The First Legendary Dragon Tamer

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and polished wood.

Sunlight poured through tall, narrow windows, spilling golden squares across rows of desks filled with restless students. The Academy bells had only just ceased ringing when the heavy oak door creaked open.

Freya entered.

The woman commanded attention instantly—not with flamboyance, but with presence. Her boots struck the stone floor with weight, each step echoing faintly in the vaulted room. A long black coat swung around her ankles, and though her hair was neatly bound in a bun streaked with gray, the way she carried herself radiated experience.

She looked more like a battle-hardened scholar than any classroom instructor Draco had known.

Her gaze swept across the rows, sharp and assessing, as though she were measuring each student for armor that would either protect or fail them.

"Settle down."

The room hushed immediately.

She set a bundle of books and scrolls on the lectern, then chalked two words across the slate board behind her with firm strokes:

'Dragon Anatomy.'

Draco leaned back in his seat, arms crossed.

His Soul still hummed faintly from the resonance with all of his Dragons, and though he masked his expression, he was curious.

He genuinely wanted to learn more about the Dragons.

Perhaps that would help him uncover some mysteries behind his class and how it was possible for a mere human like him to control Dragons.

"Most of you think of dragons as one shape—scaled beasts that breathe destruction and claw apart civilization. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a child's bedtime story. Dragons," she tapped the chalk once, sharp against the board, "are as diverse as the elements themselves. To study them properly, we divide them into three grand categories: Land, Sea, and Sky."

She drew three circles on the board, forming a triangle.

"Land Dragons," she continued, "are often the largest in raw mass. They move mountains when they stir, and their claws tear trenches. They're durable—hide thicker than plate armor—and slow only compared to their kin. Think of them as juggernauts. If you face one unprepared, your only hope is to run before the ground itself swallows you."

Several students scribbled frantically, quills scratching parchment.

"Sea Dragons," she said, pointing to the second circle, "are more elusive, but no less dangerous. They thrive where visibility is lowest, using pressure, currents, and even sonar-like pulses of Essence to hunt. To encounter one in its domain is to enter a graveyard of ships."

Her tone shifted slightly, a rough edge creeping in, as though remembering. "I've seen one drag a fleet under in less than a minute. Steel snapped like twigs. No survivors."

A shiver rippled through the class.

Finally, she tapped the third circle. "And then, the Sky Dragons. The so-called kings of the species. Masters of flight, lords of storms. They rain fire, lightning, acid, or worse. These are the dragons that raze kingdoms."

She let the silence hang, then turned back to the board, filling the spaces around the circles with branching terms.

"Of course, these categories are only the beginning. Each branch contains variants. And then there are those we classify as Grand Terrors."

The chalk squealed as she underlined the term.

"Grand Terrors are dragons whose abilities do not simply bend nature—they rewrite it. A Frost Terror whose very presence freezes rivers solid for miles. A Blight Dragon whose spores birth plagues that can rot a city to its bones. These are not beasts; they are calamities. And if you ever encounter one…" Her gaze hardened, sweeping the room. "Do not think of fighting. You won't even be able to survive if you try."

The class was utterly silent.

Draco found himself strangely impressed. He already knew of dragons intimately, felt their pulses through his Soul. But Freya's perspective gave him a framework—human, mortal classifications of what he'd begun to sense instinctively.

It was almost amusing.

To him, dragons were not just threats or classifications. They were possibilities. Tools. Allies. Weapons.

Still, her words held weight.

Even he would not underestimate the might of a Grand Terror.

Freya dusted her hands. "Now. Anatomy."

She rolled out a massive parchment across the board—a detailed diagram of a dragon's body. Wings stretched wide, labeled with joints and membranes; internal organs sketched with precise, almost surgical lines; the heart drawn larger than proportionate, glowing faintly where ink had been laced with powdered Essence.

"This," she said, pointing, "is the Dragonheart. The source of Essence circulation. Damage it, and the dragon weakens. Destroy it, and the dragon dies. If you remember nothing else from today, remember this: everything about a dragon revolves around its heart."

A student near the front raised a hand timidly. "Professor, is it… possible to extract a Dragonheart safely? Even when it is still alive?"

Freya's eyes narrowed, but she nodded.

"It is possible. Scholars and butchers alike have tried. But I will tell you this—the process is never safe. Dragonhearts resist removal, pulsing Essence in waves that can incinerate or corrupt. I've seen more hunters die trying to harvest than from the fight itself." She paused, voice turning rough again. "And no—before you think of it—there is no shortcut."

The student lowered his head, chastened.

Freya returned to the diagram. "Other notable features: the wings. Do not assume every dragon has them. And even for those who do, not all of them fly. Some use wings as Essence regulators. Others as intimidation displays. Tails? Same principle. A bludgeon, a rudder, or in some species—a conduit for elemental release."

As she spoke, she tapped each part, voice oscillating between the precision of a professor and the bite of a veteran who had seen each detail proven in blood.

Draco absorbed it all, but silently compared her words with his own experience.

After nearly an hour of lecture, Freya rolled up the parchment with a snap.

"Enough theory for today. Next lesson, we will discuss weak points. Study them with seriousness, or you will not live long enough to study at all."

The bell rang. Students exhaled, some relieved, others still scribbling furiously.

Draco stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder, when a shadow blocked his path.

—Lizbeth

She leaned against his desk, arms crossed, one brow raised in open amusement. Her red hair caught the sunlight, gleaming like fire.

"You," she said bluntly, "and I should make children."

The surrounding students froze. A boy dropped his ink quill.

Draco stared at her.

'This girl…' His eyes narrowed as he reeled from her surprising words and maintained his calm facade.

"...Does she have a screw loose or something?"