Dawn came with the taste of copper coins and storm-charged air.

Ryelle woke before the sun crested the eastern peaks, her body thrumming with energy that felt borrowed from something wild and ancient.

Sleep had been different—deeper, more complete than the fitful rest she'd managed during her first days among the floating islands. Her dreams had been full of fire and flight, of hunting things that fled through endless skies while her claws found purchase in wind-carved stone.

She lay still for a moment, cataloguing sensations that felt both foreign and oddly familiar. The morning air carried scents she'd never noticed before—the musk of sleeping harpies in nearby nests, the particular sweetness of dewberries ripening three trees away, the acrid tang of something decomposing half a league to the north. Even the moss beneath her borrowed bedroll had its own signature, earthy and green and alive in ways that made her skin prickle with awareness.

When had her nose become so sharp?

Her body felt different too. Denser, somehow. As if the successful hunt had awakened muscles she hadn't known she possessed, or taught her bones how to carry weight they'd never been asked to bear.

She flexed her fingers, studying the way morning light caught the subtle changes in her nails. Longer than they'd been yesterday.

The cheongsam she'd worn for weeks felt constraining against skin that seemed more sensitive to every texture, every breath of air. Even her horns felt different—more present, somehow. Less like decorative additions and more like functional parts of a body designed for purposes she was only beginning to understand.

Dragon heritage asserting itself, perhaps. Or maybe she was finally learning to inhabit her own flesh properly.

"Nae sleep well?"

Gwynelle's voice drifted down from somewhere above. Ryelle craned her neck back to find the harpy perched upside-down from a gnarled branch, brown wings folded tight against her body. Her teal eyes glittered with what might have been anticipation.

"Slept fine." Ryelle stretched, marveling at how her joints moved without the usual morning stiffness. "Where's Liselotte?"

Gwynelle dropped from her perch with a flutter of feathers, landing in a crouch that would have looked awkward on anyone less naturally aerial. "Queen waits. Says blood must be warm for proper learning."

Blood must be warm.

Ryelle's stomach clenched as the implication sank in. The Trials of Fang and Claw that Liselotte had mentioned weren't going to be theoretical exercises or gentle sparring matches. Whatever came next would involve actual violence, actual risk, actual consequences for failure.

"Lead on."

The amphitheater had been transformed overnight. Gone were the scattered perches and casual gathering spaces where harpies had watched her earlier struggles. In their place, a proper arena had taken shape—cleared ground ringed by tiered stone seats that suggested this location had seen formal combat before.

Much formal combat, if the dark stains on certain stones meant what Ryelle suspected they meant.

Liselotte perched atop a promontory overlooking the arena floor, wings unfurled to catch the morning light.

"Yesterday, you caught prey that ran," she said without preamble. "Child's game. Today, you face prey that bites back."

"What kind of prey?"

"Warriors. Young ones, eager to prove themselves against divine blood." Liselotte's wing-tip brushed against a scarred trunk, tracing one of the deeper gouges. "They think avatar means easy victory. Will learn otherwise, or will teach you much about failure."

They emerged from between trees on the far side of the arena as if they'd been waiting for the moment of their introduction. Four Harpies in total, with feathers in shades of slate and ash and eyes that glittered like cut gems.

"Volunteers?" Ryelle asked.

"Volunteers for what?" Liselotte's laugh held no warmth. "They think divine avatar is soft target. Raised in comfort, taught gentle fighting by gentle goddess. Easy prey for real predators."

The words struck deeper than intended. Ryelle's hands clenched into fists, her newly awakened senses picking up the subtle mockery in the waiting harpies' postures. They weren't just eager for combat—they were amused by the prospect of it.

"And what do you think?"

"Think yesterday's hunt was child's game. Today we learn if dragon blood runs true or if it just provides pretty coloring." Liselotte gestured toward the platform's center. "First lesson: fighting to protect and fighting to conquer require different hearts. Your goddess fights to keep her people safe. Dragons fight to claim what they desire."

Ryelle stepped onto the combat surface, her bare feet finding purchase on stone polished by countless encounters. The texture felt familiar somehow, even though she'd never stood in a proper dueling arena before.

"I'm here to learn." She settled into the stance Thorsten had drilled into her during countless sparring sessions back home. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, ready to move in any direction.

"Learning requires different hearts for different lessons." Liselotte gestured to the waiting harpies. "Yesterday, you learned to want prey. Today, you learn to take it from those who would keep it from you."

One of the harpies—a grey-feathered female with scars crisscrossing her chest—stepped forward.

"Combat is not game," she said, her accent thicker than Gwynelle's but her words precise. "Not dance. Not sport where rules keep everyone breathing." She flexed her wings, and Ryelle caught sight of bone spurs protruding from the joints—natural weapons honed by years of use. "Combat is about making other thing stop moving before it makes you stop moving."

"I understand the concept," Ryelle replied, though her throat felt suddenly dry.

"Understanding and doing are different organs," Liselotte interjected. "Your goddess fights to protect her soft city-children from harm. Noble purpose. Admirable sentiment. Completely useless philosophy for warrior."

Ryelle's jaw tightened. "There's nothing wrong with protecting people."

"Nothing wrong, no. But protection requires different mindset than conquest. Protector fights until threat goes away. Dragon fights until threat never threatens again." Liselotte's crimson eyes fixed on Ryelle, and for a moment there seemed to be flames dancing in their depths. "Your training so far has been protection-thinking. Keep yourself safe, avoid unnecessary risk, win cleanly if possible."

The grey-feathered harpy spread her wings wide, revealing the full span of scarred membrane and bone spur. "Today you learn conquest-thinking. Enemy exists, therefore enemy must stop existing. Simple. Pure. Honest."

"Begin," Liselotte commanded.

The harpy's attack came on fast and low, taloned feet propelling her across the arena floor with remarkable speed. Her wings snapped outward mid-charge, turning a run into a sudden leaping pounce that transformed the harpy into a blur of motion.

Ryelle dodged aside at the last instant, her newly enhanced reflexes barely compensating for the harpy's swiftness. Talons raked across her ribs, drawing hot lines of pain where claws found flesh through the tears in her cheongsam. Her hand snapped out before she could consciously process the thought behind it, knuckles catching the challenger below one eye with a thump like a hammer striking wood.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

The harpy staggered back a half-step, letting out a growling hiss that made Ryelle's pulse quicken. Those yellow eyes held no hint of mercy or restraint—only a focused, predatory intensity.

Movement caught her eye. Ryelle ducked just as another taloned leg swept past the space her head had occupied moments prior. Her own foot lashed out instinctively, catching the attacking harpy in the gut with a satisfying thud.

A third challenge surged forward, forcing Ryelle to leap backward out of range.

She barely got her kanabō up in time to intercept a sweeping wing attack from the fourth of them. Sparks leaped from the weapon's surface where the bone spur scraped off metal, and Ryelle's muscles went numb from fingertips to shoulder as the impact traveled down her arm. She let out a hiss, half-pained and half-surprised, and staggered back another half-step to give herself breathing room.

Good. She could do this. She could—

The gray-feathered harpy lunged forward again, both talons stretching wide as she leaped for Ryelle's neck. This time there was no warning hiss, no visible tell beforehand—just a sudden, precise strike aimed at one of the few vulnerable spots on her body.

Ryelle managed to lean out of the way just in time, but it cost her balance. She tumbled backward into a controlled roll that turned into an acrobatic flip to get back on her feet—

Only for talons to claw into her thighs, dragging her down just enough to throw off her momentum.

She hit the ground hard, her kanabō clattering away as she threw out her hands to catch herself. The gray-feathered harpy moved to stand over her, wings outstretched and yellow eyes gleaming like a hunting raptor about to seize its kill.

Ryelle's hand swept out almost of its own accord, grasping the hilt of her kanabō and heaving it up towards the harpy's exposed stomach. Metal slammed into her midsection with enough force to lift her off her feet entirely, driving the breath from her lungs in a choked wheeze.

"Still thinking like prey," Liselotte said, her tone a blend of amusement and annoyance. "Asking 'can I win this?' Asking 'when is best moment?' Not dragon questions."

The third harpy closed in on Ryelle's left, her talons raking across one cheek before Ryelle could turn her head away. Blood dripped from the cut, splattering the stone beneath them with bright droplets.

Ryelle spat out a curse and spun on one knee, sweeping her leg in a wide arc to slam her heel into the harpy's shin.

Another sweeping strike from her kanabō knocked her aside, but the fourth harpy was already moving, launching into a series of darting attacks with no apparent pattern behind them.

"Your goddess fights beautifully," Liselotte continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "Perfect defense. Measured responses. Always thinking of what enemy might do next instead of what she wishes to accomplish."

One of the harpies managed to get behind her guard, talons scoring deep furrows along her left arm. Ryelle cried out before she could bite the sound off, lashing out with an elbow that sent her attacker reeling.

"Too gentle," Liselotte continued. "Too careful. Too concerned with being fair to opponents who would happily tear out your throat and drink the blood while you watch."

Ryelle's blood roared in her ears, driving away all but the most fundamental pieces of awareness. The scent of her own wounds mixed with the tang of blood dripping from her attackers' injuries. The feel of the stone against her feet, suddenly warm against her calloused soles.

She caught a taloned foot on its way toward her face, and her arm spasmed with unexpected power that slammed the harpy to the ground. A growl bubbled up in her throat, thrumming like an out-of-tune instrument, and she gave in to the sudden, driving urge to lean in and take a bite out of her would-be attacker's flesh.

For a heartbeat, she understood exactly what Liselotte meant about conquest. There was no calculation left in her mind; no questions about who had the advantage or when the appropriate moment to retreat might be. Just a raw, animal need to crush, rend, and tear.

To win, no matter the cost.

But before she could taste her enemy's blood, before the kill could fully awaken her instincts, her thoughts reasserted themselves in a panicked wave. She recoiled, scrambling backward with a sound of revulsion as the sheer force of primal hunger echoed back in her memory.

The gray-feathered harpy looked up from where she'd fallen, her eyes narrowing as she recognized Ryelle's hesitation.

"Soft," one of the other harpies muttered, almost spitting the word. "Plays at being predator but lacks the stomach for real hunting."

"Protected too long by gentle goddess," another agreed. "Never learned to kill."

"Never learned what strength means."

Their words cut into Ryelle's composure like a series of claws raking across her resolve. Was she really just a pale reflection of divine power? A weapon too merciful to serve its purpose?

The dragon essence in her blood responded to the insults like oil poured on flame.

When the next harpy dove toward her, Ryelle didn't block or dodge. She stepped into the attack, accepting its claws across her chest in exchange for a grip on its wing. Then she twisted, using her leverage to drive the warrior into the stone with enough force to crater the platform's surface.

The harpy didn't get up.

"Learning," Liselotte noted. "Pain teaches what words cannot. Continue."

The remaining challengers came at her with renewed caution, but Ryelle no longer fought like someone defending herself. She waded into their attacks, striking whenever one of them overextended an attack or left itself open for even a moment. Her body ached from innumerable small wounds, but pain fueled her instincts rather than dulling them.

When they tried to use their aerial advantage, she found ways to ground them. When they attempted coordinated attacks, she forced them to scatter. When they pressed her into a corner, she transformed it into a deathtrap with no room for their graceless fumbling.

It was bloody, messy work, driven more by instinct and anger than any tactical training Thorsten had given her. At some point, the gray-feathered harpy went down in a heap and didn't get up again.

By the time the combat ended, all four harpies lay unconscious on bloodstained stone.

Ryelle stood in the center of the carnage, her cheongsam torn and stained with her own blood and theirs. Her breathing came heavy but controlled, and her limbs trembled slightly as she slowly withdrew from her fighting instincts.

She'd won. Completely and totally, even if she'd taken a beating along the way.

So why did victory taste like ashes in her mouth?

Liselotte descended from her perch atop the stone monolith, landing with an almost inaudible thump.

"Much better. Now you fight like predator instead of prey with claws. Still too gentle—real enemies would be dead rather than merely broken—but improvement shows."

Gwynelle fluttered down to check on the unconscious harpies, her earlier enthusiasm replaced by something more subdued. She nudged one of them with her wingtip, eliciting a groan as the broken body stirred slightly.

"They be okay?"

Liselotte let out a snorting sound. "Will live to fight another day. Maybe earn glory when they tell story of soft little dragon who beat all of them at once. Honorable wound stories always impress. Makes mating easier."

Ryelle wiped blood from her brow, running the red-stained fingers across her palm. The wounds still hurt, but the pain seemed distant and unimportant. Like everything was taking place inside an endless red haze that didn't quite lift even when the fight had ended.

"They wanted to kill me," she said, though she wasn't sure whether it was a question or statement.

"Some wanted. Others wanted to cripple or maim only. Didn't matter." Liselotte shrugged her shoulders, dismissing the topic as irrelevant. "Point was to test new instincts. Would have died if instincts failed. Didn't. Victory."

They just accept this as normal?

"Doesn't killing weaken your tribe? Even if they survive, you've lost strong warriors for days while they heal. That's a danger to everyone."

Liselotte let out a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a squawk of disapproval. "Ach! See, thinking like a protector, not a hunter. Losing weaklings does not diminish strength of tribe. Makes it stronger. Only removes those who slow us down or cannot survive."

"How can you be so sure?" Ryelle said.

"Because they keep fighting," Liselotte said flatly. "Fighting until they die or become stronger. Is why we are still strong." She glanced over at Gwynelle, who was tending to one of the injured fighters. "Or strong enough. Survival is strength—others may be big, but we can survive anything."

The casual, ruthless logic made Ryelle want to scream. It had been easy to forget what harpies were really like when she'd only been interacting with Gwynelle—Gwynelle, who was trusting to the point of naivete, curious, and eager to help.

To see Liselotte's casual brutality, and the way she saw the lives of her own people as resources to be consumed... It made Ryelle remember that they were predators.

"So what happens now?" Ryelle asked, struggling to keep the unease she felt out of her voice.

"Now we eat. Regain strength." Liselotte crouched down next to the fallen harpy with the silver-gray feathers. "Oi! Woke up yet?"

The harpy let out a groan. One eye opened into a baleful golden stare.

"Alive," came the eventual answer, accompanied by the sounds of struggling as the harpy attempted to rise.

"Good. Will not bother to feed you if you need more sleep." She poked the harpy's chest, eliciting another pained noise. "Walk it off. We celebrate Ryelle's victory, and your proper losing."

Ryelle wanted to protest at the idea of celebration, but Liselotte was already looking away, her attention focused on checking each of the fallen combatants for signs of life. By the time it was complete, and she'd finished growling a few harsh words in the harpy tongue, Ryelle decided against any attempt at objecting.

She was learning, even if it left her uneasy.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.