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The first true frost of the season had crept over Lowmoor like a silent thief, sheathing the training yard in thin ice and turning each breath into white mist. Zephyr tightened the scarf around his neck and hoisted a wooden bucket over his shoulder, his boots crunching across the brittle grass toward Stable Row. His arms were sore from the previous day's rounds, but he welcomed the burn—it meant he hadn't stopped.
The academy had settled into its usual rhythm. Beast cries at dawn, caretaker bells at midmorning, the echo of instructor orders rolling across the dirt courtyards like drumbeats. Zephyr moved among it all like a ghost. Few spoke to him, but more eyes followed him now. Whispers circulated—about the Bristle Fang, about the red-eyed instructor who had backed him, and the F-rank feeder who did what a combat tamer could not.
He'd even caught Callen Dros glaring at him from across the mess hall two nights ago. That alone felt like an achievement.
Today, however, his schedule had shifted.
Stable Row was closed for repairs after one of the Rockhides broke through its gate in a tantrum. Instead, Zephyr was assigned to the Inner Grounds—specifically the holding stalls near the infirmary. It wasn't a punishment. Quite the opposite. Only those with precision and calm were allowed near the sick or wounded.
He followed Grent through a narrow corridor behind the southern garden. The walls here were built of darker stone, the air thick with herbal fumes, and a steady trickle of heat from the sunstones embedded in the ceiling.
Grent, as usual, led with little care for conversation.
"You'll handle Wing Three. Mostly sedated beasts. Still, don't get sloppy. One twitch and they'll have your face for dessert."
Zephyr nodded silently. Grent tossed him a keyring and turned down another corridor, already shouting at someone about spilled gel moss.
He moved to the reinforced door marked Wing Three and unlocked it slowly. The air inside was warmer, more humid, and filled with the subtle musk of blood, medicine, and beast breath. He counted six pens, each separated by stone barriers and rune-etched gates.
The first held a Frosthide Lynx with bandaged hind legs. The second, a Snapvine Boar with cracked tusks. But it was the third pen that drew his eyes.
A beast lay curled at the far end, half-shadowed, shivering.
[Name: Ashcrawler Drake – Rank B Beast (Youngling): A sub-drake species known for its black ash scales and poisonous spit. Incredibly rare in non-noble academies. Highly aggressive. Vulnerable during molt cycles.]
Zephyr stepped closer, gripping the railing.
The drake's breathing was uneven, its sides rising and falling in sharp jolts. Black scales flaked off its skin in patches, exposing red, irritated tissue underneath. A thick mixture of green and black bile leaked from one nostril.
He reached for the feed pouch at his side and hesitated.
This wasn't a normal sickness. He crouched down, observing its breathing, the dull color of its tongue, the crusted mucus around its eyes. A memory surfaced from one of the ancient caretaker manuals: ash drakes in molt needed heat-saturated minerals, not just protein. Without them, their bodies spiraled into fevered decay.
He whispered softly, "You're overheating. Your mana channels are burning out."
He stood and crossed to the storage shelf, rummaging through pouches until he found one labeled sunstone dust. He measured a careful amount, mixed it with the base feed, and returned to the pen.
The drake snapped at the air as he approached but didn't rise.
Zephyr reached slowly through the hatch, pouring the mixture into the reinforced trough. He tapped the side three times, a universal signal to injured beasts.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the drake lifted its head weakly and sniffed.
It dragged itself to the trough, sniffed again, and began to eat.
Zephyr let out the breath he'd been holding.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
He turned quickly.
A woman stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her violet-lined coat.
[Name: Wren Albrecht – Age 34, Rank A Healing Tamer: Chief beast medic at Lowmoor. Specializes in rare species stabilization and mana-core trauma.]
"You're not supposed to feed that drake without my approval," she said.
"I read the fever patterns," Zephyr replied calmly. "The mucus color. And the molt. The standard mix would have made it worse."
Wren raised an eyebrow. "And you're what? A stable boy?"
"F-rank," he said. "Beast Feed Cultivation."
She stepped forward, looking down at the trough.
"…Sunstone blend. With mineral stabilizer and low-salt grain." She turned her gaze back to him. "Correct dosage too."
He didn't reply.
She studied him another second, then gave a short nod.
"You have decent instincts. Better than some of my assistants." She walked past him, kneeling at the pen, inspecting the drake with professional care. "You're reassigned to Infirmary Wing Two. Starting tomorrow. Report to me, not Grent."
He stood frozen, unsure what to say.
Wren didn't wait for gratitude.
"Clean the remaining stalls. Then leave. And don't touch the Nightlurker in Pen Six. It bites through steel."
That evening, Zephyr sat beneath the flickering lantern in the caretaker dorm lounge, staring at the dragon emblem still faintly imprinted on the wax seal of the note he'd received the night before. It had come with no explanation, just a simple instruction:
Come to the old rookery at sundown. Come alone.
The old rookery was a crumbling dome near the edge of campus, closed for years due to structural decay and aggressive nesting beasts. It was rarely spoken of, but Zephyr had seen it once—half-swallowed by vines, its stained-glass windows shattered, the metal cages rusted shut.
He didn't know what drew him there.
But something in the seal, the ouroboros dragon, pulled at his chest like a forgotten name.
When the sun had nearly vanished, he slipped away from the dorms, past the rear gardens, across the abandoned aqueduct. The rookery stood quiet and broken beneath the gathering twilight.
He stepped inside.
Dust coated everything. Cracked bones littered the floor. The cages had long since been warped open. Feathers and straw still clung to the rafters, despite the years.
At the center of the rookery, beneath the largest broken dome, stood a hooded figure in gray robes.
"You came," the figure said.
Zephyr tensed. "Who are you?"
The figure raised a hand. A small light ignited between their fingers, casting golden ripples across the ground.
"You don't know what you carry, Zephyr Valorian. But others do."
Zephyr stepped forward. "What do I carry?"
The figure said nothing. Instead, he threw a sealed scroll to the floor.
"When the mark returns to your body, you will need this. Do not open it until the system chooses you."
Zephyr picked up the scroll. "What mark? What system?"
The figure was already walking away. "You've already begun awakening. Your blood remembers what the world has forgotten. When the time comes… the bond will choose."
Then he vanished, deeper into the rookery's shadows.
Zephyr stood there alone, scroll in hand, heartbeat thundering.
He didn't understand the words. But he felt the truth in them. Something ancient was stirring. And it had something to do with him.