Page 13 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

The prospects took an instinctive step back as the beast descended, its landing anything but graceful. Sand exploded in all directions as its claws dug into the beach, and the ground trembled beneath its weight. Its head jerked violently, nostrils flaring as it fought against the unseen bond tethering it to Kalem.

The dragon thrashed, throwing its head from side to side, a furious growl rattling from its throat. Its claws gouged deep trenches into the sand, its wings snapping open and closed in agitation. The golden eyes that settled on Kalem burned with resistance, a primal challenge glowing within their depths.

Then, with a sudden, guttural snarl, the dragon’s spiked tail slammed into the ground, shaking the earth beneath our feet. The movement sent more of the onlookers stumbling back, and even Kalem hesitated for a split second.

“Congratulations, Kalem,” Major Kaler said, his voice calm despite the clear unpredictability of the beast before him. “Your dragon is a Clubtail.”

Kalem swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides.

Kaler stepped forward and held out a thick leather rope. “Now approach him and swing this over his neck. Use it to pull yourself up. Let’s see how far he will allow you to ride him.”

Kalem’s hesitation lasted only a breath before he took the rope, his jaw tightening with resolve. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward, toward the still-growling dragon that would determine his fate. Kalem approached the thrashing dragon cautiously, then secured the rope, mounted, and took off into the sky. Though the dragon resisted at first, the flight lasted almost two minutes before it landed again. The rest of the ceremony continued in a blur, Riven bonded with a smaller silver Striker named Zola, Jax was paired with a burly blue Palisade with armored scales named Koddos, and Naia bonded with a fierce orange Swordtail named Temil.

Ferrula was next and bonded with a green Clubtail named Narvea before Major Kaler called a prospect from Stormforge to the table.

“Luther, place your hand over the bowl.” Seconds ticked by.

The major set his ledger down with finality. “You have no dragon. Please report to infantry,” he stated, his tone flat and impassive.

Luther’s face twisted in disbelief. “That can’t be. All the males in my family are riders,” he protested, his voice edged with barely concealed desperation. His hands clenched at his sides,his shoulders rigid with the kind of anger that had nowhere to go.

Kaler didn’t blink. “You are compatible, but your dragon no longer exists or is too young to bond. You are allowed to return for five years. In the meantime, you will serve your king as a member of First Guild.”

Luther’s lips pressed into a tight line, his nostrils flaring. His nod was sharp, clipped, but the barely restrained fury burning in his gaze told me he wanted to murder the major on the spot. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked away toward the rope that led to the tunnel.

“Unlucky bastard,” Jax muttered under his breath.

“Or maybe lucky,” Riven whispered. “Better to be in First Guild than dead because you bonded with a dragon that didn’t want you.”

Major Kaler paid the exchange no mind, already moving down the list. “Cordelle, you are next.”

Our poet walked toward the table with an easy smile, his usual quiet reserve tinged with excitement. He placed his hand over the bowl, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if feeling for something unseen. Then he reached in and withdrew a pendant.

The reaction was instant.

A roar, lighter and less furious than the ones before, echoed from the dragon isle. Moments later, a sleek form launched into the sky, gliding effortlessly toward the beach.

Unlike the massive, rage-filled beasts that had come before, this dragon was smaller, its scales a rich, earthen-brown. It didn’t streak toward the shore in fury or resistance—it drifted, its wings cutting through the air with an effortless grace. When it landed, it settled onto the sand without the usual thrashing or defiance, its golden eyes scanning the group before landing on Cordelle with a patient, almost expectant expression.

It was waiting for him.

Cordelle’s smile widened. He walked toward the dragon with a careful but eager stride, struggling slightly as he fumbled with the rope. The brown dragon let out a soft, chuffing sound, tilting its head in what looked like amusement. It did not snap or jerk away, simply waited as Cordelle took his time securing the rope around its thick neck.

Once he was finally mounted, he gripped the rope tightly and leaned forward, bracing himself.

“Here we go,” he murmured, before the dragon launched into the sky.

Unlike the earlier prospects, who had been forced to wrestle their beasts into submission, Cordelle’s flight was effortless. The brown Swift carried him upward in a fluid, smooth motion, its wings barely needing to adjust.

Then Cordelle laughed—a genuine, elated sound that rang through the air.

“Wheee!” he hollered as the dragon carried him in a wide arc over the ocean, his laughter carrying back to us.

Riven snorted. “Did he just say ‘whee’?”

“I think he did,” I muttered, watching him as he soared above the water like a child taking their first ride on a festival swing.

The flight lasted over ten minutes, far longer than any before him. Cordelle and his dragon moved as one, as if they had been waiting years to be reunited rather than moments to be introduced. It was only when Major Kaler barked at him to return that Cordelle finally circled back, his mount gliding down with pinpoint accuracy.