Page 56 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

Cordelle, ever eager, stepped forward. His dragon, Kasstovian, a sleek brown Swift, was one of the few to land. He crouched nearby, watching with curious golden eyes.

“Place your hand on the stone, Cordelle,” Zander instructed. “Let your dragon’s magic flow through you. Don’t force it. Let it find you.”

Cordelle nodded, his expression serious for once, and knelt onto the packed earth and placed his hand on the flat stone.

The moment his fingers met the ground, the air shimmered, like a ripple in a still pond. A warm glow emanated from beneath his palm, and then?—

The earth split open in a slow, deliberate crack, and from it, a sapling emerged.

I exhaled as the tiny green leaves unfurled, reaching toward the sunlight as if they had been waiting for this moment.

Cordelle gasped. “I—I did that?”

“Excellent, Cordelle.” Zander nodded approvingly. “You possess the power of Flourish.”

Cordelle stared at his hands, as if they suddenly belonged to someone else.

“We will now specialize your training,” Zander continued. “And see if you have a secondary power. All future magic training will be with Major Ledor.”

Cordelle’s wide-eyed excitement was contagious, but all I could think about was how my turn was coming.

And if Kaelith wasn’t here, what was I going to do?

Another prospect stepped forward, this one from Iron Fang. His name was Arman, and he held himself with the confidence of someone who expected to succeed.

I barely paid attention as he knelt, pressing his palm to the stone.

At first, nothing happened.

Then—the ground ignited.

A fissure of fire spread from his fingertips, racing up his wrist with unnatural speed.

Arman’s eyes widened in horror as flames engulfed his entire forearm, crawling up his skin like a living entity.

Then he screamed.

The sound was pure agony, slicing through the air like a blade.

Before I could process what was happening, a blur of white robes shoved past the crowd of cadets and prospects.

A healer.

I hadn’t even noticed her standing behind the group until now.

She didn’t hesitate. She snatched Arman’s wrist, her fingers digging into his burned skin.

The flames vanished—snuffed out in an instant.

The smell of charred flesh still lingered, but as she held his arm, his burns knitted together before our eyes.

“Thank you, Meri,” Zander said.

Meri only nodded, still clutching Arman’s wrist, her expression set in grim concentration.

Zander turned back to the rest of us, his voice cold, sharp, unforgiving.

“This,” he said, pointing to the shaking Iron Fang prospect, “is what happens when your dragon fails to anchor your power.”