Fourth Wing is a nonstop-thrilling adventure fantasy set in the brutal and competitive world of a military college for dragon riders, which includes elements regarding war, battle, hand-to-hand combat, perilous situations, blood, intense violence, brutal injuries, death, poisoning, graphic language, and sexual activities that are shown on the page. Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note, and prepare to enter Basgiath War College...

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Rebecca Yarros. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave., STE 181

Shrewsbury, PA 17361

rights@entangledpublishing.com

Red Tower Books is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com

Edited by Liz Pelletier

Cover art and design by Bree Archer and Elizabeth Turner Stokes

Stock art by Peratek/Shutterstock

Interior map art by Amy Acosta and Elizabeth Turner Stokes

Interior endpaper map art by Melanie Korte

Interior design by Toni Kerr

HC ISBN 978-1-64937-404-2

Ebook ISBN 978-1-64937-408-0

Printed in China

First Edition May 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Aaron.
My own Captain America.
Through the deployments, the moves,
the sunniest highs, and the darkest lows,
it’s always been you and me, kiddo.

Here’s to the artists.
You hold the power to shape the world.
 

Table of Contents

Cover Map ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN | EIGHT | NINE | TEN | ELEVEN | TWELVE | THIRTEEN | FOURTEEN | FIFTEEN | SIXTEEN | SEVENTEEN | EIGHTEEN | NINETEEN | TWENTY | TWENTY-ONE | TWENTY-TWO | TWENTY-THREE | TWENTY-FOUR | TWENTY-FIVE | TWENTY-SIX | TWENTY-SEVEN | TWENTY-EIGHT | TWENTY-NINE | THIRTY | THIRTY-ONE | THIRTY-TWO | THIRTY-THREE | THIRTY-FOUR | THIRTY-FIVE | THIRTY-SIX | THIRTY-SEVEN | THIRTY-EIGHT | THIRTY-NINE Acknowledgments About the Author

The following text has been faithfully transcribed from Navarrian into the modern language by Jesinia Neilwart, Curator of the Scribe Quadrant at Basgiath War College. All events are true, and names have been preserved to honor the courage of those fallen. May their souls be commended to Malek.

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

—Article One, Section One
The Dragon Rider’s Codex

CHAPTER
ONE

Conscription Day is always the deadliest. Maybe that’s why the sunrise is especially beautiful this morning—because I know it might be my last.

I tighten the straps of my heavy canvas rucksack and trudge up the wide staircase of the stone fortress I call home. My chest heaves with exertion, my lungs burning by the time I reach the stone corridor leading to General Sorrengail’s office. This is what six months of intense physical training has given me—the ability to barely climb six flights of stairs with a thirty-pound pack.

I’m so fucked.

The thousands of twenty-year-olds waiting outside the gate to enter their chosen quadrant for service are the smartest and strongest in Navarre. Hundreds of them have been preparing for the Riders Quadrant, the chance to become one of the elite, since birth. I’ve had exactly six months.

The expressionless guards lining the wide hallway at the top of the landing avoid my eyes as I pass, but that’s nothing new. Besides, being ignored is the best possible scenario for me.

Basgiath War College isn’t known for being kind to…well, anyone, even those of us whose mothers are in command.

Every Navarrian officer, whether they choose to be schooled as healers, scribes, infantry, or riders, is molded within these cruel walls over three years, honed into weapons to secure our mountainous borders from the violent invasion attempts of the kingdom of Poromiel and their gryphon riders. The weak don’t survive here, especially not in the Riders Quadrant. The dragons make sure of that.

“You’re sending her to die!” a familiar voice thunders through the general’s thick wooden door, and I gasp. There’s only one woman on the Continent foolish enough to raise her voice to the general, but she’s supposed to be on the border with the Eastern Wing. Mira.

There’s a muffled response from the office, and I reach for the door handle.

“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Mira shouts as I force the heavy door open and the weight of my pack shifts forward, nearly taking me down. Shit.

The general curses from behind her desk, and I grab onto the back of the crimson-upholstered couch to catch my balance.

“Damn it, Mom, she can’t even handle her rucksack,” Mira snaps, rushing to my side.

“I’m fine!” My cheeks heat with mortification, and I force myself upright. She’s been back for five minutes and is already trying to save me. Because you need saving, you fool.

I don’t want this. I don’t want any part of this Riders Quadrant shit. It’s not like I have a death wish. I would have been better off failing the admission test to Basgiath and going straight to the army with the majority of conscripts. But I can handle my rucksack, and I will handle myself.

“Oh, Violet.” Worried brown eyes look down at me as strong hands brace my shoulders.

“Hi, Mira.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She might be here to say her goodbyes, but I’m just glad to see my sister for the first time in years.

Her eyes soften, and her fingers flex on my shoulders like she might pull me into a hug, but she steps back and turns to stand at my side, facing our mother. “You can’t do this.”

“It’s already done.” Mom shrugs, the lines of her fitted black uniform rising and falling with the motion.

I scoff. So much for the hope of a reprieve. Not that I ever should have expected, or even hoped for, an ounce of mercy from a woman who’s been made famous for her lack of it.

“Then undo it,” Mira seethes. “She’s spent her whole life training to become a scribe. She wasn’t raised to be a rider.”

“Well, she certainly isn’t you, is she, Lieutenant Sorrengail?” Mom braces her hands on the immaculate surface of her desk and leans in slightly as she stands, looking us over with narrowed, appraising eyes that mirror the dragons’ carved into the furniture’s massive legs. I don’t need the prohibited power of mind reading to know exactly what she sees.

At twenty-six years old, Mira’s a younger version of our mother. She’s tall, with strong, powerful muscles toned from years of sparring and hundreds of hours spent on the back of her dragon. Her skin practically glows with health, and her golden-brown hair is sheared short for combat in the same style as Mom’s. But more than looks, she carries the same arrogance, the unwavering conviction that she belongs in the sky. She’s a rider through and through.

She’s everything I’m not, and the disapproving shake of Mom’s head says she agrees. I’m too short. Too frail. What curves I do have should be muscle, and my traitorous body makes me embarrassingly vulnerable.

Mom walks toward us, her polished black boots gleaming in the mage lights that flicker from the sconces. She picks up the end of my long braid, scoffs at the section just above my shoulders where the brown strands start to lose their warmth of color and slowly fade to a steely, metallic silver by the ends, and then drops it. “Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair.” Her gaze siphons every ounce of my confidence down to the marrow in my bones. “It’s like that fever stole all your coloring along with your strength.” Grief flashes through her eyes and her brows furrow. “I told him not to keep you in that library.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard her curse the sickness that nearly killed her while she was pregnant with me or the library Dad made my second home once she’d been stationed here at Basgiath as an instructor and he as a scribe.

“I love that library,” I counter. It’s been more than a year since his heart finally failed, and the Archives are still the only place that feels like home in this giant fortress, the only place where I still feel my father’s presence.

“Spoken like the daughter of a scribe,” Mom says quietly, and I see it—the woman she was while Dad was alive. Softer. Kinder…at least for her family.

“I am the daughter of a scribe.” My back screams at me, so I let my pack slip from my shoulders, guiding it to the floor, and take my first full breath since leaving my room.

Mom blinks, and that softer woman is gone, leaving only the general. “You’re the daughter of a rider, you are twenty years old, and today is Conscription Day. I let you finish your tutoring, but like I told you last spring, I will not watch one of my children enter the Scribe Quadrant, Violet.”

“Because scribes are so far beneath riders?” I grumble, knowing perfectly well that riders are the top of the social and military hierarchy. It helps that their bonded dragons roast people for fun.

“Yes!” Her customary composure slips. “And if you dare walk into the tunnel toward the Scribe Quadrant today, I will rip you out by that ridiculous braid and put you on the parapet myself.”

My stomach turns over.

“Dad wouldn’t want this!” Mira argues, color flushing up her neck.

“I loved your father, but he’s dead,” Mom says, as if giving the weather report. “I doubt he wants much these days.”

I suck in a breath but keep my mouth shut. Arguing will get me nowhere. She’s never listened to a damned thing I’ve had to say before, and today is no different.

“Sending Violet into the Riders Quadrant is tantamount to a death sentence.” Guess Mira isn’t done arguing. Mira’s never done arguing with Mom, and the frustrating thing about it is that Mom has always respected her for it. Double standard for the win. “She’s not strong enough, Mom! She’s already broken her arm this year, she sprains some joint every other week, and she’s not tall enough to mount any dragon big enough to keep her alive in a battle.”

“Seriously, Mira?” What. The. Hell. My fingernails bite into my palms as I curl my hands into fists. Knowing my chances of survival are minimal is one thing. Having my sister throw my inadequacies in my face is another. “Are you calling me weak?”

“No.” Mira squeezes my hand. “Just…fragile.”

“That’s not any better.” Dragons don’t bond fragile women. They incinerate them.

“So she’s small.” Mom scans me up and down, taking in the generous fit of the cream belted tunic and pants I selected this morning for my potential execution.

I snort. “Are we just listing my faults now?”

“I never said it was a fault.” Mom turns to my sister. “Mira, Violet deals with more pain before lunch than you do in an entire week. If any of my children is capable of surviving the Riders Quadrant, it’s her.”

My eyebrows rise. That sounded an awful lot like a compliment, but with Mom, I’m never quite sure.

“How many rider candidates die on Conscription Day, Mom? Forty? Fifty? Are you that eager to bury another child?” Mira seethes.

I cringe as the temperature in the room plummets, courtesy of Mom’s storm-wielding signet power she channels through her dragon, Aimsir.

My chest tightens at the memory of my brother. No one has dared to mention Brennan or his dragon in the five years since they died fighting the Tyrrish rebellion in the south. Mom tolerates me and respects Mira, but she loved Brennan.

Dad did, too. His chest pains started right after Brennan’s death.

Mom’s jaw tightens and her eyes threaten retribution as she glares at Mira.

My sister swallows but holds her own in the staring competition.

“Mom,” I start. “She didn’t mean—”

“Get. Out. Lieutenant.” Mom’s words are soft puffs of steam in the frigid office. “Before I report you absent from your unit without leave.”

Mira straightens her posture, nods once, and pivots with military precision, then strides for the door without another word, grabbing a small rucksack on the way out.

It’s the first time Mom and I have been alone in months.

Her eyes meet mine, and the temperature rises as she takes a deep breath. “You scored in the top quarter for speed and agility during the entrance exam. You’ll do just fine. All Sorrengails do just fine.” She skims the backs of her fingers down my cheek, barely grazing my skin. “So much like your father,” she whispers before clearing her throat and backing up a few steps.

Guess there are no meritorious service awards for emotional availability.

“I won’t be able to acknowledge you for the next three years,” she says, sitting back on the edge of her desk. “Since, as commanding general of Basgiath, I’ll be your far superior officer.”

“I know.” It’s the least of my concerns, considering she barely acknowledges me now.

“You won’t get any special treatment just because you’re my daughter, either. If anything, they’ll come after you harder to make you prove yourself.” She arches an eyebrow.

“Well aware.” Good thing I’ve been training with Major Gillstead for the last several months since Mom made her decree.

She sighs and forces a smile. “Then I guess I’ll see you in the valley at Threshing, candidate. Though you’ll be a cadet by sunset, I suppose.”

Or dead.

Neither of us says it.

“Good luck, Candidate Sorrengail.” She moves back behind her desk, effectively dismissing me.

“Thank you, General.” I heft my pack onto my shoulders and walk out of her office. A guard closes the door behind me.

“She’s batshit crazy,” Mira says from the center of the hallway, right between where two guards are positioned.

“They’ll tell her you said that.”

“Like they don’t already know,” she grinds out through clenched teeth. “Let’s go. We only have an hour before all candidates have to report, and I saw thousands waiting outside the gates when I flew over.” She starts walking, leading me down the stone staircase and through the hallways to my room.

Well…it was my room.

In the thirty minutes I’ve been gone, all my personal items have been packed into crates that now sit stacked in the corner. My stomach sinks to the hardwood floor. She had my entire life boxed.

“She’s fucking efficient, I’ll give you that,” Mira mutters before turning my way, her gaze passing over me in open assessment. “I was hoping I’d be able to talk her out of it. You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” I lift an eyebrow at her. “Repeatedly.”

“Sorry.” She winces, dropping to the ground and emptying her pack.

“What are you doing?”

“What Brennan did for me,” she says softly, and grief lodges in my throat. “Can you use a sword?”

I shake my head. “Too heavy. I’m pretty quick with daggers, though.” Really damned quick. Lightning quick. What I lack in strength, I make up for in speed.

“I figured. Good. Now, drop your pack and take off those horrible boots.” She sorts through the items she’s brought, handing me new boots and a black uniform. “Put these on.”

“What’s wrong with my pack?” I ask but drop my rucksack anyway. She immediately opens it, ripping out everything I’d carefully packed. “Mira! That took me all night!”

“You’re carrying way too much, and your boots are a death trap. You’ll slip right off the parapet with those smooth soles. I had a set of rubber-bottomed rider boots made for you just in case, and this, my dear Violet, is the worst case.” Books start flying, landing in the vicinity of the crate.

“Hey, I can only take what I can carry, and I want those!” I lunge for the next book before she has a chance to toss it, barely managing to save my favorite collection of dark fables.

“Are you willing to die for it?” she asks, her eyes turning hard.

“I can carry it!” This is all wrong. I’m supposed to be dedicating my life to books, not throwing them in the corner to lighten my rucksack.

“No. You can’t. You’re barely thrice the weight of the pack, the parapet is roughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground, and last time I looked, those were rain clouds moving in. They’re not going to give you a rain delay just because the bridge might get a little slick, sis. You’ll fall. You’ll die. Now, are you going to listen to me? Or are you going to join the other dead candidates at tomorrow morning’s roll call?” There’s no trace of my older sister in the rider before me. This woman is shrewd, cunning, and a touch cruel. This is the woman who survived all three years with only one scar, the one her own dragon gave her during Threshing. “Because that’s all you’ll be. Another tombstone. Another name scorched in stone. Ditch the books.”

“Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest. Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left.

She sighs. “Is it that old book of folklore about dark-wielding vermin and their wyvern? Haven’t you read it a thousand times already?”

“Probably more,” I admit. “And they’re venin, not vermin.”

“Dad and his allegories,” she says. “Just don’t try to channel power without being a bonded rider and red-eyed monsters won’t hide under your bed, waiting to snatch you away on their two-legged dragons to join their dark army.” She retrieves the last book I packed from the rucksack and hands it to me. “Ditch the books. Dad can’t save you. He tried. I tried. Decide, Violet. Are you going to die a scribe? Or live as a rider?”

I glance down at the books in my arms and make my choice. “You’re a pain in the ass.” I put the fables in the corner but keep the other tome in my hands as I face my sister.

“A pain in the ass who is going to keep you alive. What’s that one for?” she challenges.

“Killing people.” I hand it back to her.

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Good. You can keep that one. Now, get changed while I sort out the rest of this mess.” The bell rings high above us. We have forty-five minutes.

I dress quickly, but everything feels like it belongs to someone else, though it’s obviously tailored to my size. My tunic is replaced by a tight-fitting black shirt that covers my arms, and my breezy pants are exchanged for leather ones that hug every curve. Then she laces me into a vest-style corset over the shirt.

“Keeps it from rubbing,” she explains.

“Like the gear riders wear into battle.” Have to admit, the clothes are pretty badass, even if I feel like an imposter. Gods, this is really happening.

“Exactly, because that’s what you’re doing. Going into battle.”

The combination of leather and a fabric I don’t recognize covers me from collarbone to just below my waist, wrapping over my breasts and crossing up and over my shoulders. I finger the hidden sheaths sewn diagonally along the rib cage.

“For your daggers.”

“I only have four.” I grab them from the pile on the floor.

“You’ll earn more.”

I slide my weapons into the sheaths, as though my ribs themselves have become weapons. The design is ingenious. Between my ribs and the sheaths at my thighs, the blades are easily accessible.

I barely recognize myself in the mirror. I look like a rider. I still feel like a scribe.

Minutes later, half of what I packed is piled onto the crates. She’s repacked my rucksack, discarding anything deemed unnecessary and almost everything sentimental while word-vomiting advice about how to survive in the quadrant. Then she surprises me by doing the most sentimental thing ever—telling me to sit between her knees so she can braid my hair into a crown.

It’s like I’m a kid again instead of a full-grown woman, but I do it.

“What is this?” I test the material just above my heart, scratching it with my fingernail.

“Something I designed,” she explains, tugging my braid painfully tight against my scalp. “I had it specially made for you with Teine’s scales sewn in, so be careful with it.”

“Dragon scales?” I jerk my head back to look at her. “How? Teine is huge.”

“I happen to know a rider whose powers can make big things very small.” A devious smile plays across her lips. “And smaller things…much, much bigger.”

I roll my eyes. Mira’s always been more vocal about her men than I have been…about all two of them. “I mean, how much bigger?”

She laughs, then tugs on my braid. “Head forward. You should have cut your hair.” She pulls the strands tight against my head and resumes weaving. “It’s a liability in sparring and in battle, not to mention being a giant target. No one else has hair that fades out to silver like this, and they’ll already be aiming for you.”

“You know very well the natural pigment seems to gradually abandon it no matter the length.” My eyes are just as indecisive, a light hazel of varying blues and ambers that never seems to favor either actual color. “Besides, other than everyone else’s concern for the shade, my hair is the only thing about me that’s perfectly healthy. Cutting it would feel like I’m punishing my body for finally doing something well, and it’s not like I feel the need to hide who I am.”

“You’re not.” Mira yanks on my braid, pulling my head back, and our eyes lock. “You’re the smartest woman I know. Don’t forget that. Your brain is your best weapon. Outsmart them, Violet. Do you hear me?”

I nod, and she loosens her grip, then finishes the braid and pulls me to my feet as she continues to summarize years of knowledge into fifteen harried minutes, barely pausing to breathe.

“Be observant. Quiet is fine, but make sure you notice everything and everyone around you to your advantage. You’ve read the Codex?”

“A few times.” The rule book for the Riders Quadrant is a fraction of the length of the other divisions’. Probably because riders have trouble obeying rules.

“Good. Then you know that the other riders can kill you at any time, and the cutthroat cadets will try. Fewer cadets means better odds at Threshing. There are never enough dragons willing to bond, and anyone reckless enough to get themselves killed isn’t worthy of a dragon anyway.”

“Except when sleeping. It’s an executable offense to attack any cadet while sleeping. Article Three—”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe at night. Sleep in this if you can.” She taps the stomach of my corset.

“Rider black is supposed to be earned. You sure I shouldn’t wear my tunic today?” I skim my hands over the leather.

“The wind up on the parapet will catch any spare cloth like a sail.” She hands me my now-much-lighter pack. “The tighter your clothes, the better off you are up there, and in the ring once you start sparring. Wear the armor at all times. Keep your daggers on you at all times.” She points to the sheaths down her thighs.

“Someone’s going to say I didn’t earn them.”

“You’re a Sorrengail,” she responds, as if that’s answer enough. “Fuck what they say.”

“And you don’t think the dragon scales are cheating?”

“There’s no such thing as cheating once you climb the turret. There’s only survival and death.” The bell chimes—only thirty minutes left. She swallows. “It’s almost time. Ready?”

“No.”

“Neither was I.” A wry smile lifts a corner of her mouth. “And I’d spent my life training for it.”

“I’m not going to die today.” I sling my pack over my shoulders and breathe a little easier than this morning. It’s infinitely more manageable.

The halls of the central, administrative part of the fortress are eerily quiet as we wind our way down through various staircases, but the noise from outside grows louder the lower we descend. Through the windows, I see thousands of candidates hugging their loved ones and saying their goodbyes on the grassy fields just beneath the main gate. From what I’ve witnessed every year, most families hold on to their candidates right up to the very last bell. The four roads leading to the fortress are clogged with horses and wagons, especially where they converge in front of the college, but it’s the empty ones at the edge of the fields that make me nauseous.

They’re for the bodies.

Right before we round the last corner that will lead to the courtyard, Mira stops.

“What is— Oof.” She yanks me against her chest, hugging me tight in the relative privacy of the corridor.

“I love you, Violet. Remember everything I’ve told you. Don’t become another name on the death roll.” Her voice shakes, and I wrap my arms around her, squeezing tight.

“I’ll be all right,” I promise.

She nods, her chin bumping against the top of my head. “I know. Let’s go.”

That’s all she says before pulling away and walking into the crowded courtyard just inside the main gate to the fortress. Instructors, commanders, and even our mother are gathered informally, waiting for the madness outside the walls to become the order within. Out of all the doors in the war college, the main gate is the only one no cadet will enter today, since each quadrant has its own entrance and facilities. Hell, the riders have their own citadel. Pretentious, egotistical fucks.

I follow Mira, catching her with a few quick strides.

“Find Dain Aetos,” Mira tells me as we cross through the courtyard, heading for the open gate.

“Dain?” I can’t help but smile at the thought of seeing Dain again, and my heart rate jumps. It’s been a year, and I’ve missed his soft brown eyes and the way he laughs, the way every part of his body joins in. I’ve missed our friendship, and the moments I thought it might turn into more under the right circumstances. I’ve missed the way he looks at me, like I’m someone worth noticing. I’ve just missed…him.

“I’ve only been out of the quadrant for three years, but from what I hear, he’s doing well, and he’ll keep you safe. Don’t smile like that,” Mira chides. “He’ll be a second-year.” She shakes her finger at me. “Don’t mess around with second-years. If you want to get laid, and you should”—she lifts her brows—“often, considering you never know what the day brings, then screw around in your own year. Nothing is worse than cadets gossiping that you’ve slept your way to safety.”

“So I’m free to take any of the first-years I want to bed,” I say with a little grin. “Just not the second- or third-years.”

“Exactly.” She winks.

We cross through the gates, leaving the fortress, and join the organized chaos beyond.

Each of Navarre’s six provinces has sent this year’s share of candidates for military service. Some volunteer. Some are sentenced as punishment. Most are conscripted. The only thing we have in common here at Basgiath is that we passed the entrance exam—both written and an agility test I still cannot believe I passed—which means at least we won’t end up as fodder for the infantry on the front line.

The atmosphere is tense with anticipation as Mira leads me along the worn cobblestone path toward the southern turret. The main college is built into the side of Basgiath Mountain, as if it was cleaved from a ridgeline of the peak itself. The sprawling, formidable structure towers over the crowd of anxious, waiting candidates and their tearful families, with its stories-tall stone battlements—built to protect the high rise of the keep within—and defensive turrets at each of its corners, one of which houses the bells.

The majority of the crowd moves to line up at the base of the northern turret—the entrance to the Infantry Quadrant. Some of the mass heads toward the gate behind us—the Healer Quadrant that consumes the southern end of the college. Envy clenches my chest when I spot a few taking the central tunnel into the archives below the fortress to join the Scribe Quadrant.

The entrance to the Riders Quadrant is nothing more than a fortified door at the base of the tower, just like the infantry entrance to the north. But while the infantry candidates can walk straight into their ground-level quadrant, we rider candidates will climb.

Mira and I join the riders’ line, waiting to sign in, and I make the mistake of glancing up.

High above us, crossing the river-bottomed valley that divides the main college from the even higher, looming citadel of the Riders Quadrant on the southern ridgeline, is the parapet, the stone bridge that’s about to separate rider candidates from the cadets over the next few hours.

I can’t believe I’m about to cross that thing.

“And to think, I’ve been preparing for the scribe’s written exam all these years.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “I should have been playing on a balance beam.”

Mira ignores me as the line moves forward and candidates disappear through the door. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.”

Two candidates ahead of us, a woman sobs as her partner rips her away from a young man, the couple breaking from the line, retreating in tears down the hillside toward the crowd of loved ones lining the roads. There are no other parents ahead of us, only a few dozen candidates moving toward the roll-keepers.

“Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down,” Mira says, the lines of her face tightening. “Arms out for balance. If the pack slips, drop it. Better it falls than you.”

I look behind us, where it seems hundreds have filed in within the span of minutes. “Maybe I should let them go first,” I whisper as panic fists my heart. What the hell am I doing?

“No,” Mira answers. “The longer you wait on those steps”—she motions toward the tower—“the greater your fear has a chance to grow. Cross the parapet before the terror owns you.”

The line moves, and the bell chimes again. It’s eight o’clock.

Sure enough, the crowd of thousands behind us has separated fully into their chosen quadrants, all lined up to sign the roll and begin their service.

“Focus,” Mira snaps, and I whip my head forward. “This might sound harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”

There are only two ahead of us now—a woman with a full pack, whose high cheekbones and oval face remind me of renderings of Amari, the queen of the gods. Her dark brown hair is worn in several rows of short braids that just touch the equally dark skin of her neck. The second is the muscular blond man with the woman crying over him. He’s carrying an even bigger rucksack.

I look around the pair toward the roll-keeping desk, and my eyes widen. “Is he…?” I whisper.

Mira glances and mutters a curse. “A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that shimmering mark that starts on the top of his wrist? It’s a relic from the rebellion.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. The only relics I’ve ever heard of are when a dragon uses magic to mark the skin of their bonded rider. But those relics are a symbol of honor and power and generally in the shape of the dragon who gifted them. These marks are swirls and slashes that feel more like a warning than a claiming.

“A dragon did that?” I whisper.

She nods. “Mom says General Melgren’s dragon did it to all of them when he executed their parents, but she wasn’t exactly open to further discussion on the topic. Nothing like punishing the kids to deter more parents from committing treason.”

It seems…cruel, but the first rule of living at Basgiath is never question a dragon. They tend to cremate anyone they find rude.

“Most of the marked kids who carry rebellion relics are from Tyrrendor, of course, but there are a few whose parents turned traitor from the other provinces—” The blood drains from her face, and she grips the straps of my pack, turning me to face her. “I just remembered.” Her voice drops, and I lean in, my heart jumping at the urgency in her tone. “Stay the hell away from Xaden Riorson.”

The air rushes from my lungs. That name…

“That Xaden Riorson,” she confirms, fear lacing her gaze. “He’s a third-year, and he will kill you the second he finds out who you are.”

“His father was the Great Betrayer. He led the rebellion,” I say quietly. “What is Xaden doing here?”

“All the children of the leaders were conscripted as punishment for their parents’ crimes,” Mira whispers as we shuffle sideways, moving with the line. “Mom told me they never expected Riorson to make it past the parapet. Then they figured a cadet would kill him, but once his dragon chose him…” She shakes her head. “Well, there’s nothing much that can be done then. He’s risen to the rank of wingleader.”

“That’s bullshit,” I seethe.

“He’s sworn allegiance to Navarre, but I don’t think that will stop him where you’re concerned. Once you get across the parapet—because you will make it across—find Dain. He’ll put you in his squad, and we’ll just hope it’s far from Riorson.” She grips my straps tighter. “Stay. Away. From. Him.”

“Noted.” I nod.

“Next,” a voice calls from behind the wooden table that bears the rolls of the Riders Quadrant. The marked rider I don’t know is seated next to a scribe I do, and Captain Fitzgibbons’s silver eyebrows rise over his weathered face. “Violet Sorrengail?”

I nod, picking up the quill and signing my name on the next empty line on the roll.

“But I thought you were meant for the Scribe Quadrant,” Captain Fitzgibbons says softly.

I envy his cream-colored tunic, unable to find the words.

“General Sorrengail chose otherwise,” Mira supplies.

Sadness fills the older man’s eyes. “Pity. You had so much promise.”

“By the gods,” the rider next to Captain Fitzgibbons says. “You’re Mira Sorrengail?” His jaw drops, and I can smell his hero worship from here.

“I am.” She nods. “This is my sister, Violet. She’ll be a first-year.”

“If she survives the parapet.” Someone behind me snickers. “Wind just might blow her right off.”

“You fought at Strythmore,” the rider behind the desk says with awe. “They gave you the Order of the Talon for taking out that battery behind enemy lines.”

The snickering stops.

“As I was saying.” Mira puts a hand at the small of my back. “This is my sister, Violet.”

“You know the way.” The Captain nods and points to the open door into the turret. It looks ominously dark in there, and I fight the urge to run like hell.

“I know the way,” she assures him, leading me past the table so the snickering asshole behind me can sign the roll.

We pause at the doorway and turn toward each other.

“Don’t die, Violet. I’d hate to be an only child.” She grins and walks away, sauntering past the line of gawking candidates as word spreads of exactly who she is and what she’s done.

“Tough to live up to that,” the woman ahead of me says from just inside the tower.

“It is,” I agree, gripping the straps of my rucksack and heading into the darkness. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light coming in through the equidistant windows along the curved staircase.

“Sorrengail as in…?” the woman asks, looking over her shoulder as we begin to climb the hundreds of stairs that lead to our possible deaths.

“Yep.” There’s no railing, so I keep my hand on the stone wall as we rise higher and higher.

“The general?” the blond guy ahead of us asks.

“The same one,” I answer, offering him a quick smile. Anyone whose mother holds on that tight can’t be that bad, right?

“Wow. Nice leathers, too.” He smiles back.

“Thanks. They’re courtesy of my sister.”

“I wonder how many candidates have fallen off the edge of the steps and died before they even reach the parapet,” the woman says, glancing down the center of the staircase as we climb higher.

“Two last year.” I tilt my head when she glances back. “Well, three if you count the girl one of the guys landed on.”

The woman’s brown eyes flare, but she turns back around and keeps climbing. “How many steps are there?” she asks.

“Two hundred and fifty,” I answer, and we climb in silence for another five minutes.

“Not too bad,” she says with a bright smile as we near the top and the line comes to a halt. “I’m Rhiannon Matthias, by the way.”

“Dylan,” the blond guy responds with an enthusiastic wave.

“Violet.” I give them a tense smile of my own, blatantly ignoring Mira’s earlier suggestion that I avoid friendships and only forge alliances.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life for this day.” Dylan shifts his pack on his back. “Can you believe we actually get to do this? It’s a dream come true.”

Right. Naturally, every other candidate but me is excited to be here. This is the only quadrant at Basgiath that doesn’t accept conscripts—only volunteers.

“I can’t fucking wait.” Rhiannon’s smile widens. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to ride a dragon?”

Me. Not that it doesn’t sound fun in theory. It does. It’s just the abhorrent odds of surviving to graduation that sour my stomach.

“Do your parents approve?” Dylan asks. “Because my mom’s been begging me to change my mind for months. I keep telling her that I’ll have better chances for advancement as a rider, but she wanted me to enter the Healer Quadrant.”

“Mine always knew I wanted this, so they’ve been pretty supportive. Besides, they have my twin to dote on. Raegan’s already living her dream, married and expecting a baby.” Rhiannon glances back at me. “What about you? Let me guess. With a name like Sorrengail, I bet you were the first to volunteer this year.”

“I was more like volun-told.” My answer is far less enthusiastic than hers.

“Gotcha.”

“And riders do get way better perks than other officers,” I say to Dylan as the line moves upward again. The snickering candidate behind me catches up, sweating and red. Look who isn’t snickering now. “Better pay, more leniency with the uniform policy,” I continue. No one gives a shit what riders wear as long as it’s black. The only rules that apply to riders are the ones I’ve memorized from the Codex.

“And the right to call yourself a supreme badass,” Rhiannon adds.

“That too,” I agree. “Pretty sure they issue you an ego with your flight leathers.”

“Plus, I’ve heard that riders are allowed to marry sooner than the other quadrants,” Dylan adds.

“True. Right after graduation.” If we survive. “I think it has something to do with wanting to continue bloodlines.” Most successful riders are legacies.

“Or because we tend to die sooner than the other quadrants,” Rhiannon muses.

“I’m not dying,” Dylan says with way more confidence than I feel as he tugs a necklace from under his tunic to reveal a ring dangling from the chain. “She said it would be bad luck to propose before I left, so we’re waiting until graduation.” He kisses the ring and tucks the chain back under his collar. “The next three years are going to be long ones, but they’ll be worth it.”

I keep my sigh to myself, though that might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

“You might make it across the parapet,” the guy behind us sneers. “This one here is a breeze away from the bottom of the ravine.”

I roll my eyes.

“Shut up and focus on yourself,” Rhiannon snaps, her feet clicking against the stone as we climb.

The top comes into sight, the doorway full of muddled light. Mira was right. Those clouds are going to wreak havoc on us, and we have to be on the other side of the parapet before they do.

Another step, another tap of Rhiannon’s feet.

“Let me see your boots,” I say quietly so the jerk behind me can’t hear.

Her brow puckers, and confusion fills her brown eyes, but she shows me the soles. They’re smooth, just like the ones I was wearing earlier. My stomach sinks like a rock.

The line starts moving again, pausing when we’re only a few feet from the opening. “What size are your feet?” I ask.

“What?” Rhiannon blinks at me.

“Your feet. What size are they?”

“Eight,” she answers, two lines forming between her brows.

“I’m a seven,” I say quickly. “It will hurt like hell, but I want you to take my left boot. Trade with me.” I have a dagger in the right one.

“I’m sorry?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.

“These are rider boots. They’ll grip the stone better. Your toes will be scrunched and generally miserable, but at least you’ll have a shot at not falling off if that rain hits.”

Rhiannon glances toward the open door—and the darkening sky—then back to me. “You’re willing to trade a boot?”

“Just until we get on the other side.” I look through the open door. Three candidates are already walking across the parapet, their arms stretched out wide. “But we have to be quick. It’s almost our turn.”

Rhiannon purses her lips in debate for a second, then agrees, and we swap left boots. I barely finish lacing up before the line moves again, and the guy behind me shoves my lower back, sending me staggering onto the platform and into the open air.

“Let’s go. Some of us have things to do on the other side.” His voice grates on my last freaking nerve.

“You are not worth the effort right now,” I mutter, gaining my balance as the wind whips at my skin, the midsummer morning thick with humidity. Good call on the braid, Mira.

The top of the turret is bare, the crenelations of stone rising and falling along the circular structure at the height of my chest and doing nothing to obscure the view. The ravine and its river below suddenly feel very, very far. How many wagons do they have waiting down there? Five? Six? I know the stats. The parapet claims roughly fifteen percent of the rider candidates. Every trial in the quadrant—including this one—is designed to test a cadet’s ability to ride. If someone can’t manage to walk the windy length of the slim stone bridge, then they sure as hell can’t keep their balance and fight on the back of a dragon.

And as for the death rate? I guess every other rider thinks the risk is worth the glory—or has the arrogance to think they won’t fall.

I’m not in either camp.

Nausea has me holding my stomach, and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as I walk the edge behind Rhiannon and Dylan, my fingers skimming the stonework as we wind our way toward the parapet.

Three riders wait at the entrance, which is nothing more than a gaping hole in the wall of the turret. One with ripped-off sleeves records names as candidates step out onto the treacherous crossing. Another, who’s shaved all his hair with the exception of a strip down the top center, instructs Dylan as he moves into position, patting his chest like the ring hidden there will bring him luck. I hope it does.

The third turns in my direction and my heart simply…stops.

He’s tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong and covered by warm tawny skin and dark stubble, and when he folds his arms across his torso, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple, moving in a way that makes me swallow. And his eyes… His eyes are the shade of gold-flecked onyx. The contrast is startling, jaw-dropping even—everything about him is. His features are so harsh that they look carved, and yet they’re astonishingly perfect, like an artist worked a lifetime sculpting him, and at least a year of that was spent on his mouth.

He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen.

And living in the war college means I’ve seen a lot of men.

Even the diagonal scar that bisects his left eyebrow and marks the top corner of his cheek only makes him hotter. Flaming hot. Scorching hot. Gets-you-into-trouble-and-you-like-it level of hot. Suddenly, I can’t remember exactly why Mira told me not to fuck around outside my year group.

“See you two on the other side!” Dylan says over his shoulder with an excited grin before stepping onto the parapet, his arms spread wide.

“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with the ripped sleeves says.

Xaden Riorson?

“You ready for this, Sorrengail?” Rhiannon asks, moving forward.

The black-haired rider snaps his gaze to mine, turning fully toward me, and my heart thunders for all the wrong reasons. A rebellion relic, curving in dips and swirls, starts at his bare left wrist, then disappears under his black uniform to appear again at his collar, where it stretches and swirls up his neck, stopping at his jawline.

“Oh shit,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow, as if he can hear me over the howl of wind that rips at my secured braid.

“Sorrengail?” He steps toward me, and I look up…and up.

Good gods, I don’t even reach his collarbone. He’s massive. He has to be more than four inches over six feet tall.

I feel exactly what Mira called me—fragile—but I nod once, and the shining onyx of his eyes transforms to cold, unadulterated hatred. I can almost taste the loathing wafting off him like a bitter cologne.

“Violet?” Rhiannon asks, moving forward.

“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.” His voice is deep and accusatory.

“You’re Fen Riorson’s son,” I counter, the certainty of this revelation settling in my bones. I lift my chin and do my best to lock every muscle in my body so I don’t start trembling.

He will kill you the second he finds out who you are. Mira’s words bounce around my skull, and fear knots in my throat. He’s going to throw me over the edge. He’s going to pick me up and drop me right off this turret. I’m never going to get the chance to even walk the parapet. I’ll die being exactly what my mother’s always danced around calling me—weak.

Xaden sucks in a deep breath, and the muscle in his jaw flexes once. Twice. “Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”

Wait. Like he has the only right to hatred here? Rage races through my veins. “Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we’re even.”

“Hardly.” His glaring gaze strokes over me like he’s memorizing every detail or looking for any weakness. “Your sister is a rider. Guess that explains the leathers.”

“Guess so.” I hold his glare, as if winning this staring competition will gain me entrance to the quadrant instead of crossing the parapet behind him. Either way, I’m getting across. Mira isn’t going to lose both her siblings.

His hands clench into fists, and he tenses.

I prepare for the strike. He might throw me off this tower, but I won’t make it easy for him.

“You all right?” Rhiannon asks, her gaze jumping between Xaden and me.

He glances at her. “You’re friends?”

“We met on the stairs,” she says, squaring her shoulders.

He looks down, noting our mismatched shoes, and arches a brow. His hands relax. “Interesting.”

“Are you going to kill me?” I lift my chin another inch.

His gaze clashes with mine as the sky opens and rain falls in a deluge, soaking my hair, my leathers, and the stones around us in seconds.

A scream rends the air, and Rhiannon and I both jerk our attention to the parapet just in time to see Dylan slip.

I gasp, my heart jolting into my throat.

He catches himself, hooking his arms over the stone bridge as his feet kick beneath him, scrambling for a purchase that isn’t there.

“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” Rhiannon shouts.

“Oh gods!” My hand flies to cover my mouth, but he loses his grip on the water-slick stone and falls, disappearing from view. The wind and rain steal any sound his body might make in the valley below. They steal the sound of my muffled cry, too.

Xaden never takes his eyes from me, watching silently with a look I can’t interpret as I bring my horrified gaze back to his.

“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?” A wicked smile curves his lips. “Your turn.”

There’s a misconception that it’s kill or be killed in the Riders Quadrant. Riders, as a whole, aren’t out to assassinate other cadets…unless there’s a shortage of dragons that year or a cadet is a liability to their wing. Then things may get…interesting.

—Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant
(Unauthorized Edition)

CHAPTER
TWO

I will not die today.

The words become my mantra, repeating in my head as Rhiannon gives her name to the rider keeping tally at the opening to the parapet. The hatred in Xaden’s stare burns the side of my face like a palpable flame, and even the rain pelting my skin with each gust of wind doesn’t ease the heat—or the shiver of dread that jolts down my spine.

Dylan is dead. He’s just a name, another soon-to-be stone in the endless graveyards that line the roads to Basgiath, another warning to the ambitious candidates who would rather chance their lives with the riders than choose the security of any other quadrant. I get it now—why Mira warned me not to make friends.

Rhiannon grips both sides of the opening in the turret, then looks over her shoulder at me. “I’ll wait for you on the other side,” she shouts over the storm. The fear in her eyes mirrors my own.

“I’ll see you on the other side.” I nod and even manage a grimace of a smile.

She steps out onto the parapet and begins walking, and even though I’m sure his hands are full today, I send up a silent prayer to Zihnal, the god of luck.

“Name?” the rider at the edge asks as his partner holds a cloak over the scroll in a pointless attempt to keep the paper dry.

“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life. With a quick glance, I see Dylan’s and Rhiannon’s names already blurring at the end where water has met ink. It’s the last time Dylan’s name will be written anywhere but his stone. There will be another roll at the end of the parapet so the scribes have their beloved statistics for casualties. In another life, it would be me reading and recording the data for historical analysis.

“Sorrengail?” The rider looks up, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “As in General Sorrengail?”

“The same.” Damn, that’s already getting old, and I know it’s only going to get worse. There’s no avoiding the comparison to my mother, not when she’s the commander here. Even worse, they probably think I’m a naturally gifted rider like Mira or a brilliant strategist like Brennan was. Or they’ll take one look at me, realize I’m nothing like the three of them, and declare open season.

I place my hands on either side of the turret and drag my fingertips across the stone. It’s still warm from the morning sun but rapidly cooling from the rain, slick but not slippery from moss growth or anything.

Ahead of me, Rhiannon is making her way across, her hands out for balance. She’s probably a fourth of the way, her figure becoming blurrier the farther she walks into the rain.

“I thought she only had one daughter?” the other rider asks, angling the cloak as another gust of wind blows into us. If it’s this windy here, my bottom half sheltered by the turret, then I’m about to be in for a world of hurt on the parapet.

“I get that a lot.” In through my nose, out through my mouth, I force my breathing to calm, my heart rate to slow from its gallop. If I panic, I’ll die. If I slip, I’ll die. If I… Oh, fuck it. There’s nothing more I can do to prepare for this.

I take the lone step up onto the parapet and grip the stone wall as another gust hits, knocking me sideways against the opening in the turret.

“And you think you’ll be able to ride?” the asshole candidate behind me mocks. “Some Sorrengail, with that kind of balance. I pity whatever wing you end up in.”

I regain my balance and yank the straps of my pack tighter.

“Name?” the rider asks again, but I know he’s not talking to me.

“Jack Barlowe,” the one behind me answers. “Remember the name. I’m going to be a wingleader one day.” Even his voice reeks of arrogance.

“You’d better get going, Sorrengail,” Xaden’s deep voice orders.

I look over my shoulder and see him pinning me with a glare.

“Unless you need a little motivation?” Jack lunges forward, his hands raised. Holy shit, he’s going to shove me off.

Fear shoots through my veins, and I move, leaving the safety of the turret as I bolt onto the parapet. There’s no going back now.

My heart beats so hard that I hear it in my ears like a drum.

Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down. Mira’s advice echoes in my head, but it’s hard to heed it when every step could be my last. I throw my arms out for balance, then take the measured mini strides I practiced with Major Gillstead in the courtyard. But with the wind, the rain, and the two-hundred-foot drop, this is nothing like practice. The stones beneath my feet are uneven in places, held together by mortar in the joints that make it easy to trip, and I concentrate on the path ahead of me to keep my eyes off my boots. My muscles are tight as I lock my center of gravity, keeping my posture upright.

My head swims as my pulse skyrockets.

Calm. I have to stay calm.

I can’t carry a tune, or even decently hum, so singing for a distraction is out, but I am a scholar. There’s nowhere as calming as the archives, so that’s what I think of. Facts. Logic. History.

Your mind already knows the answer, so just calm down and let it remember. That’s what Dad always told me. I need something to keep the logical side of my brain from turning around and walking straight back to the turret.

“The Continent is home to two kingdoms—and we’ve been at war for four hundred years,” I recite, using the basic, simple data that has been drilled into me for easy recall in preparation for the scribe’s test. Step after step, I make my way across the parapet. “Navarre, my home, is the larger kingdom, with six unique provinces. Tyrrendor, our southernmost and largest province, shares its border with the province of Krovla within the Poromiel kingdom.” Each word calms my breathing and steadies my heart rate, lessening the dizziness.

“To our east lie the remaining two Poromiel provinces of Braevick and Cygnisen, with the Esben Mountains providing a natural border.” I pass the painted line that marks halfway. I’m over the highest point now, but I can’t think about that. Don’t look down. “Beyond Krovla, beyond our enemy, lie the distant Barrens, a desert—”

Thunder cracks, the wind slams into me, and I flail my arms. “Shit!”

My body sways left with the gale, and I drop to the parapet, holding on to the edges and crouching so I don’t lose my footing, making myself as small as possible as the wind howls over and around me. Stomach churning, I feel my lungs threaten to hyperventilate as panic seizes me at knifepoint.

“Within Navarre, Tyrrendor was the last of the bordering provinces to join the alliance and swear fealty to King Reginald,” I shout into the howling wind, forcing my mind to keep moving against the very real threat of paralyzing anxiety. “It was also the only province to attempt secession six hundred and twenty-seven years later, which would have eventually left our kingdom defenseless had they been successful.”

Rhiannon is still ahead of me, at what I think is the three-quarters point. Good. She deserves to make it.

“The kingdom of Poromiel mainly consists of arable plains and marshlands and is known for exceptional textiles, endless fields of grain, and unique crystalline gems capable of amplifying minor magics.” I spare only a quick glance at the dark clouds above me before inching forward, one foot carefully placed in front of the other. “In contrast, Navarre’s mountainous regions offer an abundance in ore, hardy timber from our eastern provinces, and limitless deer and elk.”

My next step knocks a couple of pieces of mortar loose, and I pause as my arms wobble until I regain my balance. I swallow and test my weight before moving forward again.

“The Trade Agreement of Resson, signed more than two hundred years ago, ensures the exchange of meat and lumber from Navarre for the cloth and agriculture within Poromiel four times a year at the Athebyne outpost on the border of Krovla and Tyrrendor.”

I can see the Riders Quadrant from here. The enormous stone footings of the citadel rise up the mountain to the base of the structure, where I know this path ends if I can just get there. Scraping the rain from my face with the leather on my shoulder, I glance back to see where Jack is.

He’s stalled at just after the quarter mark, his stocky form standing still…like he’s waiting for something. His hands are at his sides. The wind seems to have no effect on his balance, lucky bastard. I swear he’s grinning across the distance, but it could just be the rain in my eyes.

I can’t stay here. Living to see the sunrise means I have to keep moving. Fear can’t rule my body. Squeezing the muscles of my legs together for balance, I slowly let go of the stone beneath me and stand.

Arms out. Walk.

I need to get as far as possible before the next gust of wind.

I look back over my shoulder to see where Jack is, and my blood chills to ice.

He’s turned his back on me and is facing the next candidate, who wobbles dangerously as he approaches. Jack grabs the gangly boy by the straps of his overpacked rucksack, and I watch, shock locking my muscles, as Jack throws the scrawny candidate from the parapet like a sack of grain.

A scream reaches my ears for an instant before fading as he falls out of sight.

Holy shit.

“You’re next, Sorrengail!” Jack bellows, and I jerk my gaze from the ravine to see him pointing at me, a sinister smile curving his mouth. Then he comes for me, his strides eating up the distance between us with horrifying speed.

Move. Now.

“Tyrrendor encompasses the southwest of the Continent,” I recite, my steps even but panicked on the slick, narrow path, my left foot slipping a little at the beginning of each step. “Made up of hostile, mountainous terrain and bordered by the Emerald Sea to the west and the Arctile Ocean to the south, Tyrrendor is nearly impenetrable. Though separated geographically by the Cliffs of Dralor, a natural protective barrier—”

Another gust slams into me, and my foot slips off the parapet. My heart lurches. The parapet rushes up to meet me as I stumble and fall. My knee slams into the stone, and I yelp at the sharp bite of pain. My hands scramble for purchase as my left leg dangles off the edge of this bridge from hell, Jack not far behind now. Then I make the gut-twisting error of looking down.

Water runs off my nose and chin, splattering against the stone before falling to join the river gushing through the valley more than two hundred feet below. I swallow the growing knot in my throat and blink, fighting to steady my heart rate.

I will not die today.

Gripping the sides of the stone, I brace as much of my weight as I can trust on the slick stones to hold and swing my left leg up. The ball of my foot finds the walkway. From here, there aren’t enough facts in the world to steady my thoughts. I need to get my right foot under me, the one that has better traction, but one wrong move and I’ll find out just how cold that river is beneath me.

You’ll be dead on impact.

“I’m coming for you, Sorrengail!” I hear from behind me.

I shove off the stone and pray my boots find the pathway as I burst to my feet. If I fall, fine, that would be my error. But I’m not about to let this asshole murder me. Best to get to the other side, where the rest of the murderers wait. Not that everyone in the quadrant is going to try to kill me, just the cadets who think I’ll be a liability to the wing. There’s a reason strength is revered among riders. A squad, a section, a wing is only as effective as its weakest link, and if that link breaks, it puts everyone in danger.

Jack either thinks I’m that link or he’s an unstable asshole who just enjoys killing. Probably both. Either way, I need to move faster.

Throwing my arms out to the side, I focus on the end of the path, the courtyard of the citadel, where Rhiannon steps to safety, and I hustle despite the rain. I keep my body tight, my center locked, and for once am grateful I’m shorter than most.

“Will you scream the whole way down?” Jack mocks, still shouting, but his voice is closer. He’s gaining on me.

There’s no room for fear, so I block it out, envisioning shoving the emotion behind locked iron bars in my mind. I can see the end of the parapet now, the riders who wait at the entrance to the citadel.

“There’s no way someone who can’t even carry a full rucksack passed the entrance exam. You’re a mistake, Sorrengail,” Jack calls out, his voice clearer, but I don’t chance losing my speed to check how far he is behind me. “It’s really for the best that I take you out now, don’t you think? It’s so much more merciful than letting the dragons have at you. They’ll start to eat you leg by rickety leg while you’re still alive. Come on,” he cajoles. “It will be my pleasure to help you out.”

“The fuck you will,” I mutter. There are only a dozen feet left to the outside of the citadel’s enormous walls. My left foot slips, and I wobble, but I only lose a heartbeat before I’m moving forward again. The fortress looms behind those thick battlements, carved into the mountain in an L-shaped formation of tall stone buildings, built to withstand fire, for obvious reasons. The walls that surround the citadel’s courtyard are ten feet thick and eight feet tall, with one opening—and I’m just. About. There.

I bite back a sob of relief as stone rises up on both sides of me.

“You think you’ll be safe in there?” Jack’s voice is harsh…and close.

Secure on both sides by the walls, I run the last ten feet, my heart pounding as adrenaline pushes my body to its max, and his footsteps charge behind me. He lunges for my pack and misses, his hand hitting my hip as we reach the edge. I hurtle forward, jumping the twelve inches off the elevated parapet down to the courtyard, where two riders wait.

Jack roars in frustration, and the sound grips my heaving chest like a vise.

Spinning, I rip a dagger from its sheath at my ribs just as Jack skids to a halt above me on the parapet, his breath choppy and his face ruddy. Murder is etched in his narrowed, glacial blue eyes as he glares down at me…and where the tip of my dagger now indents the fabric of his breeches—against his balls.

“I think. I’ll be safe. For right. Now,” I manage between ragged breaths, my muscles trembling but my hand more than steady.

“Will you?” Jack vibrates with rage, his thick blond brows slashing down over arctic blue eyes, every line of his monstrous frame leaning my way. But he doesn’t take another step.

“It is unlawful for a rider to cause another harm. While in a quadrant formation or in the supervisory. Presence of a superior-ranking cadet,” I recite from the Codex, my heartbeat still in my throat. “As it will diminish the efficacy of the wing. And given the crowd behind us, I think it’s clear to argue that it’s a formation. Article Three, Section—”

“I don’t give a shit!” He moves, but I hold my ground, and my dagger slices through the first layer of his breeches.

“I suggest you reconsider.” I adjust my stance just in case he doesn’t. “I might slip.”

“Name?” the rider next to me drawls, as if we’re the least interesting thing she’s seen today. I glance in her direction for a millisecond. She pushes the chin-length, fire-red strands of her hair behind her ear with one hand and holds the roll with the other, watching the scene play out. The three silver four-point stars embroidered on the shoulder of her cloak tell me she’s a third-year. “You’re pretty small for a rider, but it looks like you made it.”

“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer, but a hundred percent of my focus is on Jack again. The rain drips off the lowered ridge of his brow. “And before you ask, yes, I’m that Sorrengail.”

“Not surprised, with that maneuver,” the woman says, holding a pen like Mom uses over the roll.

It might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever been given.

“And what’s your name?” she asks again. Pretty sure she’s asking Jack, but I’m too busy studying my opponent to glance her way.

“Jack. Barlowe.” There’s no sinister little smile on his lips or playful taunts about how he’ll enjoy killing me now. There’s nothing but pure malice in his features, promising retribution.

A chill of apprehension lifts the hairs on my neck.

“Well, Jack,” the male rider on my right says slowly, scratching the trim lines of his dark goatee. He’s not wearing a cloak, and the rain soaks into the bevy of patches stitched into a worn leather jacket. “Cadet Sorrengail has you by the actual balls here, in more ways than one. She’s right. Regs state that there’s nothing but respect among riders at formation. You want to kill her, you’ll have to do it in the sparring ring or on your own time. That is, if she decides to let you off the parapet. Because technically, you’re not on the grounds yet, so you are not a cadet. She is.”

“And if I decide to snap her neck the second I step down?” Jack growls, and the look in his eyes says he’ll do it.

“Then you get to meet the dragons early,” the redhead answers, her tone bland. “We don’t wait for trials around here. We just execute.”

“What’s it going to be, Sorrengail?” the male rider asks. “You going to have Jack here start as a eunuch?”

Shit. What is it going to be? I can’t kill him, not at this angle, and slicing off his balls is only going to make him hate me more, if possible.

“Are you going to follow the rules?” I ask Jack. My head is buzzing, and my arm feels so damned heavy, but I keep my knife on target.

“Guess I don’t have a choice.” A corner of his mouth tilts into a sneer, and his posture relaxes as he raises his hands, palms out.

I lower my dagger but keep it palmed and ready as I move sideways, toward the redhead keeping roll.

Jack steps down into the courtyard, his shoulder knocking mine as he walks by, pausing to lean in close. “You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you.”

Blue dragons descend from the extraordinary Gormfaileas line. Known for their formidable size, they are the most ruthless, especially in the case of the rare Blue Daggertail, whose knifelike spikes at the tip of their tail can disembowel an enemy with one flick.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

CHAPTER
THREE

If Jack wants to kill me, he needs to get in line. Besides, I have a feeling Xaden Riorson is going to beat him to it.

“Not today,” I respond to Jack, the hilt of my dagger solid in my hand, and I somehow manage to suppress a shudder as he leans over and breathes in. He’s scenting me like a fucking dog. Then he scoffs and walks off into the crowd of celebrating cadets and riders that’s gathered in the sizable courtyard of the citadel.

It’s still early, probably around nine, but already I see there aren’t as many cadets as there were candidates ahead of me in line. Based on the overwhelming presence of leather, both the second- and third-years are here as well, taking stock of the new cadets.

The rain eases into a drizzle, as if it had only come to make the hardest test of my life even harder…but I did it.

I’m alive.

I made it.

My body begins to tremble, and a throbbing pain erupts in my left knee—the one I slammed on the parapet. I take a step, and it threatens to give out on me. I need to bind it before anyone notices.

“I think you made an enemy there,” the redhead says, casually shifting the lethal crossbow she wears strapped along her shoulder. She glances at me over the scroll with a shrewd look in her hazel eyes as she looks me up and down. “I’d watch your back with that one if I were you.”

I nod. I’m going to have to watch my back and every other part of my body.

The next candidate approaches from the parapet as someone grips my shoulders from behind and spins me.

My dagger is halfway up when I realize it’s Rhiannon.

“We made it!” She grins, giving my shoulders a squeeze.

“We made it,” I repeat with a forced smile. My thighs are shaking now, but I manage to sheath my dagger at my ribs. Now that we’re here, both cadets, can I trust her?

“I can’t thank you enough. There were at least three times I would have fallen off if you hadn’t helped me. You were right—those soles were slick as shit. Have you seen the people around here? I swear I just saw a second-year with pink streaks in her hair, and one guy has dragon scales tattooed up his entire biceps.”

“Conformity is for the infantry,” I say as she loops her arm through mine and tugs me along toward the crowd. My knee screams, pain radiating up to my hip and down to my foot, and I limp, my weight falling into Rhiannon’s side.

Damn it.

Where did this nausea come from? Why can’t I stop shaking? I’m going to fall any second now—there’s no way my body can remain upright with this earthquake in my legs or the whirring in my head.

“Speaking of which,” she says, glancing down. “We need to trade boots. There’s a bench—”

A tall figure in a pristine black uniform steps out of the crowd, charging toward us, and though Rhiannon manages to dodge, I stumble smack into his chest.

“Violet?” Strong hands catch my elbows to steady me, and I look up into a pair of familiar, striking brown eyes, flared wide in obvious shock.

Relief sweeps through me, and I try to smile, but it probably comes out like a distorted grimace. He seems taller than he was last summer, the beard that cuts across his jaw is new, and he’s filled out in a way that makes me blink…or maybe that’s just my vision going hazy at the edges. The beautiful, easygoing smile that’s starred in way too many of my fantasies is far from the scowl that purses his mouth, and everything about him seems a little…harder, but it works for him. The line of his chin, the set of his brow, even the muscles of his biceps are rigid under my fingers as I try to find my balance. Sometime in the last year, Dain Aetos went from attractive and cute to gorgeous.

And I’m about to be sick all over his boots.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he barks, the shock in his eyes transforming to something foreign, something deadly. This isn’t the same boy I grew up with. He’s a second-year rider now.

“Dain. It’s good to see you.” That’s an understatement, but the trembles turn to full-on shakes, and bile creeps up my throat, dizziness only making the nausea worse. My knees give out.

“Damn it, Violet,” he mutters, hauling me back to my feet. With one hand on my back and the other under my elbow, he quickly guides me away from the crowd and into an alcove in the wall, close to the first defensive turret of the citadel. It’s a shady, hidden spot with a hard wooden bench, which he sits me on, then helps me out of my rucksack.

Spit floods my mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Head between your knees,” Dain orders in a harsh tone I’m not used to from him, but I do it. He rubs circles on my lower back as I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. “It’s the adrenaline. Give it a minute and it’ll pass.” I hear approaching footsteps on the gravel. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Rhiannon. I’m Violet’s…friend.”

I stare at the gravel under my mismatched boots and will the meager contents of my stomach to stay put.

“Listen to me, Rhiannon. Violet is fine,” he commands. “And if anyone asks, then you tell them exactly what I said, that it’s just the adrenaline working out of her system. Understand?”

“It’s no one’s business what’s going on with Violet,” she retorts, her tone just as sharp as his. “So I wouldn’t say shit. Especially not when she’s the reason I made it across the parapet.”

“You’d better mean that,” he warns, the bite in his voice at odds with the ceaseless, comforting circles he makes on my back.

“I could ask you just who the hell you are,” she retorts.

“He’s one of my oldest friends.” The trembles slowly subside, and the nausea wanes, but I’m not sure if it’s from timing or my position, so I keep my head between my knees while I manage to unlace my left boot.

“Oh,” Rhiannon answers.

“And a second-year rider, cadet,” he growls.

Gravel crunches, like Rhiannon has backed up a step.

“No one can see you here, Vi, so take your time,” Dain says softly.

“Because puking my guts up after surviving the parapet and the asshole who wanted to throw me off it would be considered weak.” I rise slowly, sitting upright.

“Exactly,” he answers. “Are you hurt?” His gaze rakes over me with a desperate edge, like he needs to see every inch for himself.

“My knee is sore,” I admit in a whisper, because it’s Dain. Dain, whom I’ve known since we were five and six. Dain, whose father is one of my mother’s most trusted advisers. Dain, who held me together when Mira left for the Riders Quadrant and again when Brennan died.

He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning my face left and right for his inspection. “That’s all? You’re sure?” His hands run down my sides and pause at my ribs. “Are you wearing daggers?”

Rhiannon takes my boot off and sighs in relief, wiggling her toes.

I nod. “Three at my ribs and one in my boot.” Thank gods, or I’m not sure I’d be sitting here right now.

“Huh.” He drops his hands and looks at me like he’s never seen me before, like I’m a complete stranger, but then he blinks and it’s gone. “Get your boots switched. You two look ridiculous. Vi, do you trust this one?” He nods toward Rhiannon.

She could have waited for me at the security of the citadel walls and thrown me off just like Jack tried to do, but she didn’t.

I nod. I trust her as much as anyone can trust another first-year around here.

“All right.” He stands and turns toward her. There are sheaths at the sides of his leathers, too, but there are daggers in each of them, where mine are still empty. “I’m Dain Aetos, and I’m the leader for Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.”

Squad leader? My brows jump. The highest ranks among the cadets in the quadrant are wingleader and section leader. Both positions are held by elite third-years. Second-years can rise to squad leaders, but only if they’re exceptional. Everyone else is simply a cadet before Threshing—when the dragons choose who they will bond—and a rider after. People die too often around here to hand out ranks prematurely.

“Parapet should be over in the next couple of hours, depending on how fast the candidates cross or fall. Go find the redhead with the roll—she’s usually carrying a crossbow—and tell her that Dain Aetos put both you and Violet Sorrengail into his squad. If she questions you, tell her she owes me from saving her ass at Threshing last year. I’ll bring Violet back to the courtyard shortly.”

Rhiannon glances at me, and I nod.

“Go before someone sees us,” Dain barks.

“Going,” she answers, shoving her foot into her boot and lacing it quickly as I do the same with mine.

“You crossed the parapet with an equestrian boot too big for you?” Dain asks, glaring down at me with incredulity.

“She would have died without trading mine.” I stand and wince as my knee objects and tries to buckle.

“And you’re going to die if we don’t find you a way out of here.” He offers his arm. “Take it. We need to get you to my room. You need to wrap that knee.” His eyebrows rise. “Unless you found some miracle cure I don’t know about in the last year?”

I shake my head and take his arm.

“Damn it, Violet. Damn it.” He tucks mine discreetly against his side, grabs my rucksack with his empty hand, then leads me into a tunnel at the end of the alcove in the outer wall I hadn’t even seen. Mage lights flicker on in the sconces as we pass and extinguish after we go by. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Well aware.” I let myself limp a little, since no one can see us now.

“You’re supposed to be in the Scribe Quadrant,” he seethes, leading me through the tunnel in the wall. “What the hell happened? Please tell me you did not volunteer for the Riders Quadrant.”

“What do you think happened?” I challenge as we reach a wrought-iron gate that looks like it was built to keep out a troll…or a dragon.

He curses. “Your mother.”

“My mother.” I nod. “Every Sorrengail is a rider, don’t you know?”

We make it to a set of circular steps, and Dain leads me up past the first and second floor, stopping us on the third and pushing open another gate that creaks with the sound of metal on metal.

“This is the second-year floor,” he explains quietly. “Which means—”

“I’m not supposed to be up here, obviously.” I tuck in a little closer. “Don’t worry—if someone sees us, I’ll just say that I was overcome with lust at first sight and couldn’t wait another second to get you out of your pants.”

“Ever the smart-ass.” A wry smile tugs at his lips as we start down the hall.

“I can throw in a few oh, Dain cries once we’re in your room just for believability,” I offer, and actually mean it.

He snorts as he drops my pack in front of a wooden door, then makes a twisting motion with his hand in front of the handle. A lock audibly clicks.

“You have powers,” I say.

It’s not news, of course. He’s a second-year rider, and all riders can perform lesser magics once their dragons choose to channel their power…but it’s…Dain.

“Don’t look so surprised.” He rolls his eyes and opens the door, carrying my pack as he helps me inside.

His room is simple, with a bed, dresser, desk, and wardrobe. There’s nothing personal about it other than a few books on his desk. I note with a tiny burst of satisfaction that one is the tome on the Krovlan language that I gave him before he left last summer. He’s always had a gift for languages. Even the blanket on his bed is simple, rider black, as if he might forget why he’s here while sleeping. The window is arched, and I move toward it. I can see the rest of Basgiath across the ravine through the clear glass.

It’s the same war college and yet an entire world away. There are two more candidates on the parapet, but I look away before I can feel invested just to watch them fall. There is only so much death one person can take in a day, and I’m at my fucking maximum.

“Do you have wraps in here?” He hands me the rucksack.

“Got them all from Major Gillstead,” I answer with a nod, plopping down on the edge of his expertly made bed and starting to dig through my pack. Luckily for me, Mira is an infinitely better packer than I am, and the wraps are easy to spot.

“Make yourself at home.” He grins, leaning back against the closed door and hooking one ankle over the other. “As much as I hate that you’re here, I have to say it’s more than nice to see your face, Vi.”

I look up, and our eyes meet. The tension that’s been in my chest for the last week—hell, the last six months—eases, and for a second, it’s just us. “I’ve missed you.” Maybe it’s exposing a weakness, but I don’t care. Dain knows almost everything there is to know about me anyway.

“Yeah. I’ve missed you, too,” he says quietly, his eyes softening.

My chest draws tight, and there’s an awareness between us, an almost tangible sense of…anticipation as he looks at me. Maybe after all these years, we’re finally on the same page when it comes to wanting each other. Or maybe he’s just relieved to see an old friend.

“You’d better get that leg wrapped.” He turns around to face the door. “I won’t look.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” I arch my hips and shimmy my leather pants down past my thighs and over my knees. Shit. The one on the left is swollen. If anyone else had taken that stumble, they would have ended up with a bruise, maybe even a scrape. But me? I have to fix it so my kneecap stays where it’s supposed to. It’s not just my muscles that are weak. My ligaments that hold my joints together don’t work for shit, either.

“Yeah, well, we’re not sneaking away to swim in the river, are we?” he teases. We grew up together through every post our parents had been stationed at, and no matter where we were, we always managed to find a place to swim and trees to climb.

I fasten the wrap at the top of my knee, then wind and secure the joint in the same way I’ve done since I was old enough for the healers to teach me. It’s a practiced motion that I could do in my sleep, and the familiarity of it is almost soothing, if it didn’t mean I was starting in the quadrant wounded.

As soon as I get it fastened with the little metal clasp, I stand and tug my leathers back up over my ass and button them. “All covered.”

He turns and glances over me. “You look…different.”

“It’s the leathers.” I shrug. “Why? Is different bad?” It takes a second to close my rucksack and haul it up and over my shoulders. Thank you, gods, the ache in my knee is manageable with it bound like this.

“It’s just…” He shakes his head slowly, teasing his lower lip with his teeth. “Different.”

“Why, Dain Aetos.” I grin and walk toward him, then grasp the door handle at his side. “You’ve seen me in swimwear, tunics, and even ballgowns. Are you telling me it’s the leather that does it for you?”

He scoffs, but there’s a slight flush to his cheeks as his hand covers mine to open the door. “Glad to see our year apart hasn’t dulled your tongue, Vi.”

“Oh,” I toss over my shoulder as we walk into the hallway, “I can do quite a few things with my tongue. You’d be impressed.” My smile is so wide that it almost hurts, and just for a second, I forget that we’re in the Riders Quadrant or that I’ve just survived the parapet.

His eyes heat. Guess he’s forgotten, too. Then again, Mira’s always made it clear that riders aren’t an inhibited bunch behind these walls. There’s not much reason to deny yourself when you might not live through tomorrow.

“We have to get you out of here,” he says, shaking his head like he needs to clear it. Then he does the hand thing again, and I hear the lock slide into place. There’s no one in the hallway, and we make it to the stairwell quickly.

“Thanks,” I say as we start descending. “My knee feels way better now.”

“I still can’t believe your mother thought putting you into the Riders Quadrant was a good idea.” I can practically feel the anger vibrating off him next to me as we walk down the stairs. There’s no banister on his side, but he doesn’t seem to mind, even though a single misstep would be the end of him.

“Me neither. She announced her decree about which quadrant I’d choose last spring, after I passed the initial entrance exam, and I immediately started working with Major Gillstead.” He’ll be so proud when he reads the rolls tomorrow and sees that I’m not on them.

“There’s a door at the bottom of this stairwell, below the main level, that leads to the passage into the Healers Quadrant farther up the ravine,” he says as we approach the first floor. “We’ll get you through that and into the Scribe Quadrant.”

“What?” I stop as my feet hit the polished stone landing at the main floor, but he continues downward.

He’s already three steps beneath me when he realizes I’m not with him. “The Scribe Quadrant,” he says slowly, turning to face me.

This angle makes me taller than he is, and I glare down at him. “I can’t go to the Scribe Quadrant, Dain.”

“I’m sorry?” His eyebrows fly up.

“She won’t stand for it.” I shake my head.

His mouth opens, then shuts, and his fists clench at his sides. “This place will kill you, Violet. You can’t stay here. Everyone will understand. You didn’t volunteer—not really.”

Anger bristles up my spine, and my gaze narrows on him. Ignoring who did or did not volunteer me, I snap, “One, I’m well aware of what my chances are here, Dain, and two, usually fifteen percent of candidates don’t make it past the parapet, and I’m still standing, so I guess I’m beating those odds already.”

He backs up another step. “I’m not saying you didn’t just kick absolute ass by getting here, Vi. But you have to leave. You’ll break the first time they put you in the sparring ring, and that’s before the dragons sense that you’re…” He shakes his head and looks away, his jaw clenching.

“I’m what?” My hackles rise. “Go ahead and say it. When they sense I’m less than the others? Is that what you mean?”

“Damn it.” He rakes his hand over his close-cropped light-brown curls. “Stop putting words in my mouth. You know what I mean. Even if you survive to Threshing, there’s no guarantee a dragon will bond you. As it was, last year we had thirty-four unbonded cadets who have just been sitting around, waiting to restart the year with this class to get a chance at bonding again, and they’re all perfectly healthy—”

“Don’t be an asshole.” My stomach falls. Just because he might be right doesn’t mean I want to hear it…or want to be called unhealthy.

“I’m trying to keep you alive!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the stone of the stairwell. “If we get you to the Scribe Quadrant right now, you can still ace their test and have a phenomenal story to tell when you’re out drinking. I take you back out there”—he points to the doorway that leads to the courtyard—“it’s out of my hands. I can’t protect you here. Not fully.”

“I’m not asking you to!” Wait…didn’t I want him to? Wasn’t that what Mira suggested? “Why would you tell Rhiannon to put me in your squad if you just wanted to sneak me out the back door?”

The vise around my chest squeezes tighter. Next to Mira, Dain is the person who knows me best on the entire damned Continent, and even he thinks I can’t hack it here.

“To make her leave so I could get you out!” He climbs two steps, shortening the distance between us, but there’s no give in the set of his shoulders. If determination had a physical form, it would be Dain Aetos right now. “Do you think I want to watch my best friend die? Do you think it’ll be fun to see what they’ll do to you, knowing you’re General Sorrengail’s daughter? Putting on leathers doesn’t make you a rider, Vi. They’re going to tear you to shreds, and if they don’t, the dragons will. In the Riders Quadrant, you either graduate or die, and you know that. Let me save you.” His entire posture droops, and the plea in his eyes shreds some of my indignation. “Please let me save you.”

“You can’t,” I whisper. “She said she’d haul me right back. I either leave here as a rider or as a name on a stone.”

“She didn’t mean it.” He shakes his head. “She can’t mean that.”

“She means it. Even Mira couldn’t talk her out of it.”

He searches my eyes and tenses, as if he sees the truth of it there. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.” I shrug, like it’s not my life we’re talking about here.

“All right.” I can see him mentally changing gears, adapting to the information. “We’ll find another way. For now, let’s go.” He takes my hand and leads me to the alcove we disappeared from. “Get out there and meet the other first-years. I’ll go back and enter from the turret doorway. They’ll figure out we know each other soon enough, but don’t give anyone ammunition.” He squeezes my hand and lets go, walking away without another word and disappearing into the tunnel.

I grip the straps of my rucksack and walk into the dappled sunlight of the courtyard. The clouds are breaking, and the drizzle is burning off as the gravel crunches beneath my feet on my way toward the riders and cadets.

The massive courtyard, which could easily fit a thousand riders, is just like the map in the archives recorded. Shaped like an angular teardrop, the rounded end is formed by a giant outer wall at least ten feet thick. Along the sides are stone halls. I know the four-story building carved into the mountain with the rounded end is for academics, and the one on the right, towering over the cliff, is the dorms, where Dain took me. The imposing rotunda linking the two buildings also serves as the entrance to the gathering hall, commons, and library behind it. I quit gawking and turn in the courtyard to face the outer wall. There’s a stone dais on the right side of the parapet, occupied by two uniformed men I recognize as the commandant and executive commandant, both in full military dress, their medals winking in the sunlight.

It takes me a few minutes to find Rhiannon in the growing crowd, talking to another girl whose jet-black hair is cut just as short as Dain’s.

“There you are!” Rhiannon’s smile is genuine and full of relief. “I was worried. Is everything…” She lifts her eyebrows.

“I’m good to go.” I nod and turn toward the other woman as Rhiannon introduces us. Her name is Tara, and she’s from the Morraine province to the north, along the coast of the Emerald Sea. She has that same air of confidence Mira does, and her eyes dance with excitement as she and Rhiannon talk about how they’ve both obsessed over dragons since childhood. I pay attention but only enough to recall details if we need to form an alliance.

An hour passes, then another, according to the Basgiath bells, which we can hear from here. Then the last of the cadets walks into the courtyard, followed by the three riders from the other turret.

Xaden is among them. It’s not just his height that makes him stand out in this crowd but the way the other riders all seem to move around him, like he’s a shark and they’re all fish giving him a wide berth. For a second, I can’t help but wonder what his signet is, the unique power from the bond with his dragon, and if that’s why even the third-years seem to scurry out of his way as he strides up to the dais with lethal grace. There are ten of them in total up there now, and from the way Commandant Panchek moves to the front, facing us—

“I think we’re about to start,” I say to Rhiannon and Tara, and they both turn to face the dais. Everyone does.

“Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today,” Commandant Panchek starts with a politician’s smile, gesturing to us. The guy has always talked with his hands. “Good job. Sixty-seven did not.”

My chest clenches as my brain spins the calculation quickly. Almost twenty percent. Was it the rain? The wind? That’s more than average. Sixty-seven people died trying to get here.

“I’ve heard this position is just a stepping stone for him,” Tara whispers. “He wants Sorrengail’s job, then General Melgren’s.”

The commanding general of all Navarre’s forces. Melgren’s beady eyes have always made me shrivel every time we’ve met during my mother’s career.

“General Melgren’s?” Rhiannon whispers from my other side.

“He’ll never get it,” I say quietly as the commandant welcomes us to the Riders Quadrant. “Melgren’s dragon gives him the signet ability to see a battle’s outcome before it happens. There’s no beating that, and you can’t be assassinated if you know it’s coming.”

“As the Codex says, now you begin the true crucible!” Panchek shouts, his voice carrying over the five hundred of us that I estimate are in this courtyard. “You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive to Threshing, and if you are chosen, you will be riders. Then we’ll see how many of you make it to graduation.”

Statistics say about a quarter of us will live to graduate, give or take a few on any year, and yet the Riders Quadrant is never short volunteers. Every cadet in this courtyard thinks they have what it takes to be one of the elite, the very best Navarre has to offer…a dragon rider. I can’t help but wonder for the smallest of seconds if maybe I do, too. Maybe I can do more than just survive.

“Your instructors will teach you,” Panchek promises, his hand sweeping to the line of professors standing at the doors to the academic wing. “It’s up to you how well you learn.” He swings his pointer finger at us. “Discipline falls to your units, and your wingleader is the last word. If I have to get involved…” A slow, sinister smile spreads across his face. “You don’t want me involved.

“With that said, I’ll leave you to your wingleaders. My best advice? Don’t die.” He walks off the dais with the executive commandant, leaving only the riders on the stone stage.

A brunette woman with wide shoulders and a scarred sneer stalks forward, the silver spikes on the shoulders of her uniform flashing in the sunlight. “I’m Nyra, the senior wingleader of the quadrant and the head of the First Wing. Section leaders and squad leaders, take your positions now.”

My shoulder is jostled as someone walks by, pushing between Rhiannon and me. Others follow suit until there are about fifty people in front of us, spaced out in formation.

“Sections and squads,” I whisper to Rhiannon, in case she didn’t grow up in a military family. “Three squads in each section and three sections in each of the four wings.”

“Thank you,” Rhiannon answers.

Dain stands in the section for Second Wing, facing me but averting his eyes.

“First Squad! Claw Section! First Wing!” Nyra calls out.

A man closer to the dais raises his hand.

“Cadets, when your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader,” Nyra instructs.

The redhead with the crossbow and roll steps forward and begins calling names. One by one, cadets move from the crowd to the formation, and I keep count, making snap judgments based off clothing and arrogance. It looks like each squad will have about fifteen or sixteen people in it.

Jack is called into the Flame Section of First Wing.

Tara is called into the Tail Section, and soon they start on Second Wing.

I let loose a thankful sigh when the wingleader steps forward and it isn’t Xaden.

Rhiannon and I are both called to Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing. We get into formation quickly, lining up in a square. A quick glance tells me that we have a squad leader—Dain, who isn’t looking at me—a female executive squad leader, four riders who look like they might be second- or third-years, and nine first-years. One of the riders with two stars on her uniform and half-shaved, half-pink hair has a rebellion relic that winds around her forearm, from her wrist to above her elbow, where it disappears under her uniform, but I look away so she won’t catch me staring.

We’re silent as the rest of the wings are called. The sun is out in full now, beating into my leathers and scorching my skin. I told him not to keep you in that library. Mom’s words from this morning haunt me, but it’s not like I could have prepared for this. I have exactly two shades when it comes to the sun, pale and burned.

When the order sounds, we all turn to face the dais. I try to keep my gaze on the roll-keeper, but my eyes jerk right like the traitors they are, and my pulse leaps.

Xaden watches me with a cold, calculating look that feels like he’s plotting my death from where he stands as the wingleader for Fourth Wing.

I lift my chin.

He cocks his scarred eyebrow. Then he says something to Second Wing’s wingleader, and then every wingleader joins in on what’s obviously a heated discussion.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Rhiannon whispers.

“Quiet,” Dain hisses.

My spine stiffens. I can’t expect him to be my Dain here, not under these circumstances, but still, the tone is jarring.

Finally, the wingleaders turn around to face us, and the slight tilt to Xaden’s lips makes me instantly queasy.

“Dain Aetos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven’s,” Nyra orders.

Wait. What? Who is Aura Beinhaven?

Dain nods, then turns to us. “Follow me.” He says it once, then strides through formation, leaving us to scurry after him. We pass another squad on the way from…from…

The very breath freezes in my lungs.

We’re moving to Fourth Wing. Xaden’s wing.

It takes a minute, maybe two, and we take our place in the new formation. I force myself to breathe. There’s a fucking smirk on Xaden’s arrogant, handsome face.

I’m now entirely at his mercy, a subordinate in his chain of command. He can punish me however he likes for the slightest infraction, even imaginary ones.

Nyra looks at Xaden as she finishes assignments, and he nods, stepping forward and finally breaking our staring contest. I’m pretty sure he won, considering my heart is galloping like a runaway horse.

“You’re all cadets now.” Xaden’s voice carries out over the courtyard, stronger than the others. “Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by Codex not to kill you. But just because they can’t end your life doesn’t mean others won’t. You want a dragon? Earn one.”

Most of the others cheer, but I keep my mouth shut.

Sixty-seven people fell or died in some other way today. Sixty-seven just like Dylan, whose parents would either collect their bodies or watch them be buried at the foot of the mountain under a simple stone. I can’t force myself to cheer for their loss.

Xaden’s eyes find mine, and my stomach clenches before he looks away. “And I bet you feel pretty badass right now, don’t you, first-years?”

More cheers.

“You feel invincible after the parapet, don’t you?” Xaden shouts. “You think you’re untouchable! You’re on the way to becoming the elite! The few! The chosen!”

Another round of cheers goes up with each declaration, louder and louder.

No. That’s not just cheering, it’s the sound of wings beating the air into submission.

“Oh gods, they’re beautiful,” Rhiannon whispers at my side as they come into view—a riot of dragons.

I’ve spent my life around dragons, but always from a distance. They don’t tolerate humans they haven’t chosen. But these eight? They’re flying straight for us—at speed.

Just when I think they’re about to fly overhead, they pitch vertically, whip the air with their huge semitranslucent wings, and stop, the gusts of wing-made wind so powerful that I nearly stagger backward as they land on the outer semicircular wall. Their chest scales ripple with movement, and their razor-sharp talons dig into the edge of the wall on either side. Now I understand why the walls are ten feet thick. It’s not a barrier. The edge of the fortress is a damned perch.

My mouth drops open. In my five years of living here, I’ve never seen this, but then again, I’ve never been allowed to watch what happens on Conscription Day.

A few cadets scream.

Guess everyone wants to be a dragon rider until they’re actually twenty feet away from one.

Steam blasts my face as the navy-blue one directly in front of me exhales through its wide nostrils. Its glistening blue horns rise above its head in an elegant, lethal sweep, and its wings flare momentarily before tucking in, the tip of their top joint crowned by a single fierce talon. Their tails are just as fatal, but I can’t see them at this angle or even tell which breed of dragon each is without that clue.

All are deadly.

“We’re going to have to bring the masons in again,” Dain mutters as chunks of rock crumble under the dragons’ grips, crashing to the courtyard in boulders the size of my torso.

There are three dragons in various shades of red, two shades of green—like Teine, Mira’s dragon—one brown like Mom’s, one orange, and the enormous navy one ahead of me. They’re all massive, overshadowing the structure of the citadel as they narrow their golden eyes at us in absolute judgment.

If they didn’t need us puny humans to develop signet abilities from bonding and weave the protective wards they power around Navarre, I’m pretty sure they’d eat us all and be done. But they like protecting the Vale—the valley behind Basgiath the dragons call home—from merciless gryphons and we like living, so here we are in the most unlikely of partnerships.

My heart threatens to beat out of my chest, and I absolutely agree with it, because I’d like to run, too. Just thinking that I’m supposed to ride one of these is fucking ludicrous.

A cadet bolts out of Third Wing, screaming as he makes a run for the stone keep behind us. We all turn to look as he sprints for the giant arched door at the center. I can almost see the words carved into the arch from here, but I already know them by heart. A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

Once bonded, riders can’t live without their dragons, but most dragons can live just fine after us. It’s why they choose carefully, so they’re not humiliated by picking a coward, not that a dragon would ever admit to making a mistake.

The red dragon on the left opens its vast mouth, revealing teeth as big as I am. That jaw could crush me if it wanted, like a grape. Fire erupts along its tongue, then shoots outward in a macabre blaze toward the fleeing cadet.

He’s a pile of ash on the gravel before he can even make it to the shadow of the keep.

Sixty-eight dead.

Heat from the flames blasts the side of my face as I jerk my attention forward. If anyone else runs and is likewise executed, I don’t want to see it. More screaming sounds around me. I lock my jaw as hard as I can to keep quiet.

There are two more gusts of heat, one to my left and then another to my right.

Make that seventy.

The navy dragon seems to tilt its head at me, as if its narrowed golden eyes can see straight through me to the fear fisting my stomach and the doubt curled insidiously around my heart. I bet it can even see the wrap binding my knee. It knows I’m at a disadvantage, that I’m too small to climb its foreleg and mount, too frail to ride. Dragons always know.

But I will not run. I wouldn’t be standing here if I’d quit every time something seemed impossible to overcome. I will not die today. The words repeat in my head just like they had before the parapet and on it.

I force my shoulders back and lift my chin.

The dragon blinks, which might be a sign of approval, or boredom, and looks away.

“Anyone else feel like changing their mind?” Xaden shouts, scanning the remaining rows of cadets with the same shrewd gaze of the navy-blue dragon behind him. “No? Excellent. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer.” The formation is silent except for a few untimely sobs from my left. “A third of you again the year after that, and the same your last year. No one cares who your mommy or daddy is here. Even King Tauri’s second son died during his Threshing. So tell me again: Do you feel invincible now that you’ve made it into the Riders Quadrant? Untouchable? Elite?”

No one cheers.

Another blast of heat rushes—this time directly at my face—and every muscle in my body clenches, preparing for incineration. But it’s not flames…just steam, and it blows back Rhiannon’s braids as the dragons finish their simultaneous exhale. The breeches on the first-year ahead of me darken, the color spreading down his legs.

They want us scared. Mission accomplished.

“Because you’re not untouchable or special to them.” Xaden points toward the navy dragon and leans forward slightly, like he’s letting us in on a secret as we lock eyes. “To them, you’re just the prey.”

The sparring ring is where riders are made or broken. After all, no respectable dragon would choose a rider who cannot defend themselves, and no respectable cadet would allow such a threat to the wing to continue training.

—Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant
(Unauthorized Edition)

CHAPTER
FOUR

“Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn.” Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.

This morning, we’re all in rider black, and there’s a single silver four-pointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers. There’s no point handing out the thicker, more protective combat uniforms when half of us won’t be around come Threshing in October. The armored corset Mira made me isn’t regulation, but I fit right in among the hundreds of modified uniforms around me.

After the last twenty-four hours and one night in the first-floor barracks, I’m starting to realize that this quadrant is a strange mix of we-might-die-tomorrow hedonism and brutal efficiency in the name of the same reason.

“Jace Sutherland.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes next to him shift their weight. “Dougal Luperco.”

I think we’re somewhere in the fifties, but I lost count when he read Dylan’s name a few minutes ago. This is the only memorial the names will get, the only time they’ll be spoken of in the citadel, so I try to concentrate, to commit each name to memory, but there’s just too many.

My skin is agitated from wearing the armor all night like Mira suggested, and my knee aches, but I resist the urge to bend down and adjust the wrap I managed to put on in the nonexistent privacy of my bunk in the first-year barracks before anyone else woke up.

There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Even though Jack Barlowe was put in the third-floor dorms, I’m not about to let any of them see my weaknesses. Not until I know who I can trust. Private rooms are like flight leathers—you don’t get one until you survive Threshing.

“Simone Casteneda.” Captain Fitzgibbons closes the scroll. “We commend their souls to Malek.” The god of death.

I blink. Guess we were closer to the end than I thought.

There’s no formal conclusion to the formation, no last moment of silence. The names on the scroll leave the dais with the scribes, and the quiet is broken as the squad leaders all turn and begin to address their squads.

“Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you’re not going to get another chance before lunch,” Dain says, his eyes meeting mine for the span of a heartbeat before he glances away, feigning indifference.

“He’s good at pretending he doesn’t know you,” Rhiannon whispers at my side.

“He is,” I reply just as softly. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, but I keep my expression as bland as possible as I soak in the sight of him. The sun plays in his sandy-brown hair, and when he turns his head, I see a scar peeking from his beard along his chin I’d somehow missed yesterday.

“Second- and third-years, I’m assuming you know where to go,” Dain continues as the scribes wind their way around the edge of the courtyard to my right, headed back to their quadrant. I ignore the tiny voice inside me protesting that it was supposed to be my quadrant. Lingering on what could have been isn’t going to help me survive to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

There’s a mutter of agreement from the senior cadets ahead of us. As first-years, we’re in the back two rows of the little square that makes up Second Squad.

“First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday.” Dain’s voice booms over us, and it’s hard to reconcile this stern-faced, serious leader with the funny, grinning guy I’ve always known. “Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym.”

Fuck, I’d almost forgotten that we’re sparring today. We only have the gym twice a week, so as long as I can get through today’s session unscathed, I’m in the clear for another couple of days. At least I have some time to get my feet under me before we’ll have to handle the Gauntlet—the terrifying vertical obstacle course they told us we’ll have to master when the leaves turn colors in two months.

If we can complete the final Gauntlet, we’ll walk through the natural box canyon above it that leads to the flight field for Presentation, where this year’s dragons willing to bond will get their first look at the remaining cadets. Two days after that, Threshing will occur in the valley beneath the citadel.

I glance around at my new squadmates and can’t help but wonder which of us, if any, will make it to that flight field, let alone that valley.

Don’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble.

“And if we’re not?” the smart-ass first-year behind me asks.

I don’t bother looking, but Rhiannon does, rolling her eyes as she turns back forward.

“Then I won’t have to be concerned with learning your name, since it will be read off tomorrow morning,” Dain answers with a shrug.

A second-year ahead of me snorts a laugh, the movement jangling two small hoop earrings in her left lobe, but the pink-haired one stays silent.

“Sawyer?” Dain looks at the first-year to my left.

“I’ll get them there.” The tall, wiry cadet whose light complexion is covered with a smattering of freckles answers with a tight nod. His freckled jaw ticks, and my chest pangs with sympathy. He’s one of the repeats—a cadet who didn’t bond during Threshing and now has to start the entire year over.

“Get going,” Dain orders, and our squad breaks apart around the same time the others do, transforming the courtyard from an orderly formation to a crowd of chatting cadets. The second- and third-years walk off in another direction, including Dain.

“We have about twenty minutes to get to class,” Sawyer shouts at the eight of us first-years. “Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit and don’t be late.” He doesn’t bother waiting to confirm we’ve heard him before he heads off toward the dormitory.

“That has to be hard,” Rhiannon says as we follow the crowd toward the dorms. “Being set back and having to do this all over again.”

“Better than being dead,” the smart-ass says as he passes us on the right, his dark-brown hair flopping against the brown skin of his forehead with every step the shorter cadet takes. His name is Ridoc, if I remember correctly from the brief introductions we went through before dinner last night.

“That’s true,” I reply as we head into the bottleneck that’s formed at the door.

“I overheard a third-year say when a first-year survives Threshing unbonded, the quadrant lets them repeat the year and try again if they want,” Rhiannon adds, and I can’t help but wonder how much determination it would take to survive your first year and then be willing to repeat it just for the chance you might one day become a rider. You could just as easily die the second time around.

A bird whistles to the left, and I look over the crowd, my heart leaping because I immediately recognize the tone. Dain.

The call sounds again, and I narrow it down to somewhere near the door to the rotunda. He’s standing at the top of the wide staircase, and the second our eyes lock, he motions toward the door with a subtle nod.

“I’ll be—” I start saying to Rhiannon, but she’s already followed my line of sight.

“I’ll grab your stuff and meet you there. It’s under your bunk, right?” she asks.

“You don’t mind?”

“Your bunk is next to mine, Violet. It’s not a hassle. Go!” She gives me a conspiratorial smile and shoulder bumps me.

“Thank you!” I smile quickly, then wade across the crowd until I break free at the edge. Lucky for me, there aren’t many cadets headed into commons, which means there aren’t any eyes on me once I slip inside one of the four giant doors of the rotunda.

My lungs pull in a sharp breath. It looks like the renderings I’ve seen in the Archives, but there is no drawing, no artistic medium, that can capture just how overwhelming the space is, how exquisite every detail. The rotunda might be the most beautiful piece of architecture not only in the citadel but in all of Basgiath. The room is three stories tall, from its polished marble floors to the domed glass ceiling that filters in the soft morning light. To the left are two massive arched doors to the academic wing, echoed by the same on the right, leading to the dorms, and up a half dozen steps, there are four doorways in front of me that open into the gathering hall.

Equally spaced around the rotunda, shimmering in their various colors of red, green, brown, orange, blue, and black, stand six daunting marble pillars carved into dragons, as if they’d come crashing down from the ceiling above. There’s enough room between the snarling mouths at the base of each to fit at least four squads in the center, but it’s empty right now.

I pass by the first dragon, chiseled from dark-red marble, and a hand grips my elbow, pulling me back behind the pillar where there’s a gap between the claw and the wall.

“It’s just me.” Dain’s voice is low and quiet as he turns me to face him. Tension radiates from every line of his frame.

“I figured, since you were the one birdcalling me.” I grin, shaking my head. He’s been using that signal since we were kids living near the Krovlan border while our parents were stationed there with the Southern Wing.

His brow furrows as his gaze scans over me, no doubt looking for new injuries. “We only have a few minutes before this place is packed. How is your knee?”

“It hurts, but I’ll live.” I’ve had far worse injuries and we both know it, but there’s no use telling him to relax when he’s obviously not going to.

“No one tried to screw with you last night?” Concern creases his forehead, and I fold my arms to keep from smoothing the lines with my fingers. His worry sits on my chest like a stone.

“Would it be so bad if they did?” I tease, forcing my smile to widen.

He drops his arms to his sides and sighs so hard, the sound echoes in the rotunda. “You know that’s not what I mean, Violet.”

“No one tried to kill me last night, Dain, or even hurt me.” I lean back against the wall and take some weight off my knee. “Pretty sure we were all too tired and relieved to be alive to start slaughtering one another.” The barracks fell quiet pretty quickly after lights out. There was something to be said for the emotional exhaustion of the day.

“And you ate, right? I know they usher you out of the dorms fast when the bells chime for six.”

“I ate with the rest of the first-years, and before you even think about lecturing me, I rewrapped my knee under my covers and had my hair braided before the bells sounded. I’ve been keeping scribe hours for years, Dain. They’re up an hour earlier. It makes me want to volunteer for breakfast duty, actually.”

He glances at the tight, silver-tipped braid I’ve pinned into a bun against the darker hair near the crown of my head. “You should cut it.”

“Don’t start with me.” I shake my head.

“There’s a reason women keep it short here, Vi. The second someone gets ahold of your hair in the sparring ring—”

“My hair is the least of my concerns in the sparring ring,” I retort.

His eyes widen. “I’m just trying to keep you safe. You’re lucky I didn’t shove you into Captain Fitzgibbons’s hands this morning and beg him to take you out of here.”

I ignore the bluster of a threat. We’re wasting time, and there’s one piece of information I need from Dain. “Why was our squad moved from Second Wing to Fourth yesterday?”

He stiffens and looks away.

“Tell me.” I need to know if I’m reading into a situation that doesn’t exist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, ripping his hand over his hair. “Xaden Riorson wants you dead. It’s common knowledge among the leadership cadre after yesterday.”

Nope. Not overreacting.

“He moved the squad so he has a direct line to me. So he can do whatever he wants and no one will question a thing. I’m his revenge against my mother.” My heart doesn’t even jump at the confirmation of what I already knew. “That’s what I thought. I just needed to be sure my imagination wasn’t running away with me.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Dain steps forward and cups my face, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone in a soothing motion.

“There’s not much you can do.” I push off the wall, stepping out of his reach. “I have to get to class.” Already, there are a few voices echoing in the rotunda as cadets pass through.

His jaw works for a second, and the lines are back between his eyebrows. “Just do your best to keep a low profile, especially when we’re in Battle Brief. Not like the colors in your hair don’t give you away, but that’s the one class the entire quadrant takes. I’ll see if one of the second-years can stand guard—”

“No one is going to assassinate me during history.” I roll my eyes. “Academics are the one place I don’t have to worry. What is Xaden going to do? Pull me out of class and run me through with a sword in the middle of the hallway? Or do you honestly think he’ll stab me in the middle of Battle Brief?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s fucking ruthless, Violet. Why do you think his dragon chose him?”

“The navy-blue one who landed behind the dais yesterday?” My stomach twists. The way those golden eyes assessed me…

Dain nods. “Sgaeyl is a Blue Daggertail, and she’s…vicious.” He swallows. “Don’t get me wrong. Cath is a nasty piece of work when he gets riled—all Red Swordtails are—but even most dragons steer clear of Sgaeyl.”

I stare at Dain, at the scar that defines his jaw and the hard set of his eyes that are familiar and yet not.

“What?” he asks. The voices around us grow louder, and there are more footsteps coming and going.

“You bonded a dragon. You have powers I don’t even know about. You open doors with magic. You’re a squad leader.” I say the sentences slowly, hoping they’ll sink in, that I’ll truly grasp how much he’s changed. “It’s just hard to wrap my head around you still being…Dain.”

“I’m still me.” His posture softens, and he lifts the short sleeve of his tunic, revealing the relic of a red dragon on his shoulder. “I just have this now. And as for the powers, Cath channels a pretty significant amount of magic compared to some of the other dragons, but I’m nowhere near adept at it yet. I haven’t changed that much. As for lesser magic powered through the bond of my relic, I can do the typical stuff like open doors, crank up my speed, and power ink pens instead of using those inconvenient quills.”

“What’s your signet power?” Every rider can do lesser magic once their dragon begins channeling power to them, but the signet is the unique ability that stands out, the strongest skill that results from each unique bond between dragon and rider.

Some riders have the same signets. Fire wielding, ice wielding, and water wielding are just a few of the most common signet powers, all useful in battle.

Then there are the signets that make a rider extraordinary.

My mother can wield the power of storms.

Melgren can see the outcome of battles.

I can’t help but wonder again what Xaden’s signet is—and if he’ll use it to kill me when I least expect it.

“I can read a person’s recent memories,” Dain admits quietly. “Not like an inntinnsic reads minds or anything—I have to put my hands on the person, so I’m not a security risk. But my signet’s not common knowledge. I think they’ll use me in intelligence.” He points to the compass patch beneath his Fourth Wing one on his shoulder. Wearing that sigil indicates that a signet is too classified. I just didn’t notice it yesterday.

“No way.” I smile, taking a calming breath as I remember Xaden’s uniform didn’t have any patches on it.

He nods, an excited smile shaping his mouth. “I’m still learning, and of course I’m better at it the closer I am to Cath, but yeah. I just put my hands on someone’s temples, and I can see what they saw. It’s…incredible.”

That signet will more than set Dain apart. It will make him one of the most valuable interrogation tools we have. “And you say you haven’t changed,” I half tease.

“This place can warp almost everything about a person, Vi. It cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you are at your core. They want it that way. They want it to sever your previous bonds so your loyalty is to your wing. It’s one of the many reasons that first-years aren’t allowed to correspond with their family and friends, otherwise you know I would have written you. But a year doesn’t change that I still think of you as my best friend. I’m still Dain, and this time next year, you will still be Violet. We will still be us.”

“If I’m still alive,” I joke as the bells ring. “I have to get to class.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to be late to the flight field.” He motions toward the edge of the pillar. “Look, Riorson is still a wingleader. He’ll be after you, but he’ll find a way to do it within the rules of the Codex, at least when people are watching. I was…” His cheeks flush. “Really good friends with Amber Mavis—the current wingleader for Third Wing—last year, and I’m telling you, the Codex is sacred to them. Now, you go first. I’ll see you in the sparring gym.” He smiles reassuringly.

“I’ll see you.” I smile back and turn on my heel, walking around the base of the massive pillar into the semi-crowded rotunda. There’re a couple dozen cadets in here, walking from one building to another, and it takes a second to get my bearings.

I spot the academic doors between the orange-and-black pillars and start that way, blending into the crowd.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and a chill races down my spine as I cross the center of the rotunda, then my steps halt. Cadets move around me, but my eyes are drawn upward, toward the top of the steps that lead to the gathering hall.

Oh shit.

Xaden Riorson is watching me with narrowed eyes, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up his massive arms that remain folded across his chest, the warning in his relic-covered arm on full display as a third-year next to him says something that he blatantly ignores.

My heart jumps and lodges in my throat. There’s maybe twenty feet between us. My fingers twitch, ready to grab one of the blades sheathed at my ribs. Is this where he’ll do it? In the middle of the rotunda? The marble floor is gray, so it shouldn’t be that hard for the staff to get the blood out.

His head tilts, and he studies me with those impossibly dark eyes, like he’s deciding where I’m most vulnerable.

I should run, right? But at least I can see him coming if I hold this position.

His attention shifts, glancing to my right, and he lifts a single brow at me.

My stomach pitches as Dain emerges from behind the pillar.

“What are you—” Dain starts as he reaches me, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Top of the steps. Fourth door,” I hiss, interrupting him.

Dain’s gaze snaps up as the crowd thins out around us, and he mutters a curse, not-so-subtly stepping closer to me. Fewer people mean fewer witnesses, but I’m not foolish enough to think Xaden won’t kill me in front of the whole quadrant if he wants.

“I already knew your parents are tight,” Xaden calls out, a cruel smile tilting his lips. “But do you two have to be so fucking obvious?”

The few cadets who are still in the rotunda turn to look at us.

“Let me guess,” Xaden continues, glancing between Dain and me. “Childhood friends? First loves, even?”

“He can’t hurt you without cause, right?” I whisper. “Without cause and calling a quorum of wingleaders because you’re a squad leader. Article Four, Section Three.”

“Correct,” Dain answers, not bothering to lower his voice. “But you’re not.”

“I expected you to do a better job of hiding where your affections lie, Aetos.” Xaden moves, walking down the steps.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Run, Violet,” Dain orders me. “Now.”

I bolt.

Knowing I am in direct disagreement with General Melgren’s orders, I am officially objecting to the plan set forth in today’s briefing. It is not this general’s opinion that the children of the rebellion’s leaders should be forced to witness their parents’ executions. No child should watch their parent put to death.

—The Tyrrish Rebellion, an official brief for
King Tauri by General Lilith Sorrengail

CHAPTER
FIVE

“Welcome to your first Battle Brief,” Professor Devera says from the recessed floor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, a bright purple Flame Section patch on her shoulder matching her short hair perfectly. This is the only class held in the circular, tiered room that curves the entire end of the academic hall and one of only two rooms in the citadel capable of fitting every cadet. Every creaky wooden seat is full, and the senior third-years are standing against the walls behind us, but we all fit.

It’s a far cry from history last hour, where there were only three squads of first-years, but at least the first-years in our squad are all seated together. Now if I could only remember all their names.

Ridoc is easy to remember—he cracked wise-ass comments all through history. Hopefully he knows better than to try the same in here, though. Professor Devera isn’t the joking kind.

“In the past, riders have seldom been called into service before graduation,” Professor Devera continues, her mouth tensing as she paces slowly in front of a twenty-foot-high map of the Continent mounted to the back wall that’s intricately labeled with our defensive outposts along our borders. Dozens of mage lights illuminate the space, more than making up for the lack of windows and reflecting off the longsword she keeps strapped to her back.

“And if they were, they were always third-years who’d spent time shadowing forward wings, but we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we’re up against. It’s not about just knowing where every wing is stationed, either.” She takes her time, making eye contact with every first-year she sees. The rank on her shoulder says captain, but I know she’ll be a major before she leaves her rotation teaching here, given the medals pinned on her chest. “You need to understand the politics of our enemies, the strategies of defending our outposts from constant attack, and have a thorough knowledge of both recent and current battles. If you cannot grasp these basic topics, then you have no business on the back of a dragon.” She arches a black brow a few shades darker than her deep-brown skin.

“No pressure,” Rhiannon mutters at my side, furiously taking notes.

“We’ll be fine,” I promise her in a whisper. “Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front.” I’d kept my ears open around my mother enough to know that much.

“This is the only class you will have every day, because it’s the only class that will matter if you’re called into service early.” Professor Devera’s gaze sweeps from left to right and pauses on me. Her eyes flare wide for a heartbeat, but she gives an approving smile and nod before moving on. “Because this class is taught every day and relies on the most current information, you will also answer to Professor Markham, who deserves nothing but your utmost respect.”

She waves the scribe forward, and he moves to stand next to her, the cream color of his uniform contrasting with her stark black one. He leans in when she whispers something to him, and his thick eyebrows fly high as he whips his head in my direction.

There’s no approving smile when the colonel’s weary eyes find mine, only a sigh that fills my chest with heavy sorrow when I hear it. I was supposed to be his star pupil in the Scribe Quadrant, his crowning achievement before he retires. How absolutely ironic that I’m now the least likely to succeed in this one.

“It is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose after finally tearing his disappointed gaze from mine. “Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and—most importantly—veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we’re doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society.”

Which is exactly why I’ve always wanted to be a scribe. Not that it matters now.

“First topic of the day.” Professor Devera moves toward the map and flicks her hand, bringing a mage light directly over the eastern border with the Poromiel province of Braevick. “The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders.”

Oh shit. A murmur rips through the hall, and I dip my quill into the inkpot on the desk in front of me so I can take notes. I can’t wait to channel so I can use the type of coveted pens Mom keeps on her desk. A smile curves my lips. There could definitely be perks to being a rider. There will be.

“Naturally, some information is redacted for security purposes, but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains.” Professor Devera pulls her hands apart and the light expands, illuminating the mountains that form our border with Braevick. “Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight.”

My stomach sinks as a murmur rises from the cadets, especially the first-years. Dragons aren’t the only animals capable of channeling powers to their riders. Gryphons from Poromiel also share the ability, but dragons are the only ones capable of powering the wards that make all other magic but their own impossible within our borders. They’re the reason Navarre’s borders are somewhat circular—their power radiates from the Vale and can only extend so far, even with squads stationed at every outpost. Without those wards, we’re fucked. It would be open season on Navarrian villages when the raiding parties from Poromiel inevitably descend. Those greedy assholes are never content with the resources they have. They always want ours, too, and until they learn to be content with our trade agreements, we have no chance of ending conscription in Navarre. No chance of experiencing peace.

But if we’re not on high alert, then they must have gotten the wards rewoven, or at least stabilized.

“Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive, but the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift,” Professor Devera finishes, folding her arms over her chest. “Based on that information, what questions would you ask?” She holds up a finger. “I only want answers from first-years to start.”

My initial question would be why the hell the wards faltered, but it’s not like they’re going to answer a question like that in a room full of cadets with zero security clearance.

I study the map. The Esben Mountain Range is the highest along our eastern border with Braevick, making it the least likely place for an attack, especially since gryphons don’t tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons, probably due to the fact that they’re half-lion, half-eagle and can’t handle the thinner air at higher altitudes.

There’s a reason we’ve been able to fend off every major assault on our territory for the last six hundred years, and we’ve successfully defended our land in this never-ending four-hundred-year-long war. Our abilities, both lesser and signet, are superior because our dragons can channel more power than gryphons. So why attack in that mountain range? What caused the wards to falter there?

“Come on, first-years, show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical-thinking skills to be here,” Professor Devera demands. “It’s more important than ever that you’re ready for what’s beyond our borders.”

“Is this the first time the wards have faltered?” a first-year a couple of rows ahead asks.

Professors Devera and Markham share a look before she turns toward the cadet. “No.”

My heart jolts into my throat and the room falls pin-drop quiet.

It’s not the first time.

The girl clears her throat. “And how…often are they faltering?”

Professor Markham’s shrewd eyes narrow on her. “That’s above your pay grade, cadet.” He turns his attention to our section. “Next relevant question to the attack we’re discussing?”

“How many casualties did the wing suffer?” a first-year down the row to my right asks.

“One injured dragon. One dead rider.”

Another murmur rises from the hall. Surviving graduation doesn’t mean we’ll survive service. Statistically, most riders die before retirement age, especially at the rate riders have been falling over the last two years.

“Why would you ask that particular question?” Professor Devera asks the cadet.

“To know how many reinforcements they’ll need,” he answers.

Professor Devera nods, turning toward Pryor, the meekest first-year in our squad, who has his hand up, but he lowers it quickly, scrunching his dark eyebrows. “Did you want to ask a question?”

“Yes.” He nods, sending a few locks of black hair into his eyes, then shakes his head. “No. Never mind.”

“So decisive,” Luca—the catty first-year in our squad I’ll do just about anything to avoid—mocks from next to him, tilting her head as cadets laugh around them. A corner of her mouth tilts up into a smirk, and she flips her long brown hair over her shoulder in a move that’s anything but casual. Like me, she’s one of the few women in the quadrant who didn’t cut her hair. I envy her confidence that it won’t be used against her, but not her attitude, and I’ve known her less than a day.

“He’s in our squad,” Aurelie—at least I think that’s her name—chastises, her no-nonsense black eyes narrowing on Luca. “Show some loyalty.”

“Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can’t even decide if he wants to ask a question. And did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held the entire line up because he couldn’t choose between bacon or sausage.” Luca rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes.

“If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?” Professor Devera asks, lifting a brow.

“Ask what altitude the village is at,” I whisper to Rhiannon.

“What?” Her brow furrows.

“Just ask,” I reply, trying to keep Dain’s advice in mind. I swear I can feel him staring at the back of my neck from seven rows behind me, but I’m not going to turn and look, not when I know Xaden’s up there somewhere, too.

“What altitude is the village at?” Rhiannon asks.

Professor Devera’s eyebrows rise as she turns to Rhiannon. “Markham?”

“A little less than ten thousand feet,” he answers. “Why?”

Rhiannon darts a dose of side-eye at me and clears her throat. “Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons.”

“Good job,” I whisper.

“It is a little high for a planned attack,” Devera says. “Why don’t you tell me why that’s bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you’d like to ask your own questions from here on out.” She levels a stare on me that has me squirming in my seat.

Every head in the room turns in my direction. If anyone had an inkling of doubt about who I am, it’s long gone now. Awesome.

“Gryphons aren’t as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel,” I say. “It’s an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about what…an hour’s flight from the nearest outpost?” I glance at the map to be sure I’m not making a fool of myself. “That is Chakir right there, isn’t it?” Scribe’s training for the win.

“It is.” A corner of Professor Devera’s mouth lifts into a smirk. “Keep going with that line of thought.”

Wait a second. “Didn’t you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?” My gaze narrows.

“I did.” She looks at me with expectation.

“Then they were already on their way,” I blurt, immediately recognizing how silly that sounds. My cheeks heat as a mumble of laughter sounds around me.

“Yeah, because that makes sense.” Jack turns around in his seat from the front row and openly laughs at me. “General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn’t know when it will happen, dumbass.”

I feel the chuckling of my classmates reverberate in my bones. I want to crawl under this ridiculous desk and disappear.

“Fuck off, Barlowe,” Rhiannon snaps.

“I’m not the one who thinks precognition is a thing,” he retorts with a sneer. “Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon.” Another round of laughter has my neck flaming, too.

“Why do you think that, Violet—” Professor Markham winces. “Cadet Sorrengail?”

“Because there’s no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way,” I argue, shooting a glare at Jack. Fuck him and his laughter. I might be weaker than he is, but I’m a hell of a lot smarter. “It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around just waiting to be needed. More than half those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way.”

“And why would they already be on their way?” Professor Devera prods, and the light in her eyes tells me I’m right, giving me the confidence to take my train of thought a step further.

“Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking.” I lift my chin, simultaneously hoping I’m right and praying to Dunne—the goddess of war—that I’m wrong.

“That’s the most—” Jack starts.

“She’s right,” Professor Devera interrupts, and a hush falls over the room. “One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward, and the wing flew. Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher and the destruction of the village much worse.”

A little bubble of confidence rises in my chest, which is promptly popped by Jack’s glare, telling me he hasn’t forgotten his promise to kill me.

“Second- and third-years, take over,” Professor Devera orders. “Let’s see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets.” She arches a brow at Jack as questions begin to fire off from the riders behind us.

How many riders were deployed to the site?

What killed the lone fatality?

How long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons?

Were any left alive for questioning?

I write down every question and answer, my mind organizing the facts into what kind of report I would have filed if I’d been in the Scribe Quadrant, which information was important enough to include, and what was extraneous.

“What was the condition of the village?” a deep voice asks from the back of the lecture hall.

The hairs on my neck rise, my body recognizing the imminent threat behind me.

“Riorson?” Markham asks, shielding his eyes from the mage lights as he looks toward the top of the hall.

“The village,” Xaden restates. “Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn’t demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack.”

Professor Devera smiles in approval. “The buildings they’d already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived.”

“They were looking for something,” Xaden says with complete conviction. “And it wasn’t riches. That’s not a gem mining district. Which begs the question, what do we have that they want so badly?”

“Exactly. That’s the question.” Professor Devera glances around the room. “And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider.”

“So what’s the answer?” a first-year to the left asks.

“We don’t know,” Professor Devera answers with a shrug. “It’s just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering? Tomorrow, next week, next month, there will be another attack, and maybe we’ll get another clue. Go to history if you’re looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask so all of you have a chance at coming home alive.”

Something in her tone tells me it’s not just third-years who might be called into service this year, and a chill settles in my bones.

…

“You seriously knew every answer in history and apparently every right question to ask in Battle Brief,” Rhiannon says, shaking her head as we stand on the sidelines of the sparring mat after lunch, watching Ridoc and Aurelie circle each other in their fighting leathers. They’re evenly matched in size. Ridoc is on the smaller side, and Aurelie is built just like Mira, which doesn’t surprise me because she’s a legacy on her father’s side. “You’re not even going to have to study for tests, are you?”

The rest of the first-years stand on our side, but the second- and third-years line the others. They’re definitely at an advantage here, considering they’ve already had at least a year of combat training.

“I was trained to be a scribe.” I shrug, and the vest Mira made me shimmers slightly with the movement. Other than the times the scales catch the light under the camouflaging mesh, it fits right in with the tops we’d been given from central issue yesterday. All the women are dressed similarly now, though the cuts of their leathers are chosen by preference.

The guys are mostly shirtless because they think shirts give their opponent something to grab onto. Personally, I’m not arguing with their logic, just enjoying the view…respectfully, of course, which means keeping my eyes on my own squad’s mat and off the other twenty mats in the massive gym that consumes the first floor of the academic wing. One wall is made entirely of windows and doors, all left open to let in the breeze, but it’s still stiflingly hot. Sweat trickles down my spine under my vest.

There are three squads from each wing here this afternoon, and lucky me, First Wing has sent their third squads, which include Jack Barlowe, who’s been glaring at me from two mats over since I walked in.

“Guess that means you’re not worried about academics,” Rhiannon says, her brows rising at me. She’s chosen a leather vest, too, but hers cuts in above the collarbone and secures at her neck, leaving her shoulders bare for movement.

“Stop circling each other like you’re dance partners and attack!” Professor Emetterio orders from across the mat, where Dain watches Aurelie and Ridoc’s match with our squad executive leader, Cianna. Thank God Dain’s shirt is on, because I don’t need another distraction when it’s time for my turn.

“I’m worried about this,” I tell Rhiannon, tilting my chin toward the mat.

“Really?” She shoots me a skeptical look. Her braids are twisted into a small bun at the nape of her neck. “I figured as a Sorrengail, you’d be a hand-to-hand threat.”

“Not exactly.” At my age, Mira had been training in hand-to-hand for twelve years. I have a whopping six months under my belt, which wouldn’t matter as much if I wasn’t as breakable as a porcelain teacup, but here we are.

Ridoc launches toward Aurelie, but she ducks, sweeping out her leg and tripping him. He staggers but doesn’t go down. He pivots quickly, palming a dagger in his hand.

“No blades today!” Professor Emetterio bellows from beside the mat. He’s only the fourth professor I’ve met, but he’s definitely the one who intimidates me most. Or maybe it’s just the subject he teaches that has me envisioning his compact frame as giant. “We’re just assessing!”

Ridoc grumbles and sheathes his knife just in time to deflect a right hook from Aurelie.

“The brunette packs a punch,” Rhiannon says with an appreciative smile before glancing my way.

“What about you?” I ask as Ridoc lands a jab to Aurelie’s ribs.

“Shit!” He shakes his head and backs up a step. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Aurelie holds her ribs but lifts her chin. “Who said you hurt me?”

“Pulling your punches does her a disservice,” Dain says, folding his arms. “The Cygnis on the northeast border aren’t going to give her any quarter because she’s a woman if she falls from her dragon behind enemy lines, Ridoc. They’ll kill her just the same.”

“Let’s go!” Aurelie shouts, beckoning Ridoc by curling her fingers. It’s obvious that most cadets have trained their whole lives to enter the quadrant, especially Aurelie, who slips a jab from Ridoc and twists to land a quick tap to his kidneys.

Ouch.

“I mean…damn,” Rhiannon mutters, giving Aurelie another look before turning back to me. “I’m pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnisen border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math aren’t problems, either. But history?” She shakes her head. “That class might be the death of me.”

“They don’t kill you for failing history,” I say as Ridoc charges Aurelie, taking her to the mat with enough force to make me wince. “I’m probably going to die on these mats.”

She hooks her legs around his and somehow leverages him over until she’s the one on top, landing punch after punch to the side of his face. Blood spatters the mat.

“I could probably offer some tips to survive combat training,” Sawyer says from Rhiannon’s other side, running his hand over a day’s growth of brown stubble that doesn’t quite cover his freckles. “History isn’t my strongest subject, though.”

A tooth goes flying and bile rises in my throat.

“Enough!” Professor Emetterio shouts.

Aurelie rolls off Ridoc and stands, touching her fingers to her split lip and examining the blood, then offers her hand to help him up.

He takes it.

“Cianna, take Aurelie to the healers. No reason to lose a tooth during assessment,” Emetterio orders.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Rhiannon says, locking her brown eyes with mine. “Let’s help each other out. We’ll help you with hand-to-hand if you help us with history. Sound like a deal, Sawyer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Deal.” I swallow as one of the third-years wipes down the mat with a towel. “But I think I’m getting the better end of that.”

“You haven’t seen me try to memorize dates,” Rhiannon jokes.

A couple of mats over, someone shrieks, and we all turn to look. Jack Barlowe has another first-year in a headlock. The other guy is smaller, thinner than Jack, but still has a good fifty pounds on me.

Jack yanks his arms, his hands still secure around the other man’s head.

“That guy is such an ass—” Rhiannon starts.

The sickening crack of bones breaking sounds across the gym, and the first-year goes limp in Jack’s hold.

“Sweet Malek,” I whisper as Jack drops the man to the ground. I’m starting to wonder if the god of death lives here for how often his name must be invoked. My lunch threatens to reappear, but I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, since it’s not like I can shove my head between my knees here.

“What did I say?” their instructor shouts as he charges onto the mat. “You broke his damned neck!”

“How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?” Jack argues.

You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you. His promise from yesterday slithers through my memory.

“Eyes forward,” Emetterio orders, but his tone is kinder than it has been as we all look away from the dead first-year. “You don’t have to get used to it,” he tells us. “But you do have to function through it. You and you.” He points to Rhiannon and another first-year in our squad, a man with a stocky build, blue-black hair, and angular features. Shit, I can’t remember his name. Trevor? Thomas, maybe? There are too many new people to remember who is who at this point.

I glance at Dain, but he’s watching the pair as they take the mat.

Rhiannon makes quick work of the first-year, stunning me every time she dodges a punch and lands one of her own. She’s fast, and her hits are powerful, the kind of lethal combination that will set her apart, just like Mira.

“Do you yield?” she asks the first-year guy when she takes him to his back, her hand stopped mid-hit just above his throat.

Tanner? I’m pretty sure it’s something that starts with a T.

“No!” he shouts, hooking his legs around Rhiannon’s and slamming her to her back. But she rolls and quickly gains her feet before putting him in the same position again, this time with her boot to his neck.

“I don’t know, Tynan, you might want to yield,” Dain says with a grin. “She’s handing you your ass.”

Ah, that’s right. Tynan.

“Fuck off, Aetos!” Tynan snaps, but Rhiannon presses her boot into his throat, garbling the last word. He turns a mottled shade of red.

Yeah, Tynan has more ego than common sense.

“He yields,” Emetterio calls out, and Rhiannon steps back, offering her hand.

Tynan takes it.

“You—” Emetterio points to the pink-haired second-year with the rebellion relic. “And you.” His finger swings to me.

She’s at least a head taller than me, and if the rest of her body is as toned as her arms, then I’m pretty much fucked.

I can’t let her get her hands on me.

My heart threatens to beat out of my chest, but I nod and step onto the mat. “You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says, tapping my shoulder as she passes me.

“Sorrengail.” The pink-haired girl looks me over like I’m something she’s scraped off the side of her boot, narrowing her pale green eyes. “You really should dye your hair if you don’t want everyone to know who your mother is. You’re the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant.”

“Never said I cared if everyone knows who my mother is.” I circle the second-year on the mat. “I am proud of her service to protect our kingdom—from enemies both without and within.”

As her jaw tightens at the dig, a bubble of hope rises in my chest. Marked ones, as I’d heard some people this morning refer to those carrying rebellion relics on their arms, blame my mother for the execution of their parents. Fine. Hate me. Mom often says the minute you let emotion enter a fight, you’ve already lost. I’ve never prayed harder that my ice-in-her-veins mother was right.

“You bitch,” she seethes. “Your mother murdered my family.”

She lunges forward and swings wildly, and I quickly sidestep, spinning away with my hands up. We do that for a few more rounds, and I land a few jabs, start to think that my plan might just work.

She growls low in her throat as she misses me again, and her foot flies at my head. I easily duck, but then she drops to the ground and kicks out with her other foot, which lands square in my chest, sending me backward. I hit the mat with a thud, and she’s already above me, so damn fast.

“You can’t use your powers in here, Imogen!” Dain shouts.

Imogen is trying her best to kill me.

Her eyes are above mine, and I feel the quick slide of something hard against my ribs as she smiles at me. But her smile fades as we both look down, and I can’t help but notice a dagger being re-sheathed.

The armor just saved my life. Thank you, Mira.

Confusion mars Imogen’s face for just a second, long enough for me to send my fist into her cheek and roll out from under her.

My hand screams with pain even though I’m sure I formed the fist right, but I block it out as we both gain our feet.

“What kind of armor is that?” she asks, staring at my ribs as we circle each other.

“Mine.” I duck and dodge as she comes at me again, but her movements are a blur.

“Imogen!” Emetterio shouts. “Do it again, and I’ll—”

I swerve the wrong way this time and she catches me, taking me to the floor. The mat smacks my face, and her knee digs into my back as she pulls my right arm behind me.

“Yield!” she shouts.

I can’t. If I yield on the first day, what will the second bring? “No!” Now I’m the one lacking common sense like Tynan, and I’m far more breakable.

She pulls my arm farther, and pain consumes every thought, blackening the edges of my vision. I cry out as the ligaments stretch, shred, then pop.

“Yield, Violet!” Dain yells.

“Yield!” Imogen demands.

Gasping for breath against the weight of her on my back, I turn my face to the side as she wrenches my shoulder apart, the pain consuming me.

“She yields,” Emetterio says. “That’s enough.”

I hear it again—the macabre sound of snapping bone—but this time it’s mine.

It is my opinion that of all the signet powers riders provide, mending is the most precious, but we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent when in the company of such a signet. For menders are rare, and the wounded are not.

—Major Frederick’s Modern Guide for Healers

CHAPTER
SIX

Flames of agony engulf my upper arm and chest as Dain carries me through the lower, covered passage out of the Riders Quadrant, over the ravine, and into the Healer Quadrant. It’s basically a stone bridge, covered and sided with more stone, which pretty much makes it a suspended tunnel with a few windows, but I’m not thinking clearly enough to take it in as we rush through, his strides eating up the distance.

“Almost there,” he reassures me, his grip firm but careful on my rib cage and beneath my knees as my useless arm rests on my chest.

“Everyone saw you lose it,” I whisper, doing my best to mentally block the pain like I have countless times before. It’s usually as easy as building a mental wall around the pulsing torment in my body, then telling myself the pain only exists in that box so I can’t feel it, but it isn’t working so well this time.

“I didn’t lose it.” He kicks the door three times when we reach it.

“You shouted and carried me out of there like I mean something to you.” I focus on the scar on his jaw, the stubble on his tan skin, anything to keep from feeling the utter destruction in my shoulder.

“You do mean something to me.” He kicks again.

And now everyone knows.

The door swings open and Winifred, a healer who has been at my side too many times to mention, stands back so Dain can carry me in. “Another injury? You riders certainly are trying to fill our beds to— Oh no, Violet?” Her eyes fly wide.

“Hi, Winifred,” I manage over the pain.

“This way.” She leads us into the infirmary, a long hall of beds, half of which are full of people in rider black. Healers do not have magic, relying on traditional tinctures and medical training to heal as best they can, but menders do. Hopefully Nolon’s around tonight, since he’s been mending me for the last five years.

The signet of mending is exceptionally rare among riders. They have the power to fix, to restore, to return anything to its original state—from ripped cloth to pulverized bridges, including broken human bones. My brother, Brennan, was a mender—and would have become one of the greatest had he lived.

Dain gently lays me onto the bed Winifred brings us to, then she leans into the edge of the mattress, near my hip. Every creased line in her face is a comfort as she strokes a weathered hand across my forehead. “Helen, go get Nolon,” Winifred orders a healer in her forties walking by.

“No!” Dain barks, panic lacing his tone.

Excuse me?

The middle-aged healer glances between Dain and Winifred, clearly torn.

“Helen, this is Violet Sorrengail, and if Nolon finds out she was here and you didn’t call him, well…that’s on you,” Winifred says in a deceptively calm tenor.

“Sorrengail?” the healer repeats, her voice rising.

I try to focus on Dain through the throbbing in my shoulder, but the room is starting to spin. I want to ask him why wouldn’t he want my shoulder mended, but another wave of pain threatens to pull me into unconsciousness and all I can do is moan.

“Get Nolon or he will let his dragon eat you alive, sour face and all, Helen.” Winifred arches a silver eyebrow as she ignores Dain insisting again not to call the mender.

The woman blanches and disappears.

Dain pulls a wooden chair closer to my bed, and it scrapes the floor with a god-awful sound. “Violet, I know you’re hurting, but maybe…”

“Maybe what, Dain Aetos? You want to see her suffer?” Winifred lectures. “I told her they’d break you,” she mutters as she leans over me, her gray eyes full of worry as she assesses me. Winifred is the best healer Basgiath has, and she prepares every tonic she prescribes herself—and has seen me through more scrapes than I care to count over the years. “Would she listen to me? Absolutely not. Your mother is so damned stubborn.”

She reaches for my injured arm, and I wince as she raises it a couple of inches, prods my shoulder.

“Well, that’s certainly broken.” Winifred tsks, raising her brows at the sight of my arm. “And it looks like we need a surgeon for that shoulder. What happened?” she asks Dain.

“Sparring,” I explain in one word.

“You hush. Save your energy.” Winifred looks back at Dain. “Make yourself useful, boy, and pull the curtain around us. The fewer people who see her injured, the better.”

He jumps to his feet and quickly complies, drawing the blue fabric around us to make a small but effective room, separating us from the other riders who have been brought in.

“Drink this.” Winifred brings out a vial of amber liquid from her belt. “It will handle the pain while we get you sorted.”

“You can’t ask him to mend her,” Dain protests as she uncorks the glass.

“The pair of us have been mending her for the past five years,” she lectures, bringing the vial closer. “Don’t start telling me what I can and cannot do.”

Dain slides one hand under my back, the other under my head, helping me slightly upright so I can get the liquid down. It’s bitter like always as I swallow, but I know it will do the trick. He settles me back on the bed and turns to Winifred. “I don’t want her in pain—that’s why we’re here. But if she’s injured this severely, surely we can see if the scribes will take her as a late admission. It’s only been a day.”

As his reasoning for not wanting a mender sinks in, my anger is able to pierce through the pain long enough for me to bite out, “I’m not going to the scribes.”

Then I sigh, closing my eyes as a pleasant hum races through my veins. Soon there’s enough distance between me and the pain to think somewhat clearly as I force my eyes open again.

At least, I think it’s soon, but there’s a conversation going on I clearly haven’t been paying attention to, so it’s obviously been a few minutes.

The curtain whips back and Nolon walks in, leaning heavily on his cane. He smiles at his wife, his bright white teeth contrasting his brown skin. “You sent for me, my—” His smile falters as he sees me. “Violet?”

“Hi, Nolon.” I force my mouth to curve upward. “I’d wave, butone ofmyarms doesn’t workand theother feels realllllyheavy.” Good gods, am I slurring my words?

“Leigheas serum.” Winifred offers her husband a crooked smile.

“She’s with you, Dain?” Nolon turns an accusing look on Dain, and I feel all of fifteen years old again, being hauled in because I broke my ankle while we were climbing somewhere we shouldn’t have been.

“I’m her squad leader,” Dain replies, scooting out of Nolon’s way so the mender can get closer. “Putting her under my command was the only thing I could think of to keep her safe.”

“Not doing such a good job, are you?” Nolon’s eyes narrow.

“It was assessment day for hand-to-hand,” Dain explains. “Imogen—she’s a second-year—dislocated Violet’s shoulder and broke her arm.”

“On assessment day?” Nolon growls, cutting away the fabric of my short-sleeve shirt with his dagger. The man is eighty-four if he’s a day, and he still dresses in rider black, sheathed with all his weapons.

“Hermotherwasssss. OneofFennnnRiorson’s sepppara—sepppara—sssseparatisssts,” I explain slowly, trying to enunciate and failing. “And I’mmmmmaSorrengail, so I getit.”

“I don’t,” Nolon grumbles. “I’ve never agreed with the way they conscripted those kids to the Riders Quadrant as punishment for the sins of their parents. We have never forced conscripts into that quadrant. Ever. And for a very good reason. Most cadets don’t survive—which was likely the point, I suspect. Regardless, you certainly shouldn’t have to suffer for the honor of your mother. General Sorrengail saved Navarre by capturing the Great Betrayer.”

“So you won’t mend her, right?” Dain asks softly so he can’t be heard outside the curtain. “I’m just asking that the healers do their work and let nature take the time it needs. No magic. She doesn’t stand a chance if she goes back in there in a cast or has to defend herself while her shoulder heals from reconstruction surgery. The last one took her four months. This is our chance to get her out of the Riders Quadrant while she’s still breathing.”

“I’mnotgoingtothesibes.” So much for not slurring. “Sibes,” I try again. “SIBES.” Oh, fuck it. “Mendme.”

“I will always mend you,” Nolon promises.

“Just. This. Once.” I concentrate on every word. “If. The others. See I need. Mending. Allthetime, they’ll. Think. I’m weak.”

“Which is why we have to use this opportunity to get you out!” Panic rises in Dain’s voice, and my heart sinks. He can’t protect me from everything, and watching me break, watching me eventually die is going to ruin him. “Walking out of here and going straight to the Scribe Quadrant is your best chance at survival.”

I glare at Dain and choose my words carefully. “I’m not. Leavingtheriders. Just so Mom. Canthrowmeback. I’m. Staying.” I turn my head and the room spins as I look for Nolon. “Mend me…but justthisonce.”

“You know it’s going to hurt like hell and will still ache for a couple of weeks, right?” Nolon asks, sitting down in the chair beside my bed and staring at my shoulder.

I nod. This isn’t my first mending. When you’re as brittle as I was born, the pain of mending is only second to the pain of the original injury. Basically another Tuesday.

“Please, Vi,” Dain begs quietly. “Please switch quadrants. If not for you, then for me—because I didn’t step in fast enough. I should have stopped her. I can’t protect you.”

I wish I’d figured out his plan before taking Winifred’s potion, so I could have explained better. None of this is his fault, but he’s going to shoulder the blame just like he always does. Instead, I take a deep breath and say, “I made mychoice.”

“Get back to the quadrant, Dain,” Nolon orders without looking up. “If she was any other first-year, you would already be gone.”

Dain’s anguished gaze holds mine, and I insist, “Go. I’ll findyouat formmmmation inthe morning.” I don’t want him to see this anyway.

He swallows the defeat and nods once, then turns and walks through the separation in the curtains without another word. I sincerely hope my choice today doesn’t end up destroying my best friend later.

“Ready?” Nolon asks, his hands hovering above my shoulder.

“Bite down.” Winifred holds a strap of leather in front of my mouth, and I take it between my teeth.

“Here we go,” Nolon mutters, lifting his hands over my shoulder. His brow furrows in concentration before he makes a twisting motion.

White-hot agony erupts in my shoulder. My teeth slice into the leather as I scream, bearing down for one heartbeat, then two before blacking out.

…

The barracks are nearly full by the time I make my way back later that night, my throbbing right arm cradled in a light-blue sling that makes me an even bigger target, if that’s possible.

Slings say weak. They say breakable. They say liability to the wing. If I break this easily on the mat, what’s going to happen if I get on the back of a dragon?

The sun has long since gone down, but the hall is lit by the soft glow of mage lights as the other first-year women get ready for bed. I offer a smile to a girl who’s holding a blood-speckled cloth to her swollen lip, and she returns it with a wince.

I count three empty bunks in our row, but that doesn’t mean those cadets are dead, right? They could be in the Healer Quadrant just like I was, or maybe they’re in the bathing chambers.

“You’re here!” Rhiannon jumps off her bed, already dressed in her sleeping shorts and top, relief in her eyes and smile as she sees me.

“I’m here,” I assure her. “I’m already down one shirt, but I’m here.”

“You can get another at central issue tomorrow.” She looks like she might hug me but glances at my sling and backs up a step, sitting on the edge of her bunk as I do the same with mine, facing her. “How bad is it?”

“It’s going to hurt for the next few days, but I’ll be fine as long as I keep it immobilized. I’ll be all healed up before we start on-mat challenges.”

I have two weeks to figure out how to keep this from happening again.

“I’ll help you get ready,” she promises. “You’re the only friend I have in here, so I’d rather you didn’t die when it gets real.” A corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile.

“I’ll try my best not to.” I grin through the throbbing ache in my shoulder and arm. The tonic has long since worn off, and it’s starting to hurt like hell. “And I’ll help you with history.” I brace my weight on my left hand, and it slides just beneath my pillow.

There’s something there.

“We’ll be unstoppable,” Rhiannon declares, her gaze tracking Tara, the dark-haired, curvy girl from Morraine, as she walks past our bunks.

I pull out a small book—no, it’s a journal—with a folded note on top that says Violet in Mira’s handwriting. One-handed, I open the note.

Violet,

I stayed long enough to read the rolls this morning, and you aren’t on them, thank gods. I can’t stay. I’m needed back with my wing, and even if I could stay, they wouldn’t let me see you anyway. I bribed a scribe to sneak this into your bunk. I hope you know how proud I am to be your sister. Brennan wrote this for me the summer before I entered the quadrant. It saved me, and it can save you, too. I added my own bits of hard-earned wisdom here and there, but mostly it’s his, and I know he’d want you to have it. He’d want you to live.

Love,

Mira.

I swallow past the knot in my throat and set the note aside.

“What is it?” Rhiannon asks.

“It’s my brother’s.” The words barely make it past my lips as I open the cover. Mother burned everything he owned after he died, as tradition dictates. It’s been ages since I’ve seen the bold strokes of his handwriting, and yet there they are. My chest tightens and a fresh wave of grief sweeps through me. “The book of Brennan,” I read along with the first page and then flip to the second.

Mira,

You’re a Sorrengail, so you will survive. Perhaps not as spectacularly as I have, but we all can’t live up to my standards, can we? All kidding aside, this is everything I’ve learned. Keep it safe. Keep it hidden. You have to live, because Violet is watching. You can’t let her see you fall.

Brennan.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. “It’s just his journal,” I lie, thumbing through the pages. I can hear his quippy, sarcastic tone as I skim over his words, as though he’s standing here, making light of every danger with a wink and a grin. Damn, I miss him. “He died five years ago.”

“Oh, that’s…” Rhiannon leans in, her eyes heavy with sympathy. “We don’t always burn everything, either. Sometimes it’s nice to have something, you know?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. It’s everything to have this, and yet I know Mom will toss it in the fire if she ever finds it.

Rhiannon sits back on her bed, opening her history book, and I fall back into Brennan’s history, starting on the third page.

You survived Parapet. Good. Be observant the next few days, and don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. I’ve sketched a map that shows you not only where the classrooms are but where the instructors meet, too. I know you’re nervous about challenges, but you shouldn’t be, not with that right hook of yours. The matches might seem random, but they’re not. What the instructors don’t tell you is that they decide challenges the week before, Mira. Any cadet can request a challenge, yes, but instructors will assign your matches based on weeding out the weakest. That means once the real hand-to-hand starts, the instructors already know who you’ll be up against that day. Here’s the secret—if you know where to look and can get out without being seen, you’ll know who you’re fighting so you can prepare.

I suck in a breath and devour the rest of the entry, hope blossoming in my chest. If I know who I’m fighting, then I can begin the battle before we even step on the mat. My mind spins, a plan taking shape.

Two weeks, that’s how long I have to get everything I’ll need before challenges begin, and no one knows the grounds of Basgiath like I do. It’s all here.

A slow smile spreads across my face. I know how to survive.

In the best interest of preserving peace within Navarre, no more than three cadets carrying rebellion relics may be assigned to any squad of any quadrant.

—Addendum 5.2, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

In addition to last year’s changes, marked ones assembling in groups of three or more will now be considered an act of seditious conspiracy and is hereby a capital offense.

—Addendum 5.3, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

CHAPTER
SEVEN

“Damn it,” I mutter as my toe catches a rock, and I stumble in the waist-high grass that grows alongside the river beneath the citadel. The moon is nice and full, illuminating my way, but it means I’m sweating to death in this cloak to keep hidden, just in case anyone else is out here wandering after curfew.

The Iakobos River rushes with summer runoff from the peaks above, and the currents are fast and deadly this time of year, especially coming out of the steep drop of the ravine. No wonder that first-year died when he fell in yesterday during our downtime. Since Parapet, our squad is the only one in the quadrant not to lose anyone, but I know that’s unlikely to last much longer in this ruthless school.

Tightening my heavy satchel over my sling, I move closer to the river, along the ancient line of oaks where I know one vine of fonilee berries will be coming into season soon. Ripe, the purple berries are tart and barely edible but, picked prematurely and left to dry, will make an excellent weapon in the growing arsenal that nine nights of sneaking out has given me. This was exactly the reason I brought the book of poisons with me.

Challenges start next week, and I need every possible advantage.

Spotting the boulder I’ve used as a landmark for the past five years, I count the trees on the riverbank. “One, two, three,” I whisper, spotting the exact oak I’ll need. Its branches spread wide and high, some even daring to reach out over the river. Lucky for me, the lowest is easily climbable, even more so with the grass oddly trampled underneath.

A twinge of pain shoots up through my shoulder as I slip my right arm out of the sling and begin to climb by moonlight and memory. The pain quickly fades to an ache, just like it has every evening while Rhiannon has been kicking my ass on the mat. Hopefully tomorrow Nolon will let me out of the annoying sling for good.

The fonilee vine looks deceptively like ivy as it winds up the trunk, but I’ve scaled this particular tree enough times to know this is the one. I’ve just never had to climb the damn thing in a cloak before. It’s a pain in my ass. The fabric catches on almost every branch as I move upward, slowly and steadily, climbing past the wide branch where I used to spend hours reading.

“Shit!” My foot slips on the bark and my heart stutters for a heartbeat while my feet find better holds. This would be so much easier during the day, but I can’t risk being caught.

Bark scrapes my palms as I climb higher. The tips of the vine leaves are white at this height, barely visible in the mottled moonlight through the canopy, but I grin as I find exactly what I’ve been searching for.

“There you are.” The purple berries are a gorgeous, unripe lavender. Perfect. Digging my fingernails into the branch above me, I manage to keep from wobbling long enough to retrieve an empty vial in my satchel and uncork it with my teeth. Then I pluck just enough berries off the vine to fill the glass and shove the stopper back in. Between these, the mushrooms I’ve already hunted tonight, and the other items I’ve collected, I should be able to make it through the next month of challenges.

I’m almost down the tree, only a handful of branches to go, when I spot movement beneath me and pause. Hopefully it’s just a deer.

But it’s not.

Two figures in black cloaks—apparently tonight’s disguise of choice—walk under the protection of the tree. The smaller one leans back against the lowest limb, removing her hood to reveal a half-shaved head of pink hair I know all too well.

Imogen, the squadmate who nearly ripped off my arm ten days ago.

My stomach tightens, then knots as the second rider slips off his own hood.

Xaden Riorson.

Oh shit.

There’s maybe fifteen feet between us and nothing—and no one—out here to stop him from killing me. Fear clenches my throat and holds tight as I white-knuckle the branches around me, debating the merits of holding my breath so he can’t hear me versus falling out of the tree if I faint from lack of oxygen.

They begin speaking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, not with the river rushing by. Relief fills my lungs. If I can’t hear them, they can’t hear me, either, as long as I sit tight. But all it takes is for him to look up, and I’ll be toast, literally if he decides to feed me to that Blue Daggertail of his. The moonlight I was thankful for a few minutes ago has now become my biggest liability.

Slowly, carefully, quietly, I move out of the patchy moonlight to the next branch over, cloaking myself in shadow. What is he doing out here with Imogen? Are they lovers? Friends? It’s absolutely none of my business, and yet I can’t help but wonder if she’s the kind of woman he goes for—one whose beauty is only outmatched by her brutality. They fucking deserve each other.

Xaden turns away from the river, as though he’s looking for someone, and sure enough, more riders arrive, gathering under the tree. They’re all dressed in black cloaks as they shake hands. And they all have rebellion relics.

My eyes widen as I count. There are almost two dozen of them, a few third-years and a couple of seconds, but the rest are all firsts. I know the rules. Marked ones can’t gather in groups larger than three. They’re committing a capital offense simply by being together. It’s obviously a meeting of some sort, and I feel like a cat clinging to the leaf-tipped limbs of this tree while the wolves circle below.

Their gathering could be completely harmless, right? Maybe they’re homesick, like when the cadets from the Morraine province all spend a Saturday at the nearby lake just because it reminds them of the ocean they miss so much.

Or maybe marked ones are plotting to burn Basgiath to the ground and finish what their parents started.

I can sit up here and ignore them, but my complacency—my fear—could get people killed if they’re down there scheming. Telling Dain is the right thing to do, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Nausea churns in my stomach. I have to get closer.

Keeping myself on the opposite side of the trunk and sticking to the shadows that wrap around me, I climb down another branch with sloth-like speed, holding my breath as I test each branch with a fraction of my weight before lowering myself. Their voices are still muffled by the river, but I can hear the loudest of them, a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin, whose shoulders take up twice the space of any first-year, standing opposite Xaden’s position and wearing the rank of a third-year.

“We’ve already lost Sutherland and Luperco,” he says, but I can’t make out the response.

It takes two more rungs of branches before their words are clear. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my ribs. I’m close enough for any one of them to see if they look hard enough—well, everyone except Xaden, since his back is turned toward me.

“Like it or not, we’re going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation,” Imogen says. One little hop to the right and I could repay that callous shoulder maneuver she pulled on me with a quick kick to her head.

I just happen to value my own life more than I want revenge at the moment, so I keep my feet to myself.

“And if they find out we’re meeting?” a first-year girl with an olive complexion asks, her eyes darting around the circle.

“We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out,” Xaden responds, folding his arms and leaning back against the limb below my right. “They’re not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I’ll know.” The threat is obvious in his tone. “Like Garrick said, we’ve already lost two first-years to their own negligence. There are only forty-one of us in the Riders Quadrant, and we don’t want to lose any of you, but we will if you don’t help yourselves. The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”

There’s a muttered assent, and my breath hitches at the intensity in his voice. Damn it, I don’t want to find a single thing about Xaden Riorson admirable, and yet here he is, being all annoyingly admirable. Asshole.

Have to admit, it would be nice if a high-ranking rider from my province gave a shit if the rest of us from the province lived or died.

“How many of you are getting your asses handed to you in hand-to-hand?” Xaden asks.

Four hands shoot into the air, none of which belong to the spiky-blond-haired first-year standing with his arms crossed, a head taller than most others. Liam Mairi. He’s in Second Squad, Tail Section of our wing and already the top cadet in our year. He practically ran across the parapet and destroyed every opponent on assessment day.

“Shit,” Xaden swears, and I would give anything to see his expression as he lifts a hand to his face.

The big one—Garrick—sighs. “I’ll teach them.” I recognize him now. He’s the Flame Section leader in Fourth Wing. My direct superior above Dain.

Xaden shakes his head. “You’re our best fighter—”

“You’re our best fighter,” a second-year near Xaden counters with a quick grin. He’s handsome, with tawny brown skin crowned by a cloud of black curls and a litany of patches on what I can see of his uniform under his cloak. His features are close enough to Xaden’s that they might be related. Cousins, maybe? Fen Riorson had a sister, if I remember correctly. Shit, what was the guy’s name? It’s been years since I read the records, but I think it started with a B.

“Dirtiest fighter, maybe,” Imogen snarks.

Most everyone laughs, and even the first-years crack a smile.

“Fucking ruthless is more like it,” Garrick adds.

There’s a general consensus of nods, including one from Liam Mairi.

“Garrick is our best fighter, but Imogen is right up there with him, and she’s a hell of a lot more patient,” Xaden notes, which is just ludicrous considering she didn’t seem too patient while breaking my arm. “So the four of you split yourselves up between the two of them for training. A group of three won’t draw any unwanted attention. What else is giving you trouble?”

“I can’t do this,” a gangly first-year says, rolling his shoulders inward and lifting his slim fingers to his face.

“What do you mean?” Xaden asks, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“I can’t do this!” The smaller one shakes his head. “The death. The fighting. Any of it!” The pitch of his voice rises with every statement. “A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day! I want to go home! Can you help me with that?”

Every head swings toward Xaden.

“No.” Xaden shrugs. “You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and not take up more of my time.”

It’s all I can do to smother my gasp, and some of the others in the group don’t bother trying. What. A. Dick.

The smaller guy looks stricken, and I can’t help but feel bad for him.

“That was a little harsh, cousin,” the second-year who looks a little like Xaden says, lifting his eyebrows.

“What do you want me to say, Bodhi?” Xaden cocks his head to the side, his voice calm and even. “I can’t save everyone, especially not someone who isn’t willing to work to save themselves.”

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Way to give a pep talk.”

“If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they’re not flying out of the quadrant on graduation day. Let’s get real. I can hold their hands and make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more valuable.” He turns his head, and I can only assume he’s looking at the panicked first-year. “In war, people die. It’s not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It’s snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There’s nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur. This”—he gestures back toward the citadel—“isn’t some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It’s hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home…to whatever’s left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant.” He leans forward slightly. “So if you won’t get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You’re not going to make it.”

Only crickets dare to break the silence.

“Now, someone give me a problem I can actually solve,” Xaden orders.

“Battle Brief,” a first-year I recognize says softly. Her bunk is only a row away from Rhiannon’s and mine. Shit…what’s her name? There are too many women in the hall to know everyone, but I’m certain she’s in Third Wing. “It’s not that I can’t keep up, but the information…” She shrugs.

“That’s a tough one,” Imogen responds, turning to look at Xaden. Her profile in the moonlight is almost unrecognizable as the same person who shredded my shoulder. That Imogen is cruel, vicious even. But the way she’s looking at Xaden softens her eyes, her mouth, her whole posture as she tucks a short strand of pink hair behind her ear.

“You learn what they teach you,” Xaden says to the first-year, his voice taking a hard edge. “Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to.”

My brow furrows. What the hell does he mean by that? Battle Brief is one of the classes taught by scribes to keep the quadrant up-to-date on all nonclassified troop movements and battle lines. The only things we’re asked to recite are recent events and general knowledge of what’s going on near the front lines.

“Anyone else?” Xaden asks. “You’d better ask now. We don’t have all night.”

It hits me then—other than being gathered in a group of more than three, there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing here. There’s no plot, no coup, no danger. It’s just a group of older riders counseling first-years from their province. But if Dain knew, he’d be honor bound to—

“When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail?” a guy toward the back asks.

My blood turns to ice.

The murmur of assent among the group sends a jolt of terror down my spine.

“Yeah, Xaden,” Imogen says sweetly, lifting her pale green eyes to him. “When do we get to finally have our revenge?”

He turns just enough for me to see his profile and the scar that crosses his face as he narrows his eyes at Imogen. “I told you already, the youngest Sorrengail is mine, and I’ll handle her when the time is right.”

He’ll…handle me? My muscles thaw with the heat of indignation. I’m not some inconvenience to be handled. My short-lived admiration of Xaden is over.

“Didn’t you already learn that lesson, Imogen?” the look-alike Xaden chides from halfway down the circle. “What I hear, Aetos has you scrubbing dinner dishes for the next month for using your powers on the mat.”

Imogen’s head snaps in his direction. “Her mother is responsible for the execution of my mom and sister. I should have done more than just snap her shoulder.”

“Her mom is responsible for the capture of nearly all our parents,” Garrick counters, folding his arms over his wide chest. “Not her daughter. Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not the Tyrrish.”

“So we get conscripted because of what our parents did years ago and shoved into this death sentence of a college—” Imogen starts.

“In case you didn’t notice, she’s in the same death sentence of a college,” Garrick retorts. “Seems like she’s already suffering the same fate.”

Am I seriously watching them debate over whether I should be punished for being Lilith Sorrengail’s daughter?

“Don’t forget her brother was Brennan Sorrengail,” Xaden adds. “She has just as much reason to hate us as we do her.” He pointedly looks at Imogen and the first-year who raised the question. “And I’m not going to tell you again. She’s mine to handle. Anyone feel like arguing?”

Silence reigns.

“Good. Then get back to bed and go in threes.” He motions with his head, and they slowly disperse, walking away in groups of threes just like he ordered. Xaden is the last to leave.

I draw a slow breath. Holy shit, I just might live through this.

But I have to be sure they’re gone. I don’t move a muscle, even when my thighs cramp and my fingers lock as I count to five hundred in my head, breathing as evenly as possible to soften the beats of my galloping heart.

Only when I’m sure I’m alone, when the squirrels scurry past on the ground, do I finish climbing from the tree, jumping the last four feet to the grassy floor. Zihnal must have a soft spot for me, because I’m the luckiest woman on the Continent—

A shadow lunges behind me and I open my mouth to scream, but my air supply is cut off by an elbow around my neck as I’m yanked against a hard chest.

“Scream and you die,” he whispers, and my stomach plummets as the elbow is replaced by the sharp bite of a dagger at my throat.

I freeze. I’d recognize the rough pitch of Xaden’s voice anywhere.

“Fucking Sorrengail.” His hand yanks back the hood of my cloak.

“How did you know?” My tone is outright indignant, but whatever. If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going down as some simpering little beggar. “Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?”

He scoffs. “I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.” He lowers the knife and steps away.

I gasp. “Your signet is a shadow wielder?” No wonder he’s risen so high in rank. Shadow wielders are incredibly rare and highly coveted in battle, able to disorient entire drifts of gryphons, if not take them down, depending upon the signet’s strength.

“What, Aetos hasn’t warned you not to get caught alone in the dark with me yet?”

His voice is like rough velvet along my skin, and I shiver, then draw my own blade from the sheath at my thigh and raise it as I spin toward him, ready to defend myself to the death. “Is this how you plan to handle me?”

“Eavesdropping, were we?” He arches a black brow and sheathes his dagger like I couldn’t possibly pose a threat to him, which only serves to piss me off even more. “Now I might actually have to kill you.” There’s an undertone of truth in those mocking eyes.

This is just…bullshit.

“Then go ahead and get it over with.” I unsheathe another dagger, this one from beneath my cloak where it was strapped in at my ribs, and back up a couple of feet to give me distance to throw them—if he doesn’t rush me.

He pointedly looks at one dagger, then the other, and sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “That stance is really the best defense you can muster? No wonder Imogen nearly ripped your arm off.”

“I’m more dangerous than you think,” I flat-out bluster.

“So I see. I’m quaking in my boots.” The corner of his mouth rises into a mocking smirk.

Fucking. Asshole.

I flip the daggers in my hand, pinching them at the tips, then flick my wrists and fire them past his head, one on each side. They land solidly in the trunk of the tree behind him.

“You missed.” He doesn’t even flinch.

“Did I?” I reach for my last two blades. “Why don’t you back up a couple of steps and test that theory?”

Curiosity flares in his eyes, but it’s gone in the next second, masked by cold, mocking indifference.

Every one of my senses is on high alert, but the shadows around me don’t slide in as he moves backward, his eyes locked with mine. His back hits the tree, and the hilts of my daggers brush his ears.

“Tell me again that I missed,” I threaten, taking the dagger in my right hand by the tip.

“Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?” An appreciative smile curves his perfect lips as shadows dance up the trunk of the oak, taking the form of fingers. They pluck the daggers from the tree and bring them to Xaden’s waiting hands.

My breath abandons me with a sharp exhale. He has the kind of power that could end me without him having to so much as lift a finger —shadow wielding. The futility of even trying to defend myself against him is laughable.

I hate how beautiful he is, how lethal his abilities make him as he strides toward me, shadows curling around his footsteps. He’s like one of those poisonous flowers I’ve read about from the Cygnis forests to the east. His allure is a warning not to get too close, and I am definitely too close.

Switching my grip to the hilts of my daggers, I prepare for the attack.

“You should show that little trick to Jack Barlowe,” Xaden says, turning his palms upward and offering me my daggers.

“I’m sorry?” This is a trick. It has to be a trick.

He moves closer, and I lift my blade. My heart stumbles, the beat irregular as fear floods my system.

“The neck-snapping first-year who’s very publicly vowed to slaughter you,” Xaden clarifies as my blade presses against his cloak at the level of his abdomen. He reaches under my own cloak and slides one blade into the sheath at my thigh, then pulls back the side of my cloak and pauses. His gaze locks onto the length of my braid where it falls over my shoulder, and I could swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he slides the remaining dagger into one of the sheaths at my ribs. “He’d probably think twice about plotting your murder if you threw a few daggers at his head.”

This is…this is…bizarre. It has to be some kind of game meant to confuse me, right? And if so, he’s playing it really fucking well.

“Because the honor of my murder belongs to you?” I challenge. “You wanted me dead long before your little club chose my tree to meet under, so I imagine you’ve all but buried me in your mind by now.”

He glances at the dagger poised at his stomach. “Do you plan on telling anyone about my little club?” His eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing but cold, calculating death waiting there.

“No,” I answer truthfully, suppressing a shiver.

“Why not?” He tilts his head to the side, examining my face like I’m an oddity. “It’s illegal for the children of separatist officers to assemble in—”

“Groups larger than three. I’m well aware. I’ve lived at Basgiath longer than you.” I lift my chin.

“And you’re not going to run off to Mommy, or your precious little Dain, and tell them we’ve been assembling?” His gaze narrows on mine.

My stomach twists just like it did before I stepped out onto the parapet, like my body knows that whatever action I take next will determine my life-span. “You were helping them. I don’t see why that should be punished.” It wouldn’t be fair to him or the others. Was their little meeting illegal? Absolutely. Should they die for it? Absolutely not. And that’s exactly what will happen if I tell. Those first-years will be executed for nothing more than asking for tutoring, and the senior cadets will join them just because they helped. “I’m not going to tell.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to see through me, and ice prickles my scalp.

My hand is steady, but my nerves tremble at what the next thirty seconds might bring. He can kill me right here, toss my body into the river, and no one will know I’m gone until they find me downstream.

But I won’t let him end me without drawing his blood first, that’s for damn sure.

“Interesting,” he says softly. “We’ll see if you keep your word, and if you do, then unfortunately, it looks like I owe you a favor.” Then he steps away, turns, and walks off, heading back toward the staircase in the cliff that leads up to the citadel.

Wait. What?

“You’re not going to handle me?” I call after him, shock raising my brows.

“Not tonight!” he tosses over his shoulder.

I scoff. “What are you waiting for?”

“It’s no fun if you expect it,” he answers, striding into the darkness. “Now, get back to bed before your wingleader realizes you’re out after curfew.”

“What?” I gawk after him. “You’re my wingleader!”

But he’s already disappeared into the shadows, leaving me talking to myself like a fool.

He didn’t even ask what was in my satchel.

A slow smile spreads across my face as I tuck my arm back into my sling, sighing with relief as the weight is taken off my shoulder. A fool with fonilee berries.

There is an art to poison not often discussed, and that is timing. Only a master can properly dose and administer for effective onset. One must take into account the mass of the individual as well as the method of delivery.

—Effective Uses of Wild and Cultivated Herbs
by Captain Lawrence Medina

CHAPTER
EIGHT

The women’s hall is quiet as I dress for the morning, the sun barely peeking above the horizon in the far windows. I take the dragon-scale vest from where I left it to dry on the hanger at the end of my bed and slip it on over my short-sleeve black shirt. It’s a good thing I’ve gotten pretty adept at tightening the laces behind my back, since Rhiannon isn’t in her bed.

At least one of us is getting a few much-needed orgasms. Pretty sure there’s a person or two scattered with their partners among the full bunks in here, too. The squad leaders talk a good game about enforcing curfew, but no one really cares. Well, except Dain. He cares about every rule.

Dain. My chest tightens, and I smile as I finish braiding my hair into a crown. Seeing him is the best part of my day, even the moments when he’s anything but personable in public. Even in the moments where he’s consumed with trying to save me from this place.

I grab my bag on the way out, passing by rows of empty beds that belonged to the dozen women who haven’t survived to see August, and shove open the door.

There he is.

Dain’s eyes light up as he pushes off the wall of the hallway where he’s obviously been waiting for me. “Morning.”

I can’t help the smile that curves my lips. “You don’t have to escort me to duty every morning, you know.”

“It’s the only time I get to see you when I’m not your squad leader,” he counters as we walk down the empty hallway, past the halls that will lead to our rooms if we survive Threshing. “Trust me, it’s worth getting up an hour early, though I still can’t figure out why you’d choose breakfast duty over every other assignment.”

I shrug. “I have my reasons.” Really, really, really good reasons. Though I do miss the extra hour of sleep I’d had before we chose our assignments last week.

A door on the right flies open, and Dain darts in front of me, dragging me behind him with his arm so I face-plant into his back. He smells like leather and soap and—

“Rhiannon?” he snaps.

“Sorry!” Rhiannon’s eyes widen.

I slip out of Dain’s hold and move to his side so I can see her. “I wondered where you were this morning.” A grin spreads across my face as Tara appears next to her. “Hey, Tara.”

“Hey, Violet.” She gives me a wave, then heads down the hallway, tucking her shirt into her pants.

“We have curfew for a reason, cadet,” Dain lectures, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “And you know that no one is supposed to be in the private dorms until after Threshing.”

“Maybe we were just up early,” Rhiannon counters. “You know, like you are right now.” She glances between the two of us with a mischievous smirk.

Dain rubs the bridge of his nose. “Just…get back to the dorms and pretend you slept there, will you?”

“Absolutely!” She squeezes my hand as she passes by.

“Way to go,” I whisper quickly. She’s had a thing for Tara since we got here.

“I know, right?” She backs away with a smile, then turns to push through the hall doors.

“Monitoring the sex lives of first-years was not what I had in mind when I applied to be a squad leader,” Dain mutters, and we continue toward the kitchen.

“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t a first-year yourself last year.”

He lifts his brows in thought and eventually shrugs. “Fair point. And you’re a first-year now…” His eyes slide my way as we near the arched doorways that lead to the rotunda, and his lips part like he’s going to continue, but he looks away, pivoting to open the door for me.

“Why, Dain Aetos! Are you asking me about my sex life?” I let my fingers trail along the exposed fangs of the green dragon pillar and bite back a smile as we walk by.

“No!” He shakes his head, then pauses in thought. “I mean…is there a sex life to ask about?”

We climb the steps that lead into commons, and I turn just before the door to face him. He’s two steps below me, putting us at eye level. “Since I got here?” I tap my chin with my finger and smile. “That’s none of your business. Before I got here? Still none of your business.”

“Another fair point.” His mouth curves into a grin that makes me wish it was his business, though.

I turn around before I do something utterly foolish like make it his business. We continue into commons, walking past the empty study tables and the entrance to the library. It’s nothing as awe-inspiring as the scribes’ Archives, but it has every tome I’ll need for studying here.

“Are you ready for today?” Dain asks as we near the gathering hall. “For the challenges to start this afternoon?”

My stomach knots.

“I’ll be all right,” I assure him, but he moves in front of me, halting my steps.

“I know you’ve been practicing with Rhiannon, but…” Worry lines his forehead.

“I’ve got it,” I promise, looking into his eyes so he knows I mean it. “You don’t have to worry about me.” Last night, Oren Seifert’s name was posted next to mine right where Brennan said it would be. He’s a tall blond in First Wing with tolerable knife skills but one hell of a punch.

“I always worry about you.” Dain’s hands curl into fists.

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “I can handle myself.”

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

My ribs squeeze my heart like a vise.

“Then don’t watch.” I take his calloused hand in mine. “You can’t save me from this, Dain. I’m going to be challenged once a week just like every other cadet. And it’s not going to stop there. You can’t protect me from Threshing, or the Gauntlet, or Jack Barlowe—”

“You need to lay low with that one.” Dain grimaces. “Avoid that pompous ass whenever you can, Vi. Don’t give him an excuse to come after you. He’s already responsible for too many names on the death roll.”

“Then the dragons are going to love him.” They always go for the vicious ones.

Dain squeezes my hand gently. “Just steer clear of him.”

I blink. The advice is so different from Xaden’s throw-a-few-daggers-at-his-head approach.

Xaden. The knot of guilt that’s been lodged in my stomach since last week grows a fraction bigger. By code, I should tell Dain about seeing marked ones under the oak tree, but I won’t, not because I told Xaden that I wouldn’t but because keeping the secret feels like the right thing to do.

I’ve never kept a secret from Dain in my life.

“Violet? Did you hear me?” Dain asks, lifting a hand to cradle my face.

Jerking my gaze to his, I nod and repeat, “Steer clear of Barlowe.”

He drops his hand and shoves it into a pocket of his pants. “Hopefully he’ll forget all about his little vendetta against you.”

“Do most men forget when a woman holds a knife to their balls?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

“No.” He sighs. “You know, it’s not too late to sneak you down to the scribes. Fitzgibbons will take you—”

The bells ring, marking quarter past five and saving me from another session of Dain begging me to run away to the Scribe Quadrant.

“I’ll be all right. I’ll see you at formation.” I give his hand a squeeze, then walk away, leaving him as I make my way to the kitchen. I’m always the first here, and today is no exception.

I pocket the vial of dried, powdered fonilee berries from my satchel and get started as the other workers come in, sleepy-eyed and grumbly. The powder is nearly white, nearly invisible as I take my place in the serving line an hour later, and completely undetectable as I sprinkle it over Oren Seifert’s scrambled eggs when he approaches.

…

“Keep the temperaments of each specific breed in mind when you decide which dragons to approach and which to run from at Threshing,” Professor Kaori says, his serious, dark eyes slashing toward his nose as he studies the new recruits for a beat, then he changes the projection he’s conjured from a Green Daggertail to a Red Scorpiontail. He’s an illusionist and the only professor in the quadrant with the signet ability to project what he sees in his mind, which makes this class one of my favorites. He’s also the reason I knew exactly what Oren Seifert looked like.

Do I feel guilty about blatantly misleading a professor about why I needed to find another cadet? No. Do I think it’s cheating? Also no. I was doing exactly what Mira suggested and using my brain.

The Red Scorpiontail in the center of our circled tables is a fraction of its actual size, six feet tall at most, but it’s an exact replica of the actual firebreather waiting in the Vale for Threshing.

“Red Scorpiontails, like Ghrian here, are the quickest to temper,” Professor Kaori continues, his perfectly trimmed mustache curving as he smiles at the illusion like he’s the dragon himself. We all take notes. “So if you offend him, you’re—”

“Lunch,” Ridoc says from my left, and the class laughs. Even Jack Barlowe, who hasn’t quit glaring at me since his squad took over their quarter of the room a half hour ago, snorts.

“Precisely,” Professor Kaori responds. “So what’s the best way to approach a Red Scorpiontail?” He glances around the room.

I know the answer, but I keep my hand to myself, heeding Dain’s advice to lay low.

“You don’t,” Rhiannon mutters next to me, and I huff a laugh under my breath.

“They prefer that you approach from the left and from the front, if possible,” a woman from one of the other squads answers.

“Excellent.” Professor Kaori nods. “For this Threshing, there are three Red Scorpiontails willing to bond.” The image changes in front of us to a different dragon.

“How many dragons are there in total?” Rhiannon asks.

“A hundred for this year,” Professor Kaori answers, changing the image again. “But some might change their minds during Presentation in about two months, depending on what they see.”

My stomach hits the floor. “That’s thirty-seven fewer than last year.” Maybe even fewer if they don’t like the look of us after we have to parade by them for their perusal two days before Threshing. Then again, there’s usually fewer cadets after that particular event anyway.

Professor Kaori’s dark eyebrows rise. “Yes, Cadet Sorrengail, it is, and twenty-six fewer than the year before that.”

Fewer dragons are choosing to bond, but the number of riders entering the quadrant has remained steady. My mind whirls. Attacks at the eastern borders are increasing, according to every Battle Brief, and yet there are fewer dragons willing to bond in order to defend Navarre.

“Will they tell you why they won’t bond?” another first-year asks.

“No, jackass,” Jack scoffs, his icy-blue gaze narrowing on the cadet. “Dragons only talk to their bonded riders, just like they only give their full name to their bonded rider. You should know that by now.”

Professor Kaori sends Jack a look that shuts the first-year’s mouth but doesn’t stop him from sneering at the other cadet. “They don’t share their reasons,” our instructor says. “And anyone who respects their life won’t ask a question they’re not willing to answer.”

“Do the numbers affect the wards?” Aurelie asks from where she sits behind me, tapping her quill against the edge of her desk. She’s never happy sitting still.

Professor Kaori’s jaw ticks twice. “We’re not sure. The number of bonded dragons has never affected the integrity of Navarre’s wards before, but I’m not about to lie to you and say that we’re not seeing increased breaches when you know from Battle Brief that we are.”

The wards are faltering at a rate that makes my stomach tense every time Professor Devera starts our daily Battle Brief. Either we’re weakening or our enemies are getting stronger. Both possibilities mean the cadets in this room are needed more than ever.

Even me.

The image changes to Sgaeyl, the navy-blue dragon bonded to Xaden.

My stomach pitches as I remember the way she looked right through me that first day.

“You won’t have to worry about how to approach blue dragons, since there are none willing to bond this Threshing, but you should be able to recognize Sgaeyl if you see her,” Professor Kaori says.

“So you can fucking run,” Ridoc drawls.

I nod along while others laugh.

“She’s a Blue Daggertail, the rarest of the blues, and yes, if you see her without her bonded rider, you should…definitely find somewhere else to be. Ruthless does not begin to describe her, nor does she abide by what we assume to be what the dragons consider law. She even bonded the relative of one of her previous riders, which you all know is typically forbidden, but Sgaeyl does whatever she wants, whenever she wants. In fact, if you see any of the blues, don’t approach them. Just…”

“Run,” Ridoc repeats, raking his hand through his floppy brown hair.

“Run,” Professor Kaori agrees with a smile, the mustache above his top lip quivering slightly. “There are a handful of other blues in active service, but you’ll find them all along the Esben Mountains in the east, where the fighting is most intense. They’re all intimidating, but Sgaeyl is the most powerful of them all.”

My breath catches. No wonder Xaden can wield shadows—shadows that can yank daggers out of trees, shadows that can probably throw those same daggers. And yet…he let me live. I shove the kernel of warmth that thought gives me far, far away.

Probably just to screw with you, a monster playing with his prey before pouncing.

“What about the black dragon?” the first-year next to Jack asks. “There’s one here, right?”

Jack’s face lights up. “I want that one.”

“Not that it’s going to matter.” Professor Kaori flicks his wrist and Sgaeyl disappears, and a massive black dragon takes her place. Even the illusion is bigger, making me crane my neck slightly to see its head. “But just to appease your curiosity, since this is the only time you’ll ever see him, here is the only other black besides General Melgren’s.”

“He’s huge,” Rhiannon says. “And is that a clubtail?”

“No. A morningstartail. He has the same bludgeoning power of a clubtail, but those spikes will eviscerate a person just as well as a daggertail.”

“Best of both worlds,” Jack calls out. “He looks like a killing machine.”

“He is,” Professor Kaori answers. “And honestly, I haven’t seen him in the last five years, so this image is more than a little outdated. But since we have him up here, what can you tell me about black dragons?”

“They’re the smartest and most discerning,” Aurelie calls out.

“They’re the rarest,” I add in. “There hasn’t been one born in the last…century.”

“Correct.” Professor Kaori spins the illusion again, and I’m met with a pair of glaring yellow eyes. “They’re also the most cunning. There’s no such thing as outsmarting a black dragon. This one is a little over a hundred, which makes him about middle-aged. He’s revered as a battle dragon among their kind, and if not for him, we probably would have lost during the Tyrrish rebellion. Add to it that he’s a morningstartail, and he’s one of the deadliest dragons in Navarre.”

“I bet he powers one hell of a signet. How do you approach him?” Jack asks, leaning forward in his seat. There’s pure avarice in his eyes, mirrored by his friend next to him.

That’s the last thing this kingdom needs, someone as cruel as Jack bonding to a black dragon. No thank you.

“You don’t,” Professor Kaori answers. “He hasn’t agreed to bond since his previous and only rider was killed during the uprising, and the only way you’d ever be near him is if you’re in the Vale, which you won’t be, because you’d be incinerated before you ever got through the gorge.”

The pale redhead across the circle from me shifts in her seat and tugs her sleeve down to cover her rebellion relic.

“Someone should ask him again,” Jack urges.

“It doesn’t work that way, Barlowe. Now, there is only one other black dragon, which is in service—”

“General Melgren’s,” Sawyer says. His book is closed in front of him, but I can’t blame him. I’d hardly be taking notes, either, if this was the second time I’d gone through this class. “Codagh, right?”

“Yes.” Professor Kaori nods. “The eldest of their den and a swordtail.”

“But just for curiosity’s sake.” Jack’s glacial-blue gaze doesn’t stray from the illusion of the unbonded black dragon still being projected. “What signet ability would this guy gift his rider?”

Professor Kaori closes his fist, and the illusion disappears. “There’s no telling. Signets are the result of the unique chemistry between rider and dragon and usually say more about the rider than the dragon. The stronger the bond and the more powerful the dragon, the stronger the signet.”

“Fine. What was his previous rider’s?” Jack asks.

“Naolin’s signet was siphoning.” Professor Kaori’s shoulders fall. “He could absorb power from various sources, other dragons, other riders, and then use it or redistribute it.”

“Badass.” Ridoc’s tone has more than a little hero worship.

“He was,” Professor Kaori agrees.

“What kills someone with that kind of signet?” Jack asks, crossing his arms over his thick chest.

Professor Kaori glances at me for a heartbeat before looking away. “He attempted to use that power to revive a fallen rider—which didn’t work, because there’s no signet capable of resurrection—and depleted himself in the process. To use a phrase you’ll become accustomed to after Threshing, he burned out and died next to that rider.”

Something in my chest shifts, a feeling that I can’t explain and yet can’t shake.

The bells ring, signaling the hour is up, and we all begin to gather our things. The squads filter out to the hallway, emptying the room, and I rise from behind my desk, shouldering my satchel as Rhiannon waits for me by the door, a puzzled expression on her face. “It was Brennan, wasn’t it?” I ask Professor Kaori.

Sadness fills his gaze as he meets mine. “Yes. He died trying to save your brother, but Brennan was too far gone.”

“Why would he do that?” I shift the weight of my satchel. “Resurrection isn’t possible. Why would he essentially kill himself when Brennan was already gone?” A stampede of grief tramples my heart, stealing my breath. Brennan never would have wanted anyone to die for him. That wasn’t in his nature.

Professor Kaori sits back against his desk, pulling at the short, dark hairs of his mustache as he stares at me. “Being a Sorrengail doesn’t do you any favors in here, does it?”

I shake my head. “There are more than a few cadets who would like to take me—and my last name—down a peg.”

He nods. “It won’t be like that once you leave. After graduation, you’ll find that being General Sorrengail’s daughter means others will do just about anything to keep you alive, even pleased, not because they love your mother but because they either fear her or want her favor.”

“Which was Naolin?”

“A little bit of both. And sometimes it’s hard for a rider with a signet that powerful to accept his limits. After all, bonding makes you a rider, but resurrecting someone from the dead? Now, that makes you a god. I somehow don’t think that Malek takes kindly to a mortal treading on his territory.”

“Thank you for answering.” I turn and start toward the door.

“Violet,” Professor Kaori calls out, and I pivot to look back. “I taught both your siblings. A signet like mine is too useful here in the classroom to let me deploy with a wing for long. Brennan was a spectacular rider and a good man. Mira is shrewd and gifted in the seat when it comes to riding.”

I nod.

“But you’re smarter than both of them.”

I blink. It’s not often I get compared to my brother and sister and somehow come out on top.

“From what I’ve seen of you helping your friend study in commons every night, it seems you might be more compassionate, too. Don’t forget that.”

“Thank you, but being smart and compassionate isn’t going to help me when it comes to Threshing.” A self-deprecating laugh escapes. “You know more about dragons than anyone else in the quadrant, probably anyone else on the Continent. They choose strength and shrewdness.”

“They choose for reasons they don’t see fit to share with us.” He pushes off his desk. “And not all strength is physical, Violet.”

I nod, because I can’t find any appropriate words for his well-intentioned flattery, and head over to meet Rhiannon at the door. The only thing I know for certain right now is that compassion isn’t going to help me on the mat after lunch.

…

I’m so nervous I could puke as I stand at the side of the wide black mat, watching Rhiannon beat the ever-loving shit out of her opponent. It’s a guy from Second Wing, and it takes almost no time for her to get him into a headlock, cutting off his air supply. It’s a move she’s tried her best to drill into me over the last couple of weeks.

“She makes it look so easy,” I say to Dain as he stands at my side, his elbow brushing mine.

“He’s going to try to kill you.”

“What?” I glance up, then follow his line of sight two mats over.

Dain’s glaring daggers at Xaden across the mat, a look of sheer boredom on his face as Rhiannon squeezes the neck of the Second Wing first-year tighter.

“Your opponent,” Dain says softly. “I overheard him and a few friends. They think you’re a liability to the wing thanks to that Barlowe kid.” His gaze shifts to Oren, who’s sizing me up like a damned plaything he’s planning on breaking.

But there’s a greenish twinge to his complexion that makes me grin.

“I’m going to be fine,” I recite, because that’s my fucking mantra. I’m stripped down to the dragon-scale vest that’s starting to feel like a second skin and my fighting leathers. All four of my daggers are sheathed, and if my plan goes correctly, I’ll have one more to add to my collection soon.

The Second Wing first-year passes out, and Rhiannon rises victorious as we clap. Then she leans over her opponent and removes the dagger at his side. “Looks like this is mine now. Enjoy your nap.” She pats him on the head, which makes me laugh.

“Not sure why you’re laughing, Sorrengail,” a sneering voice calls out from behind me.

I turn around and see Jack standing with his feet apart against the wood-planked wall about ten feet away, wearing a smile that can only be described as evil.

“Fuck off, Barlowe.” I gift him the middle finger.

“I honestly hope you win today’s challenge.” His eyes dance with a sadistic glee that makes me queasy. “It would be a shame for someone else to kill you before I get the chance. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Violets are such delicate…fragile things, you know.”

Delicate, my ass.

He’d probably think twice about plotting your murder if you threw a few daggers at his head.

I unsheathe both daggers from my ribs and flick them in his direction in one smooth movement. They land right where I intended—one nearly nicking his ear and the other an inch beneath his balls.

Fear widens his eyes.

I shamelessly grin and wiggle my fingers in a wave.

“Violet,” Dain hisses as Jack maneuvers around my blades, stepping away from the wall.

“You’ll pay for that.” Jack points at me and stalks off, but the rise and fall of his shoulders is a little choppy.

I watch his back retreat, then retrieve my daggers, sheathing them at my ribs before returning to Dain’s side.

“What the hell was that?” he seethes. “I told you to lay low when it comes to him, and you…” He shakes his head at me. “You just piss him off even more?”

“Laying low wasn’t getting me anywhere,” I say with a shrug as Rhiannon’s opponent is carried off the mat. “He needs to realize I’m not a liability.” And I’ll be harder to kill than he thinks.

There’s no ignoring the prickle at my scalp, and I let my gaze shift to meet Xaden’s.

My heart does that damn stuttering thing again, as if he’d sent shadows straight through my ribs to squeeze the organ. He lifts his scarred brow, and I swear there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he leaves, walking over to observe the Fourth Wing cadets at the next mat.

“Badass,” Rhiannon says as she moves to my other side. “I thought Jack was going to shit himself.”

I smother a smile.

“Stop encouraging her,” Dain chastises.

“Sorrengail.” Professor Emetterio glances at his notebook and raises one bushy black brow before continuing. “Seifert.”

Swallowing back the panic that threatens to creep up my throat, I step onto the mat opposite Oren, who’s definitely looking green now.

Right on time.

I’ve prepared the best I can, wrapping my ankles and my knees just in case he goes for the legs.

“Don’t take this personally,” he says as we start to circle, both our hands raised. “But you’ll only be a hazard to your wing.”

He charges at me, but his footwork is sluggish and I spin away, landing a punch to his kidney before bouncing back on my heels and palming a dagger.

“I’m no more a hazard than you are,” I accuse.

His chest heaves once and sweat dots his forehead, but he shakes it off, blinking rapidly as he reaches for his own knife. “My sister is a healer. I’ve heard your bones snap like twigs.”

“Why don’t you come find out?” I force a smile and wait for him to charge again, because that’s what he does. I’ve had three sessions to watch him from a few mats over. He’s a bull, all power and no grace.

His entire body rolls like he’s going to vomit, and he covers his mouth with his empty hand, breathing deeply before standing straight again. I should attack, but instead I wait. And then he charges, his blade held high in a striking position.

My heart pounds as I wait the torturous heartbeats it takes for him to reach me, my brain somehow convincing my body to hold my ground until the last possible second. He swings his knife downward, and I dodge to the left, nicking his side with my blade in the process, then turn and deliver a kick to his back, sending him sprawling.

Now.

He falls to the mat, and I take immediate advantage, digging a knee into his spine just like Imogen had with me and putting my blade to his throat. “Yield.” Who needs strength when you have speed and steel?

“No!” he shouts, but his body undulates under mine, and he retches, bringing up everything he’s eaten since breakfast and splattering it across the mat to the side of us.

So fucking gross.

“Oh my gods,” Rhiannon calls out, disgust dripping from her tone.

“Yield,” I demand again, but he’s heaving in earnest now and I have to pull my knife away so I don’t accidentally slit his throat.

“He yields,” Professor Emetterio declares, his face contorted in revulsion.

I sheathe my blade and climb off him, dodging the puddles of sick. Then I take the dagger Oren dropped a few feet back as he continues to vomit. The knife is heavier and longer than my others, but it’s mine now, and I earned it. I sheathe it in an empty place at my left thigh.

“You won!” Rhiannon says, clasping me in a hug as I walk off the mat.

“He’s sick,” I say with a shrug.

“I’ll take being lucky over being good any day,” Rhiannon counters.

“I have to find someone to get this cleaned up,” Dain says, his own complexion turning peaked.

I won.

…

Timing is the hardest thing about my plan.

I win the next week when a stocky girl from First Wing can’t concentrate long enough to throw a decent punch thanks to a few leighorrel mushrooms and their hallucinogenic properties that somehow wind up in her lunch. She gets in a good kick to my knee, but it’s nothing a few days in a wrap won’t heal.

I win the week after that when a tall guy from Third Wing stumbles because his large feet temporarily lose all feeling, courtesy of the zihna root that grows on one outcropping near the ravine. My timing is off a little, though, and he lands a few good punches to my face, leaving me with a split lip and a bruise that colors my cheek for the next eleven days, but at least he doesn’t break my jaw.

I win again the next week when a buxom cadet’s vision turns blurry mid-match, on account of the tarsilla leaves that found their way into her tea. She’s fast, tossing me to the mat and delivering some overwhelmingly painful kicks to my abdomen that leave colorful contusions and one distinct boot print on my ribs. I almost broke down and went to see Nolon after that one, but I gritted my teeth and wrapped my ribs, determined not to give the others a reason to weed me out like Jack or any marked ones wanted.

I earn my fifth dagger, this one with a pretty ruby in the hilt, the last challenge in August when I take a particularly sweaty guy with a gap between his front teeth to the mat. The bark of the carmine tree that finds its way into his waterskin makes him sluggish and ill. The effects are a little too similar to the fonilee berries, and it’s just a shame that the entire Third Squad, Claw Section of Third Wing is suffering the same stomach upset. Must be something viral, at least that’s what I say when he finally yields to my headlock after dislocating my thumb and nearly breaking my nose.

Come early September, there’s a spring in my step as I walk onto the mat. I’ve taken down five opponents without killing any of them, something a quarter of our year can’t say after almost twenty more names have been added to the death roll the last month for the first-years alone.

I roll my sore shoulders and wait for my opponent.

But Rayma Corrie from Third Wing doesn’t step forward this week like she’s supposed to.

“Sorry, Violet,” Professor Emetterio says, scratching his short black beard. “You were supposed to challenge Rayma, but she’s been taken to the healers because she can’t seem to walk in a straight line.”

Peels of the walwyn fruit will do that when ingested raw…say, like when they’re mixed into the icing of your morning pastry.

“That’s”—shit—“too bad.” I wince. You served it to her too early. “Should I just…” I start, already backing up to get off the mat.

“I’m happy to step in.” That voice. That tone. That prickle of ice along my scalp…

Oh no. Hell no. No. No. No.

“You sure?” Professor Emetterio asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

My stomach hits the floor.

And Xaden walks onto the mat.

I will not die today.

—Violet Sorrengail’s personal addendum
to the Book of Brennan

CHAPTER
NINE

I’m so completely screwed.

Xaden steps forward—all six-foot-everything of him—dressed in midnight fighting leathers and a tight-fitted short-sleeve shirt that only seems to make the shimmering, dark rebellion relics on his skin seem like an even bigger warning, which I know is ridiculous but somehow true.

My heartbeat kicks up to a full gallop, as if my body knows the truth my mind hasn’t quite accepted yet. I’m about to have my ass kicked…or worse.

“You are all in for a treat,” Professor Emetterio says, clapping his hands. “Xaden’s one of the best fighters we have. Watch and learn.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter, my stomach twisting like I’m the one who’s been snacking on walwyn fruit peels.

A corner of Xaden’s mouth rises in a smirk, and the gold flecks in his eyes seem to dance. The sadistic ass is enjoying this.

My knees, ankles, and wrist are wrapped, the white cloth protecting my healing thumb a startling contrast against my black leathers.

“A little out of her league, don’t you think?” Dain argues from the side of the mat, tension radiating from every word.

“Relax, Aetos.” Xaden looks over my shoulder, his gaze hardening toward where I know Dain is standing, where he always stands when I’m on the mat. The look Xaden gives him makes me realize he’s been taking it easy on me in the glaring department. “She’ll be in one piece when I’m finished teaching her.”

“I hardly think it’s fair—” Dain’s voice rises.

“No one asked you to think, squad leader,” Xaden fires back as he moves to the side, discarding every weapon on his body—and there’s a lot of them—and handing them to Imogen.

The bitter, illogical taste of jealousy fills my mouth, but there’s no time to examine that particular oddity, not when there’re only seconds before he’s in front of me again.

“You don’t think you’ll need those?” I ask, palming my own blades. His chest is massive, with wide shoulders and heavily muscled arms alongside. A target this big should be easy to hit.

“Nope. Not when you brought enough for the both of us.” A wicked smile curves his mouth as he stretches out his hand and curls his fingers in a come-hither motion. “Let’s go.”

My heart beats faster than the wings of a hummingbird as I take a fighting stance and wait for him to strike. This mat is only twenty feet in either direction, and yet my entire world narrows to its confines and the danger within.

He’s not in my squad. He can kill me without punishment.

I fling a dagger straight at his ridiculously well-sculpted chest.

He fucking catches it and clucks his tongue. “Already seen that move.”

Holy shit is he fast.

I have to be faster. It’s the single advantage I have—that’s my only thought as I move forward in a swipe-and-kick combo Rhiannon’s drilled into me over the past six weeks. He artfully dodges my blade and then captures my leg. The earth spins and I slam onto my back, the sudden impact driving the air from my lungs.

But he doesn’t go for the kill. Instead, he drops the dagger he’s caught and kicks it off the mat, and a second later, when air squeaks into my lungs, I lunge up with the next blade, going for his thigh.

He blocks my strike with his forearm, then grips my wrist with his opposite hand and plucks the knife out of my hand, leaning down so his face is only inches from mine. “Going for blood today, are we, Violence?” he whispers. Metal hits the mat again and he kicks it past my head and out of my reach.

He’s not taking my daggers to use against me; he’s disarming me just to prove he can. My blood boils.

“My name is Violet,” I seethe.

“I think my version fits you better.” He releases my wrist and stands, offering me a hand. “We’re not done yet.”

My chest heaves, still recovering from the way he’s knocked the wind out of me, and I take the offering. He tugs me to my feet, then twists my arm behind my back and yanks me against his hard chest, pinning our joined hands before I have a chance to get my balance.

“Damn it!” I snap.

There’s a tug at my thigh and another of my daggers is pressed to my throat as his chest rests against the back of my head. His forearm is locked across my ribs, and he might as well be a statue for all the give there is in his frame. There’s no use slamming my head back—he’s so tall that I’d only annoy him.

“Don’t trust a single person who faces you on this mat,” he warns in a hiss, his breath warm against the shell of my ear, and even though we’re surrounded by people, I realize he’s quiet for a reason. This lesson is just for me.

“Even someone who owes me a favor?” I counter, my voice just as low. My shoulder starts to protest the unnatural angle, but I don’t move. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He drops the third dagger he’s taken from me and kicks it forward—to where Dain stands, the other two already in his hand. There’s murder in his eyes as he glares at Xaden.

“I’m the one who decides when to grant that favor. Not you.” Xaden releases my hand and steps back.

I whirl, punching for his throat, and he knocks my hand aside.

“Good,” he says with a smile, deflecting my next blow without so much as a hitch to his breath. “Going for the throat is your best option, as long as it’s exposed.”

Fury makes me kick out again in the same pattern, muscle memory taking over, and he captures that leg again, this time snatching the dagger sheathed there and dropping it to the mat before he lets me go, cocking a disappointed eyebrow at me. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.” He kicks it away.

I only have five left, all sheathed at my ribs.

Gripping one and putting my hands up defensively, I begin to circle him, and to my absolute annoyance, he doesn’t even bother facing me. He just stands there in the center of the mat, his boots planted and his arms loose as I move around him.

“You going to prance or are you going to strike?”

Fuck him.

I punch forward, but he dips and my knife sails over his shoulder, missing him by six inches. My stomach drops as he grips my arm, yanking me forward and flipping me around the side of his body. I’m airborne for a heartbeat before I smack into the mat, my ribs taking the impact.

He cranks my arm into a submission hold and white-hot pain shoots down the limb as I cry out, dropping the dagger, but he’s not done. No, his knee is in my ribs and, though he holds my arm captive with one hand, the other plucks a dagger from its sheath and flings it toward Dain’s feet before taking another and holding it to the tender area where my jaw meets my neck.

Then he leans closer. “Taking out your enemy before the battle is really smart; I’ll give that to you,” he whispers, his warm breath brushing the shell of my ear.

Oh gods. He knows what I’ve been doing. The pain in my arm is nothing compared to the nausea churning in my stomach at the thought of what he might do with that knowledge.

“Problem is, if you aren’t testing yourself in here”—he scrapes the dagger down my neck, but there’s no warm trickle of blood, so I know he hasn’t cut me—“then you’re not going to get any better.”

“You’d rather I die, no doubt,” I fire back, the side of my face pressed into the mat. This isn’t just painful, it’s humiliating.

“And be denied the pleasure of your company?” he mocks.

“I fucking hate you.” The words are past my lips before I can shut my mouth.

“That doesn’t make you special.”

The pressure releases from my chest and arm as he gets on his feet, kicking both daggers toward Dain.

Two more. I only have two more, and now my indignation and anger far outweigh my fear.

Ignoring Xaden’s outstretched hand, I gain my feet and his lips curve into an approving smile. “She can be taught.”

“She’s a quick learner,” I retort.

“That remains to be seen.” He backs up two steps, putting a little space between us before crooking his fingers at me again.

“You’ve made your damn point,” I snap loud enough that I hear Imogen gasp.

“Trust me, I’ve barely gotten started.” He folds his arms and leans back on his heels, clearly waiting for me to move.

I don’t think. I just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees.

He goes down like a tree, the sound more than satisfying, and I pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is—they still need air. Catching his throat in the crook of my elbow, I squeeze.

Instead of going for my arms, he twists, grabbing ahold of the backs of my thighs so I lose my leverage and our bodies careen into a roll. He comes out on top.

Of course he does.

His forearm rests against my throat, not cutting off air but definitely capable of it, and his hips have mine pinned, my legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between my thighs. He’s unmovable.

Everything around us fades as my world narrows to the arrogant glint in his gaze. He’s all I can see, all I can feel.

And I can’t let him win.

I slip one of my last daggers free and go for his shoulder.

He seizes my wrist and pins it above my head.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Heat rushes up my neck and flames lick my cheeks as he lowers his face so his lips are only inches away from mine. I can make out every speck of gold in his onyx eyes, every bump and ridge of his scar.

Beautiful. Fucking. Asshole.

My breath catches and my body warms, the traitorous bitch. You are not attracted to toxic men, I remind myself, and yet, here I am, getting all attracted. I have been since the first second I saw him, if I feel like being honest.

He pushes his fingers into my fist, forcing it open, then sends the blade skittering across the mat before letting go of my wrist.

“Get your dagger,” he orders.

“What?” My eyes fly wide. He has me defenseless and in the kill position already.

“Get. Your. Dagger,” he repeats, taking my hand in his and retrieving the last blade I have. His fingers curl over mine, clasping the hilt.

Fire races along my skin at the feel of his fingers lacing with mine.

Toxic. Dangerous. Wants to kill you. Nope, doesn’t matter. My pulse still skitters like a teenager.

“You’re tiny.” He says it like an insult.

“Well aware.” My eyes narrow.

“So stop going for bigger moves that expose you.” He drags the tip of the dagger down his side. “A rib shot would have worked just fine.” Then he guides our hands around his back, making himself vulnerable. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle, too.”

I swallow, refusing to think of other things that are a good fit at this angle.

He leads our hands to his waist, his gaze never leaving mine. “Chances are, if your opponent is in armor, it’s weak here. Those are three easy places you could have struck before your opponent would have had time to stop you.”

They’re also fatal wounds, and I’ve avoided those at all costs.

“Do you hear me?”

I nod.

“Good. Because you can’t poison every enemy you come across,” he whispers, and I blanche. “You’re not going to have time to offer tea to some Braevi gryphon rider when they come at you.”

“How did you know?” I finally ask. My muscles lock, including my thighs, which just happen to still be bracketing his hips.

His eyes darken. “Oh, Violence, you’re good, but I’ve known better poison masters. The trick is to not make it quite so obvious.”

My lips part, and I bite back a retort that I was careful not to be obvious.

“I think she’s been taught enough for the day,” Dain barks, reminding me that we’re far from alone. No, we’re a damned spectacle.

“He always that overprotective?” Xaden grumbles, pressing up from the mat a few inches.

“He cares about me.” I glare at him.

“He’s holding you back. Don’t worry. Your little poisoning secret is safe with me.” Xaden arches a brow as if to remind me that I’m the keeper of one of his secrets, too. Then he guides our hands back to my ribs and slides the ruby-hilted blade back into its sheath.

The move is unnervingly…hot.

“You’re not going to disarm me?” I challenge as he releases his grip and pushes up more, removing his weight from my body. My ribs expand as I take my first full breath.

“Nope. Defenseless women have never been my type. We’re done for today.” He stands, then walks away without another word, taking his weapons from Imogen as I roll to my knees. Every part of my body aches, but I manage to stand.

There’s pure relief in Dain’s eyes when I reach his side to retrieve the daggers Xaden took from me. “You all right?”

I nod, my fingers trembling as I rearm myself. He’s had every chance, and every reason, to kill me, and now he’s let me walk away twice. What kind of game is he playing?

“Aetos,” Xaden calls out from across the mat.

Dain’s head snaps up and his jaw locks.

“She could use a little less protection and a little more instruction.” Xaden stares Dain down until he nods.

Professor Emetterio calls the next challenge.

…

“I’m just surprised he let you live,” Dain says later that night in his room as his thumbs dig into the muscle between my neck and shoulder.

It hurts so deliciously, it was well worth the pain of sneaking up here.

“I hardly think he’d command respect by snapping my neck on the mat.” His blankets are soft against my belly and chest as I lay on his bed, bare from the waist up except for the constricting band around my breasts and ribs. “Besides, that’s not his way.”

Dain’s hands pause on my skin. “Because you know what his way is?”

The guilt of keeping Xaden’s secret makes my stomach drop. “He told me he didn’t see a reason to kill me himself when the parapet would do it,” I answer truthfully. “And let’s face it, he’s had plenty of chances to take me out if he really wanted.”

“Hmm.” Dain hums in that thoughtful tone of his, continuing to work out my stiff and aching muscles as he leans over from the side of his bed. Rhiannon drilled me for another two hours after dinner, and I was barely able to move by the end of it.

Guess I wasn’t the only one Xaden scared this afternoon.

“Do you think he could be plotting against Navarre and still have bonded Sgaeyl?” I ask, my cheek against his blanket.

“I did at first.” His hands move down my spine, pressing into the knots that made lifting my arms almost impossible that last half hour of training tonight. “But then I bonded Cath, and I realized that dragons would do anything to protect the Vale and their sacred hatching grounds. There’s no way any dragon would have bonded Riorson or any of the separatists if they weren’t honest about protecting Navarre.”

“But would a dragon even know if you were lying?” I turn my head so I can see his face.

“Yeah.” He grins. “Cath would know because he’s in my head. It’s impossible to hide something like that from your dragon.”

“Is he always in your head?” I know it’s against the rules to ask—almost everything about bonds are off-limits for discussion, given how secretive dragons are, but it’s Dain.

“Yeah,” he answers, his smile softening. “I can block him out if I need to, and they’ll teach you that after Threshing—” His expression falls.

“What is it?” I sit up, sliding one of his pillows across my chest and leaning back against the headboard.

“I talked to Colonel Markham this evening.” He walks over and pulls his chair out from his desk and takes a seat, then rests his head in his hands.

“Did something happen?” Fear races down my spine. “Is it Mira’s wing?”

“No!” Dain’s head snaps up, and there’s so much misery in his eyes that I swing my feet off the bed. “It’s nothing like that. I told him…that I think Riorson wants to kill you.”

I blink, sitting fully back onto the bed. “Oh. Well, that’s not really news, is it? Everyone who’s read a history of the rebellion can put two and two together, Dain.”

“Yeah, well, I told him about Barlowe, too, and Seifert.” He rubs his hand over his hair. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way Seifert shoved you into the wall before formation this morning.” He lifts his brows at me.

“He’s just pissed that I took his dagger at that first challenge.” I squeeze the pillow tighter.

“And Rhiannon told me you found crushed flowers on your bed last week?” He stares me down.

I shrug. “They were just dead flowers.”

“They were mutilated violets.” His mouth tightens and I go to him, resting my hands on his head.

“It’s not like they came with a death note or anything,” I tease, stroking his soft brown hair.

He looks up at me, the mage lights making his eyes a little brighter above his trim beard. “They’re threats.”

I shrug. “Every cadet gets threatened.”

“Every cadet doesn’t have to wrap their knees every day,” he fires back.

“The injured ones do.” My brow furrows, annoyance taking root in my chest. “Why would you tell Markham about it anyway? He’s a scribe, and there’s nothing he would do even if he could.”

“He said he’d still take you,” Dain blurts, his hands flying to my hips, holding me in place when I try to step away. “I asked him if he’d allow you into the Scribe Quadrant for your own safety, and he said yes. They’d put you with the first-years. It’s not like you’d have to wait until next Conscription Day or anything.”

“You what?” I twist, breaking my hold, and back away from my best friend.

“I saw a way to get you out of danger, and I took it.” He stands.

“You went behind my back because you think I’m not cutting it.” The truth of the words tightens around my chest like a vise, cutting off my air instead of holding me together, leaving me weak and breathless. Dain knows me better than anyone, and if he still thinks I can’t do this after I’ve made it this far…

Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I tuck my chin and grab my dragon-scale vest, pull it over my head, then wrench the laces together at the small of my back and tie them.

Dain sighs. “I never said I don’t think you can cut it, Violet.”

“You say it every day!” I snap. “You say it when you walk me from formation to class, which I know makes you late for flight line. You say it when you yell at your wingleader when he takes me to the mat—”

“He had no right to—”

“He’s my wingleader!” I shrug my tunic over my head. “He has the right to do whatever he wants—including execute me.”

“And that’s why you need to get the hell out of here!” Dain laces his fingers behind his neck and begins to pace. “I’ve been watching, Vi. He’s just toying with you, like a cat plays with a mouse before the kill.”

“I’ve held my own so far.” My satchel is heavy with books as I settle it over my shoulder. “I’ve won every challenge—”

“Except today when he wiped the floor with you time and again.” He grasps my shoulders. “Or did you miss the part where he took every weapon so you knew exactly how easy it is to defeat you?”

I raise my chin and glare at him. “I was there, and I’ve survived almost two months in this place, which is more than I can say for a fourth of my year!”

“Do you know what happens at Threshing?” he asks, his tone dropping.

“Are you calling me ignorant?” Rage bubbles in my veins.

“It’s not just about bonding,” he continues. “They throw every first-year into the training grounds, the ones you’ve never been to, and then the second- and third-years are supposed to watch as you decide which dragons to approach and which to run from.”

“I know how it works.” My jaw clenches.

“Yeah, well, while the riders are watching, the first-years are taking out their vendettas and eliminating any…liabilities to the wing.”

“I’m not a damned liability.” My chest tightens again, because deep down I know, on the physical level, that I am.

“Not to me,” he whispers, a hand rising to cradle my cheek. “But they don’t know you the way I do, Vi. And while the first-years like Barlowe and Seifert are hunting you, we’ll have to watch. I’ll have to watch, Violet.” The break in his voice takes the anger right out of me. “We are not allowed to help you. To save you.”

“Dain—”

“And when they gather the bodies for the roll, no one’s going to document how that cadet died. You’re just as likely to fall under Barlowe’s knife as a dragon’s talon.”

I breathe through the jolt of fear.

“Markham says that he’ll put you through the first year without telling your mother. By the time she finds out, you’ll already be inducted as a scribe. There’s nothing she can do after that.” He lifts his other hand so he’s holding my face between both palms, tipping it up toward his. “Please. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me.”

My heart stutters, and I sway, his reasoning tugging me toward exactly what he’s suggesting. But you’ve made it this far, a part of me whispers.

“I can’t lose you, Violet,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine. “I just…can’t.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This is my way out, and yet, I don’t want to take it.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he begs. “We still have four weeks until Threshing. Just…think about it.” The hope in his tone and the tender way he holds me cuts through my defenses.

“I’ll think about it.”

Don’t underestimate the challenge of the Gauntlet, Mira. It’s designed to test your balance, strength, and agility. The times don’t matter for shit, only that you make it to the top. Reach for the ropes when you have to. Coming in last is better than coming in dead.

—Page forty-six, the Book of Brennan

CHAPTER
TEN

I look up, and up, and up, fear coiling in my stomach like a snake ready to strike.

“Well, that’s…” Rhiannon swallows, her head tilted just as far back as mine as we stare at the menacing obstacle course that’s carved into the front of a ridgeline so steep, it might as well be a cliff. The zigzagging death trap of a trail rises above us, climbing in five distinct switchbacks of 180-degree turns, each increasing in difficulty on the way to the top of the bluff that divides the citadel from the flight field and the Vale.

“Amazing.” Aurelie sighs.

Rhiannon and I turn, both staring at her like she must have hit her head.

“You think that hellscape looks amazing?” Rhiannon asks.

“I’ve been waiting years for this!” Aurelie grins, her normally serious black eyes dancing in the morning sun as she rubs her hands together, shifting from one toned leg to the other in glee. “My dad—he was a rider until he retired last year—used to set up obstacle courses like this all the time so we could practice, and Chase, my brother, said it’s the best part of being here before Threshing. It’s a real adrenaline rush.”

“He’s with the Southern Wing, right?” I ask, focusing on the obstacle course running up the side of a fucking cliff. It looks more like a death trap than an adrenaline rush, but sure, we can go with that. Positive thinking for the win, right?

“Yep. Pretty much desk duty for all the action they see near the Krovlan border.” She shrugs and points about two-thirds up the course. “He said to watch out for those giant posts jutting from the side of the cliff. They spin, and you can get crushed between them if you’re not fast enough.”

“Oh, good, I was wondering when it might get difficult,” Rhiannon mutters.

“Thanks, Aurelie.” I locate the series of nearly touching, three-foot-wide logs that jut out from the rocky terrain like a set of round steps rising from the ground to the switchback above it and nod. Go fast. Got it. You could have included that tidbit, Brennan.

The obstacle course is the embodiment of my worst nightmare. For the first time since Dain begged me to leave last week, I consider Markham’s offer. There are no death courses in the Scribe Quadrant, that’s for certain.

But you’ve already made it this far. Ahh, there she is, the little voice that’s been riding my shoulder lately, daring to give me hope that I might actually survive Presentation.

“Still not sure why they call it the Gauntlet,” Ridoc says from my right, blowing into his cupped hands to ward off the morning chill. The sun hasn’t touched this little crevice, but it’s shining above the last quarter of the course.

“To ensure dragons keep coming to Threshing by weeding out the weaklings.” Tynan sneers from Ridoc’s other side, folding his arms over his chest as he casts a pointed look at me.

I shoot him a glare and then shake it off. He’s been pissy ever since Rhiannon handed his ass to him on the mat at assessment.

“Knock it the fuck off,” Ridoc snaps, earning the entire squad’s attention.

My eyebrows lift. I’ve never seen Ridoc lose his temper or use anything but humor to defuse a situation before.

“What’s your problem?” Tynan shoves a strand of thick, dark hair from his eyes and pivots like he’s going to stare some intimidation into Ridoc, but it doesn’t really work out, seeing as Ridoc is twice as wide and half a foot taller.

“My problem? You think because you made friends with Barlowe and Siefert that you have the right to be a dick to your own squadmate?” Ridoc challenges.

“Exactly. Squadmate.” Tynan gestures toward the obstacle course. “Our times aren’t just ranked individually, Ridoc. We’re scored as a squad, too, which is how the order for Presentation is decided. Do you really think any dragon wants to bond a cadet who walks in after every other squad in the processional?”

Fine, he has a point. It’s a shitty one, but it’s there.

“They’re not timing us for Presentation today, asshole.” Ridoc takes a step forward.

“Stop.” Sawyer shuffles between the two, shoving Tynan’s chest hard enough to make him stagger back into the girl behind him. “Take it from someone who made it through Presentation last year: your time doesn’t mean anything. The last cadet to walk in last year bonded just fine, and some of the cadets in the first squad onto the field were passed over.”

“Little bitter about that, aren’t you?” Tynan smirks.

Sawyer ignores the barb. “Besides, it’s not called the Gauntlet because it weeds out cadets.”

“It’s called the Gauntlet because this is the cliff that guards the Vale,” Professor Emetterio says, walking up behind our squad, his shaved head glinting in the growing sunlight. “Plus, actual gauntlets—armored gloves made of metal—are slippery as hell, and the name stuck about twenty years ago.” He cocks a brow at Tynan and Sawyer. “Are you two done arguing? Because all nine of you have exactly an hour to get to the top before it’s another squad’s chance to practice, and from what I’ve seen of your agility on the mat, you’re going to need every second.”

There’s a grumble of assent in our little group.

“As you know, hand-to-hand challenges are on hold for the next two and a half weeks before Presentation so you can focus here.” Professor Emetterio flips a page on the little notebook he carries. “Sawyer, you’re going to show them how it’s done, since you already have the lay of the land. Then Pryor, Trina, Tynan, Rhiannon, Ridoc, Violet, Aurelie, and Luca.” A smile curves the harsh line of his mouth as he finishes calling out every name in our squad, and we file into order. “You’re the only squad to remain intact since Parapet. That’s incredible. Your squad leader must be very proud. Wait here for a second.” He walks past us, waving at someone high up on the cliff.

No doubt that someone has a watch.

“Aetos is especially proud of Sorrengail.” Tynan gifts me with a mocking sneer once our instructor is out of hearing range.

I see red. “Look, if you want to talk shit about me, that’s one thing, but leave Dain out of it.”

“Tynan,” Sawyer warns, shaking his head.

“Like it doesn’t bother any of you that our squad leader is fucking one of us?” Tynan throws out his hands.

“I’m not—” I start, indignation getting the best of me before I can take a deep breath. “Honestly, it’s none of your godsdamned business who I’m sleeping with, Tynan.” Though if I’m going to get accused, can’t I have some of the perks? If I know Dain, he’s hung up on the whole fraternization-is-discouraged-within-the-chain-of-command thing like this asshole. But surely Dain would actually make a move if he really wanted to, right?

“It is if it means you get preferential treatment!” Luca adds in.

“For fuck’s sake,” Rhiannon mumbles, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Luca, Tynan, shut up. They’re not sleeping together. They’ve been friends since they were kids, or do you not know enough about our own leadership to know his dad is her mom’s aide?”

Tynan’s eyes widen, like he’s actually surprised. “Really?”

“Really.” I shake my head and study the course.

“Shit. I’m…sorry. Barlowe said—”

“And that’s your first mistake,” Ridoc interjects. “Listening to that sadistic ass is going to get you killed. And you’re lucky Aetos isn’t here.”

True. Dain would more than take exception to Tynan’s assumptions and probably assign him cleanup duty for a month. Good thing he’s on the flight field this time of day.

Xaden would just beat the shit out of him.

I blink, shoving that comparison and any other thought of Xaden Riorson far out of my head.

“Here we go!” Professor Emetterio walks to the head of our line. “You’ll get your time at the top of the course, if you make it, but remember, you’ll still have nine practice sessions before we rank you for Presentation in two and a half weeks, which will determine if the dragons find you worthy at Threshing.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to let first-years start practicing this thing right after Parapet?” Rhiannon asks. “You know, to give us a little more time so we don’t die?”

“No,” Professor Emetterio replies. “The timing is part of the challenge. Any words of wisdom, Sawyer?”

Sawyer blows out a slow breath, his gaze following the treacherous course. “There are ropes every six feet that run from the top of the sheer cliffside to the bottom,” he says. “So if you start to fall, reach out and grab a rope. It’ll cost you thirty seconds, but death costs you more.”

Awesome.

“I mean, there’s a perfectly good set of steps over there.” Ridoc points to the steep staircase carved into the cliff beside the wide switchbacks of the Gauntlet.

“Stairs are for reaching the flight field on the top of the ridgeline after Presentation,” Professor Emetterio says, then lifts his hands toward the course and flicks his wrist, pointing at various obstacles.

The fifteen-foot log at the start of the uphill climb begins to spin. The pillars on the third ascent shake. The giant wheel at the first switchback starts its counterclockwise rotation, and those little posts Aurelie mentioned? They all twist in opposite directions.

“Every one of the five ascents on this course is designed to mimic the challenges you’ll face in battle.” Professor Emetterio turns to look at us, his face just as stern as it is during our usual combat training. “From the balance you must keep on the back of your dragon, to the strength you’ll need to hold your seat during maneuvers, to”—he gestures upward, toward the last obstacle that looks like a ninety-degree ramp from this angle—“the stamina you’ll need to fight on the ground, then still be able to mount your dragon at a second’s notice.”

The posts knock a chunk of granite loose, and the rock tumbles down the course, smacking every obstacle in its path until it crashes twenty feet in front of us. If there was ever a metaphor for my life, well…that’s it.

“Whoa,” Trina whispers, her brown eyes wide as she stares at the pulverized rock. I’m the smallest of our squad, but Trina is the quietest, the most reserved. I can count on both hands the number of times she’s spoken to me since Parapet. If she didn’t have friends in First Wing, I’d worry, but she doesn’t have to open up to us to survive the quadrant.

“You all right?” I ask her in a whisper.

She swallows and nods, one of her auburn ringlet curls bouncing against her forehead.

“What if we can’t make it up?” Luca asks from my right, securing her long hair in a loose braid, her usual haughtiness not so in-your-face today. “What’s the alternative route?”

“There’s no alternative. If you don’t make it, you can’t get to Presentation, can you? Take your position, Sawyer,” Professor Emetterio orders, and Sawyer moves to the beginning of the course. “After he makes it past the final obstacle, so everyone can learn from this cadet completing the course, the rest of you will start every sixty seconds. And…go!”

Sawyer is off like a shot. He easily runs the fifteen feet across the single log spinning parallel with the cliff face and then the raised pillars, but it takes him three rotations inside the wheel before he jumps through the lone opening, but other than that, I don’t see a single misstep in the first ascent. Not. One.

He turns and rushes toward a series of giant hanging balls that makes up the second ascent, jumping and hugging one after another. His feet back on the ground, he turns again and heads up the third ascent, which is divided into two sections. The first part has giant metal rods hanging parallel to the cliff wall, and he easily swings arm over arm, using his body’s weight and momentum to swing the bar forward and reach the next bar hanging half a foot higher than the previous as he climbs the side of the cliff. From the last bar, he jumps onto a series of shaking pillars that make up the second half of this ascent before finally leaping back onto the gravel path.

By the time he reaches the fourth ascent, the spinning logs Aurelie’s brother warned us about, Sawyer’s made it all look like child’s play, and I start to feel a bubble of hope that maybe the course isn’t as difficult as it looks from the ground.

But then he faces a giant chimney formation rising high above him at a twenty-degree angle and pauses.

“You got this!” Rhiannon yells from my side.

As though he heard, he sprints toward the leaning chimney and flings himself upward, grabbing onto the sides by forming an X with his body, then starts hopping up the conduit until he reaches the end and drops down in front of the final obstacle, a massive ramp that reaches up to the top of the cliff’s edge at a nearly vertical climb.

My breath catches in my throat as Sawyer sprints toward the ramp, using his speed and momentum to carry him two-thirds of the way up the ramp. Just before he starts to fall, he reaches up with one arm and grasps the lip of the ramp and hauls himself over the edge.

Rhiannon and I scream and cheer for him. He made it. In an almost flawless approach.

“Perfect technique!” Professor Emetterio calls out. “That’s exactly what you should all be doing.”

“Perfect, and yet he was still passed over at Threshing,” Luca snarks. “Guess the dragons have some sense of taste.”

“Give it a rest, Luca,” Rhi says.

How could someone as smart and athletic as Sawyer not bond? And if he didn’t, what the hell kind of hope is there for the rest of us?

“I’m too short for the ramp,” I whisper to Rhi.

She glances over at me, and then back to the obstacle. “You’re wicked fast. If you get your speed up, I bet the momentum will take you to the top.”

Pryor—the shy cadet from the Krovlan border region—struggles on the swinging steel rods in the third ascent due to some rather predictable hesitation on his part, but he makes it just as Trina nearly falls at the shaking pillars, reaching for a rope. I can only make out the flash of red from her hair when she starts the rotating stair steps, but I hear her scream all the way to my toes as that particular rope sways near the ground.

“You can do it!” Sawyer shouts down from the top.

“They go in opposite directions!” Aurelie calls up.

“Tynan, start,” Professor Emetterio orders, watching his pocket watch and not the course.

My heart thuds in my ears when Trina makes it past the steps, and the drumming doesn’t let up as Rhiannon is called to start. She passes the first ascent with the grace I’ve come to expect from her before coming to a halt.

Tynan hangs from the second of five buoy balls on the second ascent, right where the ground drops out. If he falls, he’s got a minuscule chance of hitting the single spinning log from the first ascent and overwhelming odds of dropping thirty feet to the ground below.

“You have to keep moving, Tynan!” I shout, though it’s doubtful he can hear me from here. He might be a gullible ass, but he’s still my squadmate.

He shrieks, his arms wrapped around the swinging ball. It’s impossible for him to reach his hands completely around—that’s the point, and he’s slipping.

“He’s going to screw her time,” Aurelie says, blowing out a bored sigh.

“Good thing this is only practice, then,” Ridoc says, then bellows up at Tynan. “What’s the matter, Tynan? Scared of heights? Who’s the liability now?”

“Stop.” I elbow Ridoc in the side. He’s not quite as lean now. The last seven weeks have put some muscle on him. “Just because he’s a dick doesn’t mean you have to be.”

“But he’s giving me so much material to work with,” Ridoc replies, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk as he backs away, heading toward the starting position.

“Swing to the next one!” Trina suggests from the top of the course.

“I can’t!” Tynan’s shriek could break glass as it echoes down the mountain, and it makes my chest tighten.

“Ridoc, start!” Professor Emetterio commands.

Ridoc charges over the log.

“Rhi!” I shout up. “The rope is between the first and second!”

She nods down at me, then jumps for the first buoy ball, clasping it up top, near where the chains hold it to the iron rail above, and swinging her weight around the side.

It’s an utterly inspired approach, one that might just work for me.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I move to the starting position. Oh, look, it is possible for my heart to beat faster. The damned thing practically flutters as I wipe my clammy palms on my leather pants.

Rhiannon gets the rope into Tynan’s hand, but instead of using it to swing to the next ball, he climbs…down.

My jaw practically unhinges as he descends. Definitely didn’t see that one coming.

“Violet, begin!” Emetterio orders.

Be with me, Zihnal. I haven’t spent nearly enough time at temple for the god of luck to care much about what happens to me right now, but it’s worth a shot.

I bolt up the first part of the ascent, coming to the spinning log within seconds. My stomach feels like it’s being stirred by this balance beam from hell. “It’s just balance. You can balance,” I mumble and start across. “Quick feet. Quick feet. Quick feet,” I repeat all the way across, jumping off the end to land on the first of four granite columns, each one higher than the last.

There are about three feet between them, but I manage to leap from one pillar to the next without skidding off the ends. And this is the easy part. A knot of fear works its way up my throat.

I jump into the rotating wheel and run, leaping over the only opening as it flies by once, then watching it come around a second time. Timing. This one is all about timing.

The opportunity comes and I seize it, racing through the opening and turning back onto the gravel path of the second ascent. The buoy balls are just ahead, but I’m going to fall on my ass if I don’t calm down and get my palms to stop sweating.

Feathertail dragons are the breed we know the least about, I recite in my mind, needing every ounce of my lung capacity as I spring from the edge of the path onto the first ball, grasping it up top like Rhiannon did. The immediate strain on my shoulders makes me tense every muscle to keep the joints from dislocating.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

Throwing my weight, I force the ball to rotate, swinging me toward the next one. This is because feathertails reportedly abhor violence and are not suitable for bonding.

I repeat motions, grasping from one ball to the next, keeping my eyes on the chains and nothing else.

Though this scholar cannot be certain, as one has never left the Vale within my lifetime. I continue reciting from memory as I reach the fifth and final ball. With one last swing, I throw myself sideways, releasing the ball and landing on the shoulder-wide gravel path without rolling an ankle.

It’s all momentum for the next ascent.

“Green dragons,” I mutter under my breath, “known for their keen intellect, descend from the honorable Uaineloidsig line, and continue to be the most rational of dragonkind, making them the perfect siege weapons, especially in the case of clubtails.” I finish as I line my body up with the first metal rod and get ready to sprint forward.

“Are you…studying?” Aurelie calls up from where she leaps onto the first ball below.

“Calms me down,” I shoot back in quick explanation. There’s no time to be embarrassed here—that can wait for later.

There are three iron rails in front of me, each lined up like a battering ram toward the next. “The Scribe Quadrant is looking pretty good right now,” I grumble under my breath, then launch myself toward the first. At least the texture gives me something to keep hold of as I work my way hand over hand. The ache in my shoulders grows into a throbbing pain when I reach the end of the first rail, swinging my feet to work up the momentum for the next.

The first clang of iron as the rails meet makes my fingers slip, and I gasp as terror claws its way out of my stomach. Orange dragons, coming in various shades of apricot to carrot, are the most—I throw myself to the next rail—unpredictable of dragonkind and therefore always a risk. I move across the rail with the same hand-over-hand motion, ignoring the outright protests of my shoulders. Descending from the Fhaicorain line—

My right hand loses purchase and my weight swings me into the face of the steep mountainside, my cheek slamming into the rock. A high-pitched ringing erupts in my ears and my vision darkens at the edges.

“Violet!” Rhiannon shouts from the top.

“Next to you! The rope is next to you!” Aurelie calls up.

Iron scrapes my fingertips as my left hand slips, but I spot the rope and take hold, bracing my feet on the knot beneath me and clinging tight until the ringing fades in my head. I have to swing over or climb down.

I’ve survived seven weeks in this damned quadrant, and this course isn’t going to beat me today.

Pushing off the edge, I swing out for the rail and make it, immediately starting the hand over hand to get me to the next one and then the next, until I finally let go, landing on the first shaking iron pillar. My brain is rattled as the thing shudders violently, and I leap to the next, barely gaining a foothold before jumping to the gravel path at the end of the ascent.

Aurelie is right behind me, landing with a grin. “This is the best!”

“You clearly need to see the healers. You must have hit your head if you think this is fun.” My breaths are choppy gasps, but I can’t help but smile at her obvious joy.

“Just run straight across this one,” she says as we reach the twisting staircase posts jutting straight from the side of the cliff face.

Each three-foot-wide timber rotates from its base in one of the steepest sections of the course. I quickly calculate if you fall off one of the posts, you’d probably drop at least thirty or forty feet onto the rocky terrain below. I swallow down the terror trying to crawl up my throat and focus on the possibility my agility and lightness will give me an edge on this particular obstacle.

She continues. “Trust me. If you pause, it’ll roll you right off.”

I nod and bounce on my feet, dredging up whatever courage I have left. Then I run. My feet are quick, making contact with each post only long enough to push off for the next, and within a few heartbeats, I’m on the other side.

“Yes!” I shout, throwing my fist up in celebration as I get out of the way for Aurelie.

“Go, Violet!” she shouts. “Here I come!” Her footwork is more agile than mine as she springs from spinning post to post.

A roar sounds from overhead, and I jerk my gaze up just in time to see the underbelly of a Green Daggertail as it flies directly over us, headed back to the Vale.

I’m never going to get used to that.

Aurelie cries out and my head snaps toward hers just in time to see her wobble and slip on the fifth post. The air freezes in my lungs as she careens forward, her belly hitting the next-to-last spinning log as if in slow motion.

“Aurelie!” I scream, lunging for her, my fingertips skimming the seventh post.

Our eyes meet, shock and terror filling her wide black eyes as the post rolls her away from me and she falls. Halfway down the cliff.

…

The sun burns my eyes as we stand in morning formation.

“Calvin Atwater,” Captain Fitzgibbons reads, his voice solemn like always.

First Squad, Claw Section, Fourth Wing. He sits two rows behind me in Battle Brief. He sat.

There’s nothing special about this morning. Our first trial on the Gauntlet has made the roll longer, but it’s just another list on just another day…except it’s not. The exceptional cruelty of this ritual has never hit me this hard before. It’s not like the first day anymore. I know more than half of the names as they’re called. My vision blurs. “Newland Jahvon,” he continues.

Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing. He had breakfast duty with me.

We have to be in the twenties by now. How can this be all there is? We say their names once and then go on as if they never existed?

Rhiannon shifts her weight at my side, and she abruptly sniffles, the motion jerking her shoulders once.

“Aurelie Donans.”

A single tear escapes and I bat it away, ripping open one of the scabs along my cheek. A trickle of blood follows as the next name is called, but I let that one stain me.

…

“You’re sure about this?” Dain asks the next night, two worried lines between his brows as he clasps my shoulders.

“If her parents aren’t coming to bury her body, then I should be the one to handle her things. I’m the last person she saw,” I explain, rolling my shoulders to adjust the weight of Aurelie’s pack.

Every Basgiath parent has the same option when their cadet is killed. They can retrieve the body and personal effects for burial or burning or the school will put their body under a stone and burn their effects themselves. Aurelie’s parents have chosen door number two.

“And you don’t want me to go with you?” he asks, palming my neck.

I shake my head. “I know where the burn pit is.”

He mutters a curse. “I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have done anything, Dain,” I say softly, covering his hand with mine so our fingers lightly lace. “None of us could have. She didn’t even have time to reach for the rope,” I whisper. I’ve replayed that moment over and over in my head, coming to the same conclusion each time.

“I never got the chance to ask you if you made it all the way up,” he says.

I shake my head. “I got caught at the chimney formation and had to use a rope to get back down. I’m too short to span the distance, but I’m not thinking about that tonight. I’ll figure something out before the official timed Gauntlet on Presentation day.”

I’ll have to. They don’t allow cadets to climb back down on the final day. You either complete the Gauntlet—or you fall to your death.

“All right. Let me know if you need me.” He lets me go.

I nod and make every excuse to get out of the dormitory hallway. The weight of Aurelie’s pack is staggering. She was strong enough to carry so much over the parapet, and yet she fell.

And I’m somehow still standing.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m carrying her with me as I climb the stairs of the academic tower’s turret, past the Battle Brief room and up to the stone roof, going by a few other cadets on their way down. The burn pit is nothing more than an extra-wide iron barrel, whose only purpose is to incinerate, and the flames burn bright against the night sky as I stumble out onto the roof, my lungs straining for oxygen.

A couple of months ago, I couldn’t have carried a pack this heavy.

There’s no one else up here as I slip the bag from my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my fingers digging into the wide strap of the pack as I fling it up and over the metal edge of the bin.

The flames catch and whoosh as it becomes more fuel for the fire, just another tribute to Malek, the god of death.

Instead of walking back down the stairs, I make my way to the edge of the turret. It’s a cloudy night, but I can make out the shadows of three dragons as they approach from the west and even see the ridge where the Gauntlet lays, waiting to claim its next victim.

It won’t be me.

But why? Because I’ll conquer it? Or because I’ll give in to Dain’s request and hide in the Scribe Quadrant? My entire being repels against the second option, which makes me question everything as I stand here, letting minutes tick by before the bells sound for curfew. I climb back down the stairs without a solid answer as to why.

I walk through the courtyard, empty but for a couple who can’t decide if they’d rather kiss or walk near the dais, and I avert my gaze, heading for the alcove where Dain and I first sat after Parapet.

It’s almost been two months, and I’m still here. Still waking every morning to the sunrise. Doesn’t that mean something? Isn’t there a chance, no matter how small, that I might just be enough to make it through Threshing? That I might just belong here?

The door that leads to the tunnel we took to cross the ridgeline to the Gauntlet this morning opens along the courtyard wall, just left of the academic building, and my brow furrows. Who would be returning this late?

Sitting back against the wall, I let the darkness conceal me as Xaden, Garrick, and Bodhi—Xaden’s cousin—pass under a mage light, headed in my direction.

Three dragons. They were out…doing what? There were no training ops that I know of tonight, not that I’m privy to everything third-years do.

“There has to be something more we can do,” Bodhi argues, looking to Xaden, his voice low as they pass by me, their boots crunching on the gravel.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Garrick hisses.

My scalp prickles and Xaden stops mid-step ten feet away, the set of his shoulders rigid.

Shit.

He knows I’m here.

Instead of the usual fear that spikes in his presence, only anger rises in my chest. If he wants to kill me, then fine. I’m over waiting for it to happen. Over walking through the halls in fear.

“What’s wrong?” Garrick asks, immediately looking over his shoulder in the opposite direction, toward the couple who definitely decided making out is more important than getting into the dorms by curfew.

“Go on. I’ll meet you inside,” Xaden says.

“You sure?” Bodhi’s forehead puckers, and his gaze sweeps over the courtyard.

“Go,” Xaden orders, standing completely still until the other two walk into the barracks, turning left toward the stairwell that will take them to the second- and third-year floors. Only when they’re gone does he turn and face the exact spot where I’m sitting.

“I know you know I’m here.” I force myself to stand and move toward him so he doesn’t think I’m hiding or worse—scared of him. “And please don’t prattle on about commanding the dark. I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“No questions about where I’ve been?” He folds his arms across his chest and studies me in the moonlight. His scar looks even more menacing in this light, but I can’t seem to find the energy to be scared.

“I honestly don’t care.” I shrug, the movement making the throb in my shoulders intensify. Awesome, just in time to practice on the Gauntlet tomorrow.

He cocks his head to the side. “You really don’t, do you?”

“Nope. It’s not like I’m not out after curfew myself.” A heavy sigh blows through my lips.

“What are you doing out after curfew, first-year?”

“Debating running away,” I retort. “How about you? Feel like sharing?” I ask mockingly, knowing he’s not about to answer me.

“The same.”

Sarcastic ass.

“Look, are you going to kill me or not? The anticipation is starting to annoy the fuck out of me.” I lift a hand to my shoulder and roll it, pressing in on the sore muscles, but it doesn’t help the ache.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he answers, like I’ve just inquired about his dinner preferences, but his gaze narrows on my cheek.

“Well, could you?” I mutter. “It would definitely help me make my plans for the week.” Markham or Emetterio. Scribe or rider.

“Am I affecting your schedule, Violence?” There’s a definite smirk on those lips.

“I just need to know what my chances are here.” My hands curl into fists.

The ass has the nerve to smile. “That’s the oddest way I’ve ever been hit on—”

“Not my chances with you, you conceited prick!” Fuck this. Fuck all of this. I move past him, but he catches my wrist, his grip light but his hold firm.

His fingertips on my pulse make it skitter.

“Chances at what?” he asks, tugging me just close enough that my shoulder brushes his biceps.

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t understand. He’s a damned wingleader, which means he’s excelled at everything in the quadrant, even somehow managing to get past his own last name.

“Chances at what?” he repeats. “Do not make me ask three times.” His ominous tone is at odds with his gentle grasp, and shit, does he have to smell so good? Like mint and leather and something I can’t quite identify, something that borders between citrus and floral.

“At living through all of this! I can’t make it up the damned Gauntlet.” I half-heartedly tug at my wrist, but he doesn’t let go.

“I see.” He’s so infuriatingly calm, and I can’t even get a grip on one of my emotions.

“No, you don’t. You’re probably celebrating because I’ll fall to my death and you won’t have to go to the trouble of killing me.”

“Killing you wouldn’t be any trouble, Violence. It’s leaving you alive that seems to cause the majority of my trouble.”

My gaze swings up to clash with his, but his face is unreadable, cloaked in shadow, go figure.

“Sorry to be a hassle.” Sarcasm drips from my voice. “You know the problem with this place?” I tug my arm back again, but he holds fast. “Besides you touching things that don’t belong to you?” My eyes narrow on him.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” My stomach flutters as his thumb brushes my pulse and he releases my wrist.

I answer before I can think better of it. “Hope.”

“Hope?” He tips his head closer to mine, as if he wasn’t sure he heard me right.

“Hope.” I nod. “Someone like you would never get it, but I knew coming here was a death sentence. It didn’t matter that I’ve been trained my entire life to enter the Scribe Quadrant; when General Sorrengail gives an order, you can’t exactly ignore it.” Gods, why am I running off at the mouth to this man? What’s the worst he’ll do? Kill you?

“Sure you can.” He shrugs. “You just might not like the consequences.”

I roll my eyes, and to my utter embarrassment, instead of pulling away now that I’m free, I lean in just a little, like I can siphon off some of his strength. He certainly has enough to spare.

“I knew what the odds were, and I came anyway, concentrating on that tiny percentage of a chance that I would live. And then I make it almost two months and I get…” I shake my head, clenching my jaw. “Hopeful.” The word tastes sour.

“Ah. And then you lose a squadmate, and you can’t quite get up the chimney, and you give up. I’m starting to see. It’s not a flattering picture, but if you want to run off to the Scribe Quadrant—”

I gasp, fear punching a hole in my stomach. “How do you know about that?” If he knows…if he tells, Dain is in danger.

A wicked smile curves Xaden’s perfect lips. “I know everything that goes on here.” Darkness swirls around us. “Shadows, remember? They hear everything, see everything, conceal everything.” The rest of the world disappears. He could do anything to me in here and no one would be the wiser.

“My mother would definitely reward you if you told her about Dain’s plan,” I say softly.

“She’d definitely reward you for telling her about my little…what did you call it? Club.”

“I’m not going to tell her.” The words sound defensive.

“I know. It’s why you’re still alive.” He holds my gaze locked with his. “Here’s the thing, Sorrengail. Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.”

“So I’m supposed to what? Not hope that I live? Just plan for death?”

“You’re supposed to focus on the things that can kill you so you find ways to not die.” He shakes his head. “I can barely count the number of people in this quadrant who want you dead, either as revenge against your mother or because you’re just really good at pissing people off, but you’re still here, defying the odds.” Shadows wrap around me, and I swear I feel a caress along the side of my wounded cheek. “It’s been rather surprising to watch, actually.”

“Happy to be your entertainment. I’m going to bed.” Spinning on my heel, I head toward the entrance to the barracks, but he’s right behind me, close enough that the door would slam in his face if he wasn’t so unnaturally fast at catching it.

“Maybe if you stopped sulking in your self-pity, you’d see that you have everything you need to scale the Gauntlet,” he calls after me, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“My self-what?” I turn around, my jaw dropping.

“People die,” he says slowly, his jaw ticking before he drags in a deep breath. “It’s going to happen over and over again. It’s the nature of what happens here. What makes you a rider is what you do after people die. You want to know why you’re still alive? Because you’re the scale I currently judge myself against every night. Every day I let you live, I get to convince myself that there’s still a part of me that’s a decent person. So if you want to quit, then please, spare me the temptation and fucking quit. But if you want to do something, then do it.”

“I’m too short to span the distance!” I hiss, uncaring that anyone could hear us.

“The right way isn’t the only way. Figure it out.” Then he turns and walks away.

Fuck. Him.

It is a grave offense against Malek to keep the belongings of a dead loved one. They belong in the beyond with the god of death and the departed. In the absence of a proper temple, any fire will do. He who does not burn for Malek will be burned by Malek.

—Major Rorilee’s Guide to Appeasing the Gods,
Second Edition

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

The next practice sessions of the Gauntlet are no more successful than my first, but at least we don’t lose another squadmate. Tynan has quit running his mouth, since he can’t seem to make it up fully, either.

The buoy balls are his downfall.

The chimney is mine.

By the ninth—and next-to-last—session, I’m ready to set the entire obstacle course on fire. The section of the course that’s my downfall is meant to simulate the strength and agility it takes to mount a dragon, and it’s becoming clear that my size is going to fuck me.

“Maybe you can climb up onto my shoulders and then…” Rhiannon shakes her head as we study the crevice that’s become my nemesis.

“Then I’m still stuck halfway up,” I answer, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“Doesn’t matter. You can’t touch another cadet on the route.” Sawyer folds his arms beside me, the tip of his nose now bright red from the high sun.

“Are you here to squash hopes and dreams, or do you have a suggestion?” Rhiannon retorts. “Because Presentation is tomorrow, so if you’ve got any bright ideas, now is the time.”

If I’m going to run to the Scribe Quadrant, then tonight is the night. My heart clenches against the thought. It’s the logical choice. The safe choice.

There are only two thoughts stopping me.

One, there’s no guarantee my mother won’t find out. Just because Markham would keep quiet doesn’t mean the instructors there will.

But most importantly, if I go, if I hide…I’ll never know if I’m good enough to make it here. And while I might not survive if I stay, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I leave.

…

“Doria Merrill,” Captain Fitzgibbons says from the dais. Every one of his features is crystal clear, not only because the sun is behind the shade of the clouds but because I’m closer. Our formation gets tighter with every cadet who falls.

According to Brennan and statistics, today will be one of the deadliest for first-years.

It’s Presentation Day, and in order to get to the flight field, we’ll have to climb the Gauntlet first. Everything about the Riders Quadrant is designed to weed out the weak, and today is no exception.

“Kamryn Dyre.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read from the roll.

I flinch. His seat was across from mine in Dragonkind.

“Arvel Pelipa.”

Imogen and Quinn—both second-years—suck in a breath ahead of me. First-years aren’t the only ones at risk; we’re just the most likely to die.

“Michel Iverem.” Captain Fitzgibbons closes the roll. “We commend their souls to Malek.” And with that final word, formation breaks.

“Second- and third-years, unless you’re on Gauntlet duty, head to class. First-years, it’s time to show us what you’ve got.” Dain forces a smile and skips right over me as he looks at our squad.

“Good luck today.” Imogen tucks an errant strand of pink hair behind her ear and aims a sickly-sweet smile right at me. “Hopefully you won’t fall…short.”

“See you later,” I reply, lifting my chin.

She stares at me with complete loathing for a second, then walks off with Quinn and Cianna, our executive officer, her shoulder-length blond curls bouncing.

“Best of luck.” Heaton—the thickest third-year in our squad, with red flames cut and dyed into their hair—taps their heart, right over two of their patches, and offers us all a genuine but flat-lipped smile before heading to class.

As I stare at their retreating back, I wonder what the circular patch on their upper right arm with water and floating spheres means. I know the triangular patch to the left of that one, with the longsword, means they’re not to be messed with on the mat. Since Dain told me about the patch denoting his top secret signet, I’ve been paying close attention to the patches other cadets have sewn into their uniforms. Most wear them like badges of honor, but I recognize them for what they really are—intelligence that I might one day need to defeat them.

“I didn’t realize Heaton actually knew how to speak.” Two lines appear between Ridoc’s brows.

“Maybe they figure they should at least say hi before we’re potentially roasted today,” Rhiannon says.

“Back into formation,” Dain orders.

“Are you going with us?” I ask.

He nods, still not looking at me.

The eight of us fall into two lines of four, the same as the other squads around us.

“Awkward,” Rhiannon whispers from my side. “He seems kind of pissed at you.”

I glance up over Trina’s slim shoulders as the breeze whips at the braid I’ve woven like a crown. It’s working a few of Trina’s ringlet curls loose, too. “He wants something I can’t give him.”

Her eyebrows rise.

I roll my eyes. “Not like…that.”

“I wouldn’t care if it was like that,” she replies under her breath. “He’s hot. He has that whole boy-next-door-who-can-still-kick-your-ass vibe going for him.”

I fight a smile because she’s right. He so does.

“We’re the biggest squad,” Ridoc notes behind us as the squads farthest left—from First Wing—file out through the western gate in the courtyard.

“What are we down to?” Tynan asks. “Hundred and eighty?”

“Hundred and seventy-one,” Dain answers. Squads from Second Wing begin to move, led by their wingleader, which means Xaden is somewhere ahead of us.

My nerves are reserved for the obstacle course, but I can’t help but wonder which way his scales will tip today.

“For a hundred dragons? But what will we…” Trina asks, nerves cutting off her words.

“Stop letting fear leach into your voice,” Luca snaps from behind Rhiannon. “If the dragons think you’re a coward, you’ll be nothing but a name tomorrow.”

“She says,” Ridoc narrates, “inducing more fear.”

“Shut up,” Luca fires back. “You know it’s true.”

“Just portray confidence, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I lean forward so our squadmates behind us can’t hear me as Third Wing begins to march for the gate.

“Thanks,” Trina whispers in reply.

Dain’s narrowed gaze finally locks on mine, but at least he doesn’t call me a liar. There’s enough accusation in his eyes that I might as well be tried and convicted of it, though.

“Nervous, Rhi?” I ask, knowing we’re about to be called next.

“For you?” she asks. “Not at all. We’ve got this.”

“Oh, I meant about the history test tomorrow,” I tease. “There’s nothing going on today to panic about.”

“Now that you mention it, the whole Treaty of Arif might just be the death of me.” She grins.

“Ahh, the agreement between Navarre and Krovla for mutually shared airspace for both dragons and gryphons over a narrow strip of the Esben Mountains, between Sumerton and Draithus,” I recall, nodding.

“Your memory is terrifying.” She shoots me a smile.

But my memory isn’t going to get me up the Gauntlet.

“Fourth Wing!” Xaden calls out from somewhere in the distance. I don’t even need to see to know that it’s him who gave the order and not his executive officer. “Move out!”

We file off, Flame Section, then Claw, and finally Tail.

There’s a bit of a bottleneck at the gate, but then we’re through, walking into the mage-lit dimness of the tunnel that we take every morning to reach the Gauntlet. Shadows blanket the edges of the rocky floor along our path.

What are the limits of Xaden’s power anyway? Could he use shadows to choke out every squad in here? Would he need to rest or recharge after? Does such a vast power come with any sort of checks or balances?

Dain falls back so he walks between Rhiannon and me. “Change your mind.” It’s barely a whisper.

“No.” I sound way more confident than I feel.

“Change. Your. Mind.” His hand finds mine, concealed by our tight formation as we descend through the passage. “Please.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Any more than you would leave Cath and run to the scribes yourself.”

“That’s different.” His hand squeezes mine, and I can feel the tension in his fingers, his arm. “I’m a rider.”

“Well, maybe I am, too,” I whisper as light appears ahead. I didn’t believe it before, not when I couldn’t leave because my mother wouldn’t let me, but now I have a choice. And I choose to stay.

“Don’t be—” He cuts himself off and drops my hand. “I don’t want to bury you, Vi.”

“It’s inevitable that one of us will have to bury the other.” It’s not macabre, just fact.

“You know what I mean.”

The light grows into an archway that’s ten feet high, leading us to the base of the Gauntlet.

“Please don’t do this,” Dain begs, not bothering to lower his voice this time as we emerge into the mottled sunlight.

The view is spectacular as always. We’re still high on the mountain, thousands of feet above the valley, and the greenery seems to stretch endlessly to the south, with random clusters of squat trees among colorful slopes of wildflowers. My gaze turns to the Gauntlet carved into the face of the cliff, and I can’t help but follow each obstacle higher and higher until I’m staring at the top of the ridgeline that the maps I’ve studied show leads into a box canyon—the flight field. I bite my lip as I stare at the break in the tree line.

Normally, only riders are allowed on the flight field—except for Presentation.

“I don’t know if I can watch,” Dain says, drawing my attention back to his strong face. His perfectly trimmed beard brackets full lips drawn tight into a frown.

“Then close your eyes.” I have a plan—a shitty one, but it’s worth a try.

“What changed between Parapet and now?” Dain asks again, a wealth of emotions in his eyes that I can’t begin to interpret. Well, except the fear. That doesn’t need any interpretation.

“Me.”

…

An hour later, my feet fly over the spinning posts of the staircase, and I jump to the safety of the gravel path. Third ascent complete. Two more to go. And I haven’t touched a single rope.

I swear I can feel Dain staring from the bottom of the course, where Tynan and Luca have yet to start their climb, but I don’t look down. There’s no time for what he thinks will be one last look, and I can’t afford the delay of comforting him when there are still two obstacles ahead of me.

Which means there’s one I haven’t even had the chance to practice—the nearly vertical ramp at the end.

“You can do it!” Rhiannon yells from the top as I reach the chimney structure.

“Or you can do us all a favor and fall!” another voice yells. Jack, no doubt. At least it’s only been our squad at practice sessions, but every first-year can watch now, either from the base of the course or the edges of the cliff above.

I look up at the hollow column I’m supposed to climb, then dart back a few feet along the path.

“What are you doing?” Rhiannon shouts as I grab one of the ropes and drag it horizontally across the surface of the cliff, sending pebbles into free fall.

It’s heavy as hell and protests the stretch, but I manage to get the bottom portion onto the chimney structure. Pulling the rope as tight as it can go, I plant one foot on the side of the shaft and give the rope a tug, then send up a prayer to Zihnal that this is going to work.

“Can she do that?” someone snaps.

I’m doing it now.

Then I lift my other foot and begin to climb up the chimney, using only the right side, walking up stone and leveraging my weight with the rope, hand over hand. The line slips about halfway up as the rope scrapes over a large boulder, but I quickly take up the slack and keep climbing. My heart thunders in my ears, but it’s my hands that are killing me. It feels like flames are eating my palms, and I grit my teeth so I don’t cry out.

There it is. The top.

The rope barely cuts the corner of the structure now, and I use what’s left of my upper-body strength to pull myself up, scrambling to my hands and knees on the path.

“Hell yes!” Ridoc yells, hooting from the top. “That’s our girl!”

“Get up!” Rhiannon shouts. “One more!”

My chest heaves and my lungs ache, but I make it to my feet. I’m on the last ascent, the final path to the flight field, and standing in front of me is a ramp made of wood that juts out ten feet from the cliff wall, then curves upward like the inside of a bowl, the highest point level with the cliff top ten feet above.

The obstacle is meant to test a cadet’s ability to scale a dragon’s foreleg and reach its saddle. And I’m too short.

But Xaden’s words that the right way wasn’t the only way have played over and over in my head all night long. By the time the sun rose and chased away the darkness, I had a plan.

I only hope I can actually pull it off.

I unsheathe my largest dagger from home and wipe away the sweat on my forehead with the back of my dirty palm. Then I forget the agony in my hands, the throbbing of my shoulders, and the twinge in my knee from landing wrong after the pillars. I block out all the pain, lock it behind a wall like I’ve done my entire life, and focus on the ramp as though my life depends on making it.

There’s no rope here. There’s only one way I’m getting over this.

Sheer fucking will.

And so I charge, using my speed to my advantage.

There’s a drumlike sound as my feet beat against the ramp and the incline sharpens. Just because I haven’t personally conquered this obstacle doesn’t mean I haven’t watched my squadmates take it over and over again. I throw my body forward and momentum carries me upward, running up the side of the ramp.

I wait until I feel the precious shift, the moment gravity reclaims my body almost two feet from the top, and I swing my arm up and slam my dagger into the slick, soft wood of the ramp—and use it to fling myself the last foot upward.

A primal scream rips from my throat as my shoulder cries in protest just as my fingers graze the lip of the edge. I throw my elbow over the top to gain more leverage and pull myself up and over, using the handle of my dagger as a final step before lurching onto the top of the cliff.

Not done yet.

On my stomach, I turn to face the ramp, then reach over the side and yank my dagger free, sheathing it at my ribs before I stagger to my feet. I made it. Relief sucks the adrenaline straight out of my body.

Rhiannon’s arms sweep around me, taking my weight as I gasp for air. Ridoc hugs my back, squeezing me like I’m the filling of a sandwich as he hollers in happiness. I’d protest, but right now they’re all that’s keeping me upright.

“She can’t do that!” someone shouts.

“Yeah, well, she just did!” Ridoc tosses over his shoulder, loosening his grip on me.

My knees shake, but they hold as I suck in breath after breath.

“You made it!” Rhiannon takes my face in her hands, tears filling her brown eyes. “You made it!”

“Luck.” I draw in another breath and beg my galloping heart to slow. “And. Adrenaline.”

“Cheating!”

I turn toward the voice. It’s Amber Mavis, the strawberry-blond wingleader from Third Wing who was Dain’s close friend last year, and there’s nothing but fury on her face as she charges toward Xaden, who’s only a couple of feet away with the roll, recording times with a stopwatch and looking rather bored with it all.

“Back the hell up, Mavis,” Garrick threatens, the sun flashing off the two swords the curly-haired section leader keeps strapped to his back as he puts his body between Amber and Xaden.

“The cheater clearly used foreign materials not once but twice,” Amber yells. “It’s not to be tolerated! We live by the rules or we die by them!”

No wonder she and Dain are so close—they’re both in love with the Codex.

“I don’t take kindly to calling anyone in my section a cheater,” Garrick warns, his massive shoulders blocking her from view as he turns. “And my wingleader will handle any rule-breaking in his own wing.” He moves to the side, and I’m met with Amber’s glaring blue eyes.

“Sorrengail?” Xaden asks, arching an eyebrow in obvious challenge, a pen poised over the book. I notice not for the first time that other than his Fourth Wing and wingleader emblems, he doesn’t wear the patches others are so fond of displaying.

“I expect the thirty-second penalty for using the rope,” I answer, my breaths steadying.

“And the knife?” Amber’s gaze narrows. “She’s disqualified.” When Xaden doesn’t answer, she turns that glare on him. “Surely she’s out! You can’t tolerate lawlessness within your own wing, Riorson!”

But Xaden’s gaze never leaves mine as he silently waits for me to respond.

“A rider may only bring to the quadrant the items they can carry—” I start.

“Are you quoting the Codex to me?” Amber shouts.

“—and they shall not be separated from those items no matter what they may be,” I continue. “For once carried across the parapet, they are considered part of their person. Article Three, Section Six, Addendum B.”

Her blue eyes flare wide as I glance at her. “That addendum was written to make thievery an executional offense.”

“Correct.” I nod, looking between her and the onyx eyes that see straight through me. “But in doing so, it gave any item carried across the parapet the status of being a part of the rider.” I unsheathe the chipped and battered blade with a sharp bite of pain in my palms. “This isn’t a challenge blade. It’s one I carried across and therefore considered part of myself.”

His eyes flare, and I don’t miss the hint of a smirk on that infuriatingly decadent mouth of his. It should be against the Codex to look that good and be so ruthless.

“The right way isn’t the only way.” I use his own words against him.

Xaden holds my gaze. “She has you, Amber.”

“On a technicality!”

“She still has you.” He turns slightly and delivers a look that I never want directed at me.

“You think like a scribe,” she barks at me.

It’s intended as an insult, but I just nod. “I know.”

She marches off, and I sheathe the dagger again, letting my hands fall to my sides and closing my eyes as relief shucks the weight from my shoulders. I did it. I passed another test.

“Sorrengail,” Xaden says, and my eyes fly open. “You’re leaking.” His gaze drops pointedly to my hands.

Where blood is dripping from my fingertips.

Pain erupts, pushing past my mental dam like a raging river at the sight of the mess I’ve made of my palms. I’ve shredded them.

“Do something about it,” he orders.

I nod and back away, joining my squad. Rhiannon helps me cut off the sleeves of my shirt to bandage my hands, and I cheer our last two squadmates up the cliff.

We all make it.

Presentation Day is unlike any other. The air is ripe with possibilities, and possibly the stench of sulfur from a dragon who has been offended. Never look a red in the eye. Never back down from a green. If you show trepidation to a brown…well, just don’t.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

CHAPTER
TWELVE

There are 169 of us by the time the morning is done and, even with my penalty for the rope, we’ve placed eleventh out of the thirty-six squads for Presentation—the piss-inducing parade of cadets before this year’s dragons willing to bond.

Anxiety seizes my legs at the thought of walking so close to dragons determined to weed out the weak before Threshing, and I suddenly wish we’d placed last.

The fastest up the Gauntlet was Liam Mairi, of course, earning him the Gauntlet patch. Pretty sure that guy doesn’t know how to take second place, but I wasn’t the slowest, and that’s good enough for me.

The box canyon that makes up the training field is spectacular in the afternoon sun, with miles of autumn-colored meadows and peaks rising on three sides of us as we wait at the narrowest part, the entrance to the valley. At the end, I can make out the line of the waterfall that might be just a trickle of a creek now but will rush at runoff season.

The leaves of the trees are all turning gold, as though someone has brought in a paintbrush with only one color and streaked it across the landscape.

And then there are the dragons.

Averaging twenty-five feet tall, they’re in a formation of their own, lined up several feet back from the path—close enough to pass judgment on us as we walk by.

“Let’s go, Second Squad, you’re up next,” Garrick says, beckoning us with a wave that makes the rebellion relic on his bared forearm gleam.

Dain and the other squad leaders stayed behind. I’m not sure if he’ll be thrilled I made it up the Gauntlet or disappointed that I bent the rules. But I’ve never felt more thrilled.

“Into formation,” Garrick orders, his tone all business, which doesn’t surprise me given that his leadership style is more mission first, niceties last. Go figure he seems to be so close to Xaden. Unlike Xaden, though, the right side of his uniform has a neat line of patches proclaiming him Flame’s section leader as well as more than five patches advertising his skill with a multitude of weapons.

We comply, and Rhiannon and I end up near the back this time.

There’s a sound like rushing wind in the distance that stops as quickly as it starts, and I know someone else has been found lacking.

Garrick’s hazel eyes skim over us. “Hopefully Aetos has done his job, so you know that it’s a straight walk down the meadow. I’d recommend staying at least seven feet apart—”

“In case one of us gets torched,” Ridoc mutters from ahead.

“Correct, Ridoc. Cluster if you want, just know if a dragon finds disfavor with one of you, it’s likely to burn the whole lot to weed one out,” Garrick warns, holding our gazes for a beat. “Also, remember you’re not here to approach them, and if you do, you won’t be making it back to the dormitory tonight.”

“Can I ask a question?” Luca says from the front row.

Garrick nods, but the ticking of his jaw says he’s annoyed. I can’t blame him. Luca annoys the shit out of me, too. It’s her constant need to tear everyone down that makes most of us keep our distance.

“Third Squad, Tail Section of Fourth Wing already went through, and I talked to some of the cadets…”

“That’s not a question.” He lifts his brows.

Yep, he’s annoyed.

“Right. It’s just that they said there’s a feathertail?” Her voice pitches upward.

“A f-feathertail?” Tynan sputters from directly in front of me. “Who the hell would ever want to bond a feathertail?”

I roll my eyes, and Rhiannon shakes her head.

“Professor Kaori never told us there would be a feathertail,” Sawyer says. “I know because I memorized every single dragon he showed us. All hundred of them.”

“Well, guess there’s a hundred and one now,” Garrick replies, looking at us as if we’re children he’d like to be rid of before glancing back over his shoulder at the entrance to the valley. “Relax. Feathertails don’t bond. I can’t even remember the last time one has been seen outside the Vale. It’s probably just curious. You’re up. Stay on the path. You walk up, you wait for the entire squad, you walk back down. It really doesn’t get any easier than this from here on out, kids, so if you can’t follow those simple instructions, then you deserve whatever happens in there.” He turns and heads over to a path before the canyon wall where the dragons are perched.

We follow, breaking away from the crowd of first-years. The breeze bites at my bare shoulders from where we ripped my sleeves for bandages, but we got the blood flow stopped at my hands.

“They’re all yours,” Garrick says to the quadrant’s senior wingleader, a woman I’ve seen a few times in Battle Brief murmuring to Xaden. Her uniform still has her signature spikes on the shoulders, but this time they’re gold and look sharp as hell—like she wanted to throw in a little extra badass today.

She nods and dismisses him. “Single file.”

We all shuffle into a line. Rhiannon is at my back and Tynan just ahead of me, which means I’ll be treated to his commentary the whole time, no doubt. Awesome.

“Talk,” the senior wingleader says, folding her arms across her chest.

“Nice day for a Presentation,” Ridoc jokes.

“Not to me.” The senior wingleader narrows her gaze on Ridoc, then motions to the line of cadets before her. “Talk to your nearby squadmates while you’re on the path, as it will help the dragons get a sense of who you are and how well you play with others. There’s a correlation between bonded cadets and level of chatter.”

And now I want to switch places.

“Feel free to look at the dragons, especially if they’re showing off their tails, but I would abstain from eye contact if you value your life. If you come across a scorch mark, just make sure nothing’s currently on fire before continuing along.” She pauses long enough for that bit of advice to sink in, then adds, “See you after your stroll.”

With a sweep of her hand, the senior wingleader steps to the side, revealing the dirt path that leads through the center of the valley, and up ahead, sitting so perfectly still that they might be gargoyles, are the hundred and one dragons who have decided to bond this year.

The line starts, and we give one another the suggested seven feet before following.

I’m hyperaware of every step as I walk down the path. The trail is hard beneath my boots, and there’s a definite lingering odor of sulfur.

We pass a trio of red dragons first. Their talons are almost half my size.

“I can’t even see their tails!” Tynan shouts from in front of me. “How are we supposed to know what breed they are?”

I keep my eyes locked at the level of their massive, muscled shoulders as we walk by. “We’re not supposed to know what breed they are,” I respond.

“Fuck that,” he says over his shoulder. “I need to figure out which one I’m going to approach during Threshing.”

“Pretty sure this little walk is so they can decide,” I retort.

“Hopefully one of them will decide you don’t get to make it to Threshing,” Rhiannon says, her voice quiet so it barely reaches me.

I laugh as we approach a set of browns, both slightly smaller than my mother’s Aimsir, but not by much.

“They’re a little bigger than I thought they would be,” Rhiannon says, her voice rising. “Not that I didn’t see the ones at Parapet, but…”

I look over my shoulder to see her wide gaze flickering between the path and the dragons. She’s nervous.

“So do you know if you’re having a niece or nephew?” I ask, continuing to walk forward past a handful of oranges.

“What?” she answers.

“I’ve heard some of the healers can make pretty good guesses once a woman is further along in her pregnancy.”

“Oh. No,” she says. “No clue. Though I’m kind of hoping she’ll have a girl. I guess I’ll find out once we finish the year and can write our families.”

“That’s a bullshit rule,” I say over my shoulder, lowering my gaze immediately when I accidentally make eye contact with one of the oranges. Breathe normally. Swallow the fear. Fear and weakness will get me killed, and since I’m already bleeding, the odds aren’t exactly in my favor here.

“You don’t think it encourages loyalty to the wing?” Rhiannon asks.

“I think I’m just as loyal to my sister whether I’ve had a letter from her or not,” I counter. “There are bonds that can’t be broken.”

“I’d be loyal to your sister, too,” Tynan says, turning around and grinning as he walks backward. “She’s one hell of a rider, and that ass. I saw her right before Parapet and damn, Violet. She’s hot.”

We pass by another set of reds, then a single brown and a pair of greens.

“Turn around.” I make the spinning motion with my finger. “Mira would eat you for breakfast, Tynan.”

“I’m just wondering how one of you got all the good traits and the other looks like she got the leftovers.” His gaze skims down my body.

Full-body-shudder gross.

“You’re an asshole.” I flip him the middle finger.

“Just saying, maybe I’ll write a letter of my own once we get privileges.” He turns and continues walking.

“A nephew would be good,” Rhiannon says, like the conversation was never interrupted. “Boys aren’t too bad.”

“My brother was awesome, but he and Dain are my only experience with growing up around little boys.” We pass more dragons, and my breathing starts to settle. The smell of sulfur disappears, or maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to it. They’re close enough to torch us, the half dozen singe marks testify to that, but I can’t hear them breathing or feel it, either. “Though I think Dain was probably a little more rule-abiding than most kids. He likes order and pretty much detests anything that doesn’t fit neatly into his plan. He’s probably going to give me shit about how I got up the Gauntlet, just like Amber Mavis did.”

We pass the halfway mark and continue.

Is the way the dragons stare at us scary as hell? Absolutely, but they want to be here the same as we do, so at least I hope they’ll be judicious with their firepower.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the rope plan? Or the dagger?” Rhiannon asks, hurt pitching her tone. “You can trust me, you know.”

“I didn’t think of it until yesterday,” I answer, taking the time to look over my shoulder so I can see her. “And if it didn’t work, I didn’t want you to be an accomplice. You have a real future here, and I refuse to bring you down with me if I didn’t make it.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I know. But it’s just what friends do, Rhi.” I shrug as we walk by a trio of browns, the soft crunch of our boots on the dark gravel path the only sound for a few minutes.

“You keeping any other secrets up there?” Rhiannon eventually asks.

Guilt settles in my stomach when I think of Xaden and his meeting with the other marked ones. “I think it’s impossible to know everything there is to know about someone.” I feel like shit but keep from lying, at least.

She snorts a laugh. “If that wasn’t skirting the question. How about this? Promise me that if you need help, you’ll let me give it to you.”

A smile spreads across my face despite the terrifying greens we’re walking by. “How about this,” I toss over my shoulder. “I promise that if I need help you’re capable of giving, I’ll ask, but only”—I hold up my forefinger—“if you promise the same.”

“Deal.” She smiles wide.

“You guys done bonding back there?” Tynan sneers. “Because we’re almost to the end of the line, if you haven’t noticed.” He pauses in the middle of the path, his gaze swinging right. “And I still can’t figure out which one I’m going to choose.”

“With arrogance like that, I’m sure any dragon would feel lucky to share your mind for the rest of your life.” I pity whatever dragon—if any—chooses him.

The rest of the squad is gathered ahead of us, facing our direction at the end of the path, but all their attention is focused to the right.

We pass the last brown dragon, and I inhale sharply.

“What the hell?” Tynan stares.

“Keep walking,” I order, but my gaze is transfixed.

Standing at the end of the line is a small golden dragon. Sunlight reflects off its scales and horns as it stands to its full height, flicking a feathered tail around the side of its body. The feathertail.

My jaw drops as I take in the sharp teeth and quick, darting movements of its head as it studies us. At its full height, it’s probably only a few feet taller than I am, like a perfect miniature of the brown next to it.

I walk straight into Tynan’s back and startle. We’ve reached the end of the path, where the rest of the squad has been waiting.

“Get off me, Sorrengail,” Tynan hisses and shoves me back. “Who the hell would bond that thing?”

My chest tightens. “They can hear you,” I remind him.

“It’s fucking yellow.” Luca points right at the dragon, disgust curling her lip. “So not only is it obviously too small to carry a rider in battle, but it’s not even powerful enough to be a real color.”

“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Sawyer says quietly. “Maybe it’s a baby orange.”

“It’s full grown,” Rhiannon argues. “There’s no way the other dragons allow a baby to bond. No human alive has ever seen a baby.”

“It’s a mistake all right.” Tynan looks at the golden one and scoffs. “You should totally bond it, Sorrengail. You’re both freakishly weak. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“It looks powerful enough to burn you to death,” I counter, heat flushing my cheeks. He called me weak, and not just in front of our squad but in front of them.

Sawyer lunges between us, grabbing Tynan’s collar. “Don’t ever say that about a squadmate, especially not in front of unbonded dragons.”

“Let him go—he’s just saying what we’re all thinking,” Luca mutters.

I turn slowly to stare at her, my mouth slightly agape. Is this what happens to us the second we’re out of hearing range of any superior cadet? We turn on one another.

“What?” She gestures to my hair. “Half your hair is silver and you’re…petite,” she finishes with a fake smile. “Golden and…small. You match.”

Trina puts her hand on Sawyer’s arm. “Don’t make a mistake in front of them. We don’t know what they’ll do,” she whispers. And now we’re grouped up.

I shuffle backward a little as Sawyer drops Tynan’s collar.

“Someone should kill it before it bonds,” Tynan sputters, and for the first time in my life, I actually want to kick someone while they’re down…and keep kicking until they stay down. “It’s just going to get its rider killed, and it’s not like we get a choice if it wants to bond us.”

“You’re just picking up on that now, are you?” Ridoc shakes his head.

“We should go back,” Pryor says, his gaze darting around the group. “I mean…if you think we should. We don’t have to, of course.”

“For once in your life,” Tynan says, pushing past Pryor to start down the path, “make a damn decision, Pryor.”

We take off one by one, leaving the suggested space between us. Rhiannon goes before me this time and Ridoc follows behind, with Luca bringing up the rear.

“They’re pretty incredible, aren’t they?” Ridoc says, and the wonder in his voice makes me smile.

“They are,” I agree.

“They’re honestly a little underwhelming after seeing that blue at Parapet.” Luca’s voice carries all the way to Rhiannon, who turns around with an incredulous look.

“Like this isn’t stressful enough without you insulting them?” Rhi asks.

I need to defuse this quickly. “I mean, it could be worse. We could be walking past a line of wyvern, right?”

“Oh please, Violet, do give us one of your nervous-babble story times,” Luca says sarcastically. “Let me guess. Wyvern are some elite squad of gryphon riders created because of something we did at a battle only you can manage to remember with your scribe brain.”

“You don’t know what a wyvern is?” Rhi asks, then begins walking again. “Didn’t your parents tell you bedtime stories, Luca?”

“Do enlighten me,” Luca drawls.

I roll my eyes, continuing along the path. “They’re folklore,” I say over my shoulder. “Kind of like dragons but bigger, with two feet instead of four, a mane of razor-sharp feathers streaking down their necks, and a taste for humans. Unlike dragons, who think we’re a little gamey.”

“My mom used to love telling my sister Raegan and me that we’d be plucked right off the front porch by one if we talked back, and their eerie-eyed venin riders would take us prisoner if we took treats we weren’t allowed to have,” Rhi says, flashing a grin at me, and I can’t help but notice that her step is lighter.

Mine is, too. I notice each dragon as we pass, but my heartbeat steadies. “My dad used to read to me those fables every night,” I tell her. “And I seriously asked him one time if Mom was going to turn into a venin because she could channel.”

Rhiannon chuckles as we walk by a set of glaring reds. “Did he tell you people supposedly only turn into venin if they channel directly from the source?”

“He did, but it was after my mom had a really long night while we were stationed near the eastern border, and her eyes were bloodshot red, so I freaked out and started shrieking.” I can’t help but smile at the memory. “She took my book of fables away for a month because the outpost guards all came running, and I was hiding behind my brother, who couldn’t stop laughing, and, well…it was a mess.” I keep my eyes front and center as a large orange sniffs the air when I pass.

Rhiannon’s shoulders shake with laughter. “I wish we’d had a book like that. I seriously think Mom just altered the stories to scare us whenever we stepped out of line.”

“That sounds like some border-village nonsense.” Luca scoffs. “Venin? Wyvern? Anyone with a modicum of education knows that our wards stop all magic that isn’t channeled directly from dragons.”

“They’re stories, Luca,” Rhi says over her shoulder, and I can’t help but notice how much ground we’ve covered. “Pryor, you can walk a little faster if you want up there.”

“Maybe we should slow down and take our time?” Pryor suggests from ahead of Rhiannon, rubbing his palms along the sides of his uniform. “Or I guess we can go faster if we want to get out of here.”

A red steps out of line, putting one claw forward toward us, and my stomach drops to the ground from the weight of the dread filling my entire body. “No, no, no,” I whisper, freezing in place, but it’s too late.

The red opens its mouth, exposing sharp, glistening fangs, and fire erupts along the sides of its tongue, streaming through the air and into the path ahead of Rhiannon.

She yells in shock.

Heat blasts the front of my face.

Then it’s over.

The scent of sulfur and burned grass…burned…something fills my lungs, and I see a charred patch of ground in front of Rhiannon that hadn’t been there before.

“Are you all right, Rhi?” I call forward.

She nods, but the movement is hurried and jerky. “Pryor is… He’s…”

Pryor’s dead. My mouth waters like I’m going to vomit, but I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth until the feeling passes.

“Keep walking!” Sawyer shouts from farther down the path.

“It’s all right, Rhi. You just have to…” She just has to what? Walk over his corpse? Is there a corpse?

“Fire’s out,” Rhiannon says over her shoulder.

I nod, because there’s nothing I can say to reassure her.

Holy shit are we insignificant.

She walks forward and I follow, maneuvering around the pile of ash that used to be Pryor.

“Oh my gods, the smell,” Luca complains.

“Could you please have some level of decency?” I snap, turning around to level a glare at her, but Ridoc’s face makes me pause.

His eyes are as wide as saucers, and his mouth hangs open. “Violet.”

It’s a whisper, and I wonder briefly if I heard him as much as I saw the word forming on his lips.

“Vi—”

A warm huff of steam blows against the back of my neck. My heart thunders, the beat increasing erratically as I take what might be my last breath and turn toward the line of dragons.

The golden eyes of not one but two greens meet mine, consuming my field of vision.

Oh. Fuck.

To approach a green dragon, lower your eyes in supplication and wait for their approval. That’s what I read, right?

I drop my gaze as one chuffs another breath at me. It’s hot and appallingly wet, but I’m not dead yet, so that’s a plus.

The one on the right chortles deep in its throat. Wait, is that the sound of approval I’m looking for? Shit, I wish I’d asked Mira.

Mira. She’s going to be devastated when she reads the rolls.

I lift my head and suck in a sharp breath. They’re even closer. The one on the left nudges my hands with its giant nose, but I somehow stand my ground, rocking back on my heels to keep from falling over.

Greens are the most reasonable.

“I cut my hands climbing the obstacle course.” I lift my palms, like they can see through the black fabric binding my wounds.

The one on the right sets its nose right at my breasts and chuffs again.

What. The. Hell.

It inhales, making that noise in its throat, and the other shoves its nose into my ribs, making me raise my arms just in case they feel like taking a little nibble.

“Violet!” Rhiannon whisper-shouts.

“I’m all right!” I call back, then wince, hoping I didn’t just seal my fate by screaming in their ears.

Another chuff. Another chortle, like they’re talking to each other as they sniff me.

The one under my arm moves its nostrils to my back and sniffs again.

Realization hits and I choke out a tight, surreal laugh. “You smell Teine, don’t you?” I ask quietly.

They both draw back, just far enough for me to look them in their golden eyes, but they keep their jaws shut, giving me the courage to keep talking.

“I’m Mira’s sister, Violet.” Slowly lowering my arms, I run my hands over my snot-covered vest and the armor carefully sewn into it. “She collected Teine’s scales after he shed them last year and had them shrunk down so she could sew them into the vest to help keep me safe.”

The one on the right blinks.

The one on the left sticks its nose in again, sniffing loudly.

“The scales have saved me a few times,” I whisper. “But no one else knows they’re in there. Just Mira and Teine.”

They both blink at me, and I lower my gaze, bowing my head because it feels like the thing to do. Professor Kaori taught us every way to approach a dragon and exactly zero ways to disengage one.

Step by step, they retreat until I see them take up their places in line in my peripherals, and I finally raise my head.

Taking several deep breaths, I try to lock my muscles to keep from trembling.

“Violet.” Rhiannon is only a few feet away, a look of terror in her eyes. She must have been right behind their heads.

“I’m fine.” I force a smile and nod. “I have dragon-scale armor under the vest,” I whisper. “They smell my sister’s dragon.” If she wants trust, there it is. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” she whispers. “You’re all right?”

“Other than having a few years of my life shaved off.” I laugh. The sound is shaky, bordering on hysteria.

“Let’s get out of here.” She swallows, her gaze darting toward the line of dragons.

“Good idea.”

She turns and walks back to her place, and once there’s fifteen feet between us, I follow.

“I think I just shat myself,” Ridoc says, and my laughter only pitches higher as we move through the field.

“Honestly, I thought they were going to eat you,” Luca remarks.

“Me too,” I admit.

“I wouldn’t have blamed them,” she continues.

“You’re insufferable,” Ridoc calls back.

I focus on the path and keep walking.

“What? She’s obviously our weakest link after Pryor, and I don’t blame them for snuffing him out,” she argues. “He could never make a decision, and no one wants someone like that as their rider—”

A blast of heat singes my back and I halt.

Don’t be Ridoc. Don’t be—

“Guess the dragons think she’s insufferable, too,” Ridoc mutters.

Our squad is down to six first-years.

There is nothing quite as humbling, or as awe-inspiring, as witnessing Threshing…for those who live through it anyway.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

October first is always Threshing.

Monday, Wednesday, or Sunday, it doesn’t matter where it falls on any given year. On the first of October, the first-year cadets of the Riders Quadrant enter the bowl-shaped forested valley to the southwest of the citadel and pray they come out alive.

I will not die today.

I didn’t bother eating this morning, and I pity Ridoc, who’s currently heaving up the contents of his stomach against a tree to my right.

A sword is strapped to Rhiannon’s back, the hilt jostling against her spine as she bounces, stretching her arms across her chest one at a time.

“Remember to listen here,” Professor Kaori says from in front of the 147 of us here, tapping his chest. “If a dragon has already selected you, they’ll be calling.” He thumps his chest again. “So pay attention to not just your surroundings but your feelings, and go with them.” He grimaces. “And if your feelings are telling you to go in the other direction…listen to that, too.”

“Which one are you going for?” Rhiannon asks quietly.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head but can’t ditch the feeling of absolute failure in my chest. At this point, Mira knew she wanted to seek out Teine.

“You memorized the cards, right?” she asks, lifting her brows. “So you know what’s out there?”

“Yes. I just don’t feel connected to any of them.” Which is better than feeling connected to a dragon another rider has their eye on. I have no desire to fight to the death today. “Dain tried talking me into a brown.”

“Dain lost his vote when he tried talking you into leaving,” she counters.

There’s a lot of truth to that. I’ve only talked to him once in the past two days since Presentation, and he tried to get me to run within the first five minutes. We’ve only seen professors this morning, but I know the second- and third-year riders are scattered throughout this valley in order to observe. “What about you?”

She grins. “I’m thinking about that green. The one closest to me when they got all up close and personal with you.”

“Well, it didn’t eat you, so that’s a promising start.” I smile despite the fear racing through my veins.

“I think so, too.” She links her arm with mine, and I focus back on what Professor Kaori is telling us.

“If you go in groups, you’re more likely to be incinerated than bonded,” Professor Kaori argues with someone near the center of the valley. “The scribes have run the statistics. You’re better off on your own.”

“And what if we aren’t chosen by dinner?” a man with a short beard to my left asks.

Looking past him, I catch Jack Barlowe running a finger across his neck at me. So original. Then Oren and Tynan flank his sides.

So much for squad loyalty. It’s everyone for themselves today.

“If you’re not chosen by nightfall, there’s a problem,” Professor Kaori responds, his thick mustache turned down at the ends. “You’ll be brought out by a professor or senior leadership, so don’t give up and think we’ve forgotten about you.” He checks his pocket watch. “Remember to spread out and use every foot of this valley to your advantage. It’s nine, which means they should be flying in any minute now. The only other words I have for you are ‘good luck.’” He nods, sweeping his gaze over the crowd of us with such intensity that I know he’ll be able to re-create this moment in a projection.

Then he leaves, marching up the hill to our right and disappearing into the trees.

My mind whirls. It’s time. I’ll either leave this forest as a rider…or likely never leave.

“Be careful.” Rhiannon pulls me into a hug, her braids swinging over my shoulder as she tightens her arms around me.

“You too.” I squeeze her back and am immediately swept into another pair of arms.

“Don’t die,” Ridoc orders.

That’s our only goal as what’s left of our squad separates, each heading in our own direction like we’ve been flung apart by centrifugal motion, at the mercy of a spinning wheel.

…

Guessing by the position of the sun, it’s been at least a couple of hours since the dragons flew overhead, landing in the valley in a succession that sounded like thunder and making the earth shake.

I’ve come across two greens, a brown, four oranges, and—

My heart stumbles and my feet freeze to the forest floor as a red steps into my field of vision, its head just under the canopy of enormous trees.

This is not my dragon. I’m not sure how I know, but I do.

I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound as its head sweeps right, then left, and my gaze plummets to the ground as I bow my head.

For the last hour or so, I’ve seen dragons launch into the air with a cadet—now a rider—on their back, but I’ve also seen more than a couple of plumes of smoke, and I have no desire to be one of those.

The dragon huffs a breath, then continues along its path, its clubtail flicking upward and catching one of the lower-hanging branches. The limb falls to the ground with a monstrous crash, and only after the footsteps recede do I finally raise my head.

I’ve now come across every color of dragon, and none of them has spoken to me or given me the sense of connection we’re reportedly supposed to feel.

My stomach sinks. What if I’m one of the cadets who’s destined to never become a rider? One who’s thrown back time and again to restart first year until eventually something puts me on the death roll? Has this all been for nothing?

The thought is too heavy to carry.

Maybe if I could just see the valley, then I’d get a feeling like Professor Kaori was talking about.

I spot the nearest climbable tree and get to work, scaling branch after branch. Pain radiates from my hands, but I don’t let it distract me. The bark catching the wraps that still cover my palms… Now that’s an annoyance that makes me pause every few feet and pull the cloth free of the bark.

Pretty sure the higher branches aren’t going to support my weight, so I stop about three-quarters to the top and survey the immediate area.

There are a few greens in plain sight to my left, standing out against the fall foliage. Oddly enough, this is the one time of year when oranges, browns, and reds have the highest chance of blending in. I watch the trees for movement and spot a couple more directly south, but there’s no pull, no aching need to head in that direction, which probably means those aren’t mine, either.

Relief hits me embarrassingly hard when I count at least half a dozen first-years wandering aimlessly. I shouldn’t be so happy that they haven’t found their dragons, either, but at least I’m not the only one, which gives me hope.

There’s a clearing to the north, and my eyes narrow as a flash, like a mirror, catches the sun.

Or like a golden dragon.

Guess the little feathertail is still out here appeasing its curiosity. But I’m apparently not going to find my dragon up a tree, so I climb down carefully and as quietly as possible. My feet hit the ground just before voices approach, and I tuck myself against the trunk to hide from being seen.

We’re not supposed to be in groups.

“I’m telling you, I think I saw it headed this way.” It’s a cocky voice I immediately recognize as Tynan.

“You’d better be right, because if we just hiked all the way the fuck over here just to find nothing, I’m going to run you through.” My stomach twists. It’s Jack. No one else’s voice has that physical effect on me, not even Xaden’s.

“You sure we shouldn’t be spending our time looking for our own dragons instead of hunting the freak down?” Recognition tickles the edges of my mind, but I lean out from my hiding place just to be sure. Yep, it’s Oren.

I dart back behind the cover of the tree as the trio passes, each strapped with a deadly sword. There are nine daggers tucked against my body in various places, so it’s not like I’m unarmed, but I feel tragically disadvantaged by my inability to wield a sword effectively. They’re just too damned heavy.

Wait…what did they say they were doing? Hunting?

“It’s not like our dragons are going to bond other riders,” Jack snaps. “They’ll wait for us. This has to be done. That scrawny one is going to get someone killed. We have to take it out.”

Nausea swirls in my stomach, and my fingernails bite into my palms. They’re going to try and kill the little golden one.

“If we get caught, we’re fucked,” Oren comments.

That’s an understatement. I can’t imagine dragons would take kindly to killing one of their own, but they seem to be focused on culling the weak from the herd in our species, so it’s not a stretch to imagine they do the same with their own.

“Then you’d better shut your mouth so no one hears us,” Tynan counters, his voice rising in that mocking tone that makes me want to punch him in the face.

“It’s for the best,” Jack argues, his tone dropping. “It’s unrideable, a certified freak, and you know feathertails are useless in combat. They refuse to fight.” His voice fades as they walk farther away, headed north.

Toward the clearing.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath even though the assholes are out of hearing range by now. No one knows anything about feathertails, so I don’t know where Jack is getting his information, but I don’t have time to focus on his assumptions right now.

I have no way of contacting Professor Kaori, and there hasn’t even been a hint that the senior riders are watching us, so I can’t count on them to stop this madness, either. The golden dragon should be able to breathe fire, but what if it can’t?

There’s a chance they won’t find it, but… Shit, I can’t even convince myself of that one. They’re headed the right way and that dragon is pretty much a shiny beacon. They’ll find it.

My shoulders sag and I sigh at the sky, blowing out a frustrated breath.

I can’t just stand here and do nothing.

You can get there first and warn it.

Solid plan, and way better than option two, where I’d be forced to take on three armed men with at least a combined two hundred pounds on me.

I keep my footsteps silent and race across the forest floor at a slightly different angle than Jack’s little posse, thankful I grew up playing hide-and-seek with Dain in the woods. This is one area of expertise I can confidently claim.

They’ve got a head start on me, and the clearing is closer than I realized, so I kick up my speed, my gaze darting between the leaf-covered path I’ve chosen and where I think—scratch that, where I know they are toward the left. I can make out their lumbering shapes in the distance.

I hear a pop, and the ground falls out from under me, then rushes for my face. My hands fly out to brace myself a second before I slam into the forest floor. I bite into my lower lip to keep from crying out as my ankle screams. Popping isn’t good. It’s never good.

Glancing back, I curse at the fallen branch, hidden by fall foliage, that’s just wrecked my ankle. Shit.

Block the pain. Block it. But there’s no mental trick to keep the shooting agony from turning my stomach as I drag myself to my knees and rise carefully, keeping my weight on my left ankle.

There’s nothing to do but limp the final dozen feet to the clearing, gritting my teeth the whole way. The tinge of satisfaction that I beat Jack here is almost enough to make me smile.

The meadow is big enough for ten dragons, ringed by several large trees, but the golden one stands alone in the center, like it’s trying to get a suntan. It’s just as beautiful as I remember, but unless it can breathe fire, it’s a sitting duck.

“You have to get out of here!” I hiss from the cover of the trees, knowing it should be able to hear me. “They’re going to kill you if you don’t leave!”

Its head pivots toward me, then tilts at an angle that makes my own neck hurt.

“Yes!” I whisper loudly. “You! Goldie!”

It blinks its golden eyes and swishes its tail.

You have to be fucking kidding me.

“Go! Run! Fly!” I shoo at it, then remember it’s a godsdamned dragon, capable of shredding me with its claws alone, and drop my hands. This is not going well. It’s going the opposite of well.

The trees rustle from the south, and Jack steps into the clearing, his sword swaying in his right hand. A step later, he’s flanked by Oren and Tynan, both their weapons drawn.

“Shit,” I mutter, my chest tightening. This is now officially going horribly.

The golden dragon’s head snaps in their direction, a low growl rumbling in its chest.

“We’ll make it painless,” Jack promises, like that makes the murder acceptable.

“Scorch them,” I whisper-shout, my heart pounding as they draw closer. But the dragon doesn’t, and somehow, I’m certain in the marrow of my bones that it can’t. Other than its teeth, it’s defenseless against three trained warriors.

It’s going to die just because it’s smaller, weaker than the other dragons…just like me. My throat closes.

The dragon backs up, its growl growing louder as it bares its teeth.

Stomach pitching, I have that Parapet feeling again—whatever I do next has overwhelming odds of ending my life.

And yet, I’m still going to do it because this is wrong.

“You can’t do this!” I take the first step into the shin-high grass and Jack’s attention swings my way. My ankle has a heartbeat of its own, and agony streaks up my spine, chattering my teeth as I force my weight onto my ruined joint so they won’t see me limping. They can’t know I’m hurt, or they’ll just attack faster.

One at a time, I stand a chance of holding them off long enough for the dragon to escape, but together…

Don’t think about it.

“Oh, look!” Jack grins, pointing his sword my way. “We can take out both the weakest links at the same time!” He looks at his friends and laughs, pausing their advance.

Each step hurts worse than the last, but I make it to the center of the clearing, putting myself between Jack’s group and the golden dragon.

“Been waiting a long time for this, Sorrengail.” He walks forward slowly.

“If you can fly, now would be a good time,” I shout over my shoulder at the small dragon, drawing two daggers from the sheaths at my ribs.

The dragon chuffs. So helpful.

“You can’t kill a dragon,” I try reasoning, shaking my head at the trio, fear lacing my veins with adrenaline.

“Sure we can.” Jack shrugs, but Oren looks a little uncertain, so I pin my gaze on him as they spread out slightly about a dozen feet away, setting up the perfect formation for an attack.

“You can’t,” I say directly to Oren. “It goes against everything we believe in!”

He flinches. Jack doesn’t.

“Letting something so weak, so incapable of fighting, live is against our beliefs!” Jack shouts, and I know he’s not just talking about the dragon.

“You’re going to have to get through me, then.” My heart thunders against my ribs as I raise my daggers, flipping one to pinch the tip so I’m ready to throw and measuring the twenty or so feet separating me from my attackers.

“I don’t really consider that a problem,” Jack snarls.

They all lift their swords, and I draw a deep breath, readying myself to fight. This isn’t the mat. There are no instructors. No yielding. Nothing to stop them slaughtering me…slaughtering us.

“I would strongly recommend you rethink your actions,” a voice—his voice—demands from across the field to my right.

My scalp prickles as each of our heads swivel in his direction.

Xaden is leaning against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, and behind him, watching with narrowed golden eyes, her fangs exposed, is Sgaeyl, his terrifying navy-blue daggertail.

In the six centuries of recorded history of dragon and rider, there have been hundreds of known cases where a dragon simply cannot emotionally recover from the loss of their bonded rider. This happens when the bond is particularly strong and, in three documented cases, has even caused the untimely death of the dragon.

—Navarre, an Unedited History by Colonel Lewis Markham

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Xaden. For the first time, the sight of him fills my chest with hope. He won’t let this happen. He might hate me, but he’s a wingleader. He can’t just watch them kill a dragon.

But I know the rules probably better than anyone else in this quadrant.

He has to. Bile rises in my throat, and I tilt my chin to quell the burning. What Xaden wants, which is always debatable, doesn’t matter here. He can only observe, not interfere.

I’m going to have an audience for my death. Fantastic.

So much for hope.

“And if we don’t want to rethink our actions?” Jack shouts.

Xaden looks toward me, and I swear I can see his jaw clench, even from this far away.

Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities. Xaden’s words come back to me with alarming clarity, and I rip my gaze from his and concentrate on the three probabilities in front of me.

“There’s nothing you can do, right? Wingleader?” Jack bellows.

Guess he knows the rules, too.

“It’s not me you should worry about today,” Xaden responds and Sgaeyl tilts her head, nothing but menace in her eyes when I glance over.

“You really going to do this?” I ask Tynan. “Attack a squadmate?”

“Squads don’t mean shit today,” he seethes, menace curling his lips into a sinister smile.

“So I guess that’s a no on the flying?” I toss over my shoulder again, and the golden dragon chuffs low in its throat in response. “Great. Well, if you can back me up with those claws, I’d really appreciate it.”

It chuffs twice, and I spare a glance down at its claws.

Or should I say…paws.

“Oh, fucking hell. You don’t have any claws?”

I turn back to the three men just as Jack roars a battle cry and sprints toward me. I don’t hesitate. I whip my blade across the rapidly closing space between us, and the dagger finds its mark in the shoulder of his sword arm. His sword falls as he hits his knees, crying out this time in pain.

Good.

But Oren and Tynan have charged at the same time, and they’re almost on me. I fling my second dagger at Tynan and catch him in the thigh, slowing but not stopping him.

Oren swings for my neck and I duck, unsheathing another blade and slicing him along the ribs just like I did during our challenge. My ankle isn’t going to let me kick, or even land a decent punch, so it’s up to my blades.

He recovers quickly and pivots with the sword, catching me at my stomach in a clean slice that would eviscerate me if not for Mira’s armor. Instead, the blade skims the scales, sliding right off me.

“What the hell?” Oren’s eyes fly wide.

“She’s destroyed my shoulder!” Jack cries, stumbling to his feet and distracting the others. “I can’t move it!” He clutches the joint, and I grin.

“That’s the thing about having weak joints,” I say, palming another blade. “You know exactly where to strike.”

“Kill her!” Jack orders, still clutching his shoulder as he backs away a few steps, then turns and runs in the opposite direction, disappearing into the tree line in no time.

Fucking coward.

Tynan jabs with his sword and I spin away, white-hot pain stealing my sight for a heartbeat before I swipe backward, plunging my dagger into his side, then pivoting, shoving my elbow up into Oren’s chin as he attacks, rattling his head.

“You fucking bitch!” Tynan screams, pressing his palm against his oozing side.

“Such an original”—I take advantage of Oren’s dazed expression and slice open his hip—“insult!”

The move costs me, and a scream rips from my throat as Tynan’s sword cuts into my upper right arm, along the direction of the bone.

The armor keeps it from penetrating my ribs, but I know I’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow as I wrench myself away, blood flowing freely as I peel myself off the sword.

“Behind you!” Xaden shouts.

I pivot to see Oren’s sword held high, ready to separate my head from my shoulders, but the golden dragon snaps its jaw and Oren stumbles to the side with terror-filled eyes, as if he’s just now realized that it has teeth.

I sidestep and knock the handle of my blade against the base of his skull.

He crumples, unconscious, and I don’t wait to see him fall before turning back toward Tynan, who has his bloodied sword ready.

“You can’t interfere!” Tynan shouts at Xaden, but I don’t dare look away from my opponent long enough to see how the wingleader reacts.

“No, but I can narrate,” Xaden retorts.

He’s obviously on my side here, which confuses the hell out of me, since more than anything, I’m certain he wants me dead. But maybe it’s not my life he’s protecting but the golden dragon’s.

I chance a quick glance. Yeah, Sgaeyl looks pissed. Her head undulates in a serpentine motion—a clear sign of agitation—and those narrowed golden eyes of hers are focused on Tynan, who is now trying to circle me like we’re on the mat, but I won’t let him get between me and the little golden dragon.

“Your arm is shot, Sorrengail,” Tynan hisses, his face pale and sweaty.

“I’m used to functioning in pain, asshole. Are you?” I raise the dagger in my right hand just to prove that I can despite the blood that runs down my arm and drips from the tip of my blade, saturating the wrap across my palm. My gaze drops meaningfully to his side. “I know exactly where I sliced into you. If you don’t get to a healer soon, you’ll bleed out internally.”

Rage contorts his features, and he moves to strike.

I try to flick my knife at him, but it slips from my blood-soaked hand and lands with a thud in the grass several feet away.

And I know my bravado won’t be enough to save me now.

My arm is shot. My leg is shot. But at least I made Jack Barlowe run away before I died.

As a last thought, that’s not a bad one.

Just as Tynan reaches up to two-hand his sword, preparing for a killing blow, I catch a glimpse of movement to my right. It’s Xaden. And rules be damned, he steps forward as though he intends to stop Tynan from killing me.

I barely have a moment to register surprise that Xaden would ever save me, for any reason, when a gust of wind slams into my back, and I stumble forward onto my destroyed ankle, flinging my arms out to keep my balance and grimacing at the shooting pain.

Tynan’s mouth hangs open and he staggers backward, his head tilting so far back it’s nearly perpendicular to his torso. Shade envelops us both as he continues to back away.

Chest heaving, my lungs desperate for air, I chance a look over my shoulder to see why Tynan’s retreating.

And my heart lurches into my throat.

Standing with the golden one tucked under an enormous, scarred black wing is the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen in my life—the unbonded black dragon Professor Kaori showed us in class. I don’t even come close to reaching its ankle.

A growl resonates through its chest, vibrating the ground around me as it lowers its gigantic head, baring dripping teeth.

Fear ripples through every cell in my body as its hot breath blows over me.

“Step aside, Silver One,” a deep, gruff, definitely male voice orders.

I blink. Wait. What? Did he just speak to me?

“Yes. You. Move.” There’s zero room for argument in his tone, and I limp to the side, nearly stumbling over Oren’s unconscious body as Tynan breaks into a screaming run, fleeing for the trees.

The black dragon’s eyes narrow to glare at Tynan and he opens his mouth wide a second before fire shoots across the field, blasting heat against the side of my face and incinerating everything in its path…including Tynan.

Flames crackle at the edges of the blackened path, and I turn slowly to face the dragon, wondering if I’m about to be next.

His giant golden eyes study me, but I hold my ground, tilting my chin upward.

“You should end the enemy at your feet.”

My eyebrows jerk upward. His mouth didn’t move. He spoke to me, but…his mouth didn’t move. Oh shit. Because he’s in my head. “I can’t kill an unconscious man.” I shake my head, though whether it’s in protest at his suggestion or a result of my confusion is up for debate.

“He would kill you if given the same chance.”

I glance down at Oren, still unconscious in the grass beside my feet. It’s not like I can argue that astute assessment. “Well, that’s a statement on his character. Not mine.”

The dragon only blinks in response, and I can’t quite tell if that’s a good thing or not.

There’s a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye, then a whoosh of air as Xaden and Sgaeyl take off, leaving me here with the giant black dragon and the little golden one. Guess Xaden’s momentary concern for my life is over.

The dragon’s giant nostrils flare. “You’re bleeding. Stop it.”

My arm.

“It’s not that simple when you’ve been run through with a—” I shake my head again. Am I seriously arguing with a dragon? This is so fucking surreal. “You know what? That’s a great idea.” I manage to cut off what remains of my right shirtsleeve and wrap it around the wound, holding one end of the fabric with my teeth as I tie it tight to apply pressure and slow the bleeding. “There. Better?”

“It will do.” He tilts his head at me. “Your hands are bound, too. Do you bleed often?”

“I try not to.”

He scoffs. “Let’s go, Violet Sorrengail.” He lifts his head, and the golden dragon peeks out from under his wing.

“How do you know my name?” I gawk up at him.

“And to think, I’d almost forgotten just how loquacious humans are.” He sighs, the gust of his breath rattling the trees. “Get on my back.”

Oh. Shit. He’s choosing…me.

“Get on your back?” I repeat like a fucking parrot. “Have you seen you? Do you have any idea how huge you are?” I’d need a damned ladder to get up there.

The look he gives me can only be described as annoyance. “One does not live a century without being well aware of the space one takes up. Now get on.”

The golden one moves out from under the shelter of the big one’s wing. It’s tiny compared to the monstrosity before me, and apparently completely defenseless with the exception of those teeth, like a playful puppy. “I can’t just leave it,” I say. “What if Oren wakes up or Jack comes back?”

The black dragon chuffs.

The golden one bends down, flexing its legs, and then launches into the sky, its golden wings catching the sun as it flies off, skimming the tops of the trees.

So it can fly. That would have been nice to know twenty minutes ago.

“Get. On,” the black dragon growls, shaking the ground and trees at the edge of the field.

“You don’t want me,” I argue. “I’m—”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

Point taken.

Fear grasps my throat like a fist, and I hobble over to his leg. This isn’t like climbing a tree. There are no handholds, no easy path, just a series of hard-as-stone scales that don’t exactly give me a foothold. My ankle and arm aren’t doing me any favors, either. How the hell am I going to get up there? I raise my left arm and suck in a breath before placing my hand on his front leg.

The scales are larger and thicker than my hand and surprisingly warm to the touch. They layer into the next above them in an intricate pattern that leaves no space to grab hold.

“You are a rider, are you not?”

“That seems up for debate at the moment.” My heart thunders. Is he going to cook me alive for being too slow?

A low, frustrated grumble sounds in his chest, and then he shocks me to the core as he stretches forward, his front leg becoming a ramp. Dragons never supplicate for anyone, and yet here he is, bowing to make it easier for me to climb on. It’s steep but manageable.

I don’t hesitate, crawling up his front leg on my hands and knees to balance my weight and spare my ankle, but the strain on my arm has me gasping by the time I climb over his shoulder and reach his back, dodging the pointed spikes that ripple down most of his neck like a mane.

Holy shit. I’m on the back of a dragon.

“Sit.”

I see the seat—the smooth, scaly divot, just in front of his wings—and sit, bending my knees like Professor Kaori taught us. Then I grab ahold of the thick ridges of scales we call the pommel, where his neck meets his shoulders. Everything about him is bigger than any model we practiced on. My body isn’t built to stay on any dragon, let alone one of his size. There’s no way I’ll be able to stay seated. This is about to be the first and last ride of my life.

“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil, descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.” He stands to his full height, bringing me eye level with the canopy of trees around the clearing, and I squeeze a little tighter with my thighs. “But I’m not going to assume that you’ll be able to remember that once we reach the field, so Tairn will do until I inevitably have to remind you.”

I inhale swiftly, but there’s no time to process his name—his history—before he bends slightly and launches us into the sky.

It feels like I imagine a stone does after being flung from a catapult, except it takes every ounce of strength I have to stay on this particular stone.

“Holy shit!” The ground falls away as we soar, Tairn’s enormous wings beating the air into submission and pitching upward.

My body lifts off his back, and I dig in with my hands, trying to keep anchored, but the wind, the angle, it’s all too much, and my grip falters.

My hands slip.

“Fuck!” Scrambling for purchase, my hands rake down Tairn’s back as I skid past his wings, rapidly approaching the sharp scales of his morningstar tail. “No, no, NO!”

He banks left and whatever hope I had of getting a handhold tumbles right off with me.

I’m in free fall.

Just because you survive Threshing doesn’t mean you’ll survive the ride to the flight field. Being chosen isn’t the only test, and if you can’t hold your seat, then you’ll fly straight into the ground.

—Page fifty, the Book of Brennan

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Terror clogs my throat and stutters my heart. Air rushes past me as I plummet toward the mountainous terrain beneath, and the sun catches the scales of the golden one far beneath me.

I’m going to die. That’s the only possible outcome.

Vises clamp around my ribs and over my shoulders, stopping my descent, and my body jerks with whiplash as I’m yanked upward again.

“You’re making us look bad. Stop it.”

I’m clasped in Tairn’s claws. He’s actually…caught me instead of finding me unworthy and letting me fall to my death. “It’s not like it’s easy to stay on your back when you’re doing acrobatics!” I shout up.

He glances down at me, and I swear the ridge above his eye arches. “Simple flight is hardly acrobatics.”

“There is absolutely nothing simple about you!” I wrap my arms around the knuckles of his claws, noting that his sharp talons are draped harmlessly around the sides of my body. He’s huge, but he’s also careful as he flies us along the mountain.

He’s one of the deadliest dragons in Navarre. Professor Kaori’s lesson. What else had he said? The only unbonded black dragon hadn’t agreed to bond this year. He hadn’t even been seen in the last five years. His rider died in the Tyrrish rebellion.

Tairn swings me upward and then releases me, sending me flying high above him, and I flail. My stomach drops at the height of his toss, and then I fall for two heartbeats before Tairn rushes up, catching me on his back between his wings.

“Now get in the seat and actually hold on this time, or no one is going to believe that I’ve actually chosen you,” he growls.

“I still can’t believe you’ve chosen me!” I have half a mind to tell him that getting back to the seat isn’t as easy as he’s implying, but he levels out and his wings catch the air in a gentle glide, cutting the wind resistance. Inch by inch, I crawl up his back until I reach the seat and settle in again. I hold on to his ridges so hard, my hands cramp.

“You’re going to have to strengthen your legs. Didn’t you practice?”

Indignation ripples up my spine. “Of course I practiced!”

“There’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine. The entire mountain can probably hear you.”

Was everyone’s dragon a curmudgeon? Or just mine?

My eyes widen. I have…a dragon. And not just any dragon. I have Tairneanach.

“Grip harder with your knees. I can barely feel you back there.”

“I’m trying.” I push my knees in and the muscles of my thighs tremble as he banks left, softer this time than last, his angle not quite as steep as he changes course in a wide arc, taking us back toward Basgiath. “I’m just…not as strong as other riders.”

“I know exactly who and what you are, Violet Sorrengail.”

My legs shake until they lock, the muscles freezing in place as though bands have been wrapped around them, but there’s no pain. I glance over my shoulder and see his morningstar tail, what feels like miles behind us.

He’s doing this. He’s holding me in place.

Guilt settles in my stomach. I should have focused more on strength training for my legs. I should have spent more time preparing myself for this. He shouldn’t have to spend his energy on keeping his rider seated. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think I’d make it this far.”

A loud sigh resonates through my mind. “I didn’t think I would, either, so we have that in common.”

I sit higher in the seat and look out over the landscape, wind ripping tears from the corners of my eyes. No wonder most riders choose to wear goggles. There are at least a dozen dragons in the air, each putting their rider through a trial of dips and turns. Reds, oranges, greens, browns, the sky is speckled with color.

My heart lurches as I see a rider fall from the back of a Red Swordtail and, unlike Tairn, the dragon doesn’t dip to catch the first-year. I look away before the body hits the ground.

It’s not anyone you know. That’s what I tell myself. Rhiannon, Ridoc, Trina, Sawyer… They’re all probably safely bonded and already waiting at the field.

“We’re going to have to put on a show.”

“Awesome.” The idea is anything but.

“You will not fall. I will not allow it.” The bands around my legs extend to my hands, and I feel the pulse of invisible energy. “You will trust me.”

Not a question. An order.

“Let’s get it over with.” I can’t move my legs, my fingers, my hands, so there’s nothing I can do but sit back and hope I enjoy whatever hell he’s about to put me through.

His wings give a mighty beat, and we lurch upward in what feels like a ninety-degree climb, leaving my stomach back at the lower altitude. He crests the top of the snow-dusted peaks, and we hang there for a breath of a second before he twists, diving back down at the same terrifying angle.

It’s the most horrifying and yet exhilarating moment of my life.

Until he twists again, sending us into a spiral.

My body is wrenched this way and that as he completes turn after turn, pulling us out of the dive only to bank so hard, I swear the land becomes the sky, then repeats it all until my face splits into a grin.

There is nothing like this.

“I think we made our point.” He pulls us level, then banks right, starting up the valley that leads to the box canyon of the training fields. The sun is close to setting behind the peaks, but there’s plenty of light to see the golden dragon up ahead, hovering as though it’s waiting. Maybe it didn’t choose a rider, but it will live to decide again next year, and that’s all that matters.

Or maybe it will see that we humans aren’t so great after all.

“Why did you choose me?” I have to know, because as soon as we land, there are going to be questions.

“Because you saved her.” Tairn’s head inclines toward the golden as we approach, and she follows after us. Our speed slows.

“But…” I shake my head. “Dragons value strength and cunning and…ferocity in their riders.” None of which defines me.

“Please, do tell me more about what I should value.” Sarcasm drips from his tone as we pass over the Gauntlet and crest the narrow entrance to the training fields.

I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of so many dragons. There are hundreds gathered along the rocky edges of the mountain slopes behind the bleachers that were erected overnight. Spectators. And at the bottom of the valley, in the same field I’d walked only a couple of days before, are two lines of dragons facing each other.

“They are divided between those still in the quadrant who chose in years past and those who chose today,” Tairn tells me. “We are the seventy-first bond to enter the fields.”

Mom will be here, on the dais in front of the bleachers, and maybe I’ll get more than a cursory glance, but her attention will mostly be on the seventy or so newly bonded pairs.

A ferocious roar of celebration goes up among the dragons as we fly in, every head swinging our way, and I know it’s in deference to Tairn. So is the parting of the dragons at the very center of the field, making room for Tairn to land. He releases the bands holding me in my seat, then hovers over the grass for a few wing beats, and I see the golden dragon flying furiously to catch up.

How ironic. Tairn is the most celebrated dragon in the Vale, and I’m the most unlikely rider in the quadrant.

“You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.”

I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider.

“You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.”

My throat tightens from his words, emotion forming a knot I have to swallow past.

Oh. Shit. I hadn’t spoken those words. I’d thought them.

He can read my thoughts.

“See? Smartest of your year.”

So much for privacy.

“You’ll never be alone again.”

“That sounds more like a threat than a comfort,” I think. Of course I knew that dragons maintain a mental bond with their riders, but the extent of it is more than a little daunting.

Tairn scoffs in reply.

The golden dragon reaches us, her wings beating twice as fast as Tairn’s, and we land in the dead center of the field. The impact jars me slightly, but I sit up tall in the seat and even let go of the pommel ridges.

“See, I can hang on just fine when you’re not moving.”

Tairn tucks his wings up and looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that’s the closest thing to a dragon rolling his eyes that I’ve ever seen. “You need to dismount before I rethink my selection, then tell the roll-keeper—”

“I know what to do.” I pull in a shaky breath. “I just didn’t think I’d be alive to do it.” Surveying both options for dismount, I move right to shelter my ankle as long as possible. There are no healers allowed in the flight field, only riders, but hopefully someone thought to pack a medical kit, because I’m going to need stitches and a splint.

I scoot over the scales of Tairn’s shoulder and, before I can lament the distance I’m about to have to jump on the wreckage of my ankle, Tairn shifts slightly, angling his front leg.

There’s a sound from the slopes that reminds me of muttering…if dragons mutter.

“They do and they are. Ignore it.” Again, there’s no room for argument in his tone.

“Thanks,” I whisper, then slide down on my butt like he’s a bumpy piece of lethal playground equipment, taking the brunt of the impact with my left leg when I hit the ground.

“That’s one way to do it.”

I can’t stop the smile on my face or the joy that stings my eyes at the sight of other first-years standing in front of their dragons. I’m alive, and I’m no longer a cadet. I’m a rider.

The first step hurts like hell, but I pivot toward the golden one, who is tucked in tight next to Tairn, surveying me with bright eyes as she flicks her feathertail.

“I’m glad you made it.” “Glad” isn’t even the right word. Thrilled, relieved, grateful. “But maybe you should fly off the next time someone suggests you save yourself, eh?”

She blinks. “Maybe I was saving you.” Her voice is higher, sweeter in my mind.

My lips part, and the muscles in my face go slack with shock. “Didn’t anyone tell you that you’re not supposed to speak to humans who aren’t your rider? Don’t go getting yourself in trouble, Goldie,” I whisper. “From what I hear, dragons are pretty strict about breaking that rule.”

She simply sits, tucking her wings in, and tilts her head at me in that should-be-impossible angle that almost makes me laugh.

“Holy hell!” the rider of the red dragon to my right exclaims, and I turn toward him. He’s a first-year from Claw Section, Fourth Wing, but I don’t remember his name. “Is that…” He openly stares with fear-wide eyes at Tairn.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling wider. “He is.”

My ankle throbs, aches, and generally feels like it’s going to come apart at any second as I limp across the wide field, heading for the small formation directly ahead of me. Behind me, wind sporadically gusts as more dragons land and their riders dismount to have their names recorded, but it’s softer and softer as the line spreads farther down the field.

Dusk falls, and a series of mage lights illuminates the crowd in the bleachers and on the dais. In the very center, right above where the redhead from Parapet is recording roll, sits my mother, dressed in all her military finery, medals and all, lest anyone forget exactly who she is. Though there is an assortment of generals on the dais, each representing their wing, there’s only one more highly decorated than Lilith Sorrengail.

And Melgren, the commanding general of all Navarrian forces, has his beady eyes on Tairn in open assessment. His focus flicks toward me, and I suppress a shudder. There’s nothing but cold calculation in those eyes.

Mom rises as I approach the roll-keeper at the base of the dais, who’s recording bonded pairs before motioning the next rider forward to maintain secrecy of a dragon’s full name.

Professor Kaori jumps off the six-foot platform to my left and stares open-mouthed at Tairn, his gaze sweeping over the massive black dragon, memorizing every single detail.

“Is that really—” Commandant Panchek starts, hovering at the edge of the dais with more than a dozen other uniformed, high-ranking officers, all gaping.

“Don’t say it,” Mom hisses, her eyes on Tairn, not me. “Not until she does.”

Because only a rider and the roll-keeper know a dragon’s full name and she’s not certain I’m really his. That’s exactly what she’s implying. Like I’d be able to hijack Tairn. Anger simmers in my veins, overtaking the pain coursing through my body as I move forward in the line so there’s only one other rider ahead of me.

Mom forced me into the Riders Quadrant. She didn’t care if I lived or died as I crossed the parapet. The only thing she cares about now is how my flaws might mar her sterling reputation or how my bonding might further her own agenda.

And now she’s staring at my dragon without even bothering to look down and see if I’m all right.

Fuck. Her.

It’s everything I expected and yet still so disappointing.

The rider ahead finishes, moving out of the way, and the roll-keeper looks up, glancing wide-eyed at Tairn before lowering her shocked gaze to mine and beckoning me forward.

“Violet Sorrengail,” she says as she writes in the Book of Riders. “Nice to see that you made it.” She offers me a quick, shaky smile. “For the record, please tell me the name of the dragon who chose you.”

I lift my chin. “Tairneanach.”

“Pronunciation could use some work.” Tairn’s voice rumbles through my head.

“Hey, at least I remembered,” I think back in his general direction, wondering if he’ll hear me across the field.

“At least I didn’t let you fall to your death.” He sounds utterly bored, but he definitely heard me.

The woman grins, shaking her head as she writes down his name. “I can’t believe he bonded. Violet, he’s a legend.”

I open my mouth to agree—

“Andarnaurram.” The sweet, high voice of the golden fills my mind. “Andarna for short.”

I feel the blood rush from my face, and the edges of my vision sway as I pivot on my good ankle, staring back across the field at where the golden dragon—Andarna—now stands between Tairn’s front legs. “Excuse me?”

“Violet, are you all right?” the redhead asks, and everyone around me, above me, leans in.

“Tell her,” the golden insists.

“Tairn. What am I supposed to—” I think at him.

“Tell the roll-keeper her name,” Tairn echoes.

“Violet?” the roll-keeper repeats. “Do you need a mender?”

I turn back to the woman and clear my throat. “And Andarnaurram,” I whisper.

Her eyes fly wide. “Both dragons?” she squawks.

I nod.

And all hell breaks loose.

Though this officer considers himself to be an expert on all matters dragonkind, there is a great deal we don’t know about the way dragons govern themselves. There is a clear hierarchy among the most powerful, and deference is paid to elders, but I have not been able to discern how it is they make laws for themselves or at what point a dragon decided to bond only one rider, rather than go for better odds with two.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

“Absolutely not!” one general shouts loud enough that I can hear her all the way from the little medical station that’s been set up at the end of the bleachers for riders. It’s nothing but a row of a dozen tables and some flown-in supplies to tide us over until we can get to the Healer Quadrant, but at least the pain medication is taking effect.

Two dragons. I have…two dragons.

The generals have been screaming at each other for the last half hour, long enough for a chill to settle in the night air and for an instructor I’ve never met to sew up both sides of my arm.

Lucky for me, Tynan mostly sliced through muscle but didn’t sever it.

Unlucky for me, Jack is getting his shoulder examined about a dozen feet away. He strutted over from the back of an Orange Scorpiontail to record his bond with the roll-keeper, who’d kept doing her job regardless of the generals arguing on the dais behind her.

Jack hasn’t quit staring at Tairn across the field.

“How is that?” Professor Kaori asks quietly, tightening the straps around my splinted ankle. There are about a million other questions in his slashing, dark eyes, but he keeps them to himself.

“Hurts like hell.” The swelling made it nearly impossible to get my boot back on without loosening every single lace to its widest position, but at least I didn’t have to crawl across the field like a girl from Second Wing who had broken her leg during dismount. She’s seven tables back, crying softly as the rider field medics try to set her leg.

“You’ll be focused on strengthening your bonds and riding in the next couple of months, so as long as you don’t have trouble mounting or dismounting”—his head tilts as he ties off the straps of my splint—“which, after what I saw, I don’t think you will—this sprain should heal before your next round of challenges.” Two lines deepen between his brow. “Or I can call Nolon—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll heal.”

“If you’re sure?” He obviously isn’t.

“Every eye in this valley is on me and my dragon—dragons,” I correct myself. “I can’t afford to appear weak.”

He frowns but nods.

“Do you know who made it out of my squad?” I ask, fear knotting my throat. Please let Rhiannon be alive. And Trina. And Ridoc. And Sawyer. All of them.

“I haven’t seen Trina or Tynan,” Professor Kaori answers slowly, like he’s trying to soften a blow. It doesn’t.

“Tynan won’t be coming,” I whisper, guilt gnawing at my stomach.

“That is not your kill to take credit for,” Tairn mentally growls.

“I see,” Professor Kaori murmurs.

“What the hell do you mean you think it needs surgery?” Jack bellows from my left.

“I mean, it looks like the weapon severed a couple of ligaments, but we’ll have to get you to the healers to be sure,” the other instructor says, his voice infinitely patient as he secures Jack’s sling.

I look Jack straight in those evil eyes and smile. I’m done being scared of him. He ran back in that meadow.

Rage mottles his cheeks in the mage light, and he swings his feet over the end of his table and charges toward me. “You!”

“I what?” I slip off the end of my table and leave my hands loose by the sheaths at my thighs.

Professor Kaori’s eyebrows jump as he glances between us. “You?” he murmurs.

“Me,” I answer, keeping my focus on Jack.

But Professor Kaori moves between us, throwing his palm out at Jack. “I wouldn’t get any closer to her.”

“Hiding behind our instructors now, Sorrengail?” Jack’s uninjured fist curls.

“I didn’t hide out there, and I’m not hiding here.” I raise my chin. “I’m not the one who ran.”

“She doesn’t need to hide behind me when she’s bonded to the most powerful dragon of your year,” Professor Kaori warns Jack, whose eyes narrow on me. “Your orange is a good choice, Barlowe. Baide, right? He’s had four other riders before you.”

Jack nods.

Professor Kaori looks back over his shoulder at the line of dragons. “As aggressive as Baide might be, from the way Tairn’s looking at you, he’ll have no problem scorching your bones into the earth if you take another step toward his rider.”

Jack stares at me in disbelief. “You?”

“Me.” The throbbing in my ankle is down to a manageable, dull ache, even standing on it.

He shakes his head, and the look in his eyes transforms from shock, to envy, to fear as he pivots toward the professor. “I don’t know what she told you about what happened out there—”

“Nothing.” The instructor folds his arms across his chest. “Is there something I need to know?”

Jack pales, going white as a sheet in the mage light as another injured first-year hobbles over, blood streaming from his thigh and torso.

“Everyone who needs to know already knows.” I lock eyes with Jack.

“Guess we’re done for the night,” Kaori says as a line of dragons flies in, only visible by their silhouettes in the darkness. “The senior riders are back. You two should return to your dragons.”

Jack huffs and marches off across the field.

I glance at the generals still gathered in heated discussion on the dais. “Professor Kaori, has anyone ever bonded two dragons?” If anyone knows, it’s the professor of Dragonkind.

He turns with me to face the arguing leadership. “You would be the first. Not sure why they’re fighting about it, though. The decision won’t be up to them.”

“It won’t?” Wind gusts as dozens of dragons land on the opposite side of the first-years, rows of mage lights hanging between them.

“Nothing about who dragons choose is up to humans,” Kaori assures me. “We only like to maintain the illusion that we’re in control. Something tells me they’ve just been waiting for the others to make it back before they meet.”

“The leadership?” My brow furrows.

Kaori shakes his head. “The dragons.”

The dragons are going to meet? “Thank you for tending to my ankle. I’d better get back over there.” I offer him a tentative smile and head across the dimly lit field to Tairn and Andarna, feeling the weight of every stare in the valley as I stop and stand between the two dragons.

“You two are causing a ruckus, you know.” I look at Andarna, then glance up at Tairn before turning around to face the field like the other first-years. “They’re not going to let us do this.” Oh shit, what if they make me choose?

My stomach plummets.

“It’s up to the Empyrean to decide,” Tairn says, but there’s an edge of tension in his tone. “Don’t leave the field. This might take a while.”

“What might—” My question dies on my tongue as the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen, even larger than Tairn, stalks toward us from the opening to the valley. Each dragon it passes walks into the center of the field and follows after, gathering dozens as it walks. “Is that…”

“Codagh,” Tairn answers.

General Melgren’s dragon.

I make out the patchy holes in his battle-scarred wings as he comes closer, his golden gaze focused on Tairn in a way that makes me nauseous. He growls, low in his throat, turning those sinister eyes on me.

Tairn rumbles his own growl, stepping forward so I’m between his massive claws.

There’s zero doubt I’m the subject of both disgruntled snarls.

“Yep! We’re talking about you!” Andarna says as the line passes by, and she joins.

“Stay close to the wingleader until we return,” Tairn orders.

Surely he meant to say squad leader.

“You heard what I said.”

Or not.

I glance around and spot Xaden standing across the field, his arms crossed and legs spread as he stares at Tairn.

The riders are eerily silent as the dragons empty the meadow, taking flight in a steady stream near the end and landing halfway up the southernmost peak in a shadowy grouping I can barely define in the moonlight.

The second the last of the dragons flies off, chaos erupts. First-years swarm the center of the field, where I happen to be standing, shouting in exuberance and searching for their friends. My eyes scan the crowd, hoping for some glimpse of—

“Rhi!” I shout, spotting Rhiannon in the mob and limping her way.

“Violet!” She crushes me into a hug, pulling away when I wince at the fresh pain in my arm. “What happened?”

“Tynan’s sword.” I barely get the answer out of my mouth before I’m snatched off my feet by Ridoc, who spins me around, my feet flying out in front of me.

“Look who rode in on the baddest motherfucker around!”

“Put her down!” Rhiannon chides. “She’s bleeding!”

“Oh shit, sorry,” Ridoc says, and my feet find the ground.

“It’s fine.” There’s fresh blood on the bandage, but I don’t think I’ve torn my stitches. And painkillers are awesome. “Are you all right? Who did you guys bond?”

“The Green Daggertail!” Rhiannon grins. “Feirge. And it was just…easy.” She sighs. “I saw her and just knew.”

“Aotrom,” Ridoc says with pride. “Brown Swordtail.”

“Sliseag!” Sawyer throws his arms around Rhiannon’s and Ridoc’s shoulders. “Red Swordtail!” We all cheer, and I’m swept into his hug next. Out of all of us, I’m happiest for him, for all he’s had to endure to get here.

“Trina?” I ask as he lets me go.

One by one, they shake their heads, looking to the others for answers. An impossible heaviness settles in my heart, and I search for any other reason. “I mean…there’s a possibility she’s just unbonded, right?”

Sawyer shakes his head, sorrow slackening his shoulders. “I saw her fall from the back of an Orange Clubtail.”

My heart sinks.

“Tynan?” Ridoc asks, his gaze jumping between us.

“Tairn killed him,” I say softly. “In his defense, Tynan had already run me through once.” I gesture to the wound on my arm. “And he was trying to—”

“He tried what?”

I’m spun around by the shoulders and yanked against a chest. Dain. My arms wind around his back and hold fast as I breathe deeply.

“Damn it. Violet. Just…damn.” He squeezes me tight, then pushes me to arm’s length. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, but that doesn’t quell the worry in his eyes. I’m not sure anything ever will. “But we’re all that’s left of our squad’s first-years.”

Dain’s gaze rises to look at the others, and he nods. “Four out of nine. That’s”—his jaw ticks once—“to be expected. The dragons are currently holding a meeting of the Empyrean—their leadership. Stay here until they return,” he says to the others before looking down at me. “You come with me.”

It’s probably my mother, beckoning me through him. Surely she’ll want to see me with everything that’s going on. I glance across the field, but it’s not Mom I find watching me but Xaden, his expression unreadable.

When Dain takes my hand and tugs, I turn away from Xaden, following Dain to the opposite edge of the field, where we’re hidden in shadow. Guess it’s not about Mom.

“What the actual fuck happened out there? Because I’ve got Cath telling me that not only did Tairn choose you but so did the small one—Adarn?” His fingers lace with mine, panic swirling in his brown eyes.

“Andarna,” I correct him, a smile playing on my lips at the thought of the small golden dragon.

“They’re going to make you choose.” His expression hardens, and the certainty there makes me recoil.

“I’m not choosing.” I shake my head, disengaging our hands. “No human has ever chosen, and I’m not about to be the first.” And who the hell is Dain to tell me that?

“You are.” He rips his hand over his hair, and his composure slips. “You have to trust me. You do trust me, right?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then you have to choose Andarna.” He nods as if his decree equals a decision made. “The gold one is the safest choice of the two.”

Why, because Tairn is…Tairn? Does Dain think I’m too weak for a dragon as strong as Tairn?

My mouth opens, then shuts like a fish out of water as I search for any reply that isn’t fuck off. There’s no way in hell I’m rejecting Tairn. But my heart won’t let me reject Andarna, either.

“Are they going to make me choose?” I think in their direction.

There’s no response, and where I’ve felt an…extension in my mind, of who I am, stretching my mental boundaries since Tairn first spoke to me in that field, there’s nothing now.

I’m cut off. Don’t panic.

“I’m not choosing,” I repeat, softer this time. What if I can’t have either of them? What if they’ve broken some sacred rule and now we’ll all be punished?

“You are. And it has to be Andarna.” He grips my shoulders and leans in, an edge of urgency in his tone. “I know she’s too small to bear a rider—”

“That hasn’t been tested,” I say defensively even though I know it’s true. The physics just don’t match up.

“And it doesn’t matter. It will mean that you won’t be able to ride with a wing, but they’ll probably make you a permanent instructor here like Kaori.”

“That’s because his signet power makes him indispensable as a teacher, not because his dragon can’t fly,” I argue. “And even he had the requisite four years with a combat wing before he was put behind a desk.”

Dain looks away, and I can almost see the gears in his mind turning as he calculates…what? My risk? My choice? My freedom? “Even if you take Andarna into combat, there’s only a chance you’ll be killed. You take Tairn, and Xaden will get you killed. You think Melgren is terrifying? I’ve been here for a year longer than you have, Vi. At least you know what you’re getting when it comes to Melgren. Xaden isn’t only twice as ruthless, but he’s dangerously unpredictable.”

I blink. “Wait. What are you saying?”

“They’re a mated pair, Tairn and Sgaeyl. The strongest bonded pair in centuries.”

My mind whirs. Mated pairs can’t be separated for long or their health diminishes, so they’re always stationed together. Always. Which means—oh gods.

“Just…tell me how it happened.” He must see me fumbling because his voice softens.

So I do. I tell him about Jack and his band of murderous friends hunting Andarna. I tell him about falling, and the field, and Xaden watching, Xaden…shockingly protecting me with his warning when Oren was at my back. He had the perfect opportunity to end me without it tipping his scales, and he chose to help. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

“Xaden was there,” Dain says quietly, but the gentleness leaches from his voice.

“Yes.” I nod. “But he left after Tairn showed up.”

“Xaden was there when you defended Andarna, and then Tairn just…showed up?” he asks slowly.

“Yes. That’s what I just said.” Was the timeline confusing him? “What are you getting at?”

“Don’t you see what happened? What Xaden’s done?” His grip tightens. Thank gods for the dragon-scale armor, or I might have bruises tomorrow.

“Please, do tell me what it is you think I’ve done.” A shape emerges from the shadows, and my pulse quickens as Xaden steps into the moonlight, darkness falling off him like a discarded veil.

Heat rushes through every vein, wakes every nerve ending. I hate the reaction of my body to the sight of him, but I can’t deny it. His appeal is so fucking inconvenient.

“You manipulated Threshing.” Dain’s hands drop from my shoulders, and he turns to face our wingleader, the set of his shoulders rigid as he puts himself between us.

Oh shit, that’s a huge allegation to hurl.

“Dain, that’s…” Paranoid. I sidestep Dain’s back. If Xaden was going to kill me, he wouldn’t have waited this long to do it. He’s had every possible opportunity, and yet I’m still standing here. Bonded. To his dragon’s mate.

Xaden’s not going to kill me. The realization makes my chest tighten, makes me reexamine everything that happened in that field, makes my sense of gravity shift beneath my feet.

“Is that an official accusation?” Xaden looks at Dain like a hindrance, an annoyance.

“Did you step in?” Dain demands.

“Did I what?” Xaden arches a dark brow and levels a look on Dain that would make a lesser person wither. “Did I see her outnumbered and already wounded? Did I think her bravery was as admirable as it was fucking reckless?” He turns that stare on me, and I feel the impact all the way to my toes.

“And I would do it again.” I raise my chin.

“Well-the-fuck-aware,” Xaden roars, losing his temper for the first time since I met him on Parapet.

I pull in a quick breath, and Xaden does the same, as if he’s just as shocked by his outburst as I am.

“Did I see her fight off three bigger cadets?” His glare pivots to Dain. “Because the answer to all of those is yes. But you’re asking the wrong question, Aetos. What you should be asking is if Sgaeyl saw it, too.”

Dain swallows and looks away, obviously rethinking his position.

“His mate told him,” I whisper. Sgaeyl called for Tairn.

“She’s never been a fan of bullies,” Xaden says to me. “But don’t mistake it as an act of kindness toward you. She’s fond of the little dragon. Unfortunately, Tairn chose you all on his own.”

“Fuck,” Dain mutters.

“My thought exactly.” Xaden shakes his head at Dain. “Sorrengail is the last person on the Continent I’d ever want to be chained to me. I didn’t do this.”

Ouch. It takes all the willpower in my body not to reach for my chest and make sure he didn’t just rip my heart out from behind my ribs, which makes absolutely zero sense, since I feel the same way about him. He’s the son of the Great Betrayer. His father was directly responsible for Brennan’s death.

“And even if I had.” Xaden moves toward Dain, towering over him. “Would you really level that accusation knowing it would have been what saved the woman you call your best friend?”

My gaze flies to Dain, and a silent, damning moment passes. It’s a simple question, and yet I find myself holding my breath for his answer. What do I really mean to him?

“There are…rules.” Dain tilts his chin to look Xaden in the eyes.

“And out of curiosity, would you have, let’s say, bent those rules to save your precious little Violet in that field?” His voice ices over as he studies Dain’s expression with rapt fascination.

Xaden had taken a step. Right before Tairn landed, he’d moved…toward me.

Dain’s jaw flexes, and I see the war in his eyes.

“That’s unfair to ask him.” I move to Dain’s side as the sound of whipping wings interrupts the night. The dragons are flying back. They’ve made their decision.

“I’m ordering you to answer, squad leader.” Xaden doesn’t even spare me a glance.

Dain swallows, his eyes slamming shut. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

My heart hits the ground. I’ve always known deep down that Dain valued rule and order more than relationships, more than me, but to have it so cruelly displayed cuts deeper than Tynan’s sword.

Xaden scoffs.

Dain immediately jerks his head toward mine. “It would have killed me to watch something happen to you, Vi, but the rules—”

“It’s all right,” I force out, touching his shoulder, but it isn’t.

“The dragons are returning,” Xaden says as the first of them lands on the illuminated field. “Get back to formation, squad leader.”

Dain rips his gaze from mine and walks away, blending into the crowd of hurried riders and their dragons.

“Why would you do that to him?” I hurl at Xaden, then shake my head. I don’t care why. “Forget it,” I mutter, then march off, heading back toward the spot where Tairn told me to wait.

“Because you put too much faith in him,” Xaden answers anyway, catching up to me without even lengthening his stride. “And knowing who to trust is the only thing that will keep you alive—keep us alive—not only in the quadrant but after graduation.”

“There is no us,” I say, dodging a rider as she races past. Dragons land left and right, the ground trembling with the force of the riot’s movement. I’ve never seen so many dragons at flight in the same moment.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that’s no longer the case,” Xaden murmurs next to me, gripping my elbow and yanking me out of the path of another rider running from the other direction.

Yesterday, he would have let me run headfirst into him.

Hell, he might have even pushed me.

“Tairn’s bonds are so powerful, both to mate and rider, because he’s so powerful. Losing his last rider nearly killed him, which, in turn, nearly killed Sgaeyl. Mated pairs’ lives are—”

“Interdependent, I know that.” We move forward until we’re dead center in the line of riders. If I wasn’t so aggravated by Xaden’s callous attitude toward Dain, I would take the time to admire just how spectacular it is to see hundreds of dragons land all around us. Or maybe I’d question how the man next to me manages to consume all the air in the massive field.

“Each time a dragon chooses a rider, that bond is stronger than the last, which means that if you die, Violence, it sets off a chain of events that potentially ends with me dying, too.” His expression is immovable marble, but the anger in his eyes leaves me breathless. It’s pure…rage. “So yeah, unfortunately for everyone involved, there’s now an us if the Empyrean lets Tairn’s choice stand.”

Oh. Gods.

I’m tethered to Xaden Riorson.

“And now that Tairn is in play, that other cadets know he’s willing to bond…” He sighs, annoyance rippling over his features, his strong jaw working as he looks away.

“That’s why Tairn told me to stay with you,” I whisper as the consequences of today’s actions settle in my churning stomach. “Because of the unbonded.” There are at least three dozen of them standing on the opposite side of the field, watching us with avarice in their eyes—including Oren Seifert.

“The unbonded are going to try to kill you in hopes they’ll get Tairn to bond them.” Xaden shakes his head at Garrick as he approaches, and the section leader glances between us, his mouth set in a firm line before retreating across the field. “Tairn is one of the strongest dragons on the Continent, and the vast power he channels is about to be yours. The next few months, the unbonded will try to kill a newly paired rider while the bond is weak, while they still have a chance of that dragon changing its mind and picking them so they’re not set back a full year. And for Tairn? They’ll do just about anything.” He sighs again like it’s his new full-time job. “There are forty-one unbonded riders for which you are now target number one.” He holds up a single finger.

“And Tairn thinks you’ll play bodyguard.” I snort. “Little does he know just how much you dislike me.”

“He knows exactly how much I value my own life,” Xaden retorts, glancing down my body. “You’re freakishly calm for someone who just heard she’s about to be hunted.”

“It’s a typical Wednesday for me.” I shrug, ignoring the way his gaze heats my skin. “And honestly, being hunted by forty-one people is a lot less intimidating than constantly watching dark corners for you.”

A breeze hits my back as Andarna lands behind me, followed by a gust of wind and shuddering ground when it’s Tairn.

Without another word, Xaden rips his gaze from mine and walks away, cutting a slightly diagonal path across the field to where Sgaeyl overshadows the other wingleaders’ dragons.

“Tell me it’s going to be all right,” I murmur toward Andarna and Tairn.

“It is how it should be,” Tairn answers, his voice gruff and bored at the same time.

“You didn’t answer before.” Fine, it sounds a little accusatory.

“Humans can’t know what’s said within the Empyrean,” Andarna answers. “It’s a rule.”

So every rider was blocked, not just me. The thought is oddly comforting. Also, the whole Empyrean is a new term for me today. Kaori must be in heaven tonight with all the dragon politics coming to light. What did they decide?

I glance at my mother, but she’s looking everywhere but my direction.

General Melgren moves toward the front of the dais, his uniform dripping in medals. Dain’s right in one way—the top general in our kingdom is terrifying. He’s never had an issue using infantry for fodder, and his cruelty when it comes to overseeing the interrogation—and execution—of prisoners is well-known, at least at my family’s dining room table. His enormous nightmare of a dragon takes up the entire space beside the dais, and a hush falls over the crowd as Melgren angles his hands in front of his face.

“Codagh has relayed that the dragons have spoken regarding the Sorrengail girl.” Lesser magic allows his voice to magically amplify over the field for all to hear.

Woman, I mentally correct him, my stomach knotting.

“While tradition has shown us that there is one rider for every dragon, there has never been a case of two dragons selecting the same rider, and therefore there is no dragon law against it,” he declares. “While we riders may not feel as though this is…equitable”—his tone implies that he’s one of them—“dragons make their own laws. Both Tairn and…” He looks over his shoulder and his aide rushes forward to whisper in his ear. “Andarna have chosen Violet Sorrengail, and so their choice stands.”

The crowd murmurs, but my shoulders sag in acute relief. I don’t have to make an impossible choice.

“As it should be,” Tairn grumbles. “Humans have no say in the laws of dragons.”

Mom steps forward and makes the same gesture with her hands to project her voice, but I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying as she closes out the formal portion of the Threshing ceremony, promising the unbonded riders another chance next year. If they don’t manage to kill one of us while our bonds are weak in the next few months and try to bond our dragons themselves.

I belong to Tairn and Andarna…and, in some really fucked-up way…Xaden.

My scalp prickles, and I glance across the field at him.

As if sensing my gaze, he looks over and holds up a single finger. Target number one.

“Welcome to a family that knows no boundaries, no limits, and no end,” my mother finishes, and a cheer resounds around the field. “Riders, step forward.”

I look left and right in confusion, but so does every other rider.

“Five steps or so,” Tairn says.

I take them.

“Dragons, it is our honor as always,” Mom calls out. “Now we celebrate!”

Heat blasts my back, and I hiss in pain as riders on both sides of me cry out. My back feels like it’s on fucking fire, and yet everyone across the field is cheering raucously, some of them racing our way.

Other riders are caught up in embraces.

“You’ll like it,” Tairn promises. “It’s unique.”

The pain fades to a dull ache, and I glance over my shoulder. There’s a solid black…something peeking out from the vest. “I’ll like what?”

“Violet!” Dain reaches me, his smile wide as he cups my face. “You kept both of them!”

“I guess I did.” My lips curve. It’s all…surreal, all too much for one day.

“Where’s your…” He lets go and circles me. “Can I unlace this? Just the top?” he asks, tugging at the raised neck of the back of my vest.

I nod. A few pushes and pulls later, the crisp October air nips at the base of my neck.

“Holy shit. You have to see this.”

“Tell the boy to move,” Tairn orders.

“Tairn says you should move.”

Dain steps out of the way.

Suddenly, my vision isn’t mine. I’m looking at my own back through…Andarna’s eyes. A back that has a glistening black relic of a dragon mid-flight stretching from shoulder to shoulder and, in the center, the silhouette of a shimmering golden one.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I’m marked by their magic as a rider now, as their rider.

“We know,” Andarna answers.

I blink, and my vision is mine again, and Dain’s hands lace up my corset quickly, then are on my face, tipping it up toward his.

“You have to know that I would do anything to save you, Violet, to keep you safe,” he blurts, panic in his eyes. “What Riorson said…” He shakes his head.

“I know,” I say reassuringly, nodding even as something cracks in my heart. “You always want me safe.” He’d do anything. Except break the rules.

“You have to know how I feel about you.” His thumb strokes over my cheek, his eyes searching for something, and then his mouth is on mine.

His lips are soft, but the kiss is firm, and delight races up my spine. After years, Dain is finally kissing me.

The thrill is gone in less than a heartbeat. There’s no heat. No energy. No sharp slice of lust. Disappointment sours the moment, but not for Dain. He’s all smiles as he pulls away.

It was over in an instant.

It was everything I’ve ever wanted…except…

Shit. I don’t want it anymore.

It is therefore only natural that the more powerful the dragon, the more powerful the signet its rider manifests. One should beware of a strong rider who bonds a smaller dragon, but even warier of the unbonded cadet, who will stop at nothing to seize a chance to bond.

—Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant
(Unauthorized Edition)

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

After sleeping in the crowded barracks for the last two months, it’s weird, and oddly decadent, to have my own room. I’ll never take the luxury of privacy for granted again.

I close my door behind me as I limp into the hallway.

Rhiannon’s door, across the small hall from mine, opens and I see Sawyer’s tall, lean frame come out. He runs his fingers through his hair, and when he sees me, his eyebrows rise and he freezes—his cheeks almost as red as his freckles.

“Good morning.” I grin.

“Violet.” He forces an awkward smile and walks off, headed toward the main hallway of the first-year dormitory.

A couple from Second Wing holds hands as they come out of the room next to Rhiannon’s, and I offer them a smile as I lean back against my door and wait, testing my ankle by rolling it. It’s sore, just like every time I sprain it, but the brace and my boot hold it in place well enough to keep my weight on it. If I were anywhere else, I would call for crutches, but that would just put another target on my back, and according to Xaden, I already have a big enough one as it is.

Rhiannon walks out of her room and smiles as soon as she sees me. “No more breakfast duty?”

“I was told last night that all the less desirable duties were being handed off to the unbonded so our energy can be redirected for flight lessons.” Which means I’ll have to find another way to weaken my opponents before challenges. Xaden’s right. I can’t always count on taking every enemy down with poison, but I’m not going to ignore the only advantage I have here, either.

“One more reason for the unbonded to hate us,” Rhiannon mutters.

“So, Sawyer, huh, Rhi?” We start down our hallway, passing a few other rooms before meeting up with the main corridor that leads to the rotunda. Have to say, the first-year rooms aren’t as spacious as the second-years’, but at least we both got ones with windows.

A grin curves her lips. “I felt like celebrating.” She darts a quick side-eye at me. “And why have I not heard of you celebrating?”

We melt into the crowd moving toward the gathering hall. “Haven’t found anyone I want to celebrate with.”

“Really? Because I heard that you and a certain squad leader had a moment last night.”

My gaze whips toward hers, and I nearly stumble over my feet.

“Come on, Vi. The entire quadrant was out there, and you don’t think someone saw you?” She rolls her eyes. “You’re not going to get a lecture from me. Who gives a shit if it’s frowned upon to be in a relationship with a superior officer? There’s no regulation, and it’s not like any of us is guaranteed to live through the day.”

“Solid points,” I admit. “But it’s…” I shake my head, searching for the right words. “It’s not like that with us. I’d always hoped it would be, but when he kissed me—there was nothing there. Like. Nothing.” It’s impossible to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“Well, that’s shitty to hear.” She hooks her arm through mine. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I sigh.

A door opens farther down the hall, and Liam Mairi walks out with his arm wrapped around the waist of another first-year who bonded a Brown Clubtail. Looks like everyone was celebrating last night except me.

“Good morning, ladies.” Ridoc forces his way through the crowd and slings an arm around each of our shoulders as we enter the rotunda. “Or should I say, riders?”

“I like the sound of riders,” Rhiannon replies, shooting a smile in his direction.

“It has a certain ring to it,” Ridoc agrees.

“It’s definitely better than dead. Where’s your relic?” I ask Ridoc as we pass through the columns of carved dragons and take the steps into commons.

“Right here.” His arm falls off my shoulders, and he shoves the sleeve of his tunic up to reveal the brown mark of a dragon silhouette on his upper arm. “You?”

“Can’t see it. It’s on my back.”

“That will keep you safer if you’re ever separated from that massive dragon of yours.” His eyes dance. “I swear, I thought I was going to shit myself when I saw him on the field. What about yours, Rhi?”

“Somewhere you’ll never see,” she responds.

“You wound me.” He slaps his hand over his heart.

“I highly doubt that,” she retorts, but there’s a smile on her face. We move through commons and into the gathering hall, then make our way through the line for breakfast.

It’s odd to be on this side of it, and I startle at the sight of the guy behind the counter.

It’s Oren.

He glares at me with a hatred that trickles like ice down my spine. I skip his station, opting for fresh fruit that I know can’t be tampered with, just in case he decides to take my approach to conflict and poison me.

“Asshole,” Ridoc mutters behind me. “I still can’t believe they tried to kill you.”

“I can.” I shrug, taking my chances with a mug of apple juice. “I’m the weakest link, right? Unfortunately for me, that means people are bound to try and take me out for the good of the wing.” We head toward the Fourth Wing section and find a table with three extra seats.

“Mind if we—” Ridoc starts.

“Absolutely! It’s yours!” A couple of guys from Tail Section scurry off the bench.

“Sorry, Sorrengail!” the other says over his shoulder as they find another table, leaving this one empty.

What the hell?

“Well, that was really fucking weird.” Rhiannon rounds the other side of the table, and I follow, putting our backs to the wall as we step over the bench and sit, setting our trays in front of us.

I’m half tempted to give my underarms a whiff to see if I smell.

“Even weirder?” Ridoc remarks, gesturing across the hall toward First Wing.

Following his line of sight, my eyebrows lift. Jack Barlowe is being squeezed out of his table. He’s forced to stand as others take his seat.

“What the hell is going on?” Rhiannon bites into a pear and chews.

Jack moves to another table—whose occupants won’t make room for him—and then finds a place two tables down.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Ridoc notes, watching the same show I am, but there’s no satisfaction in watching Jack struggle. Feral dogs bite harder when they’re cornered.

“Hey, Sorrengail,” the stocky girl from First Wing I beat in my second challenge says with a tight smile as she walks past our table.

“Hi.” I wave awkwardly as she walks away, then turn to whisper to Ridoc and Rhiannon. “She hasn’t spoken to me since I took one of her daggers in that challenge.”

“It’s because you bonded Tairn.” Imogen blows her pink hair out of her face and throws her leg over the bench across from us to sit, pushing up the sleeves of her tunic and revealing her rebellion relic. “The morning after Threshing is always a clusterfuck. Power balance shifts, and you, little Sorrengail, are now about to be the most powerful rider in the quadrant. Anyone with common sense is going to be scared of you.”

I blink, my pulse elevating. Is that what’s going on? I look around the hall and take note. Social groups have split up, and some of the cadets I would have considered threats are no longer sitting where they usually do.

“Which is why you’re now sitting with us?” Rhiannon arches a brow at the second-year. “Because I can count on one hand the number of nice words you’ve said to any of us.” She holds up a fist with zero fingers raised.

Quinn—the tall second-year in our squad who hasn’t bothered to so much as look our way since Parapet—takes a seat next to Imogen, and Sawyer arrives, sitting on Rhiannon’s other side. Quinn tucks her blond curls behind her ears and brushes her bangs out of her eyes, her round cheeks rising as she smiles at something Imogen says. Have to admit, the hooped piercings that line the shells of both her ears are pretty awesome, and among her half dozen patches, it’s the dark-green one—the same color as her eyes—with two silhouettes that’s most intriguing. I should have studied up on what all the patches mean, but according to what I’ve heard, they change every year.

I’m personally a fan of the first ones we’ve been given. I had to sew the flame-shaped patch with the emblem for Fourth Wing and the centered, reddish number two with great care, being sure to only stitch the fabric of my corseted armor, since it’s not like any needle is going to penetrate the scales.

My favorite patch, though, is the one beside the Flame Section one. We’re the squad to have the most surviving members since Parapet, this year’s Iron Squad.

“You weren’t interesting enough to sit with before,” Imogen responds, then bites into a muffin.

“I usually sit with my girlfriend in Claw Section. Besides, no use getting to know you when most of you die,” Quinn adds, tucking her curls away again, just to have them spring forward. “No offense.”

“None taken?” I start on my apple.

I nearly spit it out when Heaton and Emery, the only third-years in our squad, flank Imogen and Quinn on the bench across from us.

The only people we’re missing are Dain and Cianna, who are eating with leadership as usual.

“I thought Seifert would bond,” Heaton says to Emery across the table, as though we’ve caught them mid-discussion. The normally red flames in their hair are green today. “Other than losing to Sorrengail, he nailed every challenge.”

“He tried to kill Andarna.” Shit. Maybe I should have kept that to myself.

Every head at the table turns toward me.

“My guess would be that Tairn told the others.” I shrug.

“But Barlowe bonded?” Ridoc questions. “Though from what I’ve heard, his Orange Scorpiontail is on the smaller side.”

“She is,” Quinn confirms. “Which is why he’s struggling this morning.”

“Don’t worry—I’m sure he’ll make up for his lack of social standing in other ways,” Rhiannon mutters, her gaze narrowing on my tray. “You have to have some protein, Vi. You can’t just survive on fruit.”

“It’s the only food I can be sure isn’t tampered with, especially with Oren behind the counter.” I busy myself with peeling an orange.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Imogen scrapes three pieces of sausage onto my plate. “She’s right. You’re going to need all your strength to ride, especially with a dragon as big as Tairn.”

I stare at the sausage. Imogen hates me just as much as Oren does. Hell, she’s the one who broke my arm and ripped out my shoulder on assessment day.

“You can trust her,” Tairn says, and I startle, dropping the orange.

“She hates me.”

“Stop arguing with me and eat something.” There’s zero room for debate in his tone.

My gaze rises to meet Imogen’s, and she tilts her head, staring back in challenge.

I use my fork to cut the link, then pop it into my mouth and chew, focusing on the conversation at the table again.

“What’s your signet?” Rhiannon asks Emery.

Air rushes down the table, rattling the glasses. Air manipulation. Got it.

“That’s epic.” Ridoc’s eyes widen. “How much air can you move?”

“None of your business.” He barely spares him a glance.

“Sorrengail, after class is out today, you’re mine,” Imogen says.

I swallow my current bite. “I’m sorry?”

Her pale green eyes lock on mine. “Meet me in the sparring gym.”

“I’m already working with her on sparring—” Rhiannon starts.

“Good. We can’t afford her to lose any challenges,” Imogen retorts. “But I’m going to help you with weights. We need to strengthen the muscles around your joints before challenges resume. That’s the only way you’ll survive.”

The hairs rise on the back of my neck. “And since when do you care about my survival?” This isn’t a squad thing. It can’t be. Not when she didn’t give a shit before.

“Since now,” she says, gripping her fork in her fist, but it’s the lightning-fast glance toward the dais at the end of the hall that gives her away. Her concern isn’t coming from the goodness of her heart. Something tells me it’s an order. “Squads are about to be condensed at morning formation. We’ll be down to two in every section,” she continues. “Aetos kept the highest number of his first-years alive—hence the patch—so he’ll be allowed to retain his squad, but we’ll probably gain a few when they strip the squads from those who weren’t as successful.”

As discreetly as I can, I look to my right, past the other Fourth Wing tables and to the dais where Xaden sits with his executive officer and the section leaders, including Garrick, whose shoulders look like they should take up at least two seats. It’s Garrick who looks my way first, his forehead lining with… What is that? Worry? Then he looks away.

The only reason he’d be remotely worried—he knows. He knows my fate is tethered to Xaden’s.

My gaze snaps to Xaden, and my chest tightens. So. Freaking. Beautiful. Apparently my body doesn’t care that he’s as dangerous as they come in the quadrant, because heat rushes through my veins, flushing my skin.

He’s using a dagger to peel an apple, removing the rind in one long curl, and the blade continues its path as his eyes lift, locking with mine.

My whole head tingles.

Gods, is there any part of my body that doesn’t physically react to the sight of him?

He glances toward Imogen and back to me, and that’s all it takes for me to know for certain. He’s ordered her to help train me. Xaden Riorson is now in the business of keeping his mortal enemy alive.

…

A few hours later, after the squads are rearranged and the death roll is read, all the first-year riders in Fourth Wing stand in our newly issued flight leathers, waiting in front of our dragons on the flight field. The uniform is thicker than our usual one, with a full jacket I’ve buttoned over my dragon-scale armor.

And unlike our regular uniforms, whatever we choose them to be, flight leathers bear no insignia besides our rank at our shoulder and any leadership designation. No names. No patches. Nothing that could give us away if we’re separated from our dragons behind enemy lines. Just a lot of sheaths for weapons.

I try not to think about possibly fighting in the war effort one day and focus on the organized chaos evolving on the flight field this morning. I can’t miss the way the other cadets look at Tairn or the wide berth the other dragons give him. Honestly, if I had those teeth bared at me, I’d back away, too.

“No you wouldn’t, because you didn’t. You stayed and defended Andarna.” His voice fills my head, and I can tell from his tone there are places he’d rather be.

“Only because there was a lot going on at the moment,” I respond. “Andarna isn’t coming this morning?”

“She has no need for flight lessons when she can’t bear you.”

“Good point.” Though it would have been nice to see her. She’s quieter in my head, too, not as meddlesome as Tairn.

“I heard that. Now pay attention.”

I roll my eyes but focus on what Kaori is saying from the center of the field. His hand is up, using common lesser magic to project his voice so we can all hear.

God help us when Ridoc figures out how to do that. I bite back a smile, knowing he’ll find some way to annoy the shit out of every rider in the quadrant, not just his squad.

“…and at only ninety-two riders, you are our smallest class to date.”

My shoulders dip. “I thought a hundred and one were willing to bond, plus you?”

“Willing doesn’t mean they found worthy riders,” Tairn answers.

“And yet two of you chose me?” With forty-one unbonded? That’s quite the insult.

“You’re worthy. At least I think you are, but you apparently don’t pay attention in class.” He chuffs and a warm puff of steam blasts the back of my neck.

“There are forty-one unbonded riders who would kill to be standing where you are,” Kaori continues. “And your dragons know that your bond is at its weakest point right now, so if you fall, if you fail, there’s a good chance your dragon might let you if it thinks the unbonded will be a better choice.”

“Comforting,” I mutter.

Tairn makes a noise that reminds me of a scoff.

“Now, we’re going to mount, then follow a series of specific maneuvers your dragons already know. Your orders are simple today. Stay in your seat,” Kaori finishes. Then he turns and breaks into a sprint, racing the dozen feet toward his dragon’s foreleg and making the vertical climb to mount.

Just like the last obstacle on the Gauntlet.

I swallow, wishing I hadn’t eaten so much for breakfast, and turn to face Tairn. To my left and right, other riders are doing the same mounting maneuver. There’s no way I can pull that off normally, let alone with my ankle still healing.

Tairn dips his shoulder and makes his leg into a ramp for me.

Defeat just about swallows me whole. I’ve bonded the biggest—and certainly grumpiest—dragon in the quadrant, and yet he has to make accommodations for me.

“They’re accommodations for me. I’ve seen your memories. I’m not about to have you sticking daggers into my leg to climb up. Now let’s go.”

I snort but make the ascent, shaking my head as I navigate his spikes to find the seat. My thighs ache from yesterday, and I wince as I get into position, gripping the pommel of scales.

Kaori’s dragon launches into the sky.

“Hold tight.”

I feel the same bands of energy clamp around my legs, and Tairn crouches a millisecond before he hurls us skyward.

The wind tears at my eyes as my stomach falls away, and I risk holding on with one hand to lower my flight goggles. Immediate relief.

“We had to go second?” I ask Tairn as we fly out of the canyon and higher into the mountain range. I get it now, why I didn’t see the dragons training often even though I’ve basically grown up at Basgiath. The only people around us are other riders. “Everyone is going to see when I slide right off.”

“I only agreed to follow Smachd because his rider is your instructor.”

“So you’re an in-front kind of guy. Good to know. Remind me to spend some time at temple so I can make multiple appeals to Dunne.” I keep my focus on Kaori, watching for when the maneuvers will start.

“The goddess of strength and war?” Tairn clearly scoffs this time.

“What, dragons don’t think we need the gods on our side?” Shit, it’s cold up here. My gloved hands tighten on the pommel.

“Dragons pay no heed to your puny gods.”

Kaori banks right, and Tairn follows suit, leading us into a steep dive down the face of one of the peaks. I clench with my legs, but I know it’s Tairn keeping me in the seat.

He holds me there through another climb and even a near-spiral of a turn, and I can’t help but notice that he’s taking everything Kaori is doing and making it harder.

“You can’t hold me here the entire time, you know.”

“Watch me. Unless you’d rather be scraped off the glacier below like Gleann’s rider back there?”

I whip my head around to look, but all I see is Tairn’s tail swinging, his massive spikes blocking the view.

“Don’t look.”

“We already lost a rider?” My throat knots.

“Gleann chose poorly. He never bonds strongly anyway.”

Oh. My. God.

“If you keep holding me like this, your energy will go into keeping me on instead of channeling when we need power for battle,” I argue.

“It’s a minuscule amount of my power.”

How the hell am I supposed to be a rider if I can’t stay on my damn dragon by myself?

“Have it your way.”

The bands fall away.

“Thank yoooooh shit!” He banks left and my thighs slip. My hands slide. I skid right off his side, my fingers fumbling for purchase and finding none.

Rushing air fills my ears as I plummet toward the glacier, raw fear gripping my heart and squeezing like a vise. The shape of a body below grows bigger and bigger.

I’m yanked upward as Tairn’s claws catch me, harnessing me just like he did during Threshing. He climbs high, then tosses me again, but at least I’m prepared for impact this time as his back rises to meet my falling bottom.

There’s a disgusted roar of something I don’t understand in my head.

“What the hell does that mean?” I scramble for the seat and get myself into position as he flies level.

“The closest translation for humans is probably ‘for fuck’s sake.’ Now. Are you going to stay in your seat this time?” He dips back into formation, and I manage to stay on.

“I have to be able to do this by myself. We both need me to do this,” I argue.

“Stubborn silver human,” Tairn mutters, following Kaori into a dive.

I fall again.

And again.

And again.

…

Later that evening, after dinner, I make my way to the sparring gym. Everything hurts from how many times I slid off Tairn’s back, and I’m pretty sure there are bruises under my arms from him catching me.

I’m through the rotunda and crossing into the academic wing when I hear Dain calling my name, jogging to catch up with me.

I wait for that familiar swell of happiness that we might have a minute alone, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a sea of awkwardness that I don’t know how to navigate.

What the hell is wrong with me? Dain is gorgeous and kind and a really, really good man. He’s honorable and my very best friend. So why don’t we have any chemistry?

“Rhiannon said you were headed this way,” he says once he reaches my side, concern knitting his brow.

“I’m going to work out.” I force a smile as we turn the corner where the gym is just ahead of us, the large arched doors open.

“You didn’t get enough during flight today?” He touches my shoulder and stops, so I do, too, pivoting to face him in the empty hallway.

“I definitely fell enough today.” I check the bandage on my arm. At least I didn’t tear open my stitches.

His jaw works. “I honestly thought you’d be all right once Tairn chose you.”

“And I will be,” I assure him, my voice rising. “I just need to strengthen my muscles to stay seated through maneuvers, and Tairn insists on making everything harder than what Kaori is doing.”

“For your own good.”

“Are you always around?” I snap back mentally.

“Yes. Get used to it.”

I fight the urge to growl at the intrusive, overbearing—

“Still here.”

“Violet?” Dain asks.

“Sorry, I’m not used to Tairn butting into my thoughts.”

“It’s a good sign. Means your bond is strengthening. And honestly, I’m not sure why he’s giving you a hard time with maneuvers. It’s not like there’s any aerial threat out there besides gryphons, and we all know one breath of fire means those birds are goners. Tell him to ease up on you.”

“Tell him to mind his own business.”

“I’ll…uh…do that.” I bite back a laugh. “Take it easy on him. He’s my best friend.”

Tairn snorts.

A sigh rips from Dain’s lips, and he palms my face gently, his gaze dropping to my lips for a heartbeat before he steps back. “Look. About last night…”

“The part where you told me Xaden would get me killed if I bonded Tairn? Or the part where you kissed me?” I fold my arms across my chest, careful with my right.

“The kiss,” he admits, his voice lowering. “It…it never should have happened.”

Relief courses through me. “Right?” I crack a smile. Thank gods he feels the same way. “And it doesn’t mean we’re not friends.”

“The best of friends,” he agrees, but his eyes are heavy with a sadness I don’t understand. “And it’s not that I don’t want you—”

“What?” My eyebrows rise. “What are you saying?” Are our wires somehow crossed?

“I’m saying the same thing you are.” Two lines appear between his brows. “It’s incredibly frowned upon to have a physical relationship with anyone in our chain of command.”

“Oh.” Yeah, that definitely isn’t what I’m saying.

“And you know how hard I’ve worked to be a squad leader. I’m determined to be a wingleader next year, and as much as you mean to me…” He shakes his head.

Oh. This is all about politics for him. “Right.” I nod slowly. “I get it.” It shouldn’t matter that the only reason he isn’t pursuing me is rank, and it honestly doesn’t. But it definitely makes me lose a little respect for him, which is something I never expected.

“And maybe next year, if you’re in a different wing, or even after graduation,” he starts, hope lighting up his eyes.

“Sorrengail, let’s go. I am not sitting around all night,” Imogen calls from the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “If our squad leader is done with you, that is.”

Dain rears back, glancing between Imogen and me. “She’s training you?”

“She offered.” I shrug.

“Squad loyalty and all that. Blah, blah.” Imogen offers a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her. Bye, Aetos.”

I toss Dain a quick smile and walk away, refusing to look over my shoulder to see if he’s still there. She quickly follows after me, then leads me toward the corner on the left where glass meets stone and pushes open a door I’ve never taken the time to notice before.

The room is lit with mage lights and full of a variety of wooden machinery with racks and ropes and pulleys, benches with levers, and bars attached to the wall.

And on the other side, doing push-ups on a mat, is one of the first-year Tyrs I saw in the woods that night, Garrick crouched down next to her, urging her on.

“Don’t worry, Sorrengail,” Imogen coos in a saccharine-sweet tone. “There’s only three of us in here. You’re perfectly safe.”

Garrick turns, his gaze meeting mine even as he continues calling off reps for the other first-year. He nods once, then goes back to his task.

“You’re the only one I worry about,” I say as she leads me to a machine with a polished wooden seat and two cushioned squares that meet in front of it at knee height.

She laughs, and I think it’s the first genuine sound I’ve heard her make. “Fair point. Since we can’t work that ankle of yours or your arms until they heal, we’re going to start with the most important muscles you have for staying on a dragon.” She glances down my body and sighs with obvious distaste. “Those weak-ass inner thighs.”

“You’re only doing this because Xaden is making you, right?” I ask, parking my ass in the seat of the machine with the cushioned wood between my knees as she makes adjustments.

Her eyes meet mine and narrow. “Rule number one. He’s Riorson to you, first-year, and you never get to question me about him. Ever.”

“That’s two rules.” I’m starting to think my first guess about them is right. With that kind of fierce loyalty, they have to be lovers.

I am not jealous. Nope. That pit of ugliness spreading inside my chest isn’t jealousy. It can’t be.

She scoffs and pulls a lever that puts immediate tension on the wood, and they rush outward, separating my thighs. “Now get to work. Push them back together. Thirty reps.”

There is nothing more sacred than the Archives. Even temples can be rebuilt, but books cannot be rewritten.

—Colonel Daxton’s Guide to Excelling in the Scribe Quadrant

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

The wooden library cart squeaks as I push it over the bridge that connects the Riders Quadrant to the Healer, and then past the clinic doors into the heart of Basgiath.

Mage lights illuminate my way down the tunnels as I take a path so familiar that I could walk it with my eyes shut. The scent of earth and stone fills my lungs the deeper I descend, and the stab of longing that’s hit me nearly every day for the past month since I was assigned to Archives duty isn’t quite as sharp as it was yesterday, and that wasn’t as sharp as the day before.

I nod to the first-year scribe at the entrance to the Archives and he jumps out of his seat, hurrying to open the vault-like door.

“Good morning, Cadet Sorrengail,” he says, holding the entrance open so I can pass. “I missed you yesterday.”

“Good morning, Cadet Pierson.” I offer him a smile as I push the cart through. As quadrant chores go, I’ve scored my favorite. “I wasn’t feeling well.” I’d had dizzy spells all day, no doubt from not drinking enough water, but at least I’d been able to rest.

The Archives smell like parchment, book-binding glue, and ink. They smell like home.

Rows of twenty-foot-high shelves run the length of the cavernous structure, and I soak in the sight as I wait by the table nearest the entrance, the place where I spent the majority of my hours these past five years. Only scribes may pass any farther, and I am a rider.

The thought brings a smile to my lips as a woman approaches in a cream tunic and hood, a single rectangle of gold woven onto her shoulder. A first-year. When she pulls the fabric from her head, baring long brown hair, and brings her gaze to meet mine, I full-on grin. I sign, “Jesinia!”

“Cadet Sorrengail,” she signs back. Her bright eyes sparkle, but she smothers her smile.

For just this second, I abhor the rituals and customs of the scribes. There would be nothing wrong with pulling my friend into a hug, but she’d be chastised for a loss of composure. After all, how could we know how earnest the scribes are about their work, how dedicated they remain, if they were to crack a smile?

“It’s really good to see you,” I sign and can’t quit grinning. “I knew you’d pass the test.”

“Only because I studied with you for the past year,” she signs back, pressing her lips together so they don’t curve upward. Then her face falls. “I was horrified to hear about you being forced into the Riders Quadrant. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her, then pause to search my memory for the correct sign for a dragon bond. “I’m bonded and…” My feelings are complicated, but I think about the way it felt to soar on Tairn’s back, the gentle nudges from Andarna to keep going when I thought my muscles might give out during Imogen’s training sessions, and my relationships with my friends, and I can’t deny the truth. “I’m happy.”

Her eyes widen. “Aren’t you constantly worried you’re going to—” She glances left and right, but there’s no one near enough to see us. “You know…die?”

“Sure.” I nod. “But oddly enough, you kind of get used to that.”

“If you say so.” She looks skeptical. “Let’s get you taken care of. Are these all returns?”

I nod and reach into the pocket of my pants for a small scroll of parchment and hand it to her before signing, “And a few requests from Professor Devera.” The rider in charge of our small library sends a list of requests and the returns every night, and I fetch them before breakfast, which is probably why my stomach is growling.

Burning all the extra calories from a combination of flight, Rhiannon’s sparring lessons, and Imogen’s torture sessions means I have an all-new capacity for food.

“Anything else?” she asks after putting the scroll in a hidden pocket in her robes.

Maybe it’s being in the Archives, but a stab of homesickness nearly bowls me over. “Any chance you guys have a copy of The Fables of the Barren?” Mira was right, I had no business bringing the book of fables with me, but it would be nice to spend an evening curled up with a familiar story.

Jesinia’s brow furrows. “I’m not familiar with that text.”

I blink. “It’s not for academics or anything, just a collection of folklore my dad shared with me. A little on the dark side, honestly, but I love it.” I think for a moment. There’s no sign for wyvern or venin, so I spell them out. “Wyvern, venin, magic, the battles of good and evil—you know, the good stuff.” I grin. If anyone understands my love of books, it’s Jesinia.

“I’ve never heard of that one, but I’ll look for it while I pull these.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.” Now that I’m going to be the one wielding magic, I could use a few good folktales of what happens when humans defile the power channeled to them. No doubt they were written as a parable to warn us of the dangers of bonding dragons, but in Navarre’s six-hundred-year history of unification, I’ve never read of a single rider losing their soul to their powers. The dragons keep us from that.

Jesinia nods and pushes the cart, disappearing into the shelves.

It usually takes about fifteen minutes to gather the requests that come in from both professors and cadets in my quadrant, but I’m more than content to wait. Scribes come and go, some in groups as they train to become our kingdom’s historians, and I find myself staring at every hooded figure, searching for a face I know I can’t find—searching for my father.

“Violet?”

I turn to the left and see Professor Markham leading a squad of first-year scribes. “Hello, Professor.” Keeping my face emotionless around him is easier because I know he’ll expect it.

“I didn’t realize you had library chore duty.” He glances toward the spot in the shelves where Jesinia disappeared. “Are you being helped?”

“Jesinia—” I cringe. “I mean, Cadet Neilwart is most helpful.”

“You know,” he says to the squad of five as they arc around me, “Cadet Sorrengail here was my prized student until the Riders Quadrant stole her away.” His gaze meets mine under his hood. “I had hopes she would return, but alas, she has bonded to not one but two dragons.”

A girl to his right gasps, then covers her mouth and mutters an apology.

“Don’t worry, I felt the same way,” I tell her.

“Perhaps you can explain something to Cadet Nasya over here, who was just griping that there’s not nearly enough fresh air in here.” Professor Markham turns his focus to a boy on his left. “This group is just starting their rotation in the Archives.”

Nasya turns beet red under his cream hood.

“It’s part of the fire mitigation system,” I tell him. “Less air, less risk of our history burning to the ground.”

“And the stuffy hoods?” Nasya lifts a brow at me.

“Makes it harder for you to stand out against the tomes,” I explain. “A symbol that no one and nothing is more important than the documents and books in this very room.” My gaze darts around the chamber, and a new pang of homesickness hits me.

“Exactly.” Professor Markham levels a glare at Nasya. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Cadet Sorrengail, we have work to attend. I’ll see you tomorrow in Battle Brief.”

“Yes, sir.” I step back, giving the squad room to pass.

“You are sad?” Andarna asks, her voice soft.

“Just visiting the Archives. No need to worry,” I tell her.

“It’s hard to love a second home as much as the first.”

I swallow. “It’s easy when the second home is the right one.” And that is what the Riders Quadrant has become to me—the right home. The longing for the kind of peace and solitude I found only here can’t match the adrenaline rush of flight.

Jesinia reappears with the cart, laden down with the requested books and bits of mail for the professors of my quadrant. She signs, “I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t find that book. I even searched the catalog for wyvern—I think that’s what you said—but there’s nothing.”

I stare for a second. Our Archives have either a copy or the original of almost every book in Navarre. Only ultrarare or forbidden tomes are excluded. When did folklore become either of those? Though, come to think of it, I never came across anything like The Fables of the Barren on the shelves while I was studying to become a scribe. Chimera? Yes. Kraken? Sure. But wyvern or the venin that create them? None. Bizarre. “That’s all right. Thank you for looking,” I sign back.

“You look different,” she signs, then hands the cart over.

My eyes widen.

“Not bad different, just…different. Your face is leaner, and even your posture…” She shakes her head.

“I’ve been training.” I pause, my hands hanging by my sides while I consider my answer. “It’s hard, but great, too. I’m getting quicker on the mat.”

“The mat?” Her brow furrows.

“For sparring.”

“Right. I forget that you guys fight each other, too.” Sympathy fills her eyes.

“I’m really all right,” I promise her, leaving out the times I’ve caught Oren gripping a dagger in my presence or the way Jack seethes in my direction. “How about you? Is it everything you wanted?”

“It’s everything and more. So much more. The responsibility we have not only to record history but to speed information from the front lines is more than I ever could have imagined, and it’s so fulfilling.” She presses her lips together again.

“Good. I’m happy for you.” And I mean it.

“But I worry for you.” She sucks in a breath. “The uptick in attacks along the border…” Concern etches lines into her forehead.

“I know. We hear about them in Battle Brief.” It’s always the same, striking at faltering wards, ransacking villages high in the mountains, and more dead riders. My heart breaks every time we get a report, and a part of me shuts down with each attack that I have to analyze.

“And Dain?” she asks as we head for the door. “Have you seen him?”

My smile falters. “That’s a story for another day.”

She sighs. “I’ll try and be here around this time so I can see you.”

“Sounds wonderful.” I refrain from pulling her into a hug and walk through the door she opens.

By the time I return the cart to the library and make it through the lunch line, our time is almost up, which means I’m busy shoveling food in my mouth as fast as I can while the members of our original squad chat around me. The newbies, two first-years and two second-years we took on when the third squad was dissolved, are a table away. They’ve refused to sit with anyone with a rebellion relic.

So, fuck them.

“It was the coolest thing ever,” Ridoc continues. “One second he was sparring against that third-year with the wicked broadsword skills, and then Sawyer—”

“You could let him tell the story,” Rhiannon chides, rolling her eyes.

“No thank you,” Sawyer counters, shaking his head, staring at his fork with a hefty dose of fear.

Ridoc grins, in all his glory telling the story. “And then the sword just twists in Sawyer’s hand, curving toward the third-year even though Sawyer was way off the mark.” He grimaces in Sawyer’s direction. “Sorry, man, but you were. If your sword hadn’t decided to warp and go straight for that guy’s arm—”

“You’re a metallurgist?” Quinn’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”

Holy crap, Sawyer can manipulate metals. I force down a little more turkey and openly stare at him. As far as I know, he’s the first of us to display any form of power, let alone a signet.

Sawyer nods. “That’s what Carr says. Aetos dragged me straight to the professor when he saw it happen.”

“I’m so jealous!” Ridoc grabs his chest. “I want my signet power to manifest!”

“You wouldn’t be so excited if it meant you weren’t sure if your fork would stab into the roof of your mouth because you can’t control it yet.” Sawyer shoves his tray away.

“Good point.” Ridoc looks at his own tray.

“You’ll manifest when your dragon is ready to trust you with all that power,” Quinn says, then finishes off her water. “Just hope your dragons trust you before about six months and—” She makes a sound like an explosion and mimics it with her hands.

“Stop scaring the children,” Imogen says. “That hasn’t happened in”—she pauses to think—“decades.” When we all stare at her, she rolls her eyes. “Look, the relic your dragons transferred onto you at Threshing is the conduit to let all that magic into your body. If you don’t manifest a signet and let it out, then after a bunch of months, bad things happen.”

We all gawk.

“The magic consumes you,” Quinn adds, making the explosion sound again.

“Relax, it’s not like a hard deadline or something. It’s just an average.” Imogen shrugs.

“Fuck me, it’s always something around here,” Ridoc mutters.

“Feeling a little luckier now,” Sawyer says, staring at his fork.

“We’ll get you some wooden utensils,” I tell Sawyer. “And you should probably avoid the armory or sparring with…anything.”

Sawyer scoffs. “That’s the truth. At least I’ll be safe during flight this afternoon.”

Adding flight classes to our schedule has been essential since Threshing. The wings rotate for access to the flight field, and today is one of our lucky days of the week.

I feel a tingle in my scalp and know if I turn, I’ll find Xaden watching us. Watching me. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking. He hasn’t said so much as a word to me since Threshing. That doesn’t mean I’m alone—oh, I’m never alone. There’s always an upperclassman somewhere near when I’m walking the halls or headed to the gym at night.

And they all have rebellion relics.

“I like it better when we have it in the morning,” Rhiannon says, her face souring. “It’s way worse after we’ve eaten breakfast and lunch.”

“Agreed,” I manage between mouthfuls.

“Finish the turkey,” Imogen orders. “I’ll see you tonight.” She and Quinn clear their trays, taking them back to the window for scullery.

“Is she any nicer when she’s training you?” Rhiannon asks.

“No. But she’s efficient.” I finish the turkey as the room begins to clear, and we all make our way toward the scullery window. “What’s Professor Carr like?” I ask Sawyer, then tuck my tray onto the stack. The wielding professor is one of the only ones I haven’t met, since I haven’t manifested a signet.

“Fucking terrifying,” Sawyer answers. “I can’t wait for the entire year to start wielding lessons so everyone can enjoy his particular brand of instruction.”

We head out through commons and the rotunda and into the courtyard, all buttoning up our coats. November has hit hard with gusty winds and frosted grass in the morning, and the first snow isn’t far behind.

“I knew it would work!” Jack Barlowe says ahead of us, dragging someone under his arm and thumping her head affectionately.

“Isn’t that Caroline Ashton?” Rhiannon asks, her mouth hanging open as Caroline heads toward the academic wing with Jack.

“Yeah.” Ridoc tenses. “She bonded Gleann this morning.”

“Wasn’t he already bonded?” Rhiannon watches them until they disappear into the wing.

“His rider died on our first flight lesson.” I focus on the gate ahead that leads to the flight field.

“So I guess the unbonded still have that shot they’re looking for,” Rhiannon mutters.

“Yeah.” Sawyer nods, his features tense. “They do.”

…

“You only fell about a dozen times that trip,” Tairn remarks as we land on the flight field.

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.” I take deep breaths and try to calm my racing heart.

“Take it as you wish.”

I mentally roll my eyes and scoot out of the seat as he dips his shoulder so I can slide down his foreleg. The move has become so practiced that I barely even notice that other riders are capable of leaping to the ground or descending the proper way. “Besides, you could make it easier, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I’m not the one putting us into spirals with steep banks while Kaori is teaching plain dives.” My feet hit the ground of the field, and I arch an eyebrow at Tairn.

“I’m training you for battle. He’s teaching you parlor tricks.” He blinks a golden eye at me and looks away.

“Do you think we can get Andarna to join us next week? Even if it’s just to fly along?” I do all the checks Kaori has taught us, looking for any debris that could have lodged between the long, taloned toes of Tairn’s claws or between the rock-hard scales of his underbelly.

“I’m not foolish enough to not know that I have something stuck in my flesh. And I wouldn’t ask Andarna to join us unless she requested it. She can’t keep up the speed, and it would only draw unwanted attention.”

“I never get to see her,” I blatantly whine. “I’m always stuck with your grumpy ass.”

“I’m always here,” Andarna answers, but there’s no flicker of gold. She’s most likely in the Vale as usual, but at least she’s protected there.

“This grumpy ass just caught you a dozen times, Silver One.”

“Eventually you could call me Violet, you know.” I take the time to examine every row of his scales. One of the biggest dangers to dragons are the smallest things they can’t remove that penetrate between the scales, causing infection.

“I know,” he repeats. “And I could call you Violence like the wingleader.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” I narrow my eyes as I move forward, checking where his chest begins to rise. “And you know how much that ass annoys me.”

“Annoys you?” Tairn chuckles above me, the sound like a chuffing cat. “Is that what you call it when your heart rate—”

“Don’t even start with me.”

A growl rumbles through Tairn’s chest above me and vibrates my very bones. I pivot, my hands hovering along my sheathed daggers as Dain approaches.

“It’s just Dain.” I walk out from between Tairn’s forelegs when Dain pauses a dozen feet away.

“Anger does not suit him.” He growls again, and a puff of steam hits the back of my neck.

“Relax,” I say and glance back over my shoulder at him. My eyebrows shoot up.

Tairn’s golden eyes are narrowed in a glare on Dain, and his teeth are bared, dripping saliva as another growl rumbles.

“You’re a menace. Stop it,” I say.

“Tell him if he harms you, I’ll scorch the ground where he stands.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tairn.” I roll my eyes and walk to Dain, whose jaw is locked, but his eyes are wide with apprehension.

“Tell him, or I’ll take it up with Cath.”

“Tairn says if you harm me, he’ll burn you,” I say as dragons to the left and right launch skyward without their riders, headed back to the Vale. But not Tairn. Nope, he’s still standing behind me like an overprotective dad.

“I’m not going to harm you!” Dain snaps.

“Word for word, Silver One.”

I blow a breath out slowly. “Sorry, he actually said, if you harm me, he’ll scorch the ground where you stand.” I turn and look over my shoulder. “Better?”

Tairn blinks.

Dain keeps his eyes on me, but I see it there, the swirling anger Tairn warned me about. “I would rather die than harm you, and you know it.”

“Happy now?” I ask Tairn.

“I’m hungry. I think I’ll partake in a flock of sheep.” He launches with great beats of his wings.

“I need to talk to you.” Dain’s voice drops, and he narrows his eyes.

“Fine. Walk me back.” I motion at Rhiannon to go on without me, and she walks ahead with the others, leaving Dain and me to bring up the rear.

We fall back at the edge of the field.

“Why didn’t you tell me you can’t keep your fucking seat?” he shouts at me, grabbing my elbow.

“I’m sorry?” I yank my arm out of his hold.

Tairn growls in my mind.

“I’ve got this,” I shout back at him.

“All this time, I’ve been letting Kaori teach you, thinking he must have everything under control. After all, if the rider of the strongest dragon in the quadrant couldn’t keep her seat, then surely we’d all know.” He rips his hand over his hair. “Surely I would know if my best friend fell every fucking day that she flew!”

“It’s not a secret!” Anger bubbles in my veins. “Everyone in our wing knows! I’m sorry if you haven’t been keeping tabs on your squad, but trust me, Dain. Everyone knows. And I’m not going to stand here while you lecture me like I’m a child.” I stalk off, my strides eating up the ground as I follow my wing.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, anger in his voice giving way to hurt as he catches up, more than matching my pace.

“There’s not a problem.” I shake my head. “Tairn can keep me buckled in magically if he needs to. I’m the one asking him to loosen the restraints. And I’d think twice before you question him. He’s more of the char-first-ask-questions-later type.”

“It’s a huge problem, because he can’t channel—”

“His full powers?” I ask as we make it out of the field, heading toward the steps that descend next to the Gauntlet. “I know that. Why do you think I’m up there asking him to loosen up?” Frustration is a living, breathing thing inside me, eating up all rational thought.

“You’ve been flying for a month, and you’re still falling.” His voice follows me down the staircase.

“So is half the wing, Dain!”

“Not a dozen times, they aren’t,” he shoots back. He’s on my heels as I pick up my pace toward the path that will lead back to the citadel, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. “I just want to help you, Vi. How can I help?”

I sigh at the plaintive tone in his voice. I keep forgetting this is my best friend, and he’s having to watch me risk my life every day. I don’t know how I’d feel if our roles were reversed. Probably just as concerned. So I try to lighten the mood and say, “You should have seen me a month ago when it was three dozen times.”

“Three dozen?” His voice rises on the last word.

I halt at the mouth of the tunnel and offer a smile. “It sounds worse than it is, Dain. I promise.”

“Will you at least tell me what part of flight you have trouble with? At least let me help you.”

“You want a list of my flaws?” I roll my eyes. “My thighs are too weak, but I’m building muscle. My hands can’t grip the pommel, but they’re getting stronger. It took weeks for my biceps to heal, so I’m training that one, too. But you don’t have to worry about me, Dain—Imogen is training me.”

“Because Riorson asked her to,” he guesses, folding his arms across his chest.

“Probably. Why does it matter?”

“Because he doesn’t have your best interest at heart.” He shakes his head, looking more like a stranger than I’ve ever seen him before. “First, it was bending the rules to make it up the Gauntlet, and yes, Amber lit into me for an hour about how you acted dishonorably.”

Dishonorably? Fuck this.

“And you just took her word for it? Without asking me what happened?”

“She’s a wingleader, Vi. I’m not about to question her integrity!”

“I proved myself with the Codex, and Riorson accepted it. He’s a wingleader, too.”

“Fine. You made it up. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t stand myself if something happened to you, whether you were handling the trial the right or wrong way. And then I thought you’d be fine if you survived Threshing, but even bonded to the strongest of them…” He shakes his head.

“Go ahead. Say it.” My hands curl into fists, my nails biting into my palms.

“I’m terrified you’re not going to make it to graduation, Vi.” His shoulders slump. “You know exactly how I feel about you, whether or not I can do anything about it, and I’m terrified.”

It’s that last line that does me in. Laughter bubbles up through my throat and escapes.

His eyes widen.

“This place cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you are at your core.” I repeat his words from this summer. “Isn’t that what you said to me? Is this who you really are at your core? Someone so enamored with rules that he doesn’t know when to bend or break them for someone he cares about? Someone so focused on the least I’m capable of doing, he can’t believe I can do so much more?”

The warmth drains from his brown eyes.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Dain.” I take a step closer, but the distance between us only widens. “The reason we’ll never be anything more than friends isn’t because of your rules. It’s because you have no faith in me. Even now, when I’ve survived against all odds and bonded not just one dragon but two, you still think I won’t make it. So forgive me, but you’re about to be some of the bullshit that this place cuts away from me.” I move to the side and march past him through the tunnel, forcing air through my lungs.

Other than the last year, when he entered the Riders Quadrant, I can’t remember a time without Dain in my life.

But I can’t take his constant pessimism about my future anymore.

Sunlight overpowers me for a second as I walk into the courtyard. Classes are out for the afternoon, and I see Xaden and Garrick leaned up against the wall of the academic building like gods surveying their domain.

Xaden arches a dark eyebrow as I pass by.

I flip him the middle finger.

I’m not taking his shit today, either.

“Everything all right?” Rhiannon asks as I catch up to her and the guys.

“Dain is an ass—”

“Make it stop!” someone screams, rushing down the steps of the rotunda and holding his head. It’s a first-year in Third Wing who sits two rows beneath me in Battle Brief and perpetually drops his quill. “For gods’ sake, make it stop!” he shrieks, stumbling into the courtyard.

My hands hover over my blades.

A shadow moves to my left, and a glance tells me Xaden has moved, casually putting himself just ahead of me.

The crowd hollows, forming a circle around the first-year as he screams, clutching his head.

“Jeremiah!” someone shouts, coming forward.

“You!” Jeremiah spins, pointing his finger at the third-year. “You think I’ve lost it!” His head tilts, and his eyes flare. “How does he know? He shouldn’t know!” His tone shifts, like the words aren’t his own.

Chills race down my spine, dragging my stomach to the ground.

“And you!” He spins again, pointing at a second-year in First Wing. “What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he screaming?” He turns again, focused on Dain. “Is Violet going to hate me forever? Why can’t she see that I just want to keep her alive? How is he…? He’s reading my thoughts!” The impression is uncanny, embarrassing, and terrifying.

“Oh gods,” I whisper, my heart thundering so loud, I can hear the pounding blood in my ears. Forget the embarrassment. Who cares if people know Dain is thinking about me? Jeremiah’s signet power is manifesting. He can read minds—an inntinnsic. His power is a death sentence.

Ridoc stumbles backward on my left—shoved aside—and I don’t need to look to know whose muscled arm now brushes my shoulder. The scent of mint somehow steadies my heartbeat.

Jeremiah unsheathes his shortsword. “Make it stop! Can’t any of you see? The thoughts won’t stop!” His panic is palpable, clogging my own throat.

“Do something,” I beg Xaden, glancing up at him.

His unwavering, lethal focus is on Jeremiah, but his body tenses at my plea, poised, ready to strike. “Start mentally reciting whatever bookish shit you’ve learned.”

“I’m sorry?” I hiss up at him.

“If you value your secrets, clear your thoughts. Now,” Xaden orders.

Oh. Shit.

Nothing comes to mind, and we’re clearly in imminent danger. Um… Many Navarrian defense posts exist beyond the safety of our wards. Such posts are considered to be in a zone of imminent danger and should only be staffed by military personnel and never the civilians who usually accompany them.

“And you!” Jeremiah turns, his gaze locking on Garrick. “Damn it all to hell. He’ll know about—” The shadows around Jeremiah’s feet snake up his legs in a heartbeat, winding around his chest until they cover his mouth in bands of black.

I swallow the boulder in my throat.

A professor pushes through the crowd, his shock of white hair bouncing with every step of his large frame.

“He’s an inntinnsic!” someone shouts, and that seems to be all that’s necessary.

The professor grips Jeremiah’s head with both hands, and a crack echoes off the walls of the silent courtyard. Xaden’s shadows melt away and Jeremiah falls to the ground, his head at an unnatural, macabre angle. His neck is broken.

The professor bends down and lifts Jeremiah’s body with surprising strength, carrying him into the rotunda.

Xaden inhales sharply beside me, then walks away with Garrick, headed toward the academic wing. Nice to see you, too.

“Maybe I don’t want a signet power after all,” Ridoc murmurs.

“That death is merciful compared to what will happen if you don’t manifest one,” Dain says, and I swear I start to feel my relics burn across my back even though my dragons haven’t started channeling.

“And that,” Sawyer says from Rhiannon’s side, “was Professor Carr.”

…

“You always have to check your sources,” Dad tells me, ruffling my hair as he stands beside me at the table in the Archives. “Remember that firsthand accounts are always more accurate, but you have to look deeper, Violet. You have to see who is telling the story.”

“But what if I want to be a rider?” I ask with the voice of a much-younger version of me. “Like Brennan and Mom?”

“WAKE.” A familiar, consuming voice rumbles through the Archives. A voice that doesn’t belong here.

“You’re not like them, Violet. That’s not your path.” Dad offers me an apologetic smile, the usual kind that says he sympathizes but there’s nothing he can do, the kind he gives me when Mom makes a choice he doesn’t agree with. “And it’s for the best. Your mother has never understood that while riders may be the weapons of our kingdom, it’s the scribes who have all the real power in this world.”

“Wake before you die!” The bookshelves in the Archives tremble, and my heart jolts. “Now!”

My eyes fly open, and I gasp as the dream disintegrates. I’m not in the Archives. I’m in my room in the Riders—

“Move!” Tairn bellows.

“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects off a sword slicing through the air above me.

Oh. Shit. I roll toward the opposite side of my bed, but not fast enough, and the blade slams into the side of my back with a force even my thick winter blankets can’t diffuse.

Adrenaline camouflages the pain as the sword rebounds, unable to split the dragon scales.

My knees slam into the hardwood floor, and I thrust my hands beneath my pillow, drawing back two daggers as I untangle from the covers and gain my feet. How the hell did they get my door unlocked?

Blowing my unbound hair out of my face, I meet the wide, shocked eyes of an unbonded first-year, and he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in my room. Four are unbonded men. Three are unbonded women—I gasp with recognition—make that two as she runs for the door and slams it on the way out.

She opened the door. There’s no other explanation.

The rest are all armed. All determined to kill me. All standing between my unlocked door and me. My hands curl around the hilts of my daggers and my heart rate skyrockets. “Guess it won’t do me much good to ask you to leave nicely?”

I’m going to have to fight my way out of here.

“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!”

Good point. But there’s not exactly a lot of places to go in this tiny room.

“Damn it! I told you her armor is impenetrable!” Oren hisses from the other side of the room, blocking my exit. Fucking asshole.

“I should have killed you during Threshing,” I admit. My door is closed, but surely someone will hear if I sc—

A woman lunges for me, scrambling across my bed, and I dodge, sliding along the icy pane of the window. The window!

“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine, and I can’t get there fast enough!”

No window. Got it. Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of my nightgown’s sleeve as it lodges in the armoire, but she missed any flesh. I spin, leaving the sleeve behind as it rips away, and flick my dagger as I round the end of my bed. It lands in her shoulder, my favorite target, and she goes down with a cry, clutching her wound.

The rest of my weapons are stored near the door. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“No more throwing things. Keep ahold of that weapon!”

For someone who can’t help, Tairn has no problem dishing out opinions.

“You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts. “I’ll do it myself!”

I move my blade to my right hand and fend off one attack from the left, slicing her down her forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a man’s thigh. I kick out with my heel and catch another in the gut as he attacks, sending him careening back onto my bed, his sword tumbling after him.

But now I’m cornered between my desk and the armoire.

There are too many of them.

And they all rush at the same damn time.

My dagger is kicked out of my hand with appalling ease, and my heart seizes as Oren grips my throat, yanking me toward him. I sweep out for his knees, but my bare feet make no impact as he lifts me off the ground, cutting off my air supply as I kick for purchase.

No. No. No.

I dig my hands into his arm, my fingernails puncturing his skin as I claw, drawing blood. He might bear my scars after this, but his grip doesn’t ease as he crushes my throat.

Air. There’s no air.

“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone.

He who? I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Finish her!” one of the men yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”

They’re after Tairn.

Tairn’s roar of rage fills my head as Oren lowers my body, flipping me around as he curls his arm so my back is against his chest. At least my feet are on the ground, but the edge of my vision goes dark, my lungs fighting for oxygen that isn’t there.

The greedy eyes of a bleeding first-year stare back into mine. “Do it!” she demands.

“Your dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in my ear, and his hand falls away, replaced by a blade.

Air rushes into my lungs as cold metal caresses my throat, the oxygen flooding my blood and clearing my head enough to realize this is it. I am going to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be my last, an overwhelming sorrow seizes my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if I would have made it. Would I have been strong enough to graduate? Would I have become worthy of Tairn and Andarna? Would I have finally made my mother proud?

The knife tip touches my skin.

My bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the stone wall, but I don’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before a shriek pierces my vision.

“Mine!” Andarna screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down my spine, then rushes to my fingertips and toes, and the next breath I take is in total, complete silence.

“Go!” Andarna demands.

I blink and realize the first-year in front of me doesn’t. She isn’t breathing. Isn’t moving.

No one is.

Everyone in this room is frozen in place…except me.

In response to the Great War, dragons claimed the western lands and gryphons the central ones, abandoning the Barrens and the memory of General Daramor, who nearly destroyed the Continent with his army. Our allies sailed home and we began a period of peace and prosperity as the provinces of Navarre united for the first time behind the safety of our wards, under the protection of the first bonded riders.

—Navarre, an Unedited History
by Colonel Lewis Markham

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

What. The. Hell.

It’s as if everyone in my room has turned to stone, but I know that can’t be true. Oren’s body is warm behind me, his skin malleable under my fingers as I shift my grip and shove his bloody forearm, forcing the blade away from my neck.

A single drop of blood drips from the sharp tip, splattering on the hardwood, and there’s a trickle of wetness down my throat.

“Quick! I can’t hold it!” Andarna urges, her voice thready.

She’s doing this? I gulp heaving breaths through my battered windpipe and duck under Oren’s forearm, freeing myself, then sidestep quickly in the silence.

Complete, unearthly silence.

The clock on my desk isn’t ticking as I squeeze between Oren’s elbow and a giant guy who used to be from Second Wing. No one breathes. Their gazes are frozen. To the left, the woman I sliced open is hunched over, clutching her forearm, and the man I stabbed is leaned against the wall on the right, staring in horror at his thigh.

I mark time in thunderous heartbeats as I stumble into the only open space in my room, but my path to the now-open door isn’t clear.

Xaden fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of the gods. He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him, hanging in midair.

For the first time since crossing the parapet, I’m so fucking relieved to see him that I could cry.

Andarna gasps in my mind—and chaos resumes.