for combat in the Hall of Mirrors. It was the brief moment when Sunheart and Moonveil magic could recharge in unison beneath both sun and moon.
All the first-years wore fitted green uniforms. My own set left my defined lines of my stomach exposed. Magic wasn’t effortless; it was like running, a full-body exercise demanding everything from you. Though I was strong and toned, some of the other males and females around me looked even more so.
Still, I was here. And I was ready.
I caught myself studying the other Dragontails. My gaze drifted from face to face as I searched their eyes for a hint of strength. The brighter the glow, the greater their power. A wielder’s strength was measured by the potency of their fire or shadow, and by the number of magical traces in their bloodline.
Most wielders possessed one to three magical traces, ranging from powerful affinities like Shakari’s command of ice, my mother’s foresight, or my father’s mind-bending to subtler ones, such as accelerating hair growth or sharpening the senses.
Everyone at Elarion was among the island’s most carefully chosen magic wielders. Around me, eyes of molten gold and glinting silver glowed with restrained strength.
Mine burned bright gold, even though my traces had yet to awaken. Perhaps coming from a strong, magical, and royal bloodline would give me the strength to succeed within these walls.
“First-years,” Professor Hog’s voice cracked across the hall. “Welcome to The Hall of Mirrors for magical combat class. You will want to pay special attention to this practice if you want to pass the second and third tests of your Dragontail Trials. Here is where you improve your magical traces and faction of magic for combat and war. If you don’t master this hall, you will never pass the dragon illusion.”
My body tensed at his words. I didn’t know all the details of the trials like Shakari, but everyone knew the last one involved defeating a dragon illusion like those in the Wastelands.
“These mirrors strip all protection heirlooms, even royal ones. Nothing survives inside this hall.”
A shiver ran down my spine. The heirloom, the Solenhart sigil etched into my wrist, lay cold and lifeless. Every layer of protection I’d grown up under had vanished the moment I stepped into the mirrors.
“You will feel pain,” he said. “Real, violent pain. But the mirrors won’t let you die. They’ll bring you back. Eventually.”