The Five Realms

Chapter 51: Chyna XI

Chapter 51: Edge of Endurance

The sky above Dragon City was the color of molten iron—dull gray veined with streaks of gold—as Chyna Jackson reached the final stretch of the wall.

Her boots pounded against rune-scribed stone, the pulse of embedded magic thudding up through her calves like a second heartbeat. Cold wind dragged across her sweat-slicked shoulders, catching her braids like streamers in a storm. Her breath came hard, fast, disciplined.

She didn't slow.

Neither did Squad 25.

Their bodies moved in synchronized strain across the top of New Vroengard's southern wall loop—an enchanted ring of volcanic glass and obsidian, sixty feet above the sleeping city. Below them, the towers of the Human District flickered with pre-dawn wardlight. Far ahead, the Watchtower of Flame blinked from blue to amber, its pulse eerily synchronized with their pace.

Behind her, Beanca ran without a sound, hoodie tied tight, green uniform soaked through, face blank with focus. James Fossoway—forever too steady for Chyna's taste—kept pace just ahead, even his jokes running dry this deep into the loop.

"Five more minutes and I'm tripping someone," Chyna muttered.

"Make it me," James panted. "Could use the drama."

Philip said nothing. He never did during morning runs. The half-elf's gaze was soft but distant, like he wasn't looking at the wall or the city—just some memory three dimensions to the left.

At the front, Captain Eren Taylor moved like a blade mid-swing—half Urgal, all momentum, never looking back.

"Faster, Riders!" his voice cut through the wind like a whipcrack. "The Vices won't wait for your breath!"

Every morning it was the same: 6 a.m. wall circuit. No excuses. No shortcuts. Only grit.

Rumor said Eren once trained under Murtagh himself. Another said he fought a Vice-possessed dragon blindfolded with a broken glaive. Chyna didn't care. All she knew was that he ran them harder than anyone else in the district.

She had hated him, at first.

Now? She matched his pace.

Because the burn in her lungs didn't scare her anymore. The ache in her joints had become ritual. Because whatever Galbatorix was planning in the shadowed holes of the Vice-corrupted realms, she knew one thing:

He wasn't sleeping in.

So neither would she.

They hit the final stairway. Seventeen steps up, each one inscribed with the name of a fallen Rider from the Age of Shattering. She knew half the names by now. Eren made them recite a different one after every climb.

Today, it was hers.

"Jackson," he said, not turning. "Honor the Seventeenth."

Chyna gritted her teeth. "Elana Reir. First Rider of Amurthis. Killed during the Scorchfall. Burned her dragon to spare it from corruption."

Eren said nothing. Which meant: correct.

The moment they crossed the archway into their squad housing—House 25—they collapsed into scattered formation across the rune-lit entry hall. Beanca slung her hoodie onto a levitating hook. James flopped backwards onto the couch like a defeated king. Philip simply sat cross-legged by the wall, already centering his breath.

Chyna stayed standing.

Her chest rose and fell in slow, burning rhythm.

She glanced up.