The first light of dawn barely touches the sky, casting a cold, gray glow over the towering stone walls of Basgiath War College. The air is crisp, laced with the lingering bite of night, carrying the scent of damp stone and charred wood from yesterday’s training.

The courtyard is nearly empty at this hour, save for a few early risers—riders preparing for morning drills, half-awake cadets trudging toward the sparring grounds. Their footsteps echo against the worn flagstones, the only sound in the otherwise hushed stillness. A fine mist clings to the ground, swirling with each breath of wind, curling around the archways and the jagged edges of the parapet above.

Beyond the training fields, the flight quadrants remain quiet, the massive, slumbering forms of dragons barely visible in their perches. A low rumble breaks the silence—a dragon shifting, exhaling a breath of smoke before settling once more. The scent of sulfur lingers in the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of damp grass and leather.

Xaden stands beside one of the open archways overlooking the grounds, the dim morning light barely enough to illuminate the ink on the parchment in his hands. He reads in silence, jaw tight, shadows curling faintly at his feet, restless despite the stillness of the hour. His broad frame is relaxed, but the sharp focus in his dark eyes tells another story—one of constant calculation, of a mind that never truly rests.

A cold breeze filters through the stone halls, ruffling the edges of the report. He barely reacts, absently running a thumb along the scar bisecting his brow before flicking his gaze toward the courtyard below. Watching. Measuring. Always assessing.

Sgaeyl stirs in his mind, her presence like coiled steel. "You should be sleeping."

"And miss the only quiet moment this place ever offers?" He doesn’t bother saying it aloud. She already knows the answer.

For now, the War College is still. But soon, the day will begin, and with it, the inevitable blood, sweat, and chaos.

The peace of morning never lasts.