When they said only the strong would survive, they weren't joking.

Between deadly gauntlets, cutthroat classmates, and my father's relentless attempts to transform me into a dracolich, death has become my closest companion. As the sole surviving fourth year at Shadowcarve Academy, I've evolved from student to reluctant mentor for my younger mates. The school has little left to teach me that my father didn't already beat into my bones.

Did I mention that Thauglor has hatched, and Abraxis is slowly becoming his terrifying mini-me? It's equal parts hilarious and horrifying. My nest remains dangerously unbalanced—with three dominant drakes, one temperamental basilisk, and my other volatile mates, a bloodbath could erupt at any moment.

We're essentially fighting a war on three fronts. My father and his minions relentlessly test our defenses. The mages systematically hunt dragons before they can ascend to wyrm status. Worst of all, our elders have redacted so much history that truth has become indistinguishable from lies. The differences between the original texts I discovered in my father's study and the sanitized academy versions are staggering.

My mates and I survey the battlefield before us and forge plans to protect our progeny and our flight. For all the unspeakable evils my father forced me to endure, he succeeded in creating something unexpected—a weapon capable of defending not only our continent, but challenging even him.

It's time to embrace what I've become.