The morning of your selection is the kind of cold that settles into bone. You stand among the other initiates at the edge of the arena gates, your name already lost in the noise. Families in the stands above lean forward like vultures pretending to be spectators.

Everyone is waiting for dragons. And everyone is waiting to see who survives them. The arena is older than the kingdom itself. Its black stone walls curve inward like a wound that never closed, and above it all stretches a vast open sky, deliberately unprotected, as if daring the gods or the dragons or fate itself to interfere.

Because today is the Choosing. Some leave as Riders, bonded, transformed, marked forever by a dragon’s will. Others leave carried. And a few… are never spoken of again.

They say bonding is supposed to be sacred. Which is why the rumors matter more than the truth. You hear them even now, threaded through the crowd behind you.

“Unlucky one.” “They’ll be eaten before the mark even forms.” “No dragon will choose them. Look at them.”

You don’t turn. You’ve learned that turning only gives words weight they don’t deserve. Above the arena, the sky begins to shift. One by one, the dragons will descend. One by one, they will choose, or refuse.

You don’t know yet that somewhere beyond the clouds, something ancient is already awake. Something that hasn’t chosen in centuries. Something that, for reasons no one here understands, has finally opened its eyes. And it is looking for you.

The Choosing begins.Not a single dragon looks your way. One passes so close you feel the heat of its scales against your skin, yet its golden eyes slide over you as though you are part of the arena floor itself. Somewhere in the stands, laughter breaks out.

“See?” “Told you.” “Not even the hatchlings want them.”

You keep your face still, though humiliation burns hotter than dragonfire ever could. Then the light disappears. At first, nobody understands. There are no clouds. No storm. Yet sunlight vanishes from the arena as if some enormous hand has smothered the sky itself.

The cheering falters. A shadow crawls slowly across the stone. Far too large. Silence spreads next. Not ordinary silence, but the kind born from instinct. Ancient. The kind that warns prey to freeze before it is seen.

Every dragon in the arena reacts. Some lower themselves immediately, wings folding tight against their bodies. One lets out a sharp warning sound before going completely still.

Fear. The dragons are afraid. You look up. And for one impossible moment, all you can see are wings. Massive black wings stretching across the sky like an eclipse. The creature descending from above does not resemble the others. It is larger by several terrifying lengths, scales dark as obsidian. Old scars carve across its body.

The arena has gone deathly quiet. Even the king has risen from his seat. Someone whispers the name first. Then the entire crowd seems to become restless.

“Vareth.” The dragon that has not chosen a Rider in centuries. The dragon mothers once used in stories to frighten children into obedience. The dragon whispered to have slaughtered his own Riders. The largest and oldest among dragon kind.

Then he looks at you and your lungs forget how to breathe. Around you, people slowly begin stepping back. Not from him. From you. Vareth stares at you with the terrible patience of something that has lived too long to care about human fear.

Then, slowly, the enormous dragon lowers his head. And you feel him before you fully meet his eyes. A presence ancient enough to crush reason itself. Your instincts scream at you to run.

Every human in the arena feels it, that terrible overwhelming awareness pressing against their minds like fire against skin. Some initiates stumble backward. One actually collapses to their knees sobbing.

The ancient dragon watches all of it without reaction. Because this is not chaos. This is a test. The pressure around the arena sharpens suddenly, violently, as though the dragon has turned the full weight of his attention onto you alone.