We stood in the simulated twilight of the dragon's pocket dimension, on a floating island of dark, volcanic rock. The air was cool and had the ozonic scent of clean mountain air. Below us, in the vast, open space, a dozen Wyvern fighters were engaged in a silent yet deadly ballet. Their thrusters left faint, shimmering trails as they practiced complex aerial maneuvers. For the last three days, this had been my classroom.

  My father, Duke Kaelen Wight, was attempting to teach me the "proper" way to be a Dragon Knight.

  And he was the worst teacher imaginable.

  “No, no, no,” he said, his voice a low rumble of paternal frustration. He paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting a recruit who just couldn't get the salute right. “You’re still just… forcing it. It’s brute strength. There’s no finesse, no harmony.”

  I stood opposite him, my arms crossed, my patience worn to a thread. In my mind, Tes was running a complex logistical simulation for the fleet's resource consumption over the next six months. On the outside, I was trying very hard not to roll my eyes.

  “Feel the flow, Alarion,” my father continued, gesturing vaguely at the air. “Don’t command the magic. Become the magic. Let it move through you, not from you. It should be a gut feeling, an instinct.”

  A gut feeling. Imagine attending a lecture on quantum mechanics and being told the answer to the Schr?dinger equation would simply "come to you" if you felt it in your gut. For three days, this had been my instruction. Vague, unhelpful metaphors and appeals to an instinct I clearly did not possess. I was a man of science and logic. I didn't "feel" the flow. I calculated it.

  "Okay," I said, trying one last time. I closed my eyes, reaching for the familiar, roaring river of power that was Kaelus, who was hovering beside me on his favorite velvet cushion. I needed to focus. I needed to find that sense of harmony my father was talking about. I pictured Kaelus’s form, the shimmering cosmic scales, the starlight in his eyes. I tried to sync our breathing, our very heartbeats.

  I opened my eyes and looked at him, trying to forge a deeper connection.

  Kaelus, in response to my intense, soul-searching gaze, crossed his little front claws, puffed out his chest, and stuck out his tongue, making a face like a particularly cheeky gargoyle.

  Brother, I can also make funny faces at you, his mental voice chirped, laced with pure, childish amusement.

  My concentration shattered. A snort of laughter escaped me before I could stop it.

  My father clapped me on the back, the sound booming in the quiet air. “It’s alright, son. You’ll get the hang of it soon.” He was completely oblivious, seeing only a boy failing to grasp a complex lesson, not a cosmic dragon sabotaging it with antics.

  My frustration returned with a vengeance. “I don’t even understand what you mean!” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. “What do you mean by the ‘proper way’ to channel draconic mana?”

  “It’s about control, son. About efficiency.”

  “I am efficient!” I countered. I raised my hand and unleashed a torrent of power. A massive, chaotic bolt of raw draconic lightning erupted from my palm. It tore through the air with a deafening crackle, struck one of the distant floating islands, and shattered a crystalline tree into a thousand glittering shards. “See? Target neutralized.”

  My father just sighed, that weary, disappointed sound that was beginning to drive me mad. “That,” he said, pointing at the smoldering crater, “was a sledgehammer. You used the power of a Tier 8 dragon to destroy a rock.”

  Kaelus puffed his chest out with pride at the mention of his rank. He was only five, but his unique heritage had granted him a growth rate and a raw power that was already on the brink of what most mature dragons could achieve.

  “A Dragon Knight’s power should be a scalpel,” my father continued, his lecture resuming. “You are suffering from success, Alarion. Your bond is too strong, too perfect. He gives you everything you ask for, instantly.”

  He looked at me, and for the first time, his explanation started to make a sliver of sense. “You have a superhighway with a dozen lanes, but you’re driving a single cart down the middle because you never learned how to manage the traffic. You are a Tier 6 contractor, Alarion. That is the limit of what your human body can channel without refinement. But you are trying to channel the full, Tier 8 output of a Dragon Prince through a single, crude conduit. It’s wasteful. It’s dangerous. And it’s slow.”

  That was it. I dropped my hands to my sides. “Dad, this isn’t working,” I said, my frustration finally boiling over. “Give me something to work with here. A schematic. A data-flow chart. A mathematical principle. Anything. Or else I’m going to go ask Bob to teach me this.”

  The threat landed with the intended effect. The smug, self-satisfied look of a wise teacher vanished from my father’s face, replaced by a flicker of pure, competitive pride. The thought of his own Knight-Commander showing up his tutelage was an insult he could not bear.

  “Fine,” he grumbled. He quickly picked up a fallen, charred stick from the shattered tree and began to draw in the soft, volcanic soil at our feet. He drew two rough circles.

  “These two islands,” he explained, his tone shifting from mystical guru to a field commander drawing a battle plan, “are the dragon and their knight.”

  “I know,” I said, my voice dripping with impatience.

  He cleared his throat, ignoring my tone. “The bond is like a rope thrown from one island to the other. To use magic, you create a bridge.” He drew a single, narrow line connecting the two circles. “A one-way path. But you and Kaelus started with something more advanced. You have a grand bridge, but you don't know how to use it. You feel no resistance, no feedback from him, so you cannot learn.”

  He gestured for me to try again. "This time, don't just take the power. Listen to it. Feel his intent. Try to build a second, smaller bridge alongside the main one."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth. A second bridge. What did that even mean? I reached out to Kaelus, but instead of grabbing the whole roaring river of his power, I tried to peel off a smaller stream. I focused, trying to shape it, to give it form and purpose before it even left him.

  For a moment, I thought I had it. A tiny, controlled spark of azure lightning, no bigger than my thumbnail, flickered to life in my palm. It was weak, pathetic, but it was precise.

  Then, my focus wavered. The spark sputtered, and with a loud POP, it exploded, singeing the hairs on my arm and leaving a black smudge of soot on my palm.

  I stared at my hand, then at my father, who was trying very hard to hide a smile.

  Failure. Again.

  My father chuckled. "Well," he said, clapping me on the back. "I suppose that's enough tactical theory for one day. A warrior also needs to know when to rest."

  Just as he spoke, the portal to the command bridge shimmered open behind us. The scent of warm pastries and fresh tea wafted through, a welcome intrusion.

  My mother and Lyra stepped through. Lyra, bless her determined little heart, was carrying a large wicker basket filled with snacks, her small face a mask of serious concentration. She was a "big girl now," as she had declared that morning, and would not be helped. The basket was almost as big as she was, and she waddled forward, her brow furrowed with effort.

  The sight was so ridiculously adorable that it shattered the last of my frustration. I laughed, a real, genuine sound, and went to help her with the basket. My lesson in draconic harmony could wait.

  . . .

  My mother glided onto the floating island, her presence a wave of calming grace. "I brought refreshments," she announced, her smile warm as she set down a silver tray laden with steaming cups of tea and small, exquisitely crafted pastries. "I thought my two hardworking warriors might need a break."

  Lyra, having successfully navigated the final few feet, set the heavy wicker basket down with a triumphant thump. "I carried it all by myself!" she declared proudly, puffing out her chest.

  "You certainly did, my little lioness," my father said, scooping her up into a hug.

  The lesson was forgotten. We sat on the dark, volcanic rock, the simulated twilight sky above us, and for a few precious moments, we were just a family. The distant, silent ballet of the Wyvern fighters below was the only reminder of the war that was our constant shadow.

  Lyra, never one to sit still, immediately took charge of Kaelus. She retrieved a small spoon from the basket, dipped it into a cup of sweetened cream my mother had brought for her, and held it up to the cosmic dragon, who was hovering patiently at her eye level.

  "Open up, Eggy," she commanded with the absolute authority of a five-year-old playing house. "You need to eat so you can grow big and strong and make lots of booms."

  Kaelus, a being on the verge of Tier 8 power, who could collapse reality into a singularity, obediently opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed a spoonful of cream by a small child in a fluffy red dress. The sight was so absurd, so profoundly domestic, that my father and I exchanged a look of shared, helpless amusement.

  "He's very good with her," my mother murmured, watching the scene with a soft smile.

  "He knows who the real boss is," my father grunted, sipping his tea.

  After the impromptu break, my father's teaching expression returned. He picked up the charred stick again. "Alright, Alarion. Let's try a different analogy." He wiped the previous drawing clean with his boot. "You think like an engineer, so think of it this way. A Dragon Knight in battle is a fortress."

  He drew a large, crude square. "Your dragon is the fortress's main cannon. The siege engine. It delivers the overwhelming, cataclysmic power. The single, decisive blow that shatters an enemy's walls or evaporates their champion. Its power is immense, but it is slow to aim, and each shot is costly in both energy and time."

  He then drew a series of smaller shapes along the top of the square. "The knight is everything else. The archers on the walls, the battlemages in the towers, the spearmen at the gate. Their job is to handle the infantry, to intercept incoming spells, to manage the multiple, smaller threats that swarm the battlefield. They are the tactical brain, directing the flow of the battle with a hundred small, efficient actions."

  His explanation finally clicked. My own mind translated his medieval analogy into a language I understood. The dragon is the main cannon of a tank. The knight is the automated turret. One provides the raw power; the other provides the fine control and tactical direction.

  "Right now," my father continued, his stick jabbing at the drawing, "you are trying to fight off the entire enemy army by swinging the main cannon around. It works because the cannon is that powerful. But it's clumsy, inefficient even. And you're leaving your walls completely undefended."

  The logic of it, the simple, brutal efficiency, was a revelation.

  "A true Dragon Knight doesn't just take power from his dragon," he said, his voice now filled with the passion of a master explaining his craft. "He works in concert with it. He uses his own, smaller pool of mana to handle the lesser threats, to create openings, to control the field, all while his dragon gathers its strength for the single, decisive, battle-ending strike. It is a partnership."

  He gestured for me to try again. "This time, don't just pull. Push. Use your own magic as a template. Create the shape of the spell you want, the path you want it to take with your own mana, and then, only then, open a small channel for his power to fill it. Don't take the river; ask for a cup of water."

  I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth. A cup of water. It was a complete reversal of my methodology. I raised my hand, palm up. I focused my own, meager mana reserves, shaping them into the intricate, multi-layered structure of a Rank 5 Draconic Fusion spell—the spear of ice, wreathed in lightning and azure flame. I built the empty vessel, a perfect, complex blueprint of pure intent.

  Then, I tried to open just one of the lanes. I reached out to Kaelus, not for the roaring river of his power, but for a single, controlled stream.

  For a moment, it worked. A thin tendril of azure energy flowed into my template. The spear began to materialize, stable and controlled. But then my old habits, the ingrained instinct to simply take what I needed, flared up. The channel widened without my command, the cup becoming a bucket. The influx of power was too much, too fast.

  The spear of ice in my palm detonated. With a sharp POP and a flash of uncontrolled lightning, the spell collapsed, sending a puff of superheated steam and ozone into the air. My palm tingled with the sting of a minor magical burn.

  I stared at my hand, then at my father.

  He wasn't smiling. He was nodding, a slow, appraising look in his stormy grey eyes. "Better," he said, his voice a low rumble of approval. "You felt it that time, didn't you? The feedback? The resistance? You tried to take too much, and the spell broke."

  I looked at my stinging palm. He was right. For the first time, I had felt the friction, the pushback of trying to channel a power that was not my own. I looked at Kaelus, who was now preening on my shoulder, clearly pleased with our joint, albeit failed, effort. The connection felt different. It was no longer a one-way street. It was a conversation, and I was only just beginning to learn the language.