Several minutes had passed before the noise finally subsided, during which time, Milius seized the opportunity to scour the crowd for his mother's figure. His heart sank; Minerva was nowhere to be seen. The other Knights were still shooting curious looks at Milius, but the old men were now staring at the previous owner of the amethyst-hilted blade with mixed expressions of fury and incredulity. In turn, he met their gazes with a wide, benign smile. Milius had turned his attention to the scene with keen interest, when a prickling feeling in the back of his neck told him that he was being watched.

Trembling from head to his bare feet, he turned slowly. The violet, statue-like dragon's marble eyes were boring into him. Its snout was flaring and the antenna-like plates sticking out of its head were, unless Milius was imagining it, crackling. Milius had half a mind to step back, or run away, when he heard a shriek from the other side of the platform.

“Elder! You can't possibly be serious!” Minerva Manchester had forced her way through the dense crowd and up the platform, her chest heaving. “You must have made a mistake!”

There was a deafening silence. The whole crowd was watching intently.

“There has been no mistake, Minerva,” the Elder said calmly. “I have been watching Milius for quite some time now. I would choose no one else to take my mantle.”

“Elder —” Minerva began furiously, but another voice drowned hers.

“Calder, the woman is right!” This voice belonged to the man who previously wielded the emerald-hilted blade, Stormpyre. “He is much too young!”

The Elder known as Calder turned slowly, his smile broadening. “Milius?” he called, making Milius jump.

“Y-yes?” Milius replied, fully aware that once again, all eyes had turned upon him.

“How old are you?”

“F-fifteen, Elder,” Milius said, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped the sword. “I — I'll be sixteen in — in a month, Elder.”

“Ah, sixteen,” Calder said, looking very pleased now. “The age of manhood. May I direct your attention, Elders, Knights and onlookers, to the statue of one of our previous Knights?” He pointed a long, bony finger to one of the golden statues positioned around the square. “Herberos of House Isaacs. Only sixteen years old when the blade Vulcatrix was passed onto him.”

“That is different!” bellowed the man who had passed on Oceannerva, and Milius was surprised that his voice, that had sounded weak and hoarse during his speech, was now so strong. “He was already a man. Milius Manchester —”

“Will come of age in a month's time. A month, Basil. During which he will spend most of his time training with the other Knights and not battling fearsome monsters, correct?”

“Yes, but —” the man called Basil began, but Calder interrupted, his voice quiet.

“And then he, along with the other Knights, will be sent off to the Royal Palace to meet the king, will he not?”

“Yes,” Basil said through tightly clenched teeth, “but —”

“And then return to be displaced to the borders of Halgaria to fulfill his duties, by which time he should be of age, should he not?”

Basil said nothing. It was evident that he still did not approve of Calder’s choice, but he was rendered temporarily speechless by his growing anger. Calder turned to the final Elder, the previous wielder of the ruby-hilted sword, who had said nothing all this time.

“And you, Demus? Do you have any qualms?”

Demus shook his head slowly. Smiling even more broadly — which Milius wondered how was possible — Calder turned, this time to address the Dragonknights.

“There has been no mistake,” he said again, but this time there was a firm tone of finality in his voice. “My choice of Milius Manchester as my successor is no more foolish or wrong than any of my fellow Elders choices of you three. It will stand. There will be no further discussion of that matter. Now” — he wheeled to the still silent crowd — “these people have come to witness a ceremony. Let us not keep them waiting any longer. Knights, stand together, and raise your swords as one.”

At once, Sirius, Ariana and Shakil moved to the center of the platform. Milius stood quite still, as though petrified. He shot a nervous look at Minerva, who was standing with her hand over her heart and shaking her head vigorously. But Calder gripped his shoulder with surprising strength and steered him over to the other Knights. Shaking even worse than ever before, Milius raised his sword as they did, as Calder’s voice instructed them once again.

Then something strange began to happen. The jewels embedded in the sword hilts began to shine brilliantly: crimson, sapphire, emerald and violet. The dragons behind them threw their heads to the sky and began to roar. Fire billowed from the red dragon's mouth, water from the blue dragon's, a green gust of wind from the green dragon, and a bolt of purple lightning from the purple dragon.

Something began to creep from their fingertips, spreading slowly and steadily until they were all coated in similar suits of glistening, silvery armour, with platings exclusive to their respective jewels.

A cry of excitement escaped Milius’s lips. Shakil was flexing his muscles, admiring his own armour. Ariana, on the other hand, stood quite still, a sudden resolve hardening her face. Sirius too was still, though he was looking extremely smug and important.

“Further proof that the choices were right,” Calder said, beaming. “And now, there is but one thing left to do: the First Flight.”

Milius wondered for a split second what this meant, but his question was answered as Sirius, Shakil, and Ariana sheathed their swords, broke into runs, and headed toward their dragons. The red dragon lowered its scaly, spiky body so that Sirius could mount it. The green bird-like dragon had done the same for Ariana, and the blue dragon for Shakil. All that was left was …

Milius gulped. The purple dragon was staring coldly at him, as though telling him that he would regret coming any closer. The numbness in his legs had returned tenfold, and once more he tried to step away, but again Calder’s firm hand guided him forward. He stumbled to a halt at the dragon's stony feet and, despite his unease, looked up at its face. It whipped its head around sharply, then very slowly, lowered its head.

The other Knights were glaring at Milius, and an impatient buzz was coming from the crowd. He caught Calder’s eye, and he smiled and nodded. He looked too at Minerva, who was shaking her head so violently it may very well have dropped off soon.

It was this more than anything that solidified Milius’s resolve. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and mounted it.

“Verdona, Dragon of Fire!” called Calder; the red dragon raised its head. “Vrydius, Dragon of Wind” — the green dragon stretched its wings wide — “Aleia, Dragon of Water” — the blue dragon made a soft rumbling noise — “and Lumeus, Dragon of Lightning!" — the purple dragon's chest swelled with what Milius assumed was pride. "To the skies!”

Milius tried to secure a faster grip on the dragon's rugged neck, but at that moment, it flapped its enormous wings and took off, alongside the other dragons. The force was such that Milius was thrown backwards. As the crowd screamed with glee and terror, he clutched at the dragon's sturdy back and held on for dear life. It was beating its wings furiously, swerving sharply from side to side, as though trying to shake him off.

Milius screamed at the top of his lungs, but none of the other Knights seemed to hear him. They were focused on their own smooth, but still enjoyable flights. His grip slackened as the dragon turned over in midair. Every cell in his body was screaming out in agony, telling him to let go, but then a stronger voice spoke to him.

“Hold on.”

The voice calmed him down completely. He could suddenly think straight. It became clear what he had to do. The dragon turned over, dipped, and rose once more. Milius gripped the its back firmly and, still calm, pulled Palpatunde from his sheath and drove it squarely into the dragon's back. It squawked furiously, and began to shake itself even more violently. But Milius continued forward, holding onto the sword as he plunged it into the dragon's back, over and over. Finally he reached its neck, and sat. He shouted, “Yield!” and the dragon, slowly, began to drift serenely. At that moment, Milius began to appreciate the air.