Dancing Darkness

- chapter one

"Life is given to us by our parents, but the will to live is given by our dragons."
- CADET ERALYNN RIORSON, The Manual of Dragons.
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Chapter One - The Deadly Walk.

It's hard to be scared of death when it has been
chasing I you since birth.
I'm almost scared of my lack of emotion.
I have been trained to kill first, think second. To understand the dangers and evaluate the persons weakness.
This is what I was born to do.
Wind lashes at me from the sides, threatening to carry the cadets on the Parapet up and way, towards Malek.
I can't exactly see it, but I am guessing that they are having a hard time up here.
We climb up the steps quickly, people dispersing into clumps while I walk alone. The relic crawling across my face and down my neck doesn't help me look any more friendly, and I wasn't permitted to throw on a cloth mask.
I can feel people staring.
My expression is schooled into a layer of cold neutrality and I don't exactly feel like interacting with anyone right about now.
The air leaves my lungs as I reach the top of the stairs, greeted with a view of a lifetime.
The Parapet.
Rain smacks the carefully placed stones, all discolored by age and usage. Recruits are shimmying across as the rain falls harder and faster.
The area around me reeks of pride and determination. Cadets thinking they have what it takes to ride a dragon - not like I will be chosen by one, anyways.
At this point, I have accepted my death as another soul that will either be killed by a dragon at Threshing, or murdered by someone else.
Just in case I don't feel like dying, I keep 14 daggers stashed around my body. Even my nails are shaped in a way that could only resemble claws.
I can taste the excitement humming in the air. I don't understand it. Riding a dragon must be a experience, sure, but it is a death sentence in the nicest form.
To get on the back of a dragon, you kill and claw your way through people, and for what? A scaly creature that is in your mind for the rest of our mortal life? No thank you.
A sigh escapes my lips. A dark curl sweeps into my face, covering my eye for a moment.
My hair looks black in that moment, probably because of the rain and the lighting.
I run a hand through my sopping wet locks, careful of the pins meticulously placed around the sloppy ponytail.
All weapons matter here, big or small.
I'm surprised I haven't fell off yet.
Braylenn - or was it Bryson? I only overheard his name by the scribe - leaps on with the enthusiasm of a dog jumping for a bone.
He stumbles for a moment, grasping onto the side walls for support.
It almost makes me laugh.
I haven't laughed in years.
I step forward, setting my gaze on the frightened scribe. His gaze follows the scar down my face and his head is tilted upwards, attempting to reach my eyes.
"Eralynn Riorson." My tone is unfeeling. Rude, especially to a scribe. But I can't bring myself to care.
I'm usually a nice person.
Nicer than the others, I bet you. Most children of the rebellion aren't the sweetest. Malek has been chasing us since the moment our parents were killed. Now, we are promised death.
The scribes hand quivers for a moment, his jaw slack, until a shaky nod is his only response.
I can practically feel the stares burning into my back.
The rain as turned into a heavy shower, making the Paraphet seem uncrossable. I can barely see the next couple feet ahead of me, where it begins.
I'm curious why I am lacking so much feeling.
I rock back onto my heels, checking the rubber bottoms of my boots.
And I take the step onto the soaked stones of the Paraphet.