The medic center smelled faintly of herbs and steel.

The sharp scent of alcohol stung Draco's nose the moment he walked in, mingling with the low hum of healers moving from bed to bed.

The wide hall was lined with cots, each occupied by battered first-years. Students groaned, some with broken arms wrapped in glowing bandages, others with charred burns or frostbite marks from when their D-H had backfired under stress.

Crystalline lanterns glowed along the walls, humming softly with embedded runes. Every now and then, the runes pulsed, releasing faint warmth or coolness depending on the patient's condition.

It was a strange balance—half battlefield triage, half mystical sanctuary.

Draco walked through slowly, his boots heavy against the polished floor.

Unlike most of the others, he had gotten off lightly—cuts, bruises, and fatigue, nothing more. His own cot had been assigned, but he hadn't bothered to lie down.

He glanced across the rows of beds, his chest tightening when his eyes fell on Jet.

Jet lay in an isolated ward behind a wall of glowing glass. The healers had set up protective wards around him, shimmering faintly in the air, like heat waves rising from stone.

He was unconscious, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. His face was pale, lips cracked, body still trembling occasionally from the strain he'd endured in the Dragon's grip.

Draco pressed a hand against the glass, his jaw clenching.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath, though the word came out rougher than he intended.

"You should've been more careful."

But deep down, he blamed himself more than Jet.

A heavy presence entered the room behind him. Draco didn't need to turn to know who it was. The air chilled subtly, like winter had seeped into the hall.

"Your friend will live," Frost Winister said, his voice steady, calm. "The healers say he needs time. Nothing more."

Draco turned, his brows furrowed. Frost's cloak trailed faint wisps of frost as he approached, his boots silent despite the hard floor.

His pale eyes flicked toward Jet, then back to Draco.

"That Dragon," Draco said without hesitation, his voice low but sharp, "that wasn't part of the Academy's training, was it?"

Frost's expression didn't change. "You think so?"

"I know so," Draco snapped, his voice rising before he forced it back down. The students nearby stirred, glancing over at him, so he lowered his tone.

"Something about it was wrong. It didn't feel alive—it didn't think, it had a… bizarre pattern it didn't even resist the way Dragons normally do. And the way it appeared out of nowhere? The way no instructors showed up until you arrived?"

His hands balled into fists.

"That doesn't add up."

Frost stopped directly in front of him, the cold radiating from his body enough to make the nearby lanterns flicker. His gaze bore into Draco's, icy but calm.

"You're sharp," Frost admitted. "Sharper than most. But you're letting your mind run too far ahead."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying it was a test?"

"Yes." Frost's reply came without hesitation. "The Academy has always pushed students beyond their limits. You're not here to be coddled—you're here to be hardened. Today's battle simulated what happens when the impossible arrives without warning. That Dragon was meant to be your crucible."

Draco grit his teeth.

"That's insane. We could have died."

"You could," Frost agreed, voice flat, as though the truth didn't shake him in the slightest. "But that's the world you chose to step into. Out there—beyond these walls—Rank 3 Dragons aren't rare. Worse creatures exist. Cruelty exists. If you hesitate, if you falter, if you wait for someone else to arrive, you die. And no one mourns."

His tone was like ice cutting flesh, cold but steady, with no malice.

Just fact.

Draco stared at him, fists trembling. "So that's your excuse? Throw us into death and call it training?"

Frost's lips curved faintly—not into a smile, but into something like approval.

"You didn't break. You didn't scatter. You led them. That's why you're standing here, in better shape than the rest. That's why you've already mastered a Rank 2 D-H when most are still fumbling with Rank 1."

Draco blinked. "You know about that?"

"I was watching." Frost's eyes gleamed faintly, like frost catching starlight. "You're ahead of your peers, and I'd like to see more of that."

Draco stiffened.

Frost's gaze sharpened.

"Don't answer. I already know." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Draco could hear. "Listen carefully: this Academy exists to push you. To break you down and rebuild you stronger. But if you waste your strength by revealing it too early, by showing the world what you are before the right time, you'll invite dangers you aren't ready for. Don't give your enemies more than you must."

Draco swallowed, his throat tight. Frost's words struck close—too close.

"Stop thinking so much," Frost added, his tone softer now, though still edged with roughness. "Rest. Heal. Grow. Suspicion won't help you right now, only focus will. Leave the bigger questions to those above you."

With that, Frost turned, his cloak swirling faint frost against the floor.

"Wait," Draco said, his voice sharp but tinged with desperation. "If it really was a test… why—"

"You'll learn in time." Frost cut him off, his voice final. He paused only to add, "Well done, Draco. Keep moving forward. Don't let yourself stop here."

And then he walked out, the air warming faintly in his absence.

Draco stood frozen, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. His chest heaved as frustration burned inside him.

Frost's words made sense. Too much sense.

But that was exactly why Draco couldn't shake the feeling in his gut.

'He's lying. Or hiding something.'

He turned back toward Jet, his reflection staring back at him through the glowing ward glass. His own eyes looked darker than usual, shadowed by the questions piling in his mind.

*******

The halls outside the medic center were quiet, lined with banners of the Academy's crest—twin Dragons spiraling around a sword. Frost's boots clicked faintly as he walked, leaving a trail of frost that melted seconds later.

His steps were purposeful, his expression unreadable.

At last, he arrived before the Headmaster's office. The door loomed tall, carved with intricate patterns of scales and wings, glowing faintly with warding runes. He didn't bother knocking.

The air chilled sharply as he pushed it open.

Inside, the room was warm and spacious, lit by floating orbs of golden light. Bookshelves towered along the walls, filled with tomes bound in dragonhide.

Maps of regions scarred by Dragon activity lay sprawled across a massive desk, weighted down by crystal quills.

Behind the desk sat Headmaster Dagon Heartfield.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver streaking his dark hair, Dagon's presence filled the room even as he sat reclined, a faint smile on his lips.

His eyes, however, were sharp—sharp enough to notice everything at once.

Frost's jaw tightened.

He shut the door behind him with a flick of his hand, ice lacing across the frame for a brief moment before fading.

"That Dragon tonight," Frost said, his voice low but cutting, "was not part of the curriculum."

Dagon's smile didn't fade. "Ah. Straight to the point, as always."

Frost stepped forward, his aura flaring with cold. "Don't toy with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. That Rank 3… you were the one behind it, weren't you? What were you thinking? The students could have been slaughtered."

"But they weren't." Dagon's tone was calm, infuriatingly so. "And in the end, they came out stronger. Isn't that what matters?"

Frost's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a growl.

"Lower your games, Dagon. What was that thing? Where did it come from?"

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