Dancing Darkness

- chapter three

"Dragons have no care for bloodline or status. To enrage a dragon is death in itself; running is only making your nonexistent chance of life slimmer." - GENERAL MELGRENS PERSONAL DIARY.
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Chapter Three - Sacrifice.

The quadrant assembles in a typical formation, with three columns per wing and the roll keeper calling out name after name, dividing the first years into squads.
It's making my head hurt.
Even more people are staring now, probably because of my heigh. Gods, couldn't people look away?
"Eralynn.." The roll-keeper pauses. "Eralynn Riorson to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing."
I ignore the gasps around me at my name.
My steps are even and calculated. Every piece of my being has to be in control or it will be a death sentence.
The training I have gained over the years has built up to the year I have to live, even if it is a small chance.
Everyone is whispering.
Why can't everyone shut up?
When I finally slip into formation, I take in the people in my squad.
The woman who looked like Armani is on my squad, standing at the top left of the squad. Her face is schooled into neutrality, but it is quite obvious that she is nervous.
Another stands with perfect posture. Weird, since it looks almost formal. Royal, even.
I place the information into a selected half of my mind, just in case.
You never know.
A tan-skinned man with jet-black hair and a tattoo running down his lower neck stands next to a small woman with a braid, silver streaking through her hair.
The Sorrengail.
My eyes burn into the back of her head, taking in every note about her. The daughter of the general.
The one who killed my father.
And I just so happen to be put into this exact squad?
The muscle in my jaw aches from how hard I am clenching it.
Apparently, I am the most put-together first-year here. The others are practically radiating fear. It's in every drop of sweat sliding down the stocky guys neck three rows ahead, in every bitten nail the brunette spits out onto the gravel next to him. It's flowing out of their pores like water.
The man with the jet-black hair speaks, twisting his head to talk to the Sorrengail.
"Is it me, or is this fucking weird?"
Another second-year speaks. "Fucking weird," She agrees. "I kind of want to tell them that it's going to be okay—"
"It's not polite to lie," A third-year with pink hair rolls her eyes, while a blonde haired rider trims the ends of her blonde curls with a dagger. "Don't get attached. They're all dragon fodder until Threshing."
Well, I'm stuck with a reassuring bunch.
The stocky guy with deep umber skin looks over his shoulder, shooting a wide-eyed look at the third-year.
She stares at him until making a slow circle with her forefinger, wordlessly demanding the man to turn back around. He obliges.
I chuff, rolling my neck and observing the sky. I heard that something happens after squads, but you can never be certain with Basgiath.
Truth is relative, laws can be broken.
They continue to chatter, leaving me with a horrid headache and a fantastic welcome to what I will have to deal with for three years.
If I make it that long.
At this point, I have come to terms with this. There is no way that I make it. Even with years of training under my belt, no dragon wants or needs a rider like me. Honestly, my grip couldn't beat a mouses.
The Sorrengail tenses. "Shit." She mutters, following a woman named Sloane. A relic peaks through her leathers.
Just because I also have a relic doesn't mean I know everyone who does.
"I'd consider that a blessing." A rider— probably her friend— says quietly. "She didn't seem to be a fan."
Moments later, the roll-keeper clears her throat. "Correction!" She calls over the crowd. "Sloane Mairi to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing."
The Sorrengail's shoulders dip in pure relief.
Sloane appears a minute or two later, and apparently, the rider from earlier was correct.
She is not a fan.
"No. I refuse. Any squad but this one."
I cross my arms, watching the interaction with the focus of a dragon.
The goddess looking one moves from her place at the front of our squad and gives Sloane a glare. "Does it look like a shit what you want, Mairi?"
"Mairi?" A freckled man looks back through the lines, past the line of first years— including me, thank gods— and stares at the Sorrengail.
"Liam's sister." She verifies.
Ah. Me and Liam were in the same foster home for a bit, but it didn't last long. Maybe that is why there is some familiarity when I look at Sloane.
Yeah, it's definitely the eyes.
His jaw slackens.
"No shit?" The tattooed one glanced between Sloane and the Sorrengail.
"No shit." Sorrengail responds. "Oh, and if you haven't noticed, she already hates me."
A flicker of a strange emotion is in my chest before I squash it down.
Amusement is not useful in the Riders Quadrant.
"I cannot be in the same squad as her!" Sloane glares at Sorrengail with liquid fire- pure hatred.
Wonder what she did to deserve that.
The pink-haired one rolls her eyes. "Stop disrespecting your squad leader and get in formation, Sloane." She hisses. "You're acting like a spoiled aristocrat."
"Imogen?" Sloane startles.
I really need to start learning names.
"Get. In. Formation." The squad leader orders. "I'm not asking, cadet."
At least I don't have a pussy as a squad leader.
Sloane pales and steps into line, right next to me, taking the last first-year slot.
The second-years and third-years whisper amongst themselves like infantry.
It hits me how far back we are from the dais, where the wing leaders wait with Commandant Panchek. Tufts of his hair catch in the noon breeze.
I keep my eyes directed forward, getting a clear view of the courtyard.
Sloane clears her throat once, twice. My annoyed sigh is my only response.
"Your gonna have to look at me eventually." She snaps. She has a short temper.
That will get her killed.
I slowly twist my head down, my eyes narrowing on her. Blonde hair, blue eyes.. gods, her eyes are just like her brothers. A carbon copy of him. Well, if he was a girl.
I raise a brow at her suddenly pale face.
"Can I help you?"
She stares. Long and hard, as if contemplating a appropriate answer.
"You have a relic on y-your.." She swallows.
"My face." My blank response snaps Sloane out of  her weird trance. "It's not a secret by any means."
My poor attempt at sarcasm comes out clipped and stern.
Lord, I need to get better at talking to people.
Sloane gives me a curt nod before we fall silent for a few beats.
"Sloane Mairi. You?" She twists toward me, raising a hand for me to shake.
I stare at it for a beat. Everyone here is a enemy until they prove otherwise. But, the Codex says you cannot kill in-front of commandment.
So, I take her hand. My grip is weak, like always. "Eralynn. Eralynn Riorson."
Before she can respond, the ceremony starts. First, Pancheks ominous-yet-pompous welcome to the first-years and our new vice commandant, and then another rider delivers a surprisingly inspirational speech about the honor of defending our people before the wing leader takes the lead.
He does.. alright.
The sound of wing beats and the gasps around me fill the air, and I freeze, my eyes following the large creatures land on the courtyard walls behind the dais.
I'm not a scribe. I can't recite the Codex or remember the best ways to survive torture, but I loved dragons when I was little. I researched them day and night until I could recite every piece of history about them.
So, I watch as the others shriek and shake, but I just stare in awe.
Such awe that everything doesn't matter except the creatures.
Even with my extensive knowledge of dragons, I've never seen a real one outside of drawings. My inner child is practically vibrating with delight.
That orange looks temperamental, his gaze darting over the formation as his tail twitches.
Shrieks echo off the stone walls as the dragons claws flex, digging into the stonework. A heavy rock falls, missing the dais by a mere matter of feet and yet, not a single second or third year flinches.
They are a beauty to behold. But, I would never get on the back of one of those creatures. Especially with my grip.
It's a death sentence.
The redhead in my exact row vomits, puke splattering the gravel, then the perfect posture guys boots as she bends at the waist and heaves.
Disgusting.
Sloane shifts her stance like she is about to run.
That sounds like a horrible idea.
The Sorrengail opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
"The Orange Daggertail will kill you before you get to the gate. He is eyeing us like lunch, and his claws are motioned toward the gate." I sigh, gently grabbing Sloane's shoulder. "Stand straight. Eyes forward."
She stiffens at my touch, her blue eyes clashing with my onyx ones. Our staring match last for decades.
Eons.
Until she blinks with her fists curled at her sides, twisting to look forward again.
The Sorrengail looks right at me, having to tilt her head up.
I give her a sharp nod before turning my back to her again.
"Let's hope the rest aren't sympathetic pukers," The disgust is evident in his tone.
"Yeah, that one isn't going to make it if she does that at Presentations." Imogen whispers.
"A third of you will be dead by next July. If you want to wear rider black, then you earn it!" The wing leader shouts, his voice rising with each word. "You earn it every single day!"
His Red Swordtail digs his red claws into the masonry and leans over the wing leaders head, swinging his swordtail behind him in a serpentine motion as he blows a hot breath of steam over the crowd.
What does that dragon have stuck in its teeth?
Cries sound in the courtyard.
I clench my jaw, attempting to show not a single sign of weakness. I'm not going to get killed by a dragon, not toda—
A first-year on the right— Tail Section— breaks out of the formation and sprints towards the parapet.
Oh gods.
That seems to be my mantra today.
"We have a runner." Tattoo guy mutters. "Shit." Sorrengail cringes as more people— two others from Third Wing— start to follow suit.
"Looks contagious." The blonde rider adds.
"Fuck, they actually think they'll make it." Imogen sighs, her face tight.
They nearly collide in the center of our wing, our section, then they run.
Run and run and run to the opening in the courtyard, where the parapet sits.
I grit my teeth. There is no possible explanation for the dragons to not kill the cadets.
I twist toward the dragons.
The Orange Daggertail extends his neck, tilts his head low. Too low. And, curls his tongue, the glow of fire evident—
"Get down!" Me and Sorrengail shout in unison, as I lunge to the gravel, blocking out the pin pricks of pain as I do so.
Fire licks at my back, a hot burn that grows until a scream works up my throat. I can't breathe in this inferno, let alone give it voice.
Death is for cowards. My foster father's words ring in my head.
I will not die today.
The heat dissipates, and I fill my lungs with precious oxygen, panting for air until I rise to my knees and stand to my full height.
That Daggertail took out the runners, one of the first-years, and at least half of Third Squad.
The smell of burnt flesh is high in the air. Sticking to my hair and skin while the remains of the fire burns around us in small amounts. The only thing I feel as the adrenaline wears off is fury. Cold blooded anger that I push down, down, down.. until I feel nothing at all.
It's easier to think with your mind when emotions are not involved.
Sorrengail's back is torched. The front of her uniform is burned clean through, especially at her back. The man with the tattoo hairs was flattened and singed by the fire.
This is a mess. A catastrophe.
"Get back into formation!" Panchek's voice amplifies over the courtyard, breaking my thoughts in two. "Riders do not balk at fire!"
I sputter, twisting towards a trembling Sloane.
I take a soft step, making sure she won't blow up like an explosive arrow. Than, I clear my throat, attempting to fix the sudden dryness.
"It's alright." My voice is surprisingly soothing.
I gently grab her wrist and tug her back into formation. It's easy to do since shock makes her space out.
"Now!" Panchek demands.
Fuck him. Fuck all of this.
"It is not only the first-years who earn their leathers at Basgiath!" I swear his eyes are on Sorrengail. "The wings are only as strong as their weakest rider!"
A girl with blackish-blue hair a row ahead makes a run for it.
Has she learned nothing?
But, before I can watch this woman die by the Orange Daggertail's horrific fire, heavy wing beats fill the air.
A humongous, black dragon— triple the size of any of the other dragons— lands on the wall behind us, his wings flaring so wide one nearly touches the dormitory as he takes out the top row of stones next to the parapet. His yellow, cat-like eyes flash with fury.
First-years scream, running for their lives.
I'm frozen in place. A Morningstartail.
The wing leaders dragons rear back, including the Red Swordtail, avoiding this dragons wrath.
But, than the world pauses.
He lets loose such a earth-shattering roar in the Daggertails direction that the ground shakes beneath me, shaking my very core.
My hands slam over their ears, my entire body vibrating with the sound, the dragons hot air blasting the back of my neck.
The other dragons take a step back, towards the side of the wall as his roar of terror ends, away from the Daggertail.
"Holy shit." A rider whispers.
That sums it up.
The black dragon extends his neck forward, high above our squad, then snaps his teeth together loudly in the orange dragons direction in a crystal clear threat.
At this point, I'm staring with no shame at this beast.
The Orange Daggertail's lets loose a short, rasping snarl, then moves his head in a serpentine movement, like the one the Red Swordtail had before.
That moment seemed eons ago.
His claws grip and I grip the edge of the wall, and I can't breathe until he launched upward, his wings beating while he retreated.
My head snapped towards the daughter of the general.
That was how I met Violet Sorrengail and the Iron Squad.