The bells of Dragon Rite Citadel began tolling before sunrise.

Their sound rolled across the mountain like funeral drums beneath storm-thick skies, echoing through towers, vaults, and frozen stone corridors while snow spiraled across the cliffs surrounding the Citadel.

No student spoke during the descent to the lower sanctums.

Not loudly.

Not after what had happened in the caverns beneath the mountain.

Rumors had already spread through every hall before dawn.

Lyra Vale had disappeared below the forbidden foundations.

The old gate beneath the western archives had sealed itself shut afterward.

And sometime during the night—

every dragon inside the mountain began screaming in its sleep.

Even now, as initiates gathered within the vast cathedral halls beneath Dragon Rite Citadel, unease clung to the air like smoke after battle.

The Bridge Ceremony had always been feared.

Tonight, it felt cursed.

Hundreds of black-cloaked initiates stood shoulder to shoulder beneath towering stone arches while dragonfire braziers burned along the walls in deep crimson flame. Ancient banners hung motionless overhead, each bearing the sigil of the Rider Order—silver wings wrapped around a crowned sword.

Priests moved silently between the rows of students.

No laughter.

No whispers.

Only the low chanting of dragon liturgy echoing through the cathedral vaults.

Lyra stood alone near the rear of the chamber.

As always.

No one approached her anymore.

Not after the vault incident.

Not after the dreams.

Not after Silvermoon refused Cassian’s command in front of half the Citadel.

The initiates closest to her subtly shifted farther away whenever she moved.

One girl quietly crossed herself beneath her cloak.

Another refused to look directly at Lyra’s face.

It no longer felt like ordinary fear.

It felt religious.

As though her existence itself violated something sacred.

Lyra kept her eyes lowered while cold torchlight flickered across the marble floor beneath her boots.

She had barely slept.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw chained skeletons beneath the mountain.

Ancient dragon bones buried beneath the foundations of the Rider Order.

And deeper still—

something breathing in darkness.

She still had not told anyone about Keeper Thorne.

Or the sealed cavern.

Or the voices.

Part of her wondered whether the old man had even been real.

But the bruises left on her wrist from his grip remained dark against pale skin beneath her sleeve.

A sudden hush swept through the cathedral.

Then the great silver doors opened.

Cassian Arden entered beside the High Riders.

Even among dragon knights, he looked almost unreal.

Silver ceremonial armor reflected the dragonfire glow while the long white cloak of House Arden flowed behind him like moonlit silk. The silver sigil upon his breastplate marked him as the chosen rider of Silvermoon—the most revered living dragon within the northern kingdoms.

The students straightened instinctively as he passed.

Some lowered their eyes.

Others watched him with the kind of awe reserved for saints.

Cassian never acknowledged them.

His expression remained cold and composed as ever.

Until his gaze found Lyra.

The slightest tension passed through his shoulders.

Only for a moment.

But she saw it.

So did he.

Something had changed between them after the vaults beneath the mountain.

Not trust.

Certainly not affection.

But uncertainty now lived behind his eyes whenever he looked at her.

And uncertainty frightened men like Cassian more than monsters ever could.

High Priest Malachar stepped forward beside the ceremonial altar, his black robes trailing across polished stone.

“The Bridge Ceremony begins,” he declared.

His voice thundered through the cathedral halls.

“Tonight, the blood of riders shall descend once more into the Abyssal Caverns beneath Dragon Rite Citadel, where dragonkind will judge the souls of mankind.”

The ancient liturgy continued as priests ignited additional braziers surrounding the chamber.

Deep red fire rose toward the vaulted ceilings overhead.

“Only those acknowledged by dragonkind may walk the skies,” Malachar said.

“Only those deemed worthy may survive the Rite.”

The students answered together in ritual response.

“So it was sworn beneath flame.”

Lyra remained silent.

Several nearby initiates glanced at her immediately.

One boy muttered beneath his breath.

“Cursed thing.”

Cassian heard it.

His jaw tightened slightly.

But he said nothing.

The cathedral doors behind the altar slowly began opening then, revealing darkness descending deep beneath the mountain.

Cold air flooded instantly into the chamber.

Ancient.

Wet.

Carrying the distant smell of ash and dragonfire.

The Abyssal Caverns.

The true dragon sanctums beneath Dragon Rite Citadel.

Where dragons chose riders.

Or killed them.

One by one, initiates began descending the enormous spiral stairway beyond the gates while priests marked each forehead with silver ash.

Some students trembled openly.

Others whispered final prayers.

A few quietly wept.

Nearly forty percent would never return from the caverns.

That had always been the truth of Dragon Rite Citadel.

Dragons were not horses.

They were not pets.

The Rite was not an examination.

It was judgment.

And dragons judged without mercy.

Lyra waited near the rear as the lines slowly moved downward into darkness.

Every instinct inside her screamed to run.

Because unlike the others—

she knew what dragons became around her.

Violent.

Terrified.

Unstable.

Since childhood, every creature touched by dragon blood had reacted to her presence the same way.

Rage.

Fear.

Recognition.

No one survived long after dragons began reacting that way.

Not stable riders.

Not handlers.

Not hatchlings.

Once, when she was eight years old, a young drake ripped its own jaw apart trying to break through iron restraints after seeing her from across a courtyard.

The beast had screamed until blood poured from its mouth.

The memory still woke her at night.

And tonight she would descend willingly into the heart of the mountain where hundreds of dragons waited below.

A slow dread settled heavily inside her chest.

Everyone believed she would die before dawn.

Part of her believed it too.

The line moved steadily downward.

Far below, distant dragon calls echoed faintly through the caverns beneath the mountain.

The sound rolled through stone like thunder beneath the earth.

Several initiates near the stair entrance visibly paled.

One turned around entirely before a priest seized his shoulder and forced him forward again.

“No retreat once the Rite begins,” the priest warned coldly.

The boy nearly vomited from fear.

Lyra watched him disappear below.

Then another student.

And another.

Until eventually only a handful remained near the altar.

Cassian stood near the stair entrance speaking quietly with High Priest Malachar.

Their conversation ended the moment Malachar glanced toward Lyra.

Disgust crossed the priest’s face instantly.

Cassian followed his gaze.

For several long seconds neither spoke.

Then Cassian approached her slowly through the cathedral hall.

The remaining initiates watched openly now.

Waiting.

Cassian stopped a few feet away.

Close enough for her to see exhaustion beneath his composed expression.

“You should not descend tonight,” he said quietly.

Lyra almost laughed.

“Now you’re concerned?”

“This is not mockery.”

“No,” she replied softly. “It’s fear.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“You know what happens around dragons when you’re near them.”

“So does everyone else.”

A faint muscle moved in his jaw.

“That cavern below contains elder dragons older than kingdoms. If they lose control inside the sanctums—”

“They’ll kill me.”

Cassian fell silent.

Because neither of them doubted it.

The cold air flowing upward from the Abyssal Caverns carried distant dragon sounds through the cathedral once more.

This time the noise felt different.

Restless.

Agitated.

Lyra noticed several priests exchange uneasy looks.

Cassian noticed too.

“They already sense you,” he said quietly.

Something moved behind his eyes then.

Conflict.

Not hatred.

Not entirely.

Almost frustration.

As though some part of him desperately wanted the world to make sense again and could not understand why it no longer did.

“You don’t belong among dragons,” he said at last.

The words should have hurt.

Instead they only exhausted her.

“Neither do cages,” she answered softly.

Cassian stared at her.

For a brief moment, genuine confusion crossed his face.

Then High Priest Malachar called sharply from the altar.

“It is time.”

The last initiates began descending.

Lyra turned toward the stairway.

The air beyond the gates felt impossibly cold now.

Almost alive.

Torchlight disappeared quickly into the spiraling darkness below while deep beneath the mountain something vast shifted in sleep.

She felt it.

The mountain itself seemed to breathe.

Cassian’s voice stopped her before she reached the entrance.

“If the dragons reject you,” he said quietly behind her, “do not run.”

Lyra looked back once.

“Why?”

His silver-grey eyes remained fixed on the darkness below.

“Because frightened dragons hunt.”

Silence settled between them.

Then Lyra stepped past him and approached the edge of the abyss.

The stairway spiraled endlessly downward into darkness beneath Dragon Rite Citadel.

Ancient dragonfire flickered far below.

And somewhere beneath the mountain—

something old was waiting for her.

The whispers returned immediately.

Not words this time.

Recognition.

The torches lining the stairway dimmed as Lyra placed one hand against the cold stone wall and began descending alone into the dark.