The first warning came in the form of the sky.

  It wasn’t stormy. There were no dark clouds or lightning streaks. But the sun had taken on a faint golden sheen that wasn’t sunlight—not entirely. Like something behind it was shining through.

  Nathan noticed it the moment he stepped into the trial circle.

  They were back in the Survival compound—this time, not for training drills, but for the semester’s first formal mock combat trial. Instructor Andren stood in the center, arms crossed, jaw tense.

  “Today,” he said, “you’ll form groups of four. You’ll be dropped into a live environment. No spells above level three. No solo casting unless your instructor gives approval. The target is simple: breach the opposing team’s stronghold and retrieve their sigil stone.”

  A hush fell over the students.

  “Failure means a failing mark. Injury means disqualification. Cowardice means I’ll remember your name.”

  Nathan’s fingers twitched. His stylus rested at his hip in a quick-release slot—a new design issued for fast-draw casters. Not that he used it much.

  He looked around and spotted Lissandre, already making her way toward him, a cocky little smirk under her curls. Krit joined them a heartbeat later.

  Before Nathan could ask, Roremand Serel appeared at Lissandre’s other side, arms crossed, face unreadable.

  “Don’t flatter yourselves,” he said. “My group withdrew. You’ll do.”

  Nathan blinked. “We’re thrilled.”

  “I’m not here to carry you.”

  “And yet,” Lissandre said brightly, “here you are.”

  They were led to their starting zone—a forested cliff edge overlooking a narrow valley. The opposing team was already being portaled to their bunker across the basin.

  “You have fifteen minutes to plan,” said Instructor Andren. “Then we begin.”

  The bell rang.

  Ten minutes in, the valley was already chaos.

  Spells whirled through the air—bursts of air, ropes of thorned roots, streaks of water darting between trees. The terrain had shifted again, and now jagged stone ridges broke the battlefield into channels and killzones.

  Nathan’s team had split into pairs.

  Lissandre and Roremand were circling left to draw fire.

  Nathan and Krit advanced straight through the center ravine—quiet, fast, invisible under Krit’s thin shroud of smoke and sensory dulling.

  Their job was simple: flank and disable the other team’s sigil glyph.

  It was going too well.

  Krit whispered, “Three ahead. Waiting. Not moving. Traps, maybe.”

  Nathan nodded. He’d never cast an invisibility ward, but the fog Krit generated kept him mostly hidden—so long as he didn’t move too fast.

  They crept down a narrow ridge.

  Nathan was about to reach the last bend when something snapped.

  Not a twig.

  A spell.

  A hidden glyph flared under Krit’s feet, and a violent burst of kinetic force blasted them backward into a jagged ridge of stone.

  “Krit!”

  Nathan scrambled to them. Krit wasn’t unconscious—yet—but their breathing was ragged, and their pulse rune had dimmed dangerously.

  He turned just in time to see three enemy students rise from the mist—one with stone skin, another with a net of living vines, and the third already charging a flame javelin.

  No.

  He raised his hand. He cast the fastest rune he knew—just a basic barrier. It fizzled. The first javelin hit his ward and burst into sparks. The second wave was coming. He wasn’t going to make it. And then—

  It snapped.

  Something inside him—something deep—broke open. Not like a bone. Like a seal. The air around him shivered. And then the sound came. Not a scream. Not thunder. But a choir of bells, distant and layered and impossibly massive. The wind changed direction. Light cracked the air. Every spell in the vicinity—his enemies’, his own—froze mid-flight. And then the sky opened.

  The sky didn't just open—it tore. A seam appeared high above Nathan, spilling liquid radiance across the battlefield like an upturned basin of starlight. Time slowed, breaths caught, spells shimmered in midair, frozen like suspended jewels. Then came the sound again. Not bells this time. Not music. Something older, richer—a sound of something ancient waking from slumber.

  Nathan stared upward, heart hammering in his chest, breath shallow. He knew—deep in his bones, in the fibers of his being—that this was not just a spell. This was something else. Something other. From within the tear, starlight began to pour forth in shimmering threads, weaving together, entwining, forming something massive and alive.

  A silhouette emerged. Wings first—wide and ghostly, spanning half the valley in glittering arcs of silver and blue. The rest of the body followed: massive and sleek, graceful and powerful, woven from threads of pure starlight and constellations. Every scale glittered like a captured fragment of the night sky, each movement flowing like water and wind.

  A dragon—unlike any Nathan had ever seen depicted in books or runes or even legends. This creature was made of sky itself, born from something beyond magic as they knew it. It descended slowly, deliberately, its movement utterly silent, though the air trembled at its approach.

  Its vast wings swept forward, gently setting it down beside Nathan. The ground shook under the gentle weight. It towered over him, larger than the arena gates, more magnificent than the statues that lined the university halls.

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  And it turned its eyes down to meet Nathan’s own.

  Those eyes—golden and deep, filled with galaxies, constellations shifting and spinning slowly in the depths of each pupil. The dragon leaned down, its face close enough for Nathan to feel the pulse of starlight that radiated from its scales. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He was barely breathing. He felt its awareness brush against him, like a whisper without words. Recognition flooded through him, inexplicable and instant. He knew this creature. He had always known it.

  It was the music he’d heard in his bones. It was the golden thread woven through his dreams. It was the silence he’d feared and the symphony he’d never understood. All those moments of feeling incomplete, disconnected—they were fragments, waiting for exactly this.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Nathan raised one trembling hand. His fingertips brushed the creature’s muzzle, and for a heartbeat the entire world seemed to pause. A gentle warmth spread through him, flooding his senses—an emotion too deep and too vast to name.

  Belonging.

  At his touch, the dragon emitted a soundless roar, powerful enough that the air rippled, pushing outward in gentle waves. Nathan felt it in his chest—deep and resonant, but utterly without fear.

  Then, with a graceful fluidity, the dragon curled around him protectively, wrapping Nathan within a barrier of soft, radiant starlight.

  Its massive head rested beside him, eyes closing softly, as though finally at peace after centuries of waiting.

  All around, students and professors stood frozen, spellbound, unable to move or speak or even breathe normally.

  Slowly, the spells caught in midair faded harmlessly. The combat stopped entirely, forgotten in the presence of something impossible.

  Professor Andren, face white and slack with disbelief, took a step forward, but no further. He raised one shaking hand, as if to cast—but lowered it immediately, knowing instinctively that this creature was not here to harm.

  Students around the battlefield whispered, voices trembling with awe:

  "What is it?"

  "Where did it come from?"

  A voice—perhaps Roremand’s, though Nathan wasn’t sure—whispered softly, yet the word echoed clearly across the field:

  "Celestial."

  The professors exchanged glances, their faces openly astonished.

  “Celestial…” murmured Professor Caelinn, stepping forward slowly, eyes wide. "This… this is impossible."

  Professor Brannock, normally unshakable, stood staring at Nathan, utterly speechless.

  And Professor Varis, eyes narrowed in fascination, whispered to himself, almost reverently, "A Celestial bond doesn’t exist."

  At the center of it all, Nathan stood, heart hammering, but strangely calm. He leaned into the dragon, resting one hand gently against its shimmering neck. It felt right. As if this had always been the way it was supposed to be.

  He looked down at Krit, who was now stirring weakly, eyes fluttering open. Relief flooded Nathan’s chest.

  “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

  Krit nodded slowly, staring up at the dragon that curled protectively around them. Their eyes filled with quiet awe.

  “You called something,” they whispered. “You found something.”

  “I think,” Nathan breathed, “it found me.”

  High above, the tear in the sky sealed itself gently, fading into a clear, quiet blue as if nothing extraordinary had happened. But no one in the valley would forget. And Nathan—still cradled in the shimmering embrace of a creature that shouldn't exist—felt, for the first time, whole.

  Nathan didn’t move. He hardly breathed. Beside him, the dragon lay curled, its radiant scales softly pulsing with the rhythm of distant starlight, each breath a quiet ripple of luminous silver threads.

  The battlefield, now completely silent, was frozen in awe and confusion. The professors, usually so sure of themselves, stood cautiously at the edges of the field, exchanging wary glances. Professor Caelinn stepped forward first, eyes wide, hesitant but determined.

  “Nathan,” she began carefully, voice low and steady as if speaking louder might shatter whatever fragile peace had settled. “Can you tell us what you did just now?”

  Nathan looked up, still dazed, feeling the dragon’s quiet pulse within his own heartbeat. He shook his head slowly.

  “I don't know,” he said honestly. “Krit was hurt. I couldn’t cast. I just felt—desperate. Then something broke open.”

  Professor Varis approached carefully, studying the dragon as if it might vanish if he blinked.

  “Something broke?” he echoed, thoughtful. “Explain.”

  Nathan swallowed hard. “A seal, or a barrier inside me. And then the sky tore open. I didn’t mean to call anything. I didn’t cast anything. It just happened.”

  Varis exchanged a look with Professor Caelinn. Brannock, always stern, approached cautiously, arms crossed, scowling with open suspicion—not hostile, just uncertain.

  “This creature,” he said, choosing his words deliberately, “is not documented in any texts I’ve studied. Do you know what it is?”

  Nathan glanced down at the dragon. Its golden eyes regarded him calmly, but there was no answer, no whisper of meaning or name. Just warmth and a feeling of utter safety. He shook his head.

  “No. It just appeared,” he said. “Like it’s been waiting a long time.”

  Caelinn drew slightly closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Nathan, creatures of magic don't simply appear from nowhere—especially not something this powerful, this… unique. You’ve never encountered anything that might hint at its origin?”

  Nathan hesitated. The dreams, the faint music, the golden threads—could he trust them enough to explain?

  “Nope not that I can recall.” he admitted carefully.

  Brannock cleared his throat, visibly uneasy. “Then we're dealing with something completely unknown.”

  “It seems so,” Caelinn murmured. “But it’s clearly bound to Nathan now. It’s protective, calm, intelligent. Whatever it is, it chose him.”

  Nathan looked at the professors, then back at the dragon. It stared at him steadily, its eyes filled with the endless patience of stars. He finally spoke softly to the creature:

  “Do you have a name?”

  It didn’t respond—not in words, not even in thoughts. But it tilted its head slightly, as if it understood exactly what Nathan was asking, and gently nudged him with its snout, radiating warmth.

  Nathan smiled faintly, strangely comforted. “I guess we’ll figure that out.”

  Caelinn regarded Nathan kindly, cautious but encouraging. “For now, we’ll have to treat this as a unique magical phenomenon. You’ll need to remain close to your companion while we study what exactly this bond entails.”

  Nathan nodded. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No,” Brannock said gruffly, surprisingly gentle. “But you’ve complicated things significantly. We’ll have questions, observations. Until we understand more, stay vigilant.”

  Professor Varis spoke softly, almost to himself. “An affinity we don’t recognize, terminology we've never encountered, a creature no record remembers… This could mean something profound—or very dangerous.”

  Nathan swallowed again, his mouth dry. “What should I do now?”

  Caelinn answered softly, clearly choosing her words carefully. “For now—rest. Stay close to your… companion. And keep your mind open. If anything else happens, inform us immediately.”

  Nathan nodded, feeling drained yet oddly energized. The dragon shifted slightly, its presence reassuring.

  The professors backed away slowly, returning to their quiet, intense debate at the field’s edge. Nathan was left alone again at the center, surrounded by awe-struck, whispering classmates.

  He turned to find Krit approaching carefully, supported gently by Lissandre. Roremand stood off to the side, eyes locked on the dragon with cautious fascination.

  “How do you feel?” Krit asked quietly, their voice steady despite clear exhaustion.

  Nathan smiled faintly. “Confused. Overwhelmed. But safe.”

  Lissandre looked at the dragon appreciatively. “That thing is incredible. What even is it?”

  “No one knows,” Nathan murmured. “Not even the professors.”

  Roremand spoke unexpectedly, quiet but firm. “Whatever it is, it chose you for a reason. Creatures of that magnitude do not act randomly.”

  Nathan looked at Roremand, grateful despite the unease in his stomach. “I hope so.”

  Krit watched Nathan thoughtfully. “You called it through instinct. The strongest bonds come that way—by feeling, not intent. It chose you, Nathan. Trust it.”

  Nathan reached out again, placing his hand on the dragon’s shimmering scales. Warmth flooded him once more, comforting and certain. The dragon rumbled softly, the soundless vibration calming his racing thoughts.

  “Trust feels right,” Nathan admitted softly.

  He sat back down, feeling exhaustion finally catch up to him. The dragon curled tighter around him protectively. As he leaned against its massive form, Nathan felt himself relax completely.

  He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or what exactly had happened today—but right now, for the first time, he felt certain of something.

  He belonged right here.

  Whatever the dragon was, wherever it came from, and whatever these strange terms meant—Conductor, Composer, Celestial—he would discover it in time.

  For now, Nathan closed his eyes, leaning gently against the massive creature of starlight and constellations, and let himself rest.

  And deep within, the faint melody hummed softly, patiently, waiting to be heard clearly at last.