The next morning, even before the sun had fully risen over the mountains of Eldfjall, Joran and Kael stood in line at the recruitment square beside the Golden Keep. Joran's hazel eyes — once bright and full of innocent wonder — now burned with a cold, unrelenting fire. Pain and revenge had replaced the carefree sparkle of childhood. He no longer looked like a boy. He looked like someone who had already lost everything.
They both stepped forward and gave their names to the stern officer.
"Joran."
"Kael."
Their training in the Eldfjall Dragon Army began immediately.
For weeks that stretched into months, the training grounds at Stormveil became their entire world. From dawn until long after sunset, the new recruits — mostly teenagers — were drilled without mercy.
First came dragon mastery.
They learned basic control: how to mount quickly, how to read a dragon's moods through subtle shifts in its scales and eyes, how to command dives, climbs, sharp turns, and emergency landings. Then came advanced techniques — bonding with the dragon so deeply that rider and beast moved as one, using the creature not just as transport, but as a living weapon.
Joran absorbed every lesson like a sponge. His eyes never softened. Every command he gave his training dragon was sharp, precise, and driven by something darker than duty.
They also trained in basic magic — simple shielding spells, fire-starting runes, and minor healing charms. Then came the lethal arts: how to kill an enemy in seconds using pressure points, precise dagger strikes, or a well-placed burst of magical energy to the throat or heart.
They learned the manners of a soldier — standing at attention for hours, marching in perfect formation, saluting superiors without question, and above all, following orders instantly.
Most importantly, they were taught the harshest rule of war:
Never share your food with another, no matter how dire the situation.
In the final weeks of training, instructors deliberately starved small groups for days. Anyone who tried to help a struggling comrade was punished severely. This lesson carved deep into every trainee: a soldier puts survival and mission above all else — even humanity.
Joran excelled beyond anyone else. He was faster, stronger, and more focused than any recruit the instructors had ever seen. His body transformed — lean muscle replaced the softness of boyhood, his movements became efficient and deadly. His mind sharpened into a weapon of strategy and cold calculation. But something inside him had been hollowed out. The training had taken his soul and replaced it with the heart of a warrior.
Kael suffered the most. He was naturally weaker and slower than the others. Many nights he collapsed in exhaustion, barely able to continue. Yet his immense hard work and stubborn loyalty kept him going. He survived — just barely — because he refused to give up.
At the end of the grueling months, the instructors gathered the survivors.
"From this day forward, you are no longer mere trainees," the commander announced. "You are soldiers of the Eldfjall Dragon Army."
Every recruit received their official armor — lightweight yet strong scale-mail in green and gold — and their personal dragon assignment.
Joran and Kael were both placed in the Attack Unit. Fate had bound them together once more. They would fly straight toward Grom'thar.
The excitement Joran once felt about leaving Eldfjall had completely vanished. In its place was only a cold, empty expression — the face of someone ready to destroy.
Departure Day
The skies above Eldfjall were filled with the thunder of hundreds of dragon wings. The full Dragon Army stood ready on the open fields outside the Golden Keep. Soldiers sat astride their mounts, some saying emotional goodbyes to family, others embracing loved ones one last time. A few quietly polished their spears and swords, checking every strap and buckle.
Joran was already seated on his assigned dragon — a powerful, deep-green beast with sharp golden eyes. He sat perfectly still, hands resting on the reins, his new armor fitting him like a second skin. His messy light brown hair was now tied back neatly, and his once-warm hazel eyes stared straight ahead — hollow, distant, seeing far beyond the protective mountains of Eldfjall.
Kael sat on his own dragon a short distance away, looking nervous but determined. He glanced at Joran, but received no response. His best friend had changed.
Some soldiers waved to crying parents. Others kissed sweethearts. A few laughed nervously to hide their fear.
Joran did none of these things.
He simply stared into the horizon, his expression cold and unreadable, eyes locked on the mountain passes that led toward Grom'thar.
The war had begun.