The death of the gray drake spread through Dragon Rite Citadel before dawn.

Not officially.

The Rider Orders did not permit panic inside the mountain, and the handlers assigned to the Pit Below had already been ordered into silence by the High Wardens. But dragons were impossible creatures to keep secret for long. Fear moved through the Citadel faster than written decree ever could.

By morning, the story had already changed shape three times.

Some claimed the old drake had recognized Lyra as its lost rider reborn.

Others swore the creature had knelt to beg mercy before dying.

The priests whispered something worse.

That the oldest dragons were beginning to remember the First Covenant.

Lyra heard all of it while crossing the upper bridge halls toward morning combat drills. Conversations stopped the moment she appeared. Initiates moved aside instinctively. One younger student physically dropped the prayer beads he’d been holding when she passed too close.

No one looked directly at her anymore.

Not unless they had to.

The loneliness no longer felt sharp.

Only heavy.

As though isolation itself had become another cloak hanging from her shoulders.

Above the Citadel, storm clouds churned endlessly across the mountain peaks while distant dragon calls echoed through the high valleys. Normally the skies around Dragon Rite Citadel remained crowded with rider patrols at first light.

Today there were fewer dragons airborne.

Lyra noticed immediately.

So did everyone else.

Something was wrong with the upper aerie platforms.

The training grounds overlooked the eastern cliffs where the bonded dragons of the elite riders nested among colossal stone perches carved directly into the mountain face. Hundreds of initiates had already gathered beneath the terraces when Lyra arrived, all staring upward toward the highest platform.

Toward Silvermoon.

The legendary silver dragon stood motionless against the storm-lit sky.

Its enormous wings remained folded tightly against its body while handlers and rider attendants moved anxiously around the platform below. Even from a distance, the tension surrounding the creature felt unmistakable.

Cassian Arden stood directly before the dragon.

“Again,” one instructor muttered nearby.

Another shook his head grimly.

“It hasn’t flown since the vault descent.”

A chill moved slowly down Lyra’s spine.

Cassian raised one hand toward Silvermoon, speaking in the old dragon tongue used by bonded riders. The silver dragon listened.

Then refused him.

The creature physically stepped backward from the platform edge.

Murmurs spread instantly across the terraces below.

Impossible.

Bonded dragons did not reject flight commands from their riders.

Especially not Silvermoon.

The silver dragon was ancient by war-dragon standards—proud, disciplined, descended from one of the oldest royal bloodlines in the kingdom. Stories about Silvermoon existed in songs older than most noble houses.

And now the creature looked afraid.

Cassian’s composure tightened visibly.

He repeated the command.

Silvermoon snarled softly.

Not at him.

At the mountain below.

At something unseen beneath layers of ancient stone.

The dragon’s pale eyes swept downward across the gathered initiates—

—and landed directly on Lyra.

Everything stopped.

The enormous creature froze.

Its pupils narrowed violently.

Then Silvermoon lowered its head with a low rumble deep in its chest—not submission, not aggression, but unmistakable warning.

The dragon would not fly while Lyra remained there.

A wave of unease moved visibly through the riders surrounding the aerie platform.

One handler backed away entirely.

Another whispered, “Saints preserve us…”

Cassian finally followed Silvermoon’s gaze downward.

Toward Lyra.

The silence stretching between them felt colder than the storm winds clawing across the cliffs.

Then came the whispers.

“She cursed a silvermoon.”

“No—dragons don’t fear corruption unless it’s ancient.”

“What if she carries something older than the Orders?”

Lyra wanted to leave.

But movement would only worsen it now.

Every eye remained fixed on her.

Even the instructors.

Especially Cassian.

He descended from the upper platform shortly afterward, his expression carved from controlled restraint sharp enough to cut stone. Storm winds snapped his black rider cloak violently behind him as he crossed the training terraces toward the gathered initiates.

Toward her.

The crowd parted immediately.

Cassian stopped several feet away.

Close enough now that Lyra could see exhaustion shadowing the sharp lines beneath his eyes.

Silvermoon’s refusal had shaken him more than he wanted anyone to know.

“You were in the lower vaults again last night,” he said quietly.

Not a question.

Lyra lifted her chin slightly. “Everyone was.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

The surrounding initiates pretended not to listen while hearing every word.

Lyra kept her voice calm. “If your dragon fears me, perhaps you should ask why.”

Something dangerous flickered behind Cassian’s eyes then.

Not anger.

Conflict.

Because part of him had begun wondering the same thing.

That frightened him more than hatred ever could.

“You think this is amusing?” he asked softly. “Dragons are becoming unstable throughout the Citadel. Handlers can barely control the lower vaults anymore.”

“I didn’t ask them to react this way.”

“No,” Cassian replied coldly. “That may be the worst part.”

A horn sounded suddenly across the eastern cliffs.

Every dragon overhead reacted instantly.

Several war drakes veered sharply away from the mountain altogether while distant roars echoed across the storm-dark valleys.

Silvermoon emitted another low warning sound from the aerie above.

The dragon’s eyes never left Lyra.

Then a new voice cut through the tension.

“Well. This is cheerful.”

The crowd shifted as a woman approached across the terrace bridges wearing silver-and-ivory rider leathers beneath a rain-dark cloak. She moved with the same effortless authority as Cassian, though hers carried sharper edges—less discipline, more danger.

Her resemblance to Lyra struck immediately.

Not identical.

But enough.

Pale gold hair braided tightly back from a striking face. Gray eyes too observant to miss anything. The crest fastened at her shoulder marked House Vale.

Several initiates bowed their heads at once.

“Seraphine Vale,” someone whispered.

Lyra’s stomach tightened.

Her cousin.

The last member of House Vale to remain loyal to the Rider Orders after Lyra’s father withdrew from court years ago.

Seraphine’s gaze settled on Lyra first.

Then Silvermoon overhead.

Understanding crossed her expression immediately.

“So the stories are true.”

Cassian looked displeased already.

“You weren’t expected until winter session.”

“I dislike expectations.” Seraphine stepped beside him, rainwater sliding from her cloak onto the stone. “Besides, when dragons start refusing the skies, every noble house in the kingdom becomes interested.”

Her attention returned to Lyra again.

Careful now.

Measured.

Not warm.

But not openly hostile either.

“You’ve caused quite a panic for someone who’s barely unpacked.”

Lyra said nothing.

Seraphine studied her another moment before lowering her voice.

“Has anyone told you what the old riders used to call dragons that feared human blood?”

The storm winds intensified around them.

Even Cassian seemed uneasy now.

“No,” Lyra answered quietly.

Seraphine’s expression darkened slightly.

“They called them witnesses.”

The word settled heavily between them.

Above the terraces, Silvermoon suddenly recoiled again.

Far beneath the mountain, something answered with a roar so ancient the stone beneath their feet trembled in response.