𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗦 ──── fourth wing

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗜𝗫

"Knowing I am in direct disagreement with General Melgren's orders, I am officially objecting to the plan set forth in today's briefing. It is not this general's opinion that the children of the rebellion's leaders should be forced to witness their parents' executions. No child should watch their parent put to death."

—The Tyrrish Rebellion, an official brief for King Tauri by General Lilith Sorrengail

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Professor Devera's penetrating gaze swept across the sea of eager faces as she welcomed us to our first 'kampbrief' or combat briefing. With its daily descent, the auditorium transformed into an arena of ambitions, the heartbeat of the academy's pulsating excitement. Her stature was as commanding as the room itself, even from the recessed floor of this vast circle of learning.

The purple-hued Flame section patch adorned her shoulder was not merely a symbol of her rank but an echo of her charisma, its vibrancy a testament to the electric atmosphere she fostered. It complemented her short hair, which was not just purple but a shade that carried the stories of twilight skies, imbuing her with an almost ethereal presence.

This cavernous, circular room was a rare convergence space in the citadel, its curved tiers embracing the ends of the academy hall as if it were cradling the future in its confident, architectural arms. It stood as one of the only two chambers capable of gathering all cadets into its fold, an architectural feat that magnified both voices and aspirations.

With its history of creaks and sighs, every wooden seat was filled to the brim, the thrum of anticipation palpable in the air. The upper-level students lined the walls like silent sentinels of wisdom, their presence a reminder of the journey ahead. Yet, space bent to accommodate dreams, and we found room to take root.

The departure from our history lesson was acute. Whereas in that smaller space, time seemed to linger with each threaded narrative, here, in the combat briefing room, the future charged forward with the urgency of a beating drum. In history, we were divided into small groups, comfortable and intimate, but now the first-year teams were clustered together, a mosaic of novices poised to learn.

Within our cluster, I tried to anchor the names of my peers in memory, each a wave that threatened to slip away from the shores of my mind. Among the names, Ridoc's resonated quickly, his witty quips from history class carving a distinct impression. Yet there's a respectful stillness about him now, an unspoken understanding that Professor Devera's domain was no stage for frivolity. Her reputation for sternness was an invisible line drawn in the hallowed space, a boundary of respect few dared to cross.

As the silence stretched in anticipation, it was clear that we stood at the precipice of a profound experience, our collective breaths held tight in the embrace of this scholastic coliseum. Here, before the formidable Professor Devera, we were more than students; we were the nascent bearers of the citadel's legacy.

Tension permeated the space around Violet and Rhiannon, mirrored by my rigid posture. Each of us was a statue carved by the silent pressure of anticipatory reverence that this class commanded. This was no ordinary learning; this was the art of dragonlore — a subject that, for me, had stitched itself into the very fabric of my being since I could remember. Dragons, with their mythic grandeur and whispery fables, had always captivated my spirit, but studying them here felt like approaching hallowed ground.

The air seemed to crackle with potential as if it, too, awaited Professor Devera's unveiling of long-guarded secrets. And then came the intrusion of Sgaegyl's voice within the quiet sanctuary of my mind, a mischievous ripple in the still waters of my concentration. Her mental intrusion was both a comfort and a vexation, echoing like a clandestine murmur in the cathedral of my thoughts.