Page 7 of Burning Heir

I caught one last glimpse of Charles. “I promise one of us will win,” I said, “but I can’t promise we’ll both return.”

He nodded silently, his face unreadable.

Knox stood at the golden gates, the faint sound of combat clashing beyond the stone walls. “Did you see that dragon?” I asked breathlessly.

Knox nodded. “Take a good look while you can. Dragon riders wouldn’t be caught dead talking to us. We’re just pigeon riders to them. Weak.”

I always assumed the northern winds were strong. “That can’t be true,” I said. “Father would have told us.”

“Face it, Sev. We know nothing outside of North Colindale. You think a bird’s more powerful than a dragon?” Knox scoffed.

Behind golden fences, the Serpent Academy loomed. Sculpted hedges formed poised creatures along slick, onyx stone, reflecting like black water. Ships docked as creatures of all kinds flew in, their feathered wings sweeping above. Hundreds of students moved through the courtyard, their quells rippling from open palms, relics and marks etched into their skin.

The senior students stood out in dark green blazers, each adorned with the academy emblem—a geometric snake. Some wore sweater vests, others leather vests slashed by claws. Daggers hung from every exposed limb.

A hazel-eyed male met my gaze from the path ahead, a fleck of blood crusted on his dimpled chin. His smile slowly curled toward me.

I reminded myself that they could kill with a glance, most students were already masters of their quells.

“Charles said we should hide our hair,” I whispered. “Do you have a cloak?” I glanced at Knox’s rucksack—worn from years of hunting trips with Father and Charles. It seemed unlikely he’d packed many clothes.

Knox scoffed. “They say our birthmark’s a curse—oh, shit.”

He froze, eyes fixed on a three-headed hydra. A blonde woman steered it down the path, her hair tangling in the wind. The dragon spread its scaled wings and landed gracefully before the doors.

“That’s... Malachi Herring,” Knox whispered. “TheMalachi Herring.”

Herring. A name among the most elite in Verdonia, meaning she was either related to or married into King Norvin’s family. Her cloak glinted with golden stars, revealing muscular legs beneath a pale lace dress. The wind seemed to follow her, flurrying around her pristine combat boots. A bejeweled dagger hung at her ribs.

“Is she a student?” I asked, baffled.

Her amber eyes swept over the crowd before she glided past us, leaving a trail of vanilla scent in the air. She draped a sheer lace cloak over her head, the wind nudging her heel, stirring debris. She didn’t look back, her gaze fixed ahead as she approached the ancient stone steps.

“Looks like it,” Knox muttered. “The king’s granddaughter definitely rides dragons.”

The king’s granddaughter had come to face trial.

We passed beneath silver-and-gold-scaled arches—like dragon wings dipped in metal—leading to a black-stone castle surrounded by vines that snapped at the approaching students. Even the plants were deadly. I was in over my head.

At the castle’s edge, a black-glass snake coiled around the southern end, its head frozen in mid-attack. Trees bordered the campus, flanking six narrow trails. One was slicked with frost—Winter’s trail. Another, likely Spring, burst with lilies and sunflowers. A faint electric hum buzzed from the entrances, the ward trapping heat and cold behind it.

Guards stood at the gates, assessing every student. They dismissed Malachi with a simple nod. Their snakeskin cloaks swayed as swords glinted at their spines.

One guard raised his sword, nearly slicing me. I froze as the blade slipped beneath my cloak, ripping my hood down.

“Conceal,” the guard muttered, his copper eyes piercing through me as if he could see every bone. I feared he might endme with a single stroke. But the guard lowered his blade, allowing us to pass.

I clung to Knox’s arm, nearly tripping on the pearl rug. Whispers rippled among the first-years as warmth enveloped us, pulling us into the grand hall.

Scales and shattered light filtered through stained-glass windows. A grandfather clock ticked by the podium. Two staircases forked ahead, one marked with a sun symbol, the other with a blue thunbergia—the symbol of Spring. The castle groaned, hissing with age as students crowded together.

Knox nudged me, his gaze flicking to six figures near the podium. Their bodies were covered in intricate serpent tattoos, each a precise brushstroke, a hissing lindworm marking them.

A woman with dark skin stood with arms crossed, braids cascading over her shoulders. Her upturned nose tilted as if she could smell the fear in the room. That must be Saani. A whip of flame curled around her wrist, faint embers crackling in the air.

To her left stood a tall man with olive-toned skin, muscles straining beneath his white, tailored shirt. Violet buttons ran down his broad chest, each one barely holding against his frame. His sharp blue eyes swept the crowd, as did the serpent tattoo coiling around his neck.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Father’s serpent mark was on his arm—and why he always kept it hidden from us.

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