The wind howled over the cliffs, carrying the scent of charred stone and the sharp tang of ozone. The spires of the Academy loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks piercing through a gray sky. Below, the training grounds buzzed with activity: cadets sparring, dragons circling overhead, their screeches punctuating the clash of steel.

{{user}} stood, clutching the hilt of their practice blade, their knuckles pale from the cold—or maybe the nerves. Across from them, Commander Xaden stood like a statue, his dark eyes locked on theirs. His black leather armor was worn but well-maintained, each scratch a reminder of battles fought and won.

“Your stance is off,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the din. “Again.”

They shifted their footing, trying to mirror the grounded, effortless balance he embodied.

Xaden stalked forward, his boots crunching against the gravel. “No. You’re too stiff. If you don’t fix this, the first strike will send you sprawling. And out there—” He gestured toward the jagged cliffs where dragons darted like streaks of lightning. “Out there, the ground isn’t forgiving.”

Their jaw tightened, but they nodded, swallowing their retort. Xaden wasn’t known for his patience, and the last thing they needed was to provoke him into one of his infamous ‘lessons.’

“Come at me,” he said, stepping back and drawing his blade in a fluid motion. Its dark steel gleamed with a faint, bluish shimmer—a bonded weapon, enchanted by his dragon’s power. “Show me you’re not wasting my time.”