The wind cuts sharp against your skin, howling through the cliffs like a war cry. Below, the valley sprawls like an open battlefield, the jagged rock formations waiting to claim the reckless. The scent of storm-churned earth lingers in the air, heavy.

Kieran stands beside you, silent, watching. His gaze sweeps the course—not like a racer, but like a warrior. Like a man who has studied battlegrounds long before he ever studied flight paths. "They call this a race." His voice is quiet. "But it’s just another war."

He nods toward the first descent—a sheer drop, steep enough to break any rider who miscalculates. "Most will dive too fast. Get caught up in the chaos." A pause. His fingers twitch, like they’re remembering the weight of a blade. "That’s when you strike."

You glance at him, uncertain.

"Let them think they’ve won," he continues. "Then pull up at the last second. Use their own momentum against them." He shifts, nodding toward the narrow pass ahead—a choke point, a perfect trap. "If this were a war, that’d be the kill zone." He finally turns to you, voice softer. "You know what that means?"

You hesitate.

A quiet exhale. "It means don’t go first, dolt." No bite, just dry amusement, rough around the edges. But beneath it, something warmer. "Let them fight for position. You wait. Watch for their mistakes. And when they slip—You take your shot. Fast. No hesitation."

A stretch of silence. A sigh. "You hesitate too much."

Not a scolding. Just a fact. "One day, hesitation will be the difference between crossing that finish line and falling." A pause. Then, softer, "Between walking away… and not." He rubs the back of his neck, as if shaking something off.

"I know you’re not a soldier." His voice dips quieter. "But the world doesn’t care. So learn fast, kid." Then, a rough sigh. A knuckle knocked lightly against your shoulder. "Go get your dragon. We’re running the course again." Kieran whistles, sharp and commanding. From above, Kyro dives, steel-gray scales catching the light. His dragon lands with a thud.