We Can't Be Friends

by AvaTate

Summary:

Sloane Mairi was forged in the fire of grief. Over the course of her short life, she’s grieved for her parents, her province and now, her brother. Sometimes, she worries that the flames of her grief and anger might consume her, devour her, if she lets them, but without them, how could she go on?

Dain Aetos isn’t sure who he is or what he’s doing. Lately, he’s begun to doubt everything he’s ever known, himself most of all. Lately, he’s been looking for answers to questions he’s never thought to ask before.

Could these two broken souls find solace in the unlikeliest of places: each other?

Chapter 1: Prologue

Lady Perrers,

I write to inform you that Cadet Liam Mairi was a routine casualty during a scheduled training event known as War Games. His remains could not be recovered. To prevent possible aid to our enemies, no further details of his death will be divulged. 

I ask that, as guardian of his next of kin, you notify his sister of his death so that she may commend his soul to Malek.

His possessions will be burned in the customary fashion. 

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF COLONEL ALASTOR AETOS TO LADY DAEVA PERRERS, BARONESS OF CALAIS

 

 

 

-DAIN-

Early July

 

My father’s office is untenably cold, and it suits him. 

My foot bounces as I sit in the chair across from his desk. As always, he’s making me wait; making me watch while he finishes writing whatever correspondence he was halfway through when I entered, as if implying I have caused him inconvenience despite being summoned. His favorite strategists posit that battles are most often won before they’ve begun, that fear and anticipation are the most potent weapons.

He’s letting the silence grow thick, giving me time to consider the myriad of ways in which I am subpar. 

He’s allowing time and space for me to fight his battle for him, to wage war against myself internally so that I’ll be more vulnerable for his oncoming assault.

I know it, but I can’t resist.

There are several reasons he could have called me before him today, but in these sorts of instances, the most obvious answer is often the right one. More likely than not, he has brought me here to express his supreme disappointment in my failure at War Games, which has undoubtedly cost me the position of senior wingleader. 

I want to scream that it’s not my fault. I was fighting an uphill battle at Eltuval, trying to corral a wing that didn’t respect my authority until it was too late; scrambling to establish a makeshift headquarters while Riorson and his special squad did who the fuck knows what. They certainly weren’t contributing to the rest of the wing’s efforts, which is the only damn thing I can say for certain. I was cut off at the knees: short a wingleader, a section leader and an XO; my most powerful wielders unavailable. I was operating on limited intel without a headquarters, which forced me to be on the defensive, instead of utilizing more aggressive strategies. If I had had the full contingent of Fourth Wing’s leadership as well as a lightning wielder and shadow wielder in my arsenal, I would have returned victorious. There’s no doubt in my mind.

Of course, it’s a moot point. If I had had all of those things, I wouldn’t have been calling the shots. 

Riorson would have returned victorious. 

The truth is that I should have been able to manage without them. That’s the entire point of War Games: learning to respond to the dynamism of battle, improvising, proving you can keep your head in a high-stakes environment, demonstrating your ability to apply all of the theory and strategy we’re taught. 

It still smarts, though.

I came so close. 

I came so close to proving I was—

It doesn’t matter, in the end. In war, like in love, there’s no such thing as second place. 

There is nothing my father can say to me now that I haven’t already said to myself, no way he can express his disappointment that I don’t already keenly feel, so the silence has served its purpose. He’ll give it a little more time, anyway, because he’s always been a staunch advocate for overkill. If your enemy is already dead, one last stab can’t hurt.  

I occupy myself with inspecting the details of his office: medals in velvet-lined boxes, which act as testaments to victories won, battles led, lives sacrificed; the dusty tomes on military strategies and fallen generals that line the walls; the battle maps that paper the spaces between.  

I wait, because I’m nothing if not obedient.

When his missive is finished, my father leaves it on the desk so that the ink can dry and stands, crossing wordlessly to the window, his back to me. I’m startled when I hear glasses clinking, more so when he returns with two of them pinched between the thumb and forefinger of one hand and a decanter held in the other. He doesn’t meet my eye as he pours us each a drink, nor when he slides mine across the desk. 

I don’t take it. 

My brow furrows. 

“You did well,” he tells me, finally resting his eyes on my face. He studies me carefully, which he doesn’t often do. I’ve long suspected it’s because I remind him of my mother, even if only in fragments. Violet’s father once told me that I have her smile and her eyes, but the rest of me is made entirely of him. 

“Your body moves like his,” he said, pressing his finger to my temple and smiling sadly. “Your mind will work like his, too, if we cannot correct its natural tendencies.”

I didn’t ask him what he meant, because I didn’t have to. I have always known, in some deep and violent part of myself, that I have inherited my father’s worst instincts. I am selfish, jealous, covetous; I am unrelenting. 

I am calculating. 

I nod. 

“You won’t be senior wingleader,” he says after a time, making an inscrutable gesture with his hands. It’s nothing. It’s everything. “It’s not a reflection of your performance. In the circumstances, your efforts and achievements were commendable. Leadership is impressed with you, and it’s generally agreed that you have a bright future ahead.” 

I stare at a nearby arrangement of medals. When I was a child, I used to look at them and dream of the day when I would win my own. The older I get, the more I suspect that I am not a person who was meant to win. 

I will not fight battles. 

If I’m lucky, I will win wars before they’ve begun and never get the credit.

If I’m unlucky, which I suspect is more likely the case, I will gather intelligence so that others, my betters, can fight them. 

Even knowing all of this, the hope his words stir is intoxicating, pervasive.

“I read the reports this morning; it was an inspired strategy, cadet.” I bite down to contain the hopeful smile that threatens to burst from me. “If you hadn’t had to spend so much time quashing the wing’s in-fighting, who knows what could have transpired. Few could have thrived in the circumstances.” His eyes find mine, and I see his disappointment that I am not one of those few. Still, he says, “You should be proud of yourself, son.”

I nod again, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. 

My father has never been so profusely complimentary before. 

More poignantly, I failed. My father doesn’t praise mediocrity, which means this suggestion of praise must be false. He’s trying to swell pride in my chest just to deflate it. If I let him trick me with these empty platitudes, then—

My mind whirs. 

He hesitates, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “We need to talk about Violet.”

I feel my jaw clench involuntarily. I’ve been able to put it from my mind for the past five days, all the more so for her blessed absence. It was almost enough to make me grateful that the wing was missing its best fighters. 

Is this the trap being sprung?

Was he lulling me into a false sense of security so I’d be more susceptible to whatever admonishment I’m about to withstand about the situation with Violet?

He hesitates again, casting his eyes around the room as if the exact formulation of words he’s looking for could be plucked from the air; as if he could be spared the arduousness of saying them by shoving them in my hands, if only he could locate them. 

There’s no softness left in him as he does, none of the strange tenderness he showed me before. Everything about the lines of his face and body is wizened, severe. 

I gather my resolve. 

This will be painful, but far from the worst disquisition I’ve endured in my father’s office. In my mind, I rifle through a list of things he could say, girding myself for the onslaught.

It could be that he’s heard about the kiss after Threshing, in which case I’m about to receive another lecture about the importance of firm boundaries. And in earnest, I would be utterly deserving of that lecture, because I knew it was stupid to kiss her, and I did it anyway. 

It could have something to do with the altercation we had before we embarked for War Games. 

It could—

“I’m sorry to tell you that Violet is dead, son.”

It could—

I feel the air flow from my lungs as surely as if someone just punctured one of them.

I shake my head. I think I whimper, but I can’t be sure; I feel it escape my throat, but I can hardly hear a thing. The office, already cold, must have pitched several degrees colder, because I swear I can feel the blood freezing in my veins—sluggish, although my heart is racing.

I’m so cold, I’m shivering.

I breathe slow, shallow breaths, staring at him across the table, half-expecting my breath to come out in clouds of steam. 

“What is happening?” I hear Cath bark in my head. I must have dropped my shields, but I can’t get them back up; I can’t think. “Squadleader! You are distressed! Do you need to evacuate?” 

I stare at my father as he lifts his glass to his lips and drinks. 

“No.” I shake my head. The motion feels ungainly, excessive. 

The act of breathing feels ungainly. 

He sighs while he returns his glass to the table, then steeples his hands over his chest in a posture I recognize not by sight, but by feel. It’s how I sit during uncomfortable conversations, conversations I want to be over. “She, along with Riorson’s select squad—”

I’m on my feet; when did I stand? “All of them?”

“They haven’t returned,” my father says plainly, visibly annoyed by my interruption. He looks derisively at my hands, which are curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. “The scribes sent to take records found no trace of them at the outpost when they arrived. If they’re not dead…” His jaw tenses, and I fill in the rest of the sentence for him, reading the composition of the features I know so well in the face of a man I sometimes feel I hardly know at all. If they’re not already dead, then they will be when we find them. 

There’s no precedent established yet, but it’s fairly safe to say that desertion is a capital offense for anyone who bears a rebellion relic or anyone abetting them. 

“We’re sending scouts to scour the nearby villages, but I hold few aspirations of their survival,” he continues, then hesitates before adding: “I’ve received reports of attacks in the area.”

“When?” I swallow, throat painfully constricted. “When were the attacks?”

“I hardly think—”

“Did they predate the command—?”

My father slams his fist down on the table, and I start. Like a beaten dog, I fold, retreating backwards several paces; I stumble over the legs of the chair as I go but catch myself on the back of it. 

I even lower my eyes in deference. 

Still, I hear myself asking, “Did you know about the attacks before you ordered them beyond the wards?”

Beneath maps and reports, the surface of the desk is pockmarked and perforated. Sometimes, when thinking, my father takes a knife and taps it against the wood. When things don’t go his way, he stabs the knife into it. I have spent so many hours of my life staring at the blemishes that mar this desk, waiting for him to acknowledge me, that I think I might have memorized every single one of them.

There are no fresh stab marks in the wood. 

I would have expected there to be stab marks in the wood. The military just lost two of the strongest riders in a generation, weapons of mass destruction. 

I just lost… 

I just lost her.

“If I had—”

“Did you know about the attacks in that area before you ordered them beyond the wards?” I repeat, staring at the maps on the table. Ink stains bloom across them like blood, depicting a series of skirmishes and raids along the Poromish border, all the way from Cygnisen to the Cliffs of Dralor. 

I don’t need him to answer, because I can see the evidence that he knew on the fucking table. 

I lift my head and stare at him. 

If I ever had the notion of my father being a kind man, he disabused me of it young. My father has never been a kind man, but sometimes I have found it in myself to admire that in him. I have always thought him fair, though; I have always thought him principled, a man who built himself on the tenets of discipline, strength and sacrifice. 

He instilled those tenets in me as best he could.

I begin to wonder if one of us has fundamentally misunderstood them. 

My fingers are numb as I point to the maps. I watch my hands shaking, and the unsteadiness in them is mirrored in my voice as I hiss, “Did you send them there to die? Did you send her—?”

“I do not answer to you, cadet,” he spits, his voice unforgivably snide. “I answer only to kings and gods.”

“Kings, gods and Lilith Sorrengail,” I reply tersely, gesturing to the wall that separates their offices. She’s in Calldyr, presenting reports to the king’s small council, but she’s due to be back any minute now. “Does she know her daughter is dead yet?”

“In war, children die,” my father replies, the very picture of unconcern. He leans back in the leather chair behind his desk, legs crossed at the ankle. With one hand, he swirls his drink—twice, thrice. “Every soldier who has ever died was someone’s child. General Sorrengail knows that better than anyone. When I tell her, she will bear it with dignity and understanding, because she is not some cadet playing at war or being a soldier. In time, you will understand it too, because I raised you to understand the sacrifices which must be made by the few to protect the many.”

I stare at him. 

I stare and stare. 

It’s not that I’ve ever looked at him unseeingly. I have always known exactly who and what my father is. For all his faults, I still found something in him to idolize when I looked at him: his medals, if nothing else; his proximity to power and the influence that it’s allowed him to wield with all the delicacy and finesse of a war hammer; his practicality, which has served him well; his intelligence and shrewdness most of all, although it’s undeniable that they sometimes lead him down a path that verges on cruel. When I lost the only father I had ever known, I chose to shape myself in this man’s image, instead. If I couldn’t have his love, I would have had his respect, and that might have been enough. I began to yearn for his approval; I took his teachings, and I ingested them like they were the sweetest poison:

Weakness is failure. 

Obedience is survival.

I stare at him now and see where that will one day lead me. 

In time, I thought I would come to understand him better.

Maybe I won’t, though.

Maybe he’s something beyond my comprehension.

He leans forward. His smile is as sympathetic as he can make it, which isn’t very. “It’s not for us to barter the cost of peace, son. It’s for us to pay it when it comes due. When you learn that, truly learn it, then you will be worthy of my name and the lessons I have taught you; then I will deign to hear your opinions, because they will be something more than the whining of a spoiled child.” 

He looks away from me as he gestures towards the door, indicating that I am dismissed. Disgust is writ large across his features. 

Even in my shock, I am obedient as ever. 

I stumble in that direction, slam the door behind me and crash through the halls.

There are so many things I needed to say to her. I haven’t allowed myself to think of them yet because I was still too hurt, too angry. Naively, I had assumed that I would have all the time in the world to fix whatever had gone wrong between us. Now, the words I would have said, should have said, echo in my head, increasingly loud and increasingly fast, until I cannot hear them anymore. Until they’re no longer words, but noise in its purest form: high-pitched and orotund all at once; every pitch, ascending and descending; a fractal of sound, looping ceaselessly in on itself. 

Maddening. 

Debilitating.

I’ve seen inntinnsics put to the sword, and I imagine this is how it feels for them when their signets manifest: an unbearable omnipresence of sound, the kind that makes you feel like you might never hear silence again in the way you did before. Silence will always be full for me now, full of those words I wish I couldn’t hear, full of a deafening murmur that threatens to drive me over the brink of insanity.

If only someone would come and put me out of my misery.

Violet is…

Violet is…

“Courtyard,” Cath snarls, his tone nearly frantic. “I am less than a minute away.”

I don’t realize that I’m running until I arrive. I’m out of breath, chest aching; I keep running, though, beyond the walls of the courtyard. When I hear wingbeats breaking through the sound, I throw my arms out at my sides.

My body lurches as Cath seizes me in his talons a half-heartbeat later and throws me onto his back.

We exchange no words as we fly at low altitude and breakneck speed, racing through the mountains. Instead, I train my focus on keeping my seat, on surviving, and let the rushing wind drown out the deafening silence of all the conversations Violet and I will never have.

 

Chapter 2: The Parapet

The important thing to remember on Conscription Day is to just keep moving forward.

You won’t want to. Your mind will tell you that you can’t. It’ll tell you that walking out on that parapet is insane, because it is. It’ll tell you that it’s stupid, which it is. It’ll tell you that you shouldn’t have to do this and that it isn’t fair, which is true. 

None of that matters.

You just have to remind yourself that I’ll be on the other side, waiting for you, because that’s the only thing that matters. 

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET LIAM MIARI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Conscription Day

 

If one good thing can possibly be said for this fucking horrible day, the day which has hung over my life like Dunne’s dangling sword of retribution since the apostasy, it’s this: The guy in front of me is hot. When I meet Malek, which will probably be soon, I’ll deny that this was what was on my mind in the moments before I went to my death, but it’s a fact.

The guy is unfathomably, unfairly hot.

Royally hot.

Though he’s not my usual type, if the last thing I have to see before I go tumbling off the parapet is the rippling muscles of his broad shoulders, then there are worse things I can think of. 

The guy behind me is also hot (maybe not quite as hot, thanks to an aggressive cleft chin), but annoyingly talkative. In fact, he’s spent the entire time we’ve been climbing the stairs talking about himself, either ignorant of the fact that no one is actually listening or completely unconcerned. For at least the last ten minutes, the topic of his one-sided conversation has been how embarrassing it is that his mom is waiting at the bottom of the tower to see whether or not he makes it across. 

Yeah, what a bitch, I think, turning my head so I can roll my eyes without him seeing. Imagine caring if your son lives or dies. That's crazy.

“So, are your parents here?” he asks, leaning too far into my personal space as I rest my back against the wall, exhausted. At this rate, I have genuine and well-founded concerns that my legs may actually give out before I make it to the top of the tower.  

I look at him like he’s a fucking idiot, because that’s exactly what I think he is. Then I take a step to the side, away from him, and hold out my forearm so he can see the dark relic swirling across it, the permanent reminder that I am now totally alone in the world which I am forced to look at every godsdamned day. “What do you think?” I ask, tilting my head at him and raising one brow.

“Huh?” he says, looking from it to me, then back again. There’s a long moment where he looks confused; then his face crinkles like he’s just fallen into a steaming pile of dragon dung, and he sneers at me. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I bite out between my teeth. “Oh.”

Asshole that he is, he leans over me, invading what little was left of my personal bubble, and smacks the guy in front of us on the shoulder in a collegial sort of way. The guy in front tenses, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall in what I can only assume are three deep breaths before he turns to face us. “Yes?” he says in an imperious tone, staring down his nose at us. 

I hold up my hands. “Not me,” I tell him, pressing myself harder against the wall. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Him.” 

His eyes—possibly the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen—flick to the relic on my arm, then to the guy leaning over my shoulder. 

“I’m—” the guy starts.

“Yeah, you can go in front.” The tall blond who was standing in front of me moves to the side, gesturing for the asshole who was behind me to pass in a way that brooks no dissent. Impossibly good-looking blonds may not necessarily be my type, but ‘bossy’ sure is; I look at him with renewed interest.  

“No, I was—”

Protest dies on the tongue of the guy behind me, because the imperious blond is staring down at him with a kind of cold, dangerous expectation, clearly in no mood to be disobeyed. 

Cleft Chin accepts that he has lost the battle, though he looks a little irate. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, man.” I push myself flat against the wall as he shuffles past us both, then taps the weedy redhead in front of him on the shoulder and says something under his breath. 

Once his back is turned, the blond guy in front turns to me and smiles. Every trace of haughtiness is gone now that it’s just the two of us; if anything, he looks sheepish as he grins down at me. He’s got almost unnaturally perfect teeth, straight and white and even. In fact, everything about him is unnaturally perfect, including, apparently, his manners. “Sorry about that,” he says. He holds out his hand in the space between us. “I’m Aaric.”

“Sloane,” I tell him, taking it. I expect a handshake, but he lifts my fingers to his lips instead and places a gentle, chaste kiss across the back of them like we’re standing on the side of a ballroom about to partake in a quadrille, not at the top of a turret awaiting our imminent demise. “Well, aren’t you charming?” I say as he gently drops it. 

“I try to be,” he says pleasantly. “And if I die on that parapet, I’d like my last moments to be remembered fondly by someone.”

“What if I just remember you as the weird guy who slobbered on my hand?”

He pretends to consider it for a second. “I’m willing to take that risk,” he declares, turning his back to me.

“Not exactly the biggest risk you’re taking today,” I say to the hulking mass of his shoulders and back. 

“That’s the spirit.” 

“Any second thoughts?” I ask him. 

He turns back toward me, looking me up and down appraisingly. I think he’s checking me out at first and have to consciously resist the compulsion to preen; then I realize that he’s trying to decide how honest he’s willing to be with me. “No,” he says after a pause, but I can’t tell if that’s the honest answer or a lie. “You?”

“Well, it’s hard to have second thoughts when you never had a choice,” I tell him. “I’ve had a pretty long time to resign myself to my fate, so no, no second thoughts here, either.”

He gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, glancing back down at the relic on my arm before he turns to face away from me again. 

Though Aaric and I occasionally exchange glances when Cleft Chin says something remarkably dumb, glances that seem to say, “Get a load of this fucking guy” (or at least, mine do), we remain quiet as we continue to wind our way toward the opening at the top of the turret that leads out to the parapet. In fact, if I had to describe Aaric’s aura as anything, it’s pensive, maybe a little uptight.

To be fair, I guess I probably come across as pretty pensive and uptight, too. It’s not entirely my fault. It’s just how I was raised to be—noble, stolid, impenetrable.

Aaric, I figure, must have been raised the same.

There are three people standing at the top of the stairs when we finally get there, all dressed in rider black: a girl with braids holding a long ream of parchment and a pen, who’s writing everything down; a diminutive girl who I struggle to imagine climbing the wall she’s perched on, let alone a dragon’s foreleg; and a guy leaned against the wall who seems to be supervising them, surveying everything like no detail is beneath his notice.

Predictably, they’re all disproportionately hot, hotter than it should be statistically possible for three random people in a room together to be, because they’re riders. I find myself wondering if being attractive is an unwritten condition of acceptance to the Riders Quadrant or if being accepted into the Riders Quadrant just exponentially increases your hotness.

It could be the fact that each and every one of them has a body honed like a weapon and moves with lethal grace, I think, observing them.

Or it could just be the fact that they’re all wearing leather from head to toe.

I watch the guy out of the corner of my eye. He’s boy-next-door-with-a-sword hot, an inexplicable and completely delectable kind of hot. Of all three hot guys I’ve noted in the vicinity, he’s the one who has the most natural appeal for me: artfully messy brown curls, golden skin, warm brown eyes that catch the light. Bossy, I think, watching him give someone behind me a glare that sends them scurrying back into line. 

Idly, I wonder how big his dragon is and what it looks like.

Shortly after the thought occurs to me, it’s followed by another: that my mother (my entire lineage, in fact, generations upon generations of Mairis and Saorlas) would be ashamed if she knew that this is how I’m choosing to spend the last moments before I plunge to my death, a death which would put an end to not one, but two noble Tyrrish houses.

I shake the thought from my head. 

When the time comes, I lean around Aaric to watch the guy who was formerly behind us, the one with the truculent cleft chin, charge across the parapet. The weedy redhead who was in front of him—who was formerly in front of Aaric—has stalled at the midway point, and Cleft Chin doesn’t hesitate before bullishly shoving him to the side.

The kid screams as he falls, and the sound steals my breath from me. 

I’ve heard plenty of screaming while we’ve been waiting in line, but this close to the opening, I can distinctly make out every tremor of his voice, down to the moment his throat goes hoarse and down to the fact that his scream cuts out well before he’s even hit the ground. 

In front of me, Aaric has gone stiff. 

“Did you know he was going to do that?” I murmur. My throat feels painfully dry, and I swallow around a lump that’s suddenly lodged right in the path of my airway. 

Aaric shrugs, the movement tight and controlled. “I had a feeling he might. I heard some people are drawn to the Rider’s Quadrant because they think it’s a murder free-for-all, and he struck me as the type. And with the way he was looking at that relic on your arm? No-brainer, really.”

“I don’t know if I should be thanking you,” I admit. “I’m alive, but somebody else had to die to make that happen.”

“You can take that up with Zihnal,” he suggests, stepping forward. 

Fuck, I think, as a sudden realization hits me. He’s next in line, which means that the second his feet touch that parapet, I’m next in line.

I take some time to center myself as Aaric gives his name to the roll-keeper. I even say silent prayers to Amari, Malek and—though I have prayed to him least in my life—Zihnal, per Aaric’s suggestion.

I don’t do it because I’m particularly pious. The opposite, in fact. It’s been a long time since any of the gods have answered my prayers, like keeping my family together, for example, or keeping my brother safe. (On reflection, I think, I was asking for a lot.)

I do it, pray, because it’s a distraction from the weight bearing down on me, from the fact that I find myself a little short of breath.

“What’s the hold up?” someone hisses from somewhere behind me. The parapet is clear, but the line is stalled; Aaric is talking to one of the riders. People are getting jittery, agitated. Though I’m busy trying to stave off the panic that wants to seep into me, a voice in my head registers how weird it is that anyone would be so antsy to meet Malek. Personally, there’s a part of me, and not an insignificant part, that’s itching to turn around and sprint back down those steps, but I know I can’t. 

One, I’m pretty sure I’d twist my ankle halfway down and die, and if I have to go, I’d rather go in an act of something loosely resembling bravery (or at least slightly more dignified) than an act of clumsiness. 

Two, they’d drag me right back up here.

Three, the people who killed my parents want me afraid, want me cowed, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction. I will not panic; I will not run. If I die today, I will not go to my death afraid. 

My parents would want me to cross this parapet with my head held high, and so would Liam. So for them, I’m going to do my best. 

The moment Aaric touches his foot to the parapet, the one holding the roll waves me forward. “Name?” she says, like watching countless candidates plunge to their deaths is her idea of a boring Sunday and she can’t wait for this all to be over. And yet, I saw her grimace when that redheaded kid got chucked off the parapet. I saw all three of them flinch, in fact, so I know they’re not as unaffected as they’re pretending to be, as they want us to think they are.

Something about the realization soothes me, just a little.

I can pretend to be unaffected by death, too. I’ve been doing it for half my life.

“Sloane Mairi,” I tell her, stepping toward the gaping hole in the wall. The wind howls as it hits me, and I wince instinctively.

For a moment, it’s all so surreal. 

All three of them give me horrified looks, and I glance down at their arms out of habit. No swirling, inky relics. I narrowly resist the urge to roll my eyes at them, assuming that, as per usual, they’re simply offended by the existence of marked ones. The alternative explanation that comes to mind is that they pity me, that they think of me as some powerless victim of the Navarrian regime, which is somehow worse.

“With an ‘e’ on the end,” I clarify, doing my best to tuck my hair behind my ear as the wind buffets it around my face. I’m briefly annoyed that I didn’t think to tie it back, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. 

Aaric is quick and sure-footed, nearly at the one-third mark, which is the point at which the guy with the sword has waved all the other candidates on, so it’ll be my turn any second now. From where I’m standing, I can see out of the opening and down to the bottom of the chasm below, and my stomach hollows out at the sight. There’s a flash of red down there, and I tug my eyes away quickly before I can register whether it’s the redheaded kid that died instead of me, or someone’s blood or something else entirely. 

I haven’t been nervous until this point. I’ve been breathless, anticipatory. I’ve been angry, sullen, and even resentful, but I’m almost always feeling some combination of those feelings. Today, specifically, I've found myself more resentful than usual, though: resentful that Liam was supposed to be waiting for me on the other side of this and now he’s not; resentful that if I tumble off this godsdamned parapet, there will be no one left to mourn not the concept of me, but the person. Hell, for some of the journey up the steps, I even managed to muster up a sense of boredom. I hate waiting in lines. 

But I haven’t been nervous. Not truly.

Now? Now, I’m a trembling ball of nerves. Adrenaline, potent and heady, floods my system, and I can no longer deny that I’m fucking terrified.

I think of the rune-warded stone my mother gave me, how I clenched it so tightly in my hand during my her execution that it left an indent for hours afterward. This will protect you, she’d promised me when she pressed it into my palm.  

I would give anything to have that stone right now, but my foster mom confiscated it shortly after I arrived at her house in Tirvainne, the house that had once belonged to the Cardulos. She said it was a traitor’s token and that one of those was already one more than enough. Then she’d looked meaningfully at my arm, and I’d well and truly gotten the message. 

It wasn’t enough for Navarre to take my parents from me. They wanted—still want—to take everything from me.

My province.

My family.

My identity.

Hell, my stone.

And now, it’s time for the final act in their grand plan. 

Whether I make it across this parapet or not, this kingdom and everyone who conspires in its name won’t fucking rest until they’ve taken my life, and this college is the mechanism through which they achieve that. They don’t care if I go quietly, toppling to the river below to be washed away, or if I get roasted by a dragon, or if I get fucking stabbed.

They just need me dead.

Get a hold of yourself, I think, taking a long, shaky breath and wiping my clammy hands on my pants. 

So the odds are against me; so my death is likely to come sooner, rather than later. So what?

If I go to it afraid, I’m letting them win. 

I try to ground myself, just like I was taught to by my mother, but I can’t concentrate enough to visualize the dining room in our old townhouse in Aretia or even my room in the house at Benserac, our ancestral seat. I try to imagine Liam is standing next to me. I wish I could imagine what he’d tell me right now, what advice he’d give me, but I can’t. I can remember the words he said to me as we stood in front of Codagh, General Melgren’s dragon, waiting to feel the hot burst of dragonfire across our backs, and I repeat those to myself like a mantra as I stand by the opening.

It’s alright, Sloane. If the worst happens, we’ll all be together again. If the worst doesn’t happen, we’ll still have each other.    

“I hope you’re ready to face me, Malek,” I whisper, steeling my resolve, “because I have more than a few bones to pick with you.”

And with that thought, that final prayer, I decide I’m ready. 

I lift my foot, about to take the few steps that separate me from the end. I feel a little more calm now that I’m on the move, now that I’m seizing some small amount of control of the situation. I’m wearing my mom’s old rider’s boots, just like I was when I stood in front of the biggest dragon on the Continent and watched him burn her to ash, except now her shoes aren’t comically oversized on me; they fit perfectly. They were the one thing of my parents’ I was able to keep, the one thing of theirs that didn’t go up in flames shortly after she did, and only because Liam had the good sense to stick them on my feet before King Tauri’s men came to round us up.

He must have known I’d need them one day—today.

“Stop,” the littlest one hisses, jumping off the wall she’s been sitting on and dashing to my side. My step falters, and I grind to a halt, my foot scuffing the stone awkwardly. 

Are you fucking kidding me? I think, turning and squinting at her as she scrambles toward me. It feels a little rude—offensive even—that I’ve been interrupted right when I had found a sense of peace and meaning in my inevitable death. She couldn’t have intervened before I made up my mind? 

Everything that I’d just been telling myself about going to my death unafraid with my head held high seems like a long-distant memory as I peer down at her, my momentum stalled. She pulls something out of her pocket, thrusting it at me. When I look down, I see that it’s a leather hair tie.

“Tie your hair back first,” she instructs. “Braid is best.”

I blink, confused. Implausibly, I find myself wondering if she's she an inntinnsic or something. Did she hear me thinking about how much I wish I’d tied my hair back before and decide to do me a solid? 

And since when do cadets give candidates advice? 

“Vi—” the guy waiting by the opening to the parapet says, as if he’s thinking the same thing. 

The little one glares at him like he’s personally responsible for everything that’s wrong with the world, and I flinch on his behalf. She may be tiny, but she’s fierce. “Don’t you dare say another word, or I’ll blast you off this turret, Aetos.” Lightning cracks the sky above us, eerily well-timed, as if to emphasize her point.

Aetos? I glance sideways at the guy who I previously thought was hot and narrow my eyes, sizing him up. Aetos, as in Colonel Aetos?

His son, presumably. 

Ew.

I can’t believe I was just thinking about how Colonel Aetos’ son was hot.

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

“Okay,” I murmur under my breath, reaching out to take the hair tie that the little one in front of me is offering. I stare down at her as I braid my hair loosely, well aware that there are candidates behind us who are watching this bizarre interaction (and about a hundred who went before me who didn’t get this treatment). I think I hear one of the candidates behind me hiss, Can we move with some fucking initiative, please?  

Gods, she really is little. She’s maybe three or more inches shorter than me, and I’m not exactly tall. I can see the top of her coronet braid. And though she moves with a rider’s deadly, sinuous stride, there’s still something distinctly frail-looking about her.

I glance up toward the lightning arcing across the sky, remembering snippets from Imogen’s letters last year, and I suddenly develop a creeping suspicion that I know exactly who this is. And if I’m right, every bone in me aches to drag her onto the parapet and launch us both off of it, taking her with me when I go. In fact, a three-for-one deal could be mighty appealing, I think: I can avenge Liam and my parents’ death (by taking General Sorrengail’s kid down with me), and go be with my family, all in one fell swoop.

Pun not intended.

“Arms out for balance,” she demands, looking a little green. Apparently, she hasn’t registered the unmasked hatred that I can feel sinking over my face, although from the way the guy’s hand is drifting toward his sword, he has. Liam always said I had a face like an open book. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps. Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down. If the pack slips, ditch it. Better you lose it than your life.”

While she recites her lecture, I examine her: the brown hair bleeding into silver, the patch on her uniform. “You’re Violet Sorrengail,” I say as soon as she’s done talking at me. 

Violet Sorrengail, as in the daughter of the woman who signed my parents’ death warrants. 

Violet Sorrengail, as in the reason my brother is dead, at least according to Xaden’s letter from a few weeks ago. 

She nods at the accusation, and I narrow my eyes. 

Any ounce of peace I might have previously felt about this situation evaporates as I stare down at the silvery wisps of her stupid fucking braid. Anger replaces it, licking at my veins—molten, dense and all-consuming. Instead of thinking about the role she and her family have played in my constant misery, or even feeling nervous about the fact that I’m about to go to my impending doom, I find it in myself to be deeply galled by the presumption that I need her advice; that she can somehow atone for everything that she’s taken from me by stopping me here, now, to state the fucking obvious.

Oh, don’t look down? You don’t fucking say. I glare at her.

The guy over by the break in the wall, Aetos’ son, definitely has his hand on his sword now, which means that if I try to make a grab for her, I probably won’t make it as far as the opening. However, he no longer has any need to worry about me dragging his little friend onto the parapet with me. Now, after her darling display of unwarranted, futile benevolence, I’m thinking it’s not enough to simply throw her off the parapet, tempting though the thought may be. Instead, I want to stab a knife through her kidney, wherever the fuck that is, and watch her slowly bleed to death. 

Leaning towards her, I whisper, “I know what really happened. You got my brother killed. He died for you.”

Pale as she is, she goes bloodless at my words, and it’s intensely satisfying. “Yes,” she says, staring up at me. “I’m so sorry—”

“Go straight to hell,” I whisper before she can finish that thought. Frankly, I do not care what she thinks she’s sorry for. I am alone in the world, and she is as much to blame as anyone. The last person I loved abandoned me for her, for reasons I may never understand, and I will never, ever accept that. Words fly from my mouth before I even fully register them. “And I really mean that. I hope no one commends your soul to Malek; I hope he rejects it. Liam was worth a dozen of your kind, and I hope you spend eternity paying for what you cost me, what you cost all of us.”

“Feel free to hate me,” she says, straightening up to her full, unimpressive height and stepping to the side. She even holds her hand out, gesturing toward the parapet like she’s cordially inviting me to fall to my death. I glare at her. “Just do me a favor and put your fucking arms out so you don’t see Liam before I do. Do it for him, not me.” 

As I step onto the parapet without waiting for an acknowledgement from the markedly-less-hot-than-he-was-before guy with the sword, Aetos, that I'm good to go, I’m blasted by a gust of wind that seems completely at odds with the clear blue sky above us. It blasts away some of my anger, but not all of it. Thankfully, it does absolutely fucking nothing to stem the growing tide of my resolve.

I’m not dying today. I will not die today. I will make it off this fucking parapet, and I will—

The wind howls again, catching on the heavy pack at my back. Immediately, I’m acutely aware of the weight that’s hanging from me, upsetting my center of gravity, and the fact that if I hadn’t repacked it this morning, I’d probably be dead already. Last night, I’d thrown things in haphazardly, uncaringly. Last night, I hadn’t appreciated how monumentally important it is that I make it to the end of this so that I can get my hands on her. 

Today, now, everything is different.

Aaric has made it to the other side of the parapet already, having practically strutted across in the time I’ve been wishing an eternity of purgatory on Sorrengail. He turns and waves at me before disappearing into whatever lies beyond. 

I take a deep breath and follow, determined to keep my hands held firmly at my sides. Fuck Sorrengail.

I make it all of about two steps before I throw them out. 

My heart feels like it’s beating in my throat as I shuffle across the narrow wall, and I feel my heart thumping faster and faster as it dawns on me that I am actually here, actually on an eighteen-inch structure suspended above a valley that is way further below me than I dare to calculate. The thought snuffs out the anger, the indigence, that pushed me forward. I feel panic clawing at me, and I do my best to squash it down. 

“I don’t know if you’re listening,” I murmur as I take cautious steps, doing my best to remain slow and steady, to let each step land and stick before I take the next. The sound of my voice is swallowed by the wind and my own heart pounding in my ears. “I’m going to talk to you anyway, mostly because I’m sick of praying to gods who don’t listen.”

I take another deep breath.

“I'm on the parapet. I’m trying not to be scared, because I know you wouldn’t want me to be scared, even though this is objectively terrifying.”

I pause as I’m hit by a particularly vigorous gust of wind. 

I’m not as quick as Aaric was, but I’ve made it about a third of the way across, which means someone will be following after me. I remain still just long enough for the worst of the gale to blow before moving again. If whoever is behind me is motivated to throw someone off like that guy with the cleft chin was, I won’t make it easy for them. 

I don’t look down, instead staring at the stones a few paces in front of me.

Don’t look down. I scoff. No fucking shit, Sorrengail. 

When my footing is a little steadier and the wind takes a break, I begin to whisper to myself again. “I don’t just mean scared of the parapet. I mean scared of everything. I’m supposed to navigate all of this now, the Riders Quadrant and then the whole world after that. War, probably. And it isn’t fair that you left me to do this all alone, when you promised me—promised me—that you’d always be there to look out for me.”

Wind hits me again halfway across, and I stumble. When I manage to stand, it almost feels like hands are guiding me to my feet. Tears sting my eyes, but the wind blows them away almost as soon as they form; I don’t move to wipe them.  

“I guess I don’t understand why you left me behind to save her. This was the year we were finally going to be together again,” I murmur into the wind. “So, I guess I’m just wondering why saving her life was worth more to you than that? What’s so good about her that you were willing to throw all that away and get yourself killed during War Games?”

Guilt washes over me as soon as the words are out of my mouth, because this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to admit that the list of people I’m angry with, which is about a mile long, includes my brother. I’ve allowed myself to be angry at everything and everyone else, but never him. 

Liam was the best person I knew. Liam was perfect.  

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s left me behind, and I’m alone, and I’m scared. 

With that in mind, I can’t bring myself to say anything else. Really, there’s nothing else I could say and no point in saying it. Liam isn’t here and can’t explain. Nothing I say can change what happened, because the past is immovable. And I don’t want to be angry at him, but I also don’t want to accept that if he chose to leave me behind, he probably had a good reason for doing it. So I shut my mouth and put every ounce of my mental energy into surviving this instead.

Dangling high over the Iakobos, I come to the sudden, obvious realization that I can’t change the past, that I’ll never be able to change the past, but that I can change the future. 

Navarre might have sent me here to punish me, to make an example of me, but in doing so, they’ve also handed me an opportunity. Here, I can be free. Here, if I manage to survive, I could become powerful.

Behind me, there’s nothing but pain, suffering and subjugation, but ahead…

I have nothing left to lose anymore and everything to gain. Whatever power I can take from this place is power I can use to get some kind of revenge on someone: on Sorrengail or her mother, on General Melgren, on King Tauri himself, if I can. And in a way, even just the simple act of living is one of revenge, of rebellion, of revolution. Of course, I hope that my actual revenge will be so much more than that, something involving blood, but if it isn’t, at least that’s something.

I’m not willing to die after all, I decide.

Not without a fight.

I practically dive off of the parapet when I reach the other side, legs and hands shaking. There’s such an excess of adrenaline pumping through me that I feel like my legs are about to buckle.

I’m surprised to find that Aaric is still standing nearby. Not leaning against a wall or slouching in a corner, but standing at parade rest by the roll-keeper as if he’s the one who’s here to supervise. “You made it,” he says, but he doesn’t sound surprised. It’s the way you might say ‘You made it’ to someone in good social standing who wasn’t sure if they would be at a ball. Like he’s glad I was able to come but not altogether shocked that I’m there. He smiles grimly as I bend over, wiping my hands on my thighs. 

I suppress the overwhelming urge to vomit at his feet, then swipe at my cheeks. As relieved as I am to be on solid ground, it somehow feels disorienting after being on the parapet, like my body is still half-convinced it might suddenly flail to the side if the wind picks up. “Of course I did,” I say demurely, giving him the best smile I can muster. 

“You did good,” he assures me. “This is Sloane,” he says to the roll-keeper.

“Sloane Mairi,” I clarify. 

“Sloane Mairi,” Aaric repeats with an inscrutable smile. He holds out his arm, and though I look at him like he’s insane, I’m grateful for his rock-solid steadiness as he escorts me through the crowd toward another group of newly-minted cadets standing by a columned stone dais with a roof that looks to be just this side of structurally unsound. 

“So, where are you from, Aaric?”

He hesitates. “Calldyr.”  

I bite back a sigh of relief. Not Tyrrish, which means my reputation doesn’t precede me. 

“I’m from Tyrrendor.” 

He looks down at my arm and snorts, somehow making it seem dignified. “I guessed as much.” 

I spot Imogen Cardulo’s pink hair moving through the crowd, and a wave of relief surges through me. I know Bodhi Durran will be here somewhere, too. I’m so used to being alone in the world that I forgot I won’t be completely alone here. They’ll be looking for me; both of them will do their best to help me through this. They’ll help me in Liam’s honor, and because I’m a marked one and because I’m… well, me.

They care about me, I realize, which seems like a thing that should have occurred to me before now; they would have mourned me if I hadn't made it across.  

Though I’d like to go to either of them right now, throw my arms around them and sob tears of relief (and probably some tears of sadness, if I’m honest), I don’t. Imogen would probably slap me in the face and tell me to grow up before she’d ever give me a hug, and Bodhi’s Bodhi. He’d hug me back, probably gently pat my hair while I cried, and then everyone in the quadrant would remember me as the pathetic, relic-marked First Year who fell apart right after parapet and snotted into his flight jacket.

Having a relic is already a big enough target on my back; I don’t need a giant sign on it that says ‘emotionally fragile’ on it, too. 

So instead, I let Aaric lead me to the other First Years who made it across, pasting a smile on my face. “Anyone ever told you you’re weird before, Aaric?” I ask as we walk, strolling like king and queen through the expansive courtyard that appears to be at the heart of the Riders Quadrant, my arm looped through the crook of his. 

He turns to me and smirks. “Not to my face,” he admits. 

“Well, then let me be the first.”

-----

“I’m Avalynn,” the petite girl standing beside Aaric says to me. She’s got red hair, bushy brows and dark bruises under her eyes. Clearly, she dressed in a hurry this morning, because her shirt is inside out; I can see the seams. “I’m incredibly hungover,” she says cheerfully, which goes some way towards explaining the shirt. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, going out with a bang, but seemed like a not-very-good idea when I found myself wobbling over the parapet. Love your hair, by the way.”

“Sloane,” I reply, looking for Sorrengail out of the corner of my eye.

Avalynn gestures to the guy beside her with a sharp nod of her head, then winces. “This is Baylor,” she tells me. “We know each other from back home, but we’ve never actually spoken before today. Isn’t that funny?” 

“Hi.” Is that her, over by—? “Are you, um, having a good day?”

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.” Baylor winks at Avalynn over his shoulder as he leads us towards the huddle of First Years assembled at the back of the formation. He’s a tree of a man, taller than Aaric by at least an inch. “You?”

I laugh dryly. “Same,” I admit. 

“Trysten,” says a guy who’s about the same height, maybe an inch taller again. He pushes his glasses up his nose, then blushes as he smiles at me. He’s got a broad face, broad shoulders, broad everything. 

Shit, I think, noticing Sorrengail begin to turn so that she can look in my direction. “Nice to meet you, Trysten.”

“Are you looking for someone?”

I crane my neck to smile up at him. “No,” I say. I don’t add that I’m actually hiding from someone, but I do slip behind the hulking mass of him so that I’m guarded from view, tucked away where Sorrengail isn’t likely to find me. “Sun,” I say by way of explanation, gesturing vaguely. “I was starting to burn.”

He nods sincerely. “Of course,” he says. “I'm happy to help, then.”

I spend the next twenty-five minutes hidden in the epicenter of the growing gaggle of First Years, sharing something between polite small talk and genuinely hilarious conversation with Trysten about how narrow the roads are in Tirvainne and which Tyrrish cuisine is the best. Twice, I see Sorrengail wander past looking for something, and it seems wildly apparent that what she’s looking for is me.

“Stop,” Avalynn begs as Trysten laments how much he’ll miss his mother’s cooking (and Sorrengail does her third sweep of the courtyard). “I’m fucking starving. I could barely stomach breakfast.”  

When the riders are called to formation, neatly dividing themselves into what I can easily surmise are sections, then wings, then squads, I watch Sorrengail filter towards the back of the courtyard and send a prayer to Zihnal that I am assigned to any squad, any squad at all, but hers. In a perfect world, I think, I would also love to be in another wing entirely, but my relationship with the gods is tenuous at best and I sincerely doubt they’ll pick today, of all days, to start answering me. Could have been divine intervention that got me across the parapet, or it could have been the fact that I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Who knows?

“Mai Patridge,” a blond by the dais calls out.

The girl seated on the ground to my left starts, looking around with confusion. She’s visibly exhausted, and nobody thought to wake her while the fifty squad and section leaders assembled in front of us and demonstrated their whereabouts by raising their hands. Slowly, the girl clambers to her feet.

“First Squad, Flame Section, First Wing,” the roll-keeper continues.  

“Over there,” says one of the students in uniform—a repeat, I guess—as he points to a specific section of the courtyard. He turns to another student in uniform, bemused. “Were we this clueless last year?” 

She’s leaning against the wall, picking dirt from underneath her fingernails with a dagger, bored. She’s fierce-looking, with short black hair and freckles. As she turns her head, I blink at the pink, puckered skin that covers the right side of her face and neck, from her collarbone to her hairline. A burn. “You were,” she tells him. “I wasn’t.”

She must feel me staring at her. Our eyes meet, and at first, my instinct is to look away, but then I think of all the times I’ve caught people staring at me across a ballroom and how easy it is to assume the worst when they quickly avert their eyes.

I keep staring; cautiously, I smile. 

She bares her own teeth, then turns back to her nails.

What feels like a lifetime later, because I hate standing around doing fucking nothing almost as much as I hate queueing, we’re two of a rapidly dwindling collection of First Years. Aaric, Avalynn, Baylor and Trysten have all been assigned to the same squad in Fourth Wing, Sorrengail’s squad, as if Zihnal has smiled on each of them in turn by keeping them together. 

It remains to be seen whether he’ll bless me, too, by sending me literally anywhere else.

“Visia.” The girl with the burn mark to appears at my side. I turn to look at her; immediately, she gestures to her neck. “Pissed off an Orange,” she says. “I saw you looking before. It’s okay. You can look; I don’t mind. It’s kind of like a badge of honor. They offered to try mending it, but I told them not to waste their time.” 

I half-expected her to be self-conscious, sensitive, the way every Tyrrish noblewoman I’ve ever known is about the slightest blemish. Instead, she sounds proud. “Does it hurt?” I ask.

She snorts as she tugs the collar of her tunic down so that I can get a better look. “It did. Now it’s mostly healed. It’s pretty cool, right?”

“How did you—?”

“During Threshing last year.” She shrugs, righting her collar again. “Hopefully I have better luck this year, right?” I nod. Busting balls? Surviving dragonfire? Living to laugh about it? I’m obsessed with her. “You’re…?”

“Sloane.” 

“Sloane Mairi,” she clarifies. 

I nod. 

“Thought so,” she says, turning to stare at the dais. “Your brother was in my squad for a while last year, ‘til he got transferred into another section. You guys look really similar, and with the relic and all, I figured you were related somehow.”

I clear my throat. “People used to mistake us for twins.”

“It sucks, right?” she says quietly. “I lost my family last year in the Sumerton raid. It never stops being weird when people ask you about them, right? It’s jarring, because you kind of start feeling like they’re this secret for you to hold onto, something that nobody else should know about.”

I chew the flesh of my bottom lip. “Sometimes.” 

“Visia Hawelynn: Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing,” the roll-keeper calls.

Visia gestures in Sorrengail’s direction. “Well, maybe we’ll see each other around.”  

As she moves to go, I find myself saying, “If we don’t, I hope you have better luck this year.”

“You, too,” she says, smiling as she steps away. I watch her walk towards Fourth Wing. 

So far, almost everyone I’ve conversed with since crossing the parapet has been called to Fourth Wing, Sorrengail’s squad specifically, and it feels ominous and uncomfortably pointed, like Zihnal is trying to tell me something. A war rages inside of me. Would I rather have to make awkward, getting-to-know-you small talk with a whole bunch of new people or spend another second of my life talking to Sorrengail? 

I don’t have to contemplate it for long.

“Sloane Mairi: Third Squad, Claw Section, First Wing!”  

I feel a small drip of dread and a deluge of relief. I’m a thing of conflicting feelings, but at least I don’t have to be a thing of conflicting feelings in Sorrengail’s presence. 

Thanks, I think in Zihnal’s direction as I move across the courtyard.

As I walk towards my new squad, my eye is drawn to the dais. The hot guy from the tower, Colonel Aetos’ son, steps onto it and crosses it. He talks to the tall, mean-faced brunette standing at its dead center for a moment, who turns to contemplate him as he speaks, giving him a look that says she’d strip him down in front of the whole quadrant and lick him from head to toe if he’d let her. Which isn’t entirely unrelatable. I would probably look at him like that, too, if I didn’t know he was the spawn of someone responsible for an immeasurable quantity of death and suffering and that apples don’t tend to fall far from the tree.

Unfortunately, I do know both of those things. Distressingly well.

The brunette begins to nod, then gestures over her shoulder. When Aetos walks away, she openly stares at his ass. 

Aetos looks directly at Sorrengail as he crosses the stage again to confer with the roll-keeper, who begins scribbling something. When I report to my new squad leader, he directs me to slip into formation beside a girl with sable skin and shrewd eyes, and a guy who looks like this has been the most boring day of his life.

“Correction! Sloane Mairi to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”

I blink. 

Sorry, what?

The gods finally answered me, and then this fucking guy decided to intervene?

I glare at Aetos as he walks back to the front of the dais, but he’s too busy casting another glance in Sorrengail’s direction to register the fact that I’m firmly upbraiding him with my eyes. 

Are they in fucking cahoots?

Did Sorrengail ask him to do that, to put me in her squad?

I wait for a moment, wondering if begging is an option. Could I, for example, go petition the roll-keeper to put me back where I was? Could I, for example, go prostrate myself in front of the bitchy-looking brunette and beg for mercy? 

Mercy doesn’t seem like an attribute that gets you far in this place, so probably not.

“Go,” someone says—the person who literally just told me to stand here, actually—pulling me out of line and gently pushing me towards Fourth Wing. “You’ve been reassigned.”

My steps are heavy and loud as I plod across the courtyard; Sorrengail smirks as I approach. 

She fucking smirks, and I feel hot hate-fire rage through my veins. 

Aaric nods in acknowledgement as I approach, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It quickly drops from his face when I come to a stop and proclaim, as loudly as I can, “No. I refuse.” His eyes twitch skyward. “Any squad but this one.”

Sorrengail’s smirk falters, and I feel a stab of satisfaction. 

The girl with the braids from Parapet, the roll-keeper, moves forward, glaring at me. She is, I realize, my new squad leader, though hopefully she won’t remain my squad leader. “Does it look like I give a shit what you want, Mairi?” she asks. 

“Mairi?” someone befreckled says, jaw unhinging. 

“I cannot be in the same squad as her,” I insist, turning to meet her gaze. Yes, Sorrengail, I can feel you fucking staring at me. I know this was all your doing, you manipulative, selfish—

“Stop disrespecting your squad leader and get in formation, Sloane.” Imogen rolls her eyes. To add insult to injury, because that’s Imogen’s favorite thing to do, she adds, “You’re acting like a spoiled aristocrat.”

The unspoken implication of her words hangs thickly between us: Which is exactly what everyone expects you to be, and which you can no longer afford to be.

“Imogen…?” I hiss, unable to form the tail end of the sentence. Some options spring to mind, and I sort through them. 

Imogen, why are you defending a Sorrengail?

Imogen, what are you doing, intervening on behalf of the person who got my brother killed (presumably because she couldn’t watch her own back, because she was a liability to her wing, according to you)?

Imogen, what the actual fuck?

“Get in formation,” the squad leader demands, interrupting before I can pick one. “I’m not asking, cadet.”

I seethe as I take my place at Visia’s side, sparing only the briefest of tight-lipped smiles for Ciaran Soldato, whose father was one of my mother’s closest advisors. He smiles back encouragingly as our eyes meet. 

“Looks like we’re about to be best friends,” Visia tells me, smiling. “So, seeing as we’re best friends, why don’t you tell me why we hate Sorrengail?” She glances down at the relic on my arm. “You don’t have a history with her boyfriend or something, do you?”

“Who’s her boyfriend?” I ask, knowing full well I don’t have that kind of history with anyone. Part of me already knows, I think, but I wait for the answer anyway.

“Xaden Riorson.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder. “You don’t say.”

It hadn’t occurred to me, when I’d gotten a letter from Xaden informing me that Liam had died honorably, saving the life of his squadmate Violet Sorrengail, that Xaden had taken it upon himself to write because Violet Sorrengail was his fucking girlfriend. Xaden, as far as I knew, didn’t do girlfriends. Up until recently, he’d been betrothed to Catriona Cordella, but that had been more politically than romantically motivated. I’d assumed, when he’d taken the time to write, that he’d done it because he wanted me to receive something a little more personal than the so-concise-it’s-verging-on-heartless notification of death sent to my foster mom. It had been weird, because in my experience, Xaden doesn’t tend towards sentimental, but I’d been too consumed by grief to ask too many questions.

This, however, makes an infinite amount of sense.

I should have guessed as soon as I saw her. I picture her in my head (because I fucking refuse to give her the satisfaction of a second look). Blue eyes, brown hair, and borderline unhinged?

 

Yeah, she’s exactly Xaden’s type.

“No history,” I tell Visia. “Well, not any of that kind of history.”

“Shame,” she says, turning back to the dais. “He’s hot. I was hoping you could share some dirty details.” She points to a balding, moustachioed man climbing the dais, the living refutation of my theory that all riders are disproportionately hot. “That’s Commandant Panchek. He’s about to make an incredibly pompous, uninspiring speech. I’m reliably informed that he does the same one every year; I’ll let you know if the rumours are true.”

Panchek clears his throat, then declares, “Two-hundred and ninety-one candidates survived the parapet to become cadets today. Seventy-one did not. To those of you standing before me, I offer my congratulations. As the Codex says, now you begin the true crucible. You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts.”

“Sounds great,” I hear someone rumble from down the line. “I was wondering when things would start getting dangerous around here.”

“If you survive to Threshing, and if you are chosen,” Panchek continues, leering out at the crowd with a disingenuous, beseeching smile that’s all too familiar to me, a politician’s smile, “you will be riders. Then we’ll see how many of you make it to graduation. Your instructors will teach you.” He gestures towards the doors of a building nearby, and I snort as Visia subtly mimics the hand movement. “It’s up to you how well you learn. Discipline falls to your units, and your wingleader is, generally speaking, the last word. This year, however, we welcome our new vice-commandant, Major Varrish, who will be the cadre’s first point of call for disciplinary issues. Let us hope, for your sake, it goes no further than that. If I have to get involved…” He pauses theatrically. “Well, you don’t want me involved. With that said, I’ll leave you to your wingleaders.”

He moves to step away, then turns back with another dramatic flair and adds one last pithy remark. Beside me, Visia mutters, her words pitch perfect and synchronized with his, “‘My best advice? Don’t die.’” She nudges me with her shoulder, scoffing quietly under her breath. “That speech sucked last year, and it sucks just as bad now.” 

The tall brunette I saw Aetos speaking to steps forward next, looking at the entire quadrant like she’s preemptively disappointed by the fact that we’re her responsibility. “I’m Aura Beinhaven, senior wingleader of the quadrant and head of Second Wing.” She stares at a fidgeting girl in First Wing until she falls still. “Today, you stand at the beginning of a journey. It’s a journey that few have the courage to embark upon and even fewer are able to complete.” She waves her hand towards the citadel. “It takes guts to cross that parapet. By design, that parapet weeds out the weakest, those who are completely unfit to walk the path that follows, which is one of service, sacrifice and strength. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that making it across means you have everything it takes; most of you don’t.” She takes a second to look around the assembly, and apparently, we are no more impressive on the second viewing than we were on the first. Her lip curls with the force of her distaste. “You are no longer individuals. You are defenders of Navarre, guardians of something far greater than yourselves. I expect you to act like it.”

I tune out the rest of what she says, because I’ve already decided she sucks as a person.

Aetos is next to step forward, and in the anonymity of the crowd, I allow myself this first and final opportunity to stare at him unabashed. The sun beats down on him, gilding his hair, his shoulders, and his cheekbones. “Look around you,” he begins, but almost no one except for the white-haired kid beside Baylor does. He’s got a lute strapped to his back that he must have carried across the parapet, and I can’t decide if I admire his pluckiness—pun not intended—or think he’s an idiot. The crossing was hard enough without a fucking lute to contend with. “Together, you will train, struggle and grow. Together, should a dragon deem you worthy, you will one day be called to stand between danger and those who cannot defend themselves. And that is the highest calling in this kingdom—to protect, serve and fight so that others can know peace.”

I narrowly resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yeah, but specifically only those we feel deserve peace. Everyone else can get fucked; our higher calling doesn’t extend to them. 

“You will be tested,” he continues, delivering what is either the earnest speech of a beautiful idiot or the ominous threat of someone who knows entirely too much. Hard to say, really. “The days ahead will challenge your mind, body and spirit. Many of you won’t rise to the occasion, and even for those of you who do, the opportunity to be part of something far greater than yourself will require you to keep pushing forward when you think you have nothing left.” Amplified by lesser magic, his deep, resonant voice rings out across the courtyard. “You are not yet part of the elite, but you have the chance to become part of the elite. You will continue to have that chance only if they think you deserve it.”

Behind him, a varicolored riot of dragons approaches, swooping low and landing on the courtyard walls with a sinister crack that seems to echo down to my marrow. Aetos doesn’t miss a beat. 

“That one’s new,” Visia murmurs as he goes on, nodding at a twitchy, one-eyed Orange. A heavy rock falls to one side of the dais, dislodged by talons, but no one currently standing on it moves. “He must be Varrish’s. The others belong to the wingleaders. That’s Dagolh, who bonded Aura Beinhaven, the senior wingleader. That’s Cath, who bonded Dain Aetos, our wingleader.”

Dain. It’s an annoying name featuring whiny consonants and a gnawing, flat-tongued vowel. 

It suits him.

“That one is—”

Avalynn, overwhelmed by either the dragons, or the relentless sun hanging high overhead or the hours of standing around waiting, bends double, vomiting onto the stones and Aaric’s boots. Instinctively, I find myself moving to comfort her, then pull up short, eyes flying towards the riot currently perched on the wall. 

I’ve spent my whole life around dragons, and making sudden movements that could draw the eye is about the worst fucking idea anyone could have right now. 

“Don’t move and you’ll be fine, Mairi,” says a sparkling, disembodied voice behind me, and though it’s not familiar, I can tell—not just from the fact that it’s offering me presumptuous advice I never fucking asked for, but because something about it sets my teeth on edge—that it’s Sorrengail’s. “They’ll torch you if you run.”

I’m tempted to turn around and enquire if stating the obvious is part of the curriculum here at Basgiath, because if so, she must get top marks.

Instead, I hold my tongue and square my shoulders, hands twisting into fists. 

“Your lives will be the price of peace. Whether here or out there, you need to be willing to pay it when it comes due. Many of you will die before Threshing, because you will be found unable to meet the standards required of a rider. That’s the cost we pay to ensure the strongest and most capable stand at Navarre’s frontline. A third of you will be dead by next July. It doesn’t end when you leave here, either.” He looks around, brows knit, but unlike Beinhaven, he doesn’t seem affronted by our presence. If anything, he seems almost sad as he studies our faces. “If you want to wear rider black, then you earn it. You earn it every single day.”

Over his shoulder, the dragon Visia called Cath leans forward, swinging his tail as he blows hot breath over the crowd, pulling cries and screams from a few First Years. 

It smells awful: sulfuric and putrescent; slightly acrid. 

Avalynn heaves again, but thankfully, nothing comes up this time. 

“Shit,” Visia murmurs.

I turn to face in the direction of her horrified gaze, and we watch, dismayed, as someone to our right breaks ranks and goes running down the aisles between the wings. 

“Well, that’s not good,” I mutter. 

“I take it you’re familiar with dragons, then?” Visia asks, although she seems to already know the answer. Must have been pretty obvious when I didn’t react to the sudden influx of fire-breathing monstrosities with claws like greatswords and notoriously short fuses.

I shake my head. “I grew up around Reds,” I whisper, watching two more cadets fall out of line. “And there was always a riot at our house for some military summit or state event, so Liam and I learned dragon safety pretty young.” The runners crash into each other directly behind us, and I turn and watch over my shoulder as they skitter towards the opening in the courtyard wall, racing back towards the parapet like they intend to climb back across it. 

Behind me, by the dais, I hear a telltale rumbling and assume it must be Cath, Dain’s dragon, getting ready to open its jaw and—

“Get down!” Sorrengail shouts as she tackles me to the ground. We land dangerously close to the puddle of Avalynn’s bile. I’m about to kindly enquire what the fucking fuck she thinks she’s doing when I feel fire blast past, close enough to singe an errant hair from Sorrengail’s braid. She curls her body over me, and I lie beneath the blanket of her weight, staring at the puddle of vomit next to my head and listening to the agonizing, plaintive screams that seem to emanate from every direction. Beside us, Visia is flinching, and there’s a wild tint of panic visible in her expression. She presses her body so low to the ground, she and the earth might actually become one. 

Behind her, Aaric is using his body to shield Avalynn, who’s started dry heaving again. 

The blast of heat is sucked away in a vortex several painfully long seconds later, and shortly after, I feel cool air caress my skin as Sorrengail’s weight lifts from my back. 

I don’t get up. 

I can smell it now. It’s a smell I couldn’t ever forget, no matter how hard I’ve tried: charred flesh frying on hot stone. It’s nauseating and sweet and coppery, so thick that I can almost taste it in my mouth. I spit it out instinctively.

For a moment, I’m in Aretia, watching the carnage from Riorson House as a riot of dragons soars overhead, blasting everything in sight.

For a moment, I’m standing in front of a dais not unlike this one in Calldyr, watching my mother die. 

“On your feet,” Imogen hisses, pulling me up. She dusts me off and checks for injuries before rushing away, towards what’s left of the squad that was standing behind us. 

“Are you hurt?” Sorrengail asks as I stare at the carnage behind us. “Sloane! Are you hurt?”

“No.”

I feel myself sway.

My mother, nothing more than a pile of ash. 

Aretia, nothing more than a pile of ash. 

The people who were standing right there a few seconds ago, nothing more than piles of ash.

Imogen stares down at the ground as if she’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Get back into formation!” Commandant Panchek shouts. “Riders do not balk at fire!”

Well, the ones who didn’t are dead, I think. So there goes that hypothesis. 

“Now!”

The word seems to snap Imogen back into action. She lifts her head from the cinders she’s been staring at and walks back toward us with uneven feet, stricken. I hear her whisper something to Sorrengail, and as I turn back to face the dais, my eyes flick over what remains of the wing that took the brunt of the fire. 

I pause. 

No Ciaran, I realize. 

I turn, checking again. 

No Ciaran. 

Imogen catches my eye, face bloodless and white, and nods mournfully.

Welcome to the Riders Quadrant, I guess.

Major Varrish moves to the front of the dais, apparently unconcerned that his dragon can’t aim for shit and just wiped out half a squad. “It’s not only the First Years who earn their leathers at Basgiath,” he cries, unrepentant and looking directly at us, as if the members of our wing who just got roasted were simply being disciplined for misbehaving. “The wings are only as strong as the weakest rider.”

I watch in horror as a girl in our squad, this one with blue-black hair, splits from formation and begins to sprint. 

“They never learn,” Visia says, grim.

The orange dragon leans forward again, maw ajar, and I see the first embers of fire already sitting in its throat. Cath, Dain’s dragon, snaps at its neck in warning. Instinctively, I start calculating trajectory, estimating pressure and energy as best I can based on the last torrent of flames it let loose. 

Where will the fire hit this time? Who will it hit?

Wingbeats, possibly the loudest wingbeats I’ve ever heard, echo over the courtyard, followed by the crack of masonry crumbling under a sudden, untenable weight. The entire structure beneath our feet rumbles, and everyone in it seems to turn in unison. 

For an irrational second, I think it’s Codagh, General Melgren’s dragon, here to finish me off. They never intended for me to make it across the parapet, and now they’re here to make sure that I go no further.

Swiftly, I realize that that would be insane, because the odds of me surviving this year are so slim that sending Codagh to dispatch me would be overkill.

Literally.

The Black’s eyes are fixed on the dais, on the Orange that just blasted indiscriminately and took out a handful of bonded riders. The other dragons pull back in signs of submission so obvious, they might as well be rolling over and showing their bellies. Not the Orange, though. Not even when the Black rears back its head and lets out an eardrum-splitting roar that seems to shake the entire college to its foundations. 

There’s a moment of deafening silence that follows, as if that sound was so loud that all other sound was disoriented by it; then, everything is chaos. First Years are running in all directions, screaming; squad and section leaders are barking orders. I remain rooted to the spot, incapable of moving even if I wanted to. 

“Whose dragon is that?” I ask Visia.

“That’s Sorrengail’s dragon, Tairn,” she replies as she wraps her hand over my relic, tugging me to one side and out of the line of literal fire and backing us towards the other First Years in our squad.

To their credit, neither Baylor or Avalynn have tried to run yet, but that might be because Aaric has an iron grip on each of their shoulders, not dissimilar to the overzealous way Visia’s holding me. Trysten looks skittish, but hasn’t tried to run, either.

Sorrengail’s? I stare at him, open-mouthed.

“He’s the second-biggest after Melgren’s.” Visia cranes her neck back to look at him. “We can hate her if we have to, but if your arch nemesis could maybe be someone with a slightly smaller dragon, that would be fine with me, too.”

Displaced air whooshes by as Tairn stretches his neck overhead. He opens his jaw and snaps his teeth, sending great globules of spit flying in every direction; Avalynn jumps to one side as a drop of it lands directly in front of her and makes a wet, guttural sound low in her throat, her expression miserable. 

Finally, the Orange retreats, wings beating quickly. 

Tairn lets out a final gust of hot, corrosive steam, as if putting the full stop at the end of a sentence. 

The entire courtyard takes a collective breath of relief.

“Was it this intense last year?” Avalynn asks, her voice shaky and a little raspy. 

Visia snorts, then uses her chin to nod at the dais. “Judging from the look on Panchek’s face,” she replies, “I’m going to say it’s never been this intense ever.”

What’s left of the wall is shredded as Tairn leaves with a last parting stare, launching himself into the sky with unimaginable power. Commandant Panchek returns to the podium, hand shaking as he straightens his thinning hair, his moustache and his rumpled clothes. His complexion, I note, is more than a little peaked. “Well, then,” he says, blinking owlishly. “Um, where were we?”

 

Chapter 3: Just Friends

You should know that Liam died an honorable death protecting the life of his squadmate, Violet Sorrengail.

His last thoughts were thoughts of you.

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET XADEN RIORSON TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Late July 

 

After nearly being roasted by a dragon mere hours after making it across the parapet, then watching Sorrengail (who is apparently a lot less fragile than she looks and definitely a lot less fragile than she sounded in Imogen’s letters) violently stab someone to death, then having Aaric neatly hand my ass to me no less than six times during our first combat training, I’m starting to wonder if taking a running swan dive off the parapet was a better option than surviving it. 

At this rate, I won’t live long enough to get revenge on anyone, whether implicit or actual. At this rate, I’m a walking, talking casualty. 

I’ve spent so much of my life thinking about the looming prospect Basgiath, about what it would be like when it was here (assuming I made it over the parapet, which, statistically speaking, was definitely an ‘if’), but none of it could have ever prepared me for the reality. I’ve seen an incomprehensible amount of people die since I arrived here on Conscription Day, and I’m terrified that I’ll be next. 

What leaves me most shaken every time I’ve seen someone die isn’t the death itself, although many of them have been horrific to witness, but the fact that each of the deaths I’ve witnessed have been so nonsensical, so… trivial.

So far, I’ve seen cadets tumbling from the parapet; torched for accidentally making eye contact with a dragon, even burned to death indiscriminately, for no discernible reason, by a dragon who might be psychopathic (a monumentally terrifying concept, in and of itself, that there's a spectrum of dragon behavior that varies from ruthless to absolutely, fucking nonsensically deranged); stabbed to death for picking a fight with the wrong person; slaughtered on the mat during what was supposed to be a practice round.

I’ve been here for all of two days.

Already, the mat is where I feel the most afraid. On the mat, I swear I can feel Malek looking over my shoulder. Watching.

Waiting. 

Just as I knew it would be, within these walls, the relic on my arm is like a red flag in front of a Poromish bull. People see it, and it makes them angry. It makes them want to mow me down and leave me in a tangled pile of gore and viscera. In the hallways, I field taunts and jeering from menacing strangers no matter where I go, whether I keep my head down or meet their sneers with my own. In the dining hall, I sit beside Aaric with my eyes on my plate, primly cutting my food into squares small enough for my tender mouth to chew and my bruised throat to swallow, but I can feel people staring at me. And while it’s a feeling not wholly unfamiliar to me, it’s still wildly disturbing.

People have started coming to watch me in combat training, making bets about whether or not I’ll die that day. Most of them seem to want me dead, because they’re offended that my parents were part of a revolution, a so-called rebellion, they already lost. 

People I’ve never met want me dead because of something I had nothing to do with, something that happened when I was little more than a child, something I was a victim of as much as anyone, if you really think about it.

I’ve never quite been able to make sense of that, no matter how long I've lived with it. 

Even if I somehow make it through this sorry excuse for a school, I doubt I’ll ever make sense of that fact. 

Don’t be weak, Sloane, I think to myself, sighing. If you’re weak, you’ll die. If you’re strong, you’ll… well, probably die anyway… but you might feel a little better about it when your time is finally up.        

I lie on my back on the bottom bunk, staring up at the bed above me, trying to calculate the statistical odds of me making it through the next year in one piece. And in fact, I’m not all that fussed about how many pieces of me are left. My main concern is whether or not I can make it through this alive. Unfortunately, I’m much better at math than I am at fighting, and I’m really good at statistics, which means my calculations—based on the average survival rate, adjusted for the fact that most candidates spend years training before they ever step foot on the parapet, but I have never even been taught to throw a punch—are probably disturbingly accurate. 

And so far, my odds are not good. 

Like, really not good. 

“Here,” Aaric says, settling on the bunk next to me. I turn to him, a little surprised to find him there; I didn’t even hear the door open. These are also the girls’ bunks, where he absolutely should not be and I was definitely not expecting to see him, but to be honest, I doubt anyone would complain if they found him here. He gives off the kind of energy that implies he can go wherever he damn well pleases. 

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” he explains. I glance downward and see he’s got a bowl of soup and a bowl of fruit, one in each hand. He’s trying to be nice, so I bite back a retort that it’s no fucking wonder he noticed I was absent, seeing as I’ve sat next to him at every meal since we got here. I stare at the bowls instead, and they leave me feeling uninspired.

I don’t want to eat; I want to go home.

Except, I don’t have a home.

“Go on,” he says, offering them to me.  

Sighing, I sit up and take the fruit, and he shrugs and puts the soup on the floor, pushing it to one side with more grace and poise than I ever imagined someone could push a bowl of soup across a floor. “You didn’t have to embarrass me like that,” I tell him, biting into an orange slice. I chew it and swallow before adding, “You could have let me get at least one hit in.”

“And how would that help?” he asks, putting his palms behind him on the bed and leaning back. Something I’ve already noticed about Aaric is that even when he’s relaxed, he isn’t really relaxed, and yet he always looks comfortable.  

Confident. 

Vigilant, too.

That’s obviously not his bed. It’s Visia’s. We’ve become increasingly friendly over the past two days, perhaps closer than I've ever been with someone who doesn't currently bear a rebellion relic, and I’m choosing to believe her obvious interest in my friendship is because she thinks I'm cool and not because of any of the many mercenary reasons Tyrrish girls have historically wanted to befriend me.

Nevertheless, Aaric is sprawled across Visia’s bed like he owns it. And based off of the looks she’s been giving him when she thinks no one is watching, I’m comfortable guessing she wouldn’t mind; I don’t bother to shoo him off or make room for him on mine. 

“It would sure help my fucking ego,” I grumble instead, chomping down on a strawberry. 

“Your ego isn’t going to keep you alive in here,” he rebuffs, grinning down at me. He’s so tall that he’s crouched at an awkward angle to fit underneath the bunk above him, even with his weight on his palms and his arms stretched as far behind him as they’ll seemingly go. Somehow, he still looks regal, even with his neatly shorn golden hair brushing the wooden slats of the bed above his head. My foster mom would probably weep tears of joy to see such fine posture, such grace. “Some hands-on tutoring might help, but only if your tutors actually know what you need help with, which is not something they can assess if they’re not getting an accurate picture of where you’re at.”

“And what, exactly, do I need help with, Aaric?” I ask, putting the bowl of fruit on the bedside table and throwing myself back onto the hard, lumpy regulation pillow and scratchy sheets. The mattress is unyielding, but I’m so emotionally and physically drained that it feels like a feather bed. 

Aaric gives me a long, appraising look. “Everything,” he admits after a pause. 

I whip the pillow out from behind my head and throw it at him, and he catches it. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Aaric Greycastle,” I seethe.

“I’m not,” he insists. He gets onto his knees on the floor beside me, folds his hands on the coverlet and props his chin on them. His face is inches away from mine, and I think again about how he really does have the nicest eyes I’ve ever seen. Great eyelashes, too, which is always an annoying thing to notice on a guy. Most men who are blessed with thick, dark eyelashes are undeserving of them. “In fact, I came here to offer you my tutoring services, free of charge. That’s how nice I am.” His gentle smile is dazzling, disturbingly alluring. “I promise you I'm not an asshole, Sloane. Never on purpose, anyway.”

I roll onto my side to face him, my hands curled awkwardly between us. “Really?” I murmur, and instinctively I lick my lips. 

Despite being twenty, I am not what you would call experienced, but I suddenly have a sense that this conversation has the potential to veer into vaguely flirtatious territory. From what I understand, guys don’t go generally around offering their tutoring services to girls they aren’t attracted to. Not here, at least.

Do I want Aaric to ‘tutor’ me? I wonder. 

I don’t have to wonder for long. The answer is an immediate and resounding ‘Yes’, and to be honest, I can’t think of many women who swing that way that would answer that question with a ‘No’. He’s completely uncontroversial, like a piece of toast slathered with butter. Flawless. Well-mannered and well-spoken. Handsome enough to transcend my personal preference for dark hair and dark eyes, and thoughtful enough to have me half-convinced that I’m in love with him after no more than eight conversations. 

Even Visia blushes around him, and Visia seems like the type of girl who’s allergic to blushing.  

“You’re sure you don’t want anything in exchange for your services?” I ask, my voice coming out a little thicker than I expected it to. “Not that there's much I can do for you, but…”

Aaric watches me lick my lips, and I almost swear something intense and dark flickers across his face. There’s a brief moment where I’m convinced that those fiercely green eyes are smoldering, and in that moment, I’m pretty sure he’s about to close the space between us and clamp his mouth over mine. And although I have been kissed before, I can tell that the way he would kiss is nothing like the polite kisses I traded with boys from my village behind Zihnal’s temple or in dark, hidden corners of ballrooms. I may be inexperienced, but I don’t get the impression he is. 

My lips part involuntarily, and I feel gravity shift so that he’s the thing I should be pulled towards. My chest tightens. I don’t move, even though everything in me is telling me to. 

I wait, even though it’s agony to wait and even though I want nothing more than to throw myself at him and maybe feel good for the first time in weeks. 

But then the moment is over. He glances down at my hands, resting between us, and I notice a muscle tic faintly in his clenched jaw. When he looks back up at me, there’s nothing in his eyes but polite, friendly disinterest. “That's fine,” he promises. “The only thing I ask of you, Sloane, is that you give this everything you've got.”

I blink in response. 

Shit.

Good as I am at math, I apparently miscalculated that. 

I nearly let out a nervous laugh as I roll onto my back again, trying to put some distance between us, between me and the embarrassment that wants to engulf me whole like the gaping maw of a Blue Daggertail. Between me and the guilt, because I have made two friendships here, and I was about to do something with the potential to ruin both of them irreparably because I misconstrued a moment of genuine concern as romantic interest. I rub my hands over my face, which feels distressingly warm to the touch, and pray that he can't notice me blushing furiously.

If I believed that Zihnal had ever spared me a thought, which I do not, I would be thanking him right now for not letting me make an idiot of myself.   

“Um, alright,” I agree. I place my hands over my ribcage, a little short of breath, feeling as unsteady on my feet as I did when I stepped off the parapet despite the fact that I’m lying down. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

He holds his hand out over me, pinky finger extended, and I lift my hand to wrap my own pinky around it, though I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye yet. “Let’s get through this together,” he suggests. “You and me, from the parapet to graduation and wherever life takes us beyond. Friends,” he clarifies, a thin reed of determination detectable in the way he says it. “Deal?”

Friends. 

For a brief moment, I’m disappointed that this is where the conversation has taken us. He’s beautiful, and I’m feeling pretty alone in the world; it would be extraordinarily easy and probably very enjoyable to latch onto him, onto anyone, and lose myself in a pleasant distraction from all of the fucked up realities of my life so far. It would be easy to bury my thoughts and feelings about my constant and highly rational expectation of dying soon with someone else’s kisses, distract myself with someone else’s wants and needs. It would be easy to divert my attention from the overwhelming loss I’m doing my best not to feel in every waking moment, to put all my time and energy and love into someone else instead.

It would have been so easy to say, ‘Fuck Visia’, because I’ve only known her for two days, and I don’t owe her shit and she doesn’t have any claim on Aaric, anyway. Not really.

And yet… 

And yet, my parents didn’t raise me to do what’s easy. My parents raised me to do what’s right. So I resolve that it’s better this way, the way that means Aaric and I become friends, the way that means I have a two allies in this bacchanalia of misery and death and that, with them at my side, I somehow make it out of this godsforsaken place alive. 

“Deal,” I tell him, and I turn my face toward him and grin, allowing myself to feel a kindling of hope burning brightly in my chest for the first time in a long time. “Friends,” I agree.

Just friends.

-----

My sense of hope, as has so often been the case in my short, miserable life, is an ephemeral thing; it doesn’t take long for Basgiath to pummel it out of me. 

And I mean that literally.

“Let’s end it,” one of the squad leaders calls from the side of the ring as I get knocked onto my ass. The squad leader who wants us to end it isn’t my squad leader, which is somehow worse than if they were my squad leader, because it means I’m so bad at this, even the people who should want to see me get beat to a pulp are uncomfortable watching it happen.

“I’m fine,” I growl, getting to my feet and wiping at my mouth. When I pull my hand away, I realize that what I thought was drool, symptomatic of the concussion I have surely developed by now from the free-flowing head injuries I’ve been taking this week, is actually blood. 

Breathing heavily and bent double, I prod around my mouth with my tongue, relieved to realize that the cause of it is a cut in the flesh of my upper lip and not a missing tooth. As I feel around in there, my tongue catches on the slightly deviated canine in the lower row, the spot I tend to worry when I’m stressed; I’ve rubbed my tongue against that spot so much this week that I’ve formed blisters on the tip to match the blisters hidden in my boots.  

“Are you sure?” Rhiannon, my squad leader, asks. She lifts one brow, both her tone and her expression making it very clear that she does not, for a second, believe that I’m fine. 

Rhiannon has watched me get smacked around mercilessly time and time again this week, and she still hasn’t called a fight on my behalf, as if she can sense my determination not to yield and is willing to let me dig my own grave if that’s what makes me happy. 

I appreciate that level of autonomy; I think I would like her, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s Sorrengail’s best friend.

Am I sure?

“Definitely,” I confirm, trying to get back in something resembling a fighting stance. My ears are ringing, and my mouth is flooding with blood. I have the sudden urge to spit it onto the mat, and for a brief, scintillating moment, I am highly titillated by thoughts of what my foster mom would think if she could see me do exactly that. Like hope, it’s short-lived; it dawns on me that she’d probably enjoy watching me get the shit kicked out of me, or at least think I deserved it. After all, she did her best to sabotage me for this exact moment, spending all that time teaching me proper decorum and waltzes instead of anything that might help me survive this place.

Well, at least I’m not on the challenge board this week, I think as Jacek advances on me. I still have until next week to get my shit together, but come Monday, the stakes will become that little bit higher. Maybe a lot higher, if anyone’s gotten it in their head to slaughter me before Threshing. There's no punishment for killing an opponent during a challenge, which is more or less an invitation to anyone with a grudge to settle it once and for all. And thanks to the relic burned into my arm and the fact that I'm not exactly anyone's idea of a promising rider, there's no shortage of people who have a grudge against me.

So, as it is, the stakes are not exactly in my favor. 

I barely manage to land a kick before Jacek puts me on my back—viciously, as if I’m the reason his fucking brother was on the death roll this week—and then puts his knee to my throat. He gives me a look that suggests he will press down, hard, if I don’t yield this time. 

“Not yielding,” I grunt. 

He makes a low, exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “Come on, Sloane,” he hisses. “Much as I’ve enjoyed throwing you around this mat like a rag doll, I’m starting to feel bad.”

“One more,” I plead. 

He sighs, standing, and I stagger to my feet as he moves to the other side of the mat. “You asked for this,” he tells me. 

I nod, wiping away more blood. “I did,” I say. 

Seconds later, I charge at him, and he flips me so hard and so fast that I see stars when my face hits the mat. I lay there for a second, breathing around the crushing weight of defeat, not to mention the sensation that I am actually being crushed, because my chest feels like it’s been compressed to about a third of its size; then push myself to stand. I barely make it to a kneel. “Didn’t yield,” I tell him. 

“Sloane,” he says in disbelief. 

“Come on, Jacek!” I whine.

“No,” he says firmly, kicking me in the back with surprising gentleness and then dropping onto me, pinning me down with his knees so that he’s practically perched on me like a fucking prayer stool. “Yield, Sloane,” he demands quietly. “Right now, you’re asking someone to kill you next week. The only thing you’re achieving here is making yourself look like a liability.” 

I struggle under him, but there isn’t much point. 

“I’m calling it!” Rhiannon yells, and Jacek climbs off of my back. Well, there it is, I think, anxiously worrying my canine with my tongue again. That’s the first time she’s called a fight on my behalf.  

Apparently, I have stretched the limits of the personal autonomy my squad leader is willing to give me, all the way to breaking point. She has officially given up on me. 

I’m not that surprised when Jacek stoops to grab my shoulders and help me up. Most of my opponents do. Honestly, I think seeing me crumpled on the floor makes them feel bad for knocking the snot out of me, and putting me on my feet as close to an apology as they’re willing to get. “Seriously, Sloane,” he hisses, shaking his head as he brushes me down, swiping away dust and dirt from the mat. “Sometimes it’s better to yield, man.”

“I would rather die than yield,” I say, and I really, truly mean it. 

Mairis don’t yield. 

Of course, Mairis don’t usually suck this bad at fighting, either, but that’s beside the point. 

Aaric steps forward as I come off the mat, giving me a sympathetic smile. “You did better this time,” he tells me as he hands me an open water skin. I take it, spit blood onto the stone floor, then gargle with a mouthful of water and spit that out, too. If he’s shocked to see me spitting on the ground, it doesn’t register on his face. “There’s… still some things to work on,” he admits, “but overall, I’d say that was… better.”

I stare at him, narrowing my eyes. “Aaric, we’re friends; right?” I ask, my voice cold. 

He seems confused. “I like to think so,” he says, frowning. 

“Well, friends don’t lie to each other,” I mutter darkly. Not that I have much experience with having friends, but that’s the impression that I’ve been given, at least. I take a big mouthful of water and use it to swallow down the overwhelming urge to puke that tends to follow a beating of that magnitude, then watch Visia break someone’s nose on mat adjacent to ours. As he drops to his knees, she turns to me and gives me a sympathetic smile. Next time, she mouths.

I roll my eyes at her, and she smiles as she bounds away.

“You alright?” Aaric asks.

I shrug. “No worse than usual. Jacek went easier on me than he could have. I think he was pulling some of those punches.”

If I’ve learned nothing else in these combat lessons, which is evidently the case, then at least I can say this: I now know what it feels like to get your ass kicked in a million different ways, and I’ve learned that lesson in record time. 

Go, me.

“Give me your honest critique, then,” I sigh, tossing the empty water skin to the floor.

“It was awful,” Aaric gently confesses, grimacing at me. “If anything, I think you’re getting worse.”

“Yeah, I feel that way too,” I groan, tentatively feeling at a gash on my cheekbone, which will probably take weeks to heal. I then begin to catalog the myriad of other cuts and contusions I now boast, and I lose count. “Do you think I’m overthinking it?” I grit my teeth, which hurts. I take a deep breath, which hurts. “If I don’t think, I leave myself open. If I do think, I’m too sluggish and I get stuck on the defensive, which isn’t exactly my strong suit. I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to find the sweet spot, you know?”

We turn to look at our mat, where two other First Years have definitely found the sweet spot. Their sparring is so fast and clean, it looks as perfectly choreographed as any of my foster mom’s beloved quicksteps. 

“You’ll fight like that one day,” he promises me, putting his arm around my shoulder and rubbing my arm comfortingly. “It’ll just take practice.” He hesitates, then thoughtfully adds, “Lots of it,” as if that was ever in any doubt. 

I nearly jump out of my skin when Imogen appears at my other side, throwing her arm over my shoulder and using that hand to push Aaric away with a motion that isn’t strictly gentle or convivial. To his credit, he neither stumbles nor demonstrates any offence that Imogen has just unceremoniously shoved him off of me. “So,” she sing-songs, pulling me close to her side. I may or may not have a fractured rib, and I wince—both at the jostling of the injury as she pulls me closer and the fact that being pressed to her side puts pressure on it—as nausea rolls through me in waves. “How are we feeling?” 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I tell her, not taking my eyes off the flurry of sparring on the mat. 

Despite the fact that I’m not looking at her, I can feel her looking down at me with a shit-eating grin on her face. “You look so beautiful, Sloane,” she tells me, letting her eyes rest on my swollen split lip. 

Of course, I do not look beautiful. My entire body is a patchwork of bruising, some of it fresh and pink, some of it a monotony of tones that range from lilac to plum, the rest old and green. There’s a big black bruise on my ass cheek that I am genuinely worried may never heal. 

I am a hideous, gruesome thing to behold. 

Imogen glances down at the puddle of spit, water and blood mixed at my feet. “You’re such a refined young lady, too. I love that about you. It’s about time someone came along and classed this joint up.”

“Fuck off, Imogen,” I tell her. I glance sideways at Aaric, whose shoulders are shaking with gentle laughter that he’s trying rather valiantly not to let escape. “Fuck you, too, Aaric. It’s not fucking funny.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he protests. 

“You’re condoning her mockery.” I shake my head and clench my jaw, then immediately regret it, because Jacek just put his fist through it with enough force that I’m surprised it isn’t dislocated. “There is a very real possibility that I’m going to die next week, and you two are laughing at me.”

He gives me a very serious look. “I would never laugh at that,” he assures me.   

“I might,” Imogen says frankly, pressing the side of her head to mine. She ignores me as I try to shrug her off; if anything, she grips me tighter. “Only if you turn down my once-in-a-lifetime, eighth offer of assistance. Though I’ll be very sad afterwards that you died for nothing.”

Aaric cards his hand through his hair, hesitating for a moment. He’s observant, a quick study, and has therefore already learned when I’m approachable and when I'm not. Currently, thanks to Imogen's meddling, I’m not in a benevolent mood. “Look, Sloane, some extra training could probably—” he tentatively begins.

I do not let him finish that thought. 

“My entire family died for nothing,” I mutter under my breath. “Why should I be the exception to the rule?”

It's a low blow, and I know it. Immediately, I feel bad for lashing out, and I wish I could take it back. 

Aaric clears his throat, his expression guilty. “I might go fill this up,” he says, gesturing towards the water skin in his hands before stepping away. 

Imogen waits until he’s walked away from us to let out a low whistle. “Nice,” she says, patting me on the back. “Playing the my-whole-family-is-dead card. With anyone else, I’m sure that would be very effective.”

“Like someone with a heart, you mean? Someone familiar with the concept of empathy, which you are not?”

“Like someone's who's in the exact same fucking boat as you, Mairi, and who wouldn't do my family the dishonor.”

Ouch, I think, scowling. Tell me how you really feel. I sigh, shaking off her arm and turning towards her. Crossing my arms, I give her the sternest look I can manage with a face as tender as mine feels and hope it gets the point across. “Okay,” I say sullenly. “Fine. But dead family aside, the facts don't change, Imogen, and the fact is that I cannot possibly improve enough by Monday to make it through this alive. Admit it.” 

She shrugs. “That could be true,” she says. “I definitely wish we’d started working on this before now, which is why I offered before now, but there’s no point in rehashing old grievances.” 

The irony of Imogen saying this—Imogen Cardulo, who is the combat master of old grievances—is not lost on me. I give her a look that lets her know that's exactly what I'm thinking, and she smiles wryly.

“So, if there’s not enough time to improve, then what’s the point in trying? Why should I waste your time and mine, what little of it I have left?” I ask with a sneer. 

Imogen shakes her head at me, looking at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “This just isn’t like you, Sloane,” she says, and her disappointment feels like a stone in the pit of my stomach. “You always said you’d go down fighting. Where’s that fighting spirit now, when you actually need it?”

“I said I’d go down fighting, and I’m still fighting, Imogen. I never said anything about fighting well.” 

I know I should accept her help. 

I know I’m being ridiculous and obstinate, and that obstinacy is going to get me killed.

But I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, lying awake in my bunk at night, hassling my tooth with my tongue until I split flesh, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather die headstrong and rock-ribbed than feel disappointment when it happens. 

What’s the point in entertaining hope when it’s never served me anyway? What’s the point in spending the weekend training for a fight I am beyond certain I cannot win come Monday, no matter how many hours Imogen spends trying to drill fighting stances into me? It’s like praying to the gods I’m not sure I believe in anymore, the gods who have ignored me time and time again: pointless and embarrassing. 

I say none of this, but as per usual, I’m pretty sure my face conveys my thoughts exactly, because Imogen gives me an uncharacteristically gentle smile and squeezes my arm affectionately.

She's got a vice-like grip right over an aching injury, but I still find it in myself to appreciate the gesture. 

“What if it’s not too late?” she asks, and she says it with so much certainty that I find myself wanting to believe her. Which is dangerous, because at this point, allowing myself to wish for a miracle is the only thing more likely to destroy me than accepting that I’m going to die. “And, honestly, what do you think Liam would prefer? Would he prefer you to give up, or would he want you to give this your best shot?”

“I am giving it my best shot,” I whine.

“No, you’re not,” she tells me sternly. “You’re not,” she repeats, “because if you were, you would have come to me already and admitted that you need my help.”

I’m seized by a desire to stomp my feet and wail like a child about the fact that this, all of this, is monumentally unfair, but instead, I press my fists into my eyes and take a long, deep breath.

Gods, I’m tired.

I’m so fucking tired, and my teeth hurt. My toes hurt. I’m pretty sure my spleen hurts, although I’m not exactly sure where in my body that’s located. Statistically speaking, though, odds are good that it hurts, because everything hurts. I am intimately familiar with the sparring mat beside us in ways that should not be plausible, because I have hit it so often and from so many angles this week at such unbelievable velocity that something should have killed me by now.

I no longer want revenge; I no longer have enough energy to care about revenge. I’m still angry, but it’s a sad, passive sort of anger, not the anger I felt on the parapet, not the anger that’s carried me through the past five years of suffering. I’m still resentful, but I’m also resigned, and the weight of my resignation is so fulsome, agonizing and formidable at times that I think it might actually bring me to my knees.  

It’s been no more than a few weeks at Basgiath, and I am barely holding onto my sanity by a thread. I know for a fact that I do not have another year of this in me, let alone three. I want to go home, except I don’t have a home. 

Navarre took my home; this school took my home. 

Liam was my home, and he’s dead. 

“This isn't what Liam would want,” Imogen insists, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“I don’t know, Imogen.” I can’t look her in the eye, so I turn my head to the side and pretend that I’m still watching the match. “I honestly don’t think I know what Liam would have wanted anymore. Nothing in my entire life makes sense, because—” 

I take a shuddering breath, willing myself not to cry. 

I can’t talk about it, I think. I shouldn't even try. Not that anyone has particularly tried to talk to me about it, except Bodhi, and even he didn’t try too hard; I guess he isn’t ready to talk about it, either. I have to shove it down and move on. I can’t give it room to breathe, or grow, or take root. I can't give myself permission to think too far ahead, to think about the future—a future without him. If I do, these feelings will consume me, and they will break me apart as surely as anyone on this mat can. 

Keep your focus on the anger, whatever is left of it. That can keep you going 'til the end. Keep your focus on the physical pain. That's bearable, at least. That's manageable. You can live around that; you can't live around this.

Imogen is staring at me expectantly, though, so I clear my throat and swallow a thin mouthful of diluted, metallic blood, then lick it from my teeth. When I begin to talk, words flow from me like a torrent, and I don't think I could hold them back if I tried. But I don't cry. I let the anger wrap around me and guide my tongue, binding the dissonant pieces of me together. I trust that it will be enough to keep me whole, just like I always have. “Liam gave his life away for something called War Games, Imogen. He gave up everything to keep the daughter of the woman who murdered our parents safe during a fucking game. Why am I the only one who seems to be angry about this? Why aren't you angry? I mean, how can you even look at her, speak to her, joke around with her?” I suck in a ragged breath. “Gods, it's such a stupid way from him to—” 

“War Games?” she slowly repeats.

I nod, squeezing my hands into fists so tightly that my knuckles turn white.

Imogen blinks at me once, twice, before digging her fingers into my shoulder and dragging me to a corner of the room. “Is that what they told you?” she hisses as I bat her hand away from my shoulder, cringing from the pain. Her brows are tightly knitted, eyes beady beneath them. 

“What?”

“They told you he died during War Games?”

“That’s what the letter said,” I tell her; I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Imogen sighs, swiveling to look past my shoulder and into the wider room. “Well, that's… not strictly true,” she says carefully. “The official story is that there was a gryphon attack that took his squad by surprise on the way to War Games,” she says in a low voice.

“Okay.” 

My brows knit in confusion. That definitely doesn’t align with the one-page letter my foster mom was sent by Colonel Aetos, declaring Liam had been a routine casualty during a scheduled training event know as War Games, his things would be burnt in the customary fashion, and little else. Which I had sort of made my peace with, to be honest, until I got Xaden’s letter about a week or so later.

Naturally, I’d connected the two with Imogen’s correspondence from the early half of last year, and I’d painted a pretty fucking comprehensive picture of what had happened.

Except, apparently, that picture was all wrong.

I stare blankly at the floor, processing.

Honestly, I’m a little surprised with myself for taking Colonel Aetos’ letter at face value, for taking anything they told me at face value. Given that I am depressingly familiar with just how far Navarrians will go to bury the truth, even when it’s poised right over their fucking border waiting to suck the life out of them, I feel like I should have already guessed that something about the story behind Liam’s death didn’t quite ring true. 

“What’s the unofficial story?” I ask, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“I can’t tell you that here,” she admits, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks nervous. She gives me a self-deprecating smile, which is also an expression that looks wildly unfamiliar on her face. “If you came to the gym with me tonight, I could—”

“Imogen, you’re not holding me at ransom with information about my brother’s death,” I snap. 

Imogen sighs, like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Okay,” she says after a pause. “Alright. I’ll tell you the full story, Sloane, but I can’t tell you here. Come to my room tonight, and Bodhi and I will tell you everything.” 

I nod absent-mindedly, wondering what she could possibly have to tell me that warrants this level of secrecy. There is only one answer that springs to mind, and the possibility of it is too terrible to comprehend. 

“I’ll come,” I confirm.

She gives me instructions on where to find her and warns me not to get caught sneaking around the Third Years’ dorms after curfew. “So, no dice on the training?” she adds as Aaric approaches, finished filling his water skin. 

“I’ll think about it and let you know,” I tell her.

We both know I’m lying.   

Chapter 4: Retrocognition

Jesinia showed me a poem today that reminded me of us. It was about two seeds who wanted to grow into tall trees together, beside each other, but birds came along and took them to opposite sides of a field. So they grew their roots to meet in the middle of the field instead, where the birds couldn’t see. I asked Jesinia if there are trees that can do that; she showed me a book about trees that share root systems. I didn’t end up reading it, but interesting to know.

I hope you like Jesinia when you meet her; I think you will. I’ve never met anyone like her before. 

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE FROM CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early August  

 

Aaric is waiting outside of the girls’ bunk room in the barracks when I slip out of the door that night, about five minutes after the start of curfew. 

“You couldn’t stop fidgeting at dinner,” he says by way of explanation. He shrugs. “I figured you’re up to something, and I would prefer that you don’t go wandering around alone at night. So I’m here to escort you.” 

The unspoken implication, of course, is that I’m a marked one who everyone knows can’t fight, which, at Basgiath, is tantamount to being a dead girl walking. 

“I’m going on a stealth mission,” I tell him, smirking. “You can’t come.”

“I’ll make my reply in two parts,” he drawls, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed. Like me, he’s bathed and changed out of his uniform, but while I chose to put on sleeping pants after my bath, he’s dressed in a clean set of sparring clothes. “The first is that I’d like to know what about me, exactly, makes you think I’m not capable of being stealthy.”

I give him a pointed look, gesturing demonstratively to all six feet and three inches of his frame with a flick of my open hand. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. “My height?” he clarifies. 

“Your height,” I confirm, “compounded by the fact that you’re so… you.”

He shrugs. “I’m good at hiding when I want to.” He gestures down the hall, indicating that I should take the lead. Though polite, it reminds me of the way he gestured at the guy with the cleft chin at Parapet (whose name is Vedic, I’ve since learned): a movement of his hand that makes it clear this is a command, not a request, and that he will not entertain disobedience. 

For once in my life, I do as I’m told. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I tell him as we walk. 

“I hide in plain sight,” he retorts. “I’m so good at hiding, you don’t even know I'm hiding.”

“Sure,” I say, grinning. “What was the second part of your reply?” 

He looks down at me. “The second part of my reply is that you’re the one who's the furthest thing from inconspicuous possible.” 

“Well, that’s because I hide in plain sight,” I tell him. We round a corner. The hallway is still full of people, most milling outside of the ground floor bathing chambers exchanging gossip. There’s a couple perched on the steps who are aggressively making out. 

“So, where are you off to this evening, Sloane?”

“Third Year dorms,” I reply absentmindedly, distracted by the two people who are pawing each other. I feel my cheeks flush when I realize I’m staring. 

He grunts, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “And why are you headed there?”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “I have a clandestine meeting,” I explain, and I laugh at his stricken expression. “Try not to look so horrified, Aaric. I’m just going to see Imogen.”

He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t the most unreasonable thing to assume,” he grumbles defensively. “Hanging around the Third Year dorms after curfew would make any reasonable person infer that you’re”—he hesitates awkwardly, looking at me out of the corner of his eye—“visiting a Third Year… at night, while scantily clad. And I’m an innately reasonable person.” He pauses thoughtfully. Then, nervous, he murmurs, “You should be more careful, Sloane.”

I glance down at my clothes. They’re inoffensive, just a pair of loose shorts and a shirt, both fashioned from pale blue linen. Nevertheless, I blush. “No one would think that,” I tell him.

He looks down at me with a grave expression. “They would,” he insists. 

“Is that not allowed?” 

“It’s discouraged.”

“Like sneaking around after curfew?”

He shrugs. 

“Still, maybe if people thought that about me, it’d be better than the truth,” I point out. “I’m about to go have a secret and, as far as anyone knows, nefarious meeting of marked ones.” I clear my throat, glancing at him nervously. I keep my voice low as I gently murmur, “What do you think about that?”

“I think that ‘nefarious’ is Imogen’s default setting.” He shakes his head. “But to answer your question, I’m not worried about you sneaking out of your bunk to visit an old friend from back home. If there were four of you, I might—” 

My step falters. 

“Sloane, I’m kidding,” he quickly says, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder. He pulls me to a stop and turns me to look at him. “There could be twenty people with rebellion relics crammed into Imogen’s room right now, and it would mean nothing to me as long as you were safe.” He smiles sadly. “I promise I’m not a bigot.”

“Right,” I say. My throat bobs.  

When I come to a halt at the base of the stairs to the Third Years’ floor and turn to stare at him expectantly, my arms crossed, he looks back at me, equally as expectantly, and makes the gesture again, the one that instructs me to continue walking. 

I narrow my eyes at him. 

He makes it again.  

I sigh, incredulous. “I’m plenty capable of getting there without being murdered,” I tell him. I gesture to my thigh, where I’ve awkwardly strapped a knife garter. I haven’t strapped it tight enough, and it’s slipping down, hanging closer to my knee than it should be; I’m still getting familiar with all of the novelties of my daily routine here, like fastening on my weapons holsters three times a day and sleeping with a blade under my pillow. “I don’t need supervision.”

“I’m well aware that you don’t need supervision,” he says in reply, kneeling to adjust the leather strap for me with firm hands. “I never said you did.”

“I’m capable of looking after myself,” I remind him. 

His hands still as he tightens my knife garter. “This needs another hole punched in it,” he tells me. 

“Say I’m capable,” I demand, tugging on his hair. 

“You’re very capable of getting on my fucking nerves,” he sighs. He pats the outside of my thigh like it’s the rump of a horse as he stands. “Yes, Sloane, I think you’re capable. I think you’re annoying and asinine, too.”

“No, you don’t,” I coo. I stand on my toes and ruffle his hair. “You think I’m wonderful.”

“I’ll be in the training room tomorrow at seven a.m.,” he tells me, folding his arms and giving me a stern look. “Will you be there on time?”

“I can’t see the future, Aaric,” I say as I turn toward the stairs. “No one can.”

“Seven a.m., Sloane,” he warns me. “Or I’ll make you do push-ups until you vomit on the mat.”

“No, you won't. You're all talk.” I step onto the first stair and turn to look at him over my shoulder. “You’re going to wait here, aren’t you?” I ask him. 

“Maybe,” he replies, settling back against the wall. 

“If I promise to have Imogen escort me to my bunk, will you leave?”

“Probably.”

He bends his knee and slides his foot up against the wall, pressing his head back against the stones and looking at me. With me standing on the step, we’re closer to eye level; his glitter under the mage lights like Tyrrish emeralds as he stares at me. Laughing.  

I huff, turning my back on him and climbing the spiral staircase, one of two that lead to the third floor. 

The hallways of the Third Year dorms are by no means labyrinthine—just two long corridors, intersecting at a right angle—but Imogen is famously bad at giving directions, so I pay special attention to where I’m going. Today, for example, she told me that her door is the twelfth one on the right past the stairs, then corrected herself and said it was the twelfth door on the left. When I clarified which she meant, she fucking hesitated before confirming she meant left, which hasn’t exactly inspired my confidence. 

I keep my head down as I walk, counting doors. I can hear muffled sounds from inside the rooms I pass—laughter and talking, the thunk of daggers hitting a throwing target and even what I’m pretty sure is a couple having sex—but thankfully, the halls are empty. 

Ten.

Eleven.

That would make this…

I come to a sudden stop as I realize that although I’ve been counting the doors I’ve passed since I got to the landing, there are two sets of steps, the ones I came up and another set in the northern corner of the building.

Imogen told me that her door was the twelfth door to the left after the stairs, but she didn’t tell me which stairs she was referring to. 

Shit, I think, turning toward the staircase and counting again. I’m standing in front of the twelfth door, but what if it was the twelfth door from the other stairs? And what if she really did mean the twelfth door on the right? What if knock on this door only to discover it’s not Imogen’s room?

Knowing my luck, I’ll knock on Aura Beinhaven’s door and end up being disciplined with extreme prejudice for breaking curfew, a rule nobody else seems to care about.

Or murdered.

Aura Beinhaven, senior wingleader of the Rider’s Quadrant, seems to hate me just as much as I decided I hate her at Parapet. Of all the people who cheer at me getting my ass kicked during combat training, she’s always the one who’s cheering the loudest, and I’ve already spent two days on kitchen duty this week because she insisted I rolled my eyes at her during Monday’s formation. 

(And, okay, I did, but my back was turned to her, so she had no way of knowing that.)

I’m on the southeastern side of the building, two floors above the Battle Brief classroom. Quickly, I make up my mind to check the hallway leading from the north-most set of stairs. If I’m lucky, there won’t be twelve doors on the left of that hallway, and then I can come back here, my options whittled down to just two choices: left or right.

I speed-walk there, all the way to the end of the hall; turn at the top of the staircase; then start shuffling along, counting. When I reach the twelfth door on the left, I notice that it’s also the last door at the end of the hallway, which makes me think that the other hallway was probably the right one. Would Imogen say the twelfth door on the left if she actually meant the last door on the left?

Actually, that sounds exactly like some shit Imogen would do, I think, staring at it. Her directions are the worst.

I step towards the door and raise my fist to knock, then quickly step away before I can make contact with the wood. 

“Fuck,” I murmur, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. My knife garter is slipping again, and I undo the buckle and slide it off, disconnecting the holster from the belt and shoving it into my waistband. I’m still holding the garter belt, thinking, and have very nearly decided that I should just go back to the other hallway and knock on that door instead, or maybe the twelfth door on the right, when the one I’m standing in front of swings open.

I jump, swallowing a shriek, praying that Imogen is standing on the other side.

Predictably, the gods have decided I can go fuck myself: Dain Aetos stands in front of me in nothing but a pair of low-slung sleeping pants, frowning. 

My eyes flick downward, and I dimly register that he has a very well-defined chest, a fine smattering of light-brown chest hair, and deep, tapered lines that cut below the waistband of his pants. There's a red dragon relic on his shoulder that's usually hidden by the sleeves of his uniform, and my eyes snag on it for a moment as I drag them from something they definitely shouldn’t be looking at to his eyes, which are narrowed. I blush, then scowl. He’s Colonel Aetos’ son, I remind myself, tempering my body’s traitorous—though not totally surprising—reaction to the attractive, shirtless man standing in front of me.   

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, sticking his head out of the doorframe and checking down the hall. He turns back toward me, and I stiffen as he flicks his own eyes over my body, his expression derisive.

I become brutally, suddenly aware that there are bruises peppered across my arms, collarbone, hips and thighs that are on full, horrifying display. 

“What are you doing here, Mairi?” he repeats in a growl. 

“Nothing,” I tell him.       

He narrows his eyes at me. “Nothing,” he echoes. 

“Walking,” I elaborate, gesturing down the length of the hall. 

He follows the movement with his gaze. “Towards what? There’s nothing down here but my room and… Where the fuck is it, exactly, that you think you’re going?”

I clear my throat. “None of your business.” 

“I’m your wingleader.”

“Like I could possibly forget that fact,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.

He leans against the doorframe, then looks me up and down again with a contemptuous expression on his face. “It’s past curfew,” he says. “As we work through this conversation, I think it would be helpful for you to keep in mind that it’s a conversation you’re having with your wingleader when you’re out of your bunk, walking around past curfew.”

I nod curtly. “Got it,” I tell him.

“Tell me where you were going, Sloane,” he repeats. 

“Imogen’s room,” I admit, fidgeting as I shift my weight from one hip to the other.

He rolls his eyes. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? It’s in the other hall.” He jerks his thumb in the direction I came from. “Third door on the right after the bathing chamber. If you’re coming from the southeastern stairs, it’s the twelfth door on the left.” He shuts the door, and I stare at it for a second, frowning. I’m about to turn and start walking in that direction when the door flies open again and he’s standing there once more, still shirtless, squinting down at me. “Do you happen to know the punishment for being caught sneaking around after curfew?” 

I smirk at him, even as I take a half-step backwards. “Is it having Dain Aetos recite the Codex to you until you beg for mercy?” 

He blinks back at me—slowly, lazily. 

“Everyone knows that the curfew is nominal.” I glance down, realize I’m twisting the leather strap from my holster around my fingers nervously, and tuck both hands behind my back. “Wingleader,” I add as an afterthought. I accidentally say it like it’s an insult. 

“Is it?” Dain says dryly. He stares at me expectantly for a long moment, expression flat. When I don’t answer, he cocks a brow and drawls, “For the record, the punishment for being caught after curfew is at your wingleader’s discretion. And, for another thing, I can exact discipline for an infraction at any time I damn well feel like it. I could decide to punish you for this a week from now, even a month from now, and you would have no recourse. Which means that by stumbling around the Third Year dorms, where you don’t belong, you’ve just given me the means and opportunity to make your life hell at any time of my choosing.” 

Behind my back, I squeeze the wrist of the hand that bears my relic. “It’s hell with or without your input,” I assure him.

He sighs, then rubs his face with one hand and groans. “Look, Sloane,” he begins, “I was going to have Matthias talk to you about this, but seeing as you’re here, we might as well deal with it now.” He steps back into the room, gesturing for me to enter with the hand not holding the door. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

I look at him like he’s insane. “I’m not going in your room alone,” I tell him.

Dain stares at me, horrified. “I would never—”

“No,” I bite out, not giving him time to clarify what he would simply never do. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in this hallway.” 

He scratches the back of his head. “Sloane, I’d really rather do this inside. If—”

“What if someone saw me?” I ask him pointedly. “What would they think?”

“They would think there is no plausible way that it was what it looked like,” he says dryly, “because I am me and you are you.”

My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”

He heaves a sigh, hanging his head. “Sloane, I’m begging you. Please come inside. Aura Beinhaven sleeps in that room,” he says to his feet, pointing to the door behind me. “She’s a light sleeper. If you wake her up because you’re shouting in the hallway, I won’t be able to help you. And I think we both know that whatever punishment she comes up with, it won’t be pleasant.”

“I thought the punishment for breaking curfew was at the wingleader’s discretion?” I say, suddenly nervous. 

“It is at my discretion,” he says patiently. “And the senior wingleader has the authority to overrule a wingleader at their discretion. Then the whole cadre gets involved, and it’s a fucking mess. You see the predicament we find ourselves in?” I nod, and he opens the door a fraction wider and waves me forward again. “In. Now, Sloane,” he commands.

I hesitate for a moment, then step past him into the room, my chest tight. I let my eyes rake over his things as I hear the door snick shut behind me. Despite the sizable bed—made with a sense of precision, its crisp black sheets drawn tight—there’s still enough room to house an armchair, a rug, and a table and chairs by the window, the surface of which is covered in parchment and stacks of books. It’s a big room, luxuriant compared to the bunks, and I wonder if this is one of the privileges of being a wingleader or just something I have to look forward to if I live long enough to bond a dragon.  

I go to stand by the crammed bookcase, sparing a glance at the spine of a monstrously thick volume on the pirate epidemic of the fifth century. There are towers of books on the floor beside me. His clothes, mostly flying leathers and uniforms, hang neatly in the open armoire. The air is cool, crisp, and I realise that in addition to the curtains, there’s a piece of black fabric fixed to the window-frame that’s fluttering in the breeze: a bedsheet, which I suspect has been suspended using lesser magic.

“How’d you break the window?” I ask.  

“I didn’t,” he mutters darkly. He gestures to the armchair. “Sit,” he tells me. 

I don’t move toward the chair. I tip my chin back defiantly instead. “I’d rather stand,” I insist. 

Dain throws himself into the armchair with a huff, his long legs splayed out in front of him. He props his elbows on the arms of the chair and folds his hands over his bare torso, looking up at me. “I’ve been watching you on the mat,” he starts. “I wanted to see how you’re feeling about Challenge Week. Do you feel… prepared?”

I make a sound of disgust; then I turn, pull the dagger from my pants, toss it on the bed and pivot to plant my bruised ass beside it. “I’m so sick of everyone wanting to talk about how much I suck,” I moan. Sitting on the bed, I cross my legs underneath me and throw the useless leather strap of my holster onto the mattress beside my dagger, then prop my elbow up on one knee, carefully avoiding another bruise. Dain watches me, amused. “Don’t worry, wingleader. I labor under no delusions that I am by any means competent on the mat, so if you’re trying to let me down gently, you can spare yourself the trouble.” 

He nods. “Well, thank gods,” he says stiffly. His gaze flicks down toward my forearm, and his brows knit. “Have you not had combat training?”

“Does it seem like I’ve had combat training before?” I ask sarcastically. I take a hand off his meticulously made bed and gesture at my body, at the cuts and bruises and scrapes.

He squints. “I thought everyone with a rebellion relic—”

“Not me,” I bite out. “I’ve been doing extra training with Aaric to catch up,” I assure him, “and we’re going to spend the whole weekend working on it. Come Monday, I’ll be as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Aaric is a good fighter,” Dain says diplomatically. Understatement of the century, I think. Aaric fights like Dunne herself put the sword in his hand. “I don’t get the impression that he’s a very good tutor,” he finishes. 

“He’s patient,” I say in Aaric’s defense. 

“I don’t think patience is what you need, Sloane.”

“Oh? What do I need, then? Other than a miracle?”

“I think you have limited time, and you need someone who can be real with you and maybe a little tough on you,” he tells me. He hesitates, seemingly weighing something up in his head, and I stare at the vein that I can just make out behind his ear as he grinds his teeth. “If you want, I can show you—”

“It will be a cold day in hell before I accept help from you,” I promise him, interrupting him before he can say something that will only embarrass him and annoy me. 

He blinks at me, and there’s something dark clouding his eyes. “Look, Sloane,” he starts, and his voice sounds a little rougher than it did a second ago. Staring at the vein in his neck, I notice that his pulse is racing. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about what happened to your brother last year. Liam… Liam seemed like a really good person.” 

I nod. I feel my anger wake and languidly stretch, the way it does any time someone talks about my brother's death. “He was,” I agree. “He was the best person in the entire world.”

And your father sent him beyond the wards, and now he’s gone. 

Dain seems like he’s going to say something else about Liam, and I’m glad that he doesn’t. “Imogen worked with Violet last year,” he says instead. “You two are clearly friendly, seeing as you made the stupid decision to go wandering after curfew to spend time with her. Why don’t you ask her for help?”

“I don’t need help,” I bite out. 

He laughs humorlessly. “We both know you do.”

I lean back on the heels of my hands and stare at him, irritated. He stares back at me with what looks a lot like pity on his face, and I feel the irrepressible need to hurt him. “Like you could give a flying fuck about whether someone with a relic on their arm dies here or out there, at your father’s hands,” I say, jutting my thumb over my shoulder, toward the bolt of cloth spread across the window.

Emotion flickers across his face: hurt, guilt, anger, frustration. Something. It’s unreadable, undefinable. Whatever it is, it’s not good. “I do care,” he insists. 

“Only because my lack of ability on the mat is reflecting poorly on your abilities as wingleader, though; right?” 

“I care because I don’t want you to die, Sloane. It’s just that simple.”

I look around the room again. There’s a sword rack full of weapons, daggers sorted by size in an open drawer and a crossbow behind him, hooked across the back of his desk chair. On the floor by the bed, there’s another sword, a discarded cloth and a tin of polish with a strong herbal scent. I pick up my dagger from the coverlet but leave the garter strap. It’s useless, anyway. “If that’s Malek’s will, then so be it,” I tell him, unfurling myself and standing. “I just hope I go with honor—like my parents did, like I can only hope my brother did.” 

I’m no good with weapons, useless with swords or a bow, but I can make people hurt, make them bleed with my words. Once I find their weak spot, uncover the soft belly of their psyche, I can make almost anyone suffer just as much as I do. And as I look at him, folded over himself in his chair, I can see that I have found his, and I have hurt him. Dain is afraid that I will die, and it pains him that not only is there nothing he can do about it, that it is something in this world beyond his control, but that I’ve so willingly made my peace with it. For whatever reason, my apathy hits him like a blow.

He stays seated as I go to the door. “Do us both a favor,” he says, sounding tired. “Don’t get caught sneaking around the Third Year dorms half-naked again, alright? People will talk, and the last thing you need right now is more people talking about you.” 

“Not true,” I insist with a grim, sarcastic smile. “The last thing I need right now is for you to tell me what to do.”

-----

Imogen throws open the door when I knock, wearing nothing but a towel and a terse smile. Her pink hair is dripping wet, and she’s clearly just come from the bathing chambers, despite the fact that I’m nearly fifteen minutes later than she told me to arrive. She holds the towel up with one hand as she reaches out to grab my arm and pull me through the ward. “Perfect timing,” she says. “Did anyone see you?”

“Your directions sucked,” I tell her as I come into the room. It occurs to me that I should tell her about my interaction with Dain, but for some reason I don’t want to. I feel guilty. I feel like I did when I accidentally broke a family heirloom and wasn’t ready to tell my dad yet because I knew I’d be in trouble; I was so in denial, I kept trying to find a way to fix it before he found out.

“I said ‘twelfth door from the stairs.’” Imogen smirks at me. “Is that not the twelfth door from the stairs?” 

“You didn’t say which stairs, Imogen.”

Imogen shrugs. “Well, didn’t stop you finding it,” she demurs, swinging the door shut with a crack. 

Bodhi is sitting at her desk and polishing a dagger, and he holds it up to the warm, yellow mage light as I step into the room and examines it. Satisfied, he drops it onto the desk and turns to me. “You should try doing Land Nav with Imogen,” he mutters, grimacing. 

“Land Nav?”

“You have that to look forward to next year.” 

“Zihnal willing,” Imogen trills, moving over to the bedside table and picking up a comb. She runs it through her hair, then points at him with it, her tone accusatory. “Besides, I seem to remember that I wasn’t the only one who struggled with Land Nav.” She turns to me and whispers conspiratorially, “Bodhi can’t read a compass.”

“I may not be able to read a compass, but at least I can read a map,” he says, taking a crumpled ball of parchment from the desk and tossing it at her. She bats it away playfully, turning to her mirror. “Why are you just holding your dagger like that?” he asks me. 

“Strap broke,” I say, walking to the desk. I lean down to give him a sideways hug, and he rubs my back. 

“I was thinking of you today,” he says affectionately, and I smile as I rest my cheek against his curls. 

“Oh?”

“I was thinking about that time you broke your dad’s vase from, like, pre-Unification. Remember how you brought all the pieces to my dad and begged him to find a mender who could fix it? You were crying so hard, we couldn’t even make out what you were saying. You’d tried to glue it back together, too, so you were just holding a bunch of jagged porcelain covered in dried-up glue.”

“I was just thinking about that, too,” I admit. 

He clears his throat, then pushes me away with his arm until it’s fully extended and examines me like he examined his dagger. At first, I assume he’s looking at me with concern, cataloging my bruises and cuts, but then I realize his expression is verging on stern. “Did you walk here from the bunks dressed like that?”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I protest, starting to get annoyed. “I didn’t feel like putting on musty leathers or tight sparring clothes. Is that a crime?”

“Sloane, you cannot walk around like that.” He shakes his head. “You look…”

“Like what?” I challenge. I hand him my dagger with a grin, and he snatches it from me and picks up the cleaning cloth again without taking his eyes off of mine.

“Like she's twenty?” Imogen suggests, rolling her eyes. “Yes, Bodhi, our little girl is a woman now. She has breasts, and they’re phenomenal.” She sighs dramatically. “Gods, they grow up so fast.”

“You look like you’re in a state of undress,” he says demurely, face flushing.

“I’m fully dressed,” I tell him as he starts to clean my dagger for me. “Imogen, is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She looks at my reflection in the mirror. “No,” she says without hesitation. 

Imogen’s room is decent, but nowhere near the size of Dain’s. It’s also messy. Weapons lay on every available surface, and there’s a litany of open textbooks and half-finished essays left strewn across the floor. There’s a shield propped up against one wall and a throwing target that’s got a whole quiver-full of arrows embedded into its center, although I don’t remember Imogen being particularly proficient with archery. The window looks out toward the flight field. I step over crumpled, discarded clothes as I make my way across the floor to perch on Imogen’s bed, where somebody has set up a meagre selection of snacks—fruit, chocolate, a bowl of popped corn—along with a water skin and a handkerchief. I know, without having to ask, that Bodhi was the one who arranged these things on the bed for me.

Like a bow and arrow, hospitality is not something Imogen is notably proficient at.

My suspicions about the origins of these offerings are confirmed when I sit, pick the handkerchief up and notice the Durran family crest embroidered in one corner—poorly, like Bodhi attempted it himself. I place it back on the coverlet.

Once I’m settled, Imogen looks me in the eye, gives me a wicked grin, then drops her towel with a flourish and strides across the room to the armoire, butt-naked.

“Imogen,” Bodhi hisses, turning his head to face the wall. Another tide of red washes over his face and neck, and he huffs in disgust.

Imogen glances over her shoulder at him. “Oh, does my state of undress offend you, Bodhi?” she says, grinning. Before I avert my own eyes, I notice, with envy, that there isn’t a single bruise anywhere on her or even a cut that’s healing. 

“For the love of Loial,” Bodhi mutters as she takes her time, rummaging through piles of leathers and sparring clothes discarded on the floor. To be honest, I’m pretty sure she’s dragging it out to make him uncomfortable, and I can’t help my own grin as I stare at the floor. 

When Imogen is suitably attired, she throws herself on the bed next to me and kicks her feet into my lap. I scooch back, leaning my back against the cool stone wall and stretching my legs. For a brief moment, the world feels right; I feel like I’m a child again, in a time before the apostasy, when I looked up to Imogen like a big sister and let her boss me around.

She points to the chocolate, and I hand it to her. 

“That very expensive chocolate is for Sloane,” Bodhi mutters. 

“Yes, and I’m sure it will be very effective at filling the hole that Liam’s death left in Sloane’s heart,” Imogen says, staring him in the eye as she pops a square into her mouth. My hands flex and curl, then curl tighter. “Far be it from me to eat your sorry-your-brother-is-dead candy.” 

“Imogen,” he says sharply. He looks meaningfully at my white-knuckled fists, resting against her calves, and Imogen follows his gaze. 

“Sorry,” she says after a heavy pause. It’s about as profuse an apology as I’ve ever gotten from her.

I shrug. “You didn’t say anything untrue,” I mutter. I take a deep breath, splay my fingers until it’s uncomfortable, then curl them into claws. Fidgeting, I pick up the water skin Bodhi left on the coverlet and start twisting the cap nervously. “I guess that leads us to the point, though, unless anyone wants to make polite small talk about what we each got up to today?”

Imogen lifts her foot and nudges the cut on my cheek with her toe. “I know exactly how your day went, Sloane,” she croons as I smack her foot away from my face. “And unless you stop being such a stubborn ass and accept my help, I’m pretty sure Monday will go the exact same way. Maybe worse.”

“I didn’t know you were precognitive,” I spit at her. 

Bodhi, still cleaning my dagger, looks up at me from beneath his eyelashes. Like Aaric, his are long and dark. Like Aaric, he is one of a handful of men who I would say deserves long, dark eyelashes. “Sloane, Imogen has a point about—”

“No. We’re not doing that,” I tell them firmly. “The only reason I’m here is because I need to know…” My throat feels like it’s constricting, and I struggle to choke out the words that I’m about to say. I start again. “The only reason I’m here is because I need to know what happened to Liam. And if you’re not going to tell me, or if you’re going to make this about training, then frankly, I’m not interested in anything else you have to say. Ever.”

“Alright,” Imogen says under her breath. “Calm down.” She chews another square of chocolate, staring at me contemplatively, then sighs. “Bodhi, do you want to start us off or should I?”

“Shouldn’t we wait—”

Imogen cuts him off. “Let’s just start and see how far we get.” 

With a resigned sigh, Bodhi finishes polishing my dagger, then returns it to its sheath before placing it on the desk. “What do you already know?” he asks hesitantly. “Not just about Liam, I mean. What do you know about the apostasy, for one thing?”

“I know more than you probably think I do,” I assure him. “I know I was young, but Mom wasn’t exactly the type to couch things in flowery language or obfuscate the truth, especially not with me.” I take a deep breath. “I know about venin, obviously. I know that Navarre wants me to think that Liam died during War Games and now, I guess, I know that he didn’t. And I know that he died saving Violet,” I say, my chin jerking upwards.

“How?” Imogen asks, genuinely curious. 

“Xaden wrote me a letter. He said Liam died honorably, saving Violet Sorrengail’s life.” I scoff, looking down at my hands. 

Bodhi sucks his teeth, flicking a glance toward Imogen. “Those two things are true, but not,” he tells me. “Liam did save Violet’s life at Resson, but that’s not what caused his death.” He pauses, correcting himself. “Well, it’s… not necessarily why he died, I guess. I don’t really know how to put it.”

My brow furrows. “Resson?” I ask. 

“Trading post in Poromiel, on the border of Krovla and Tyrrendor,” Imogen replies. “Near Athebyne.” 

I roll my eyes at her. “Unlike you, I am capable of reading a map.” She knocks my chin gently with her foot, and I hit it away again. “I was asking why there was a battle in Resson.” I look from Imogen to Bodhi expectantly. “When did it happen? Why haven’t I heard about it before? Why was Liam there?”

“We’re getting there,” Imogen says, rolling her eyes. “Keep your tiny little pants on.”

“You said they were fine,” I growl.

She sits up off the pillows behind her and swings her legs off of me, folding them underneath her and sitting in the exact same way I was sitting on Dain’s bed. I feel shaken for a moment, because I’d long forgotten that I started sitting in that exact posture because she did, because she was two years older than me and when we were kids, I thought she was the coolest person in the world and I wanted to be just like her. 

“Okay. So, while you’re at Basgiath, there are these exercises called War Games, as you may have inferred. It’s exactly what it sounds like. You’ll love them,” she promises, rolling her eyes. 

“This is assuming I live to see them,” I say dryly. 

“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me. “Which you will, because eventually you’ll accept that you need my help.”

Before I can snap at her again, Bodhi interjects. “Colonel Aetos was in charge of War Games last year, and for the last exercise, he decided to send squads out into the real world to simulate the lived experience of an actual battle. By which I mean a gryphon attack, obviously.”

“And you were sent to Resson?”

“No, we were sent to Athebyne,” Imogen says, and she laughs when I crinkle my nose at her. “We’re getting there, Sloane,” she assures me. “If you were half this quick on the mat, I’d spend less time worrying about you. Where were we? Oh. Yeah. So, because Xaden was a wingleader, he was assigned to an outpost in Athebyne to set up headquarters for the exercise, and he was able to pick his own squad; I think it’s pretty obvious who he picked.”

“Garrick,” I say without hesitation. “You two, Liam… Violet. Soleil Telery, obviously. Masen Sanborn, probably…” My eyes flick to Bodhi. “You didn’t think it was unusual or a cause for concern that they assigned you a post beyond the wards?” 

Bodhi shifts in his seat. “Of course we did. I did, anyway. We’d been delivering shipments of daggers to drifts at a spot not too far from there, too, so of course it already had alarm bells ringing. But, I figured we’d been careful, covered our tracks.” He shrugs. “I guess I wanted to believe it was a coincidence.” 

I frown. “You’ve been delivering daggers to drifts beyond the wards?”

He nods. “Maorsite, too.”

“As in—?”

“A few weeks before he came to Basgiath, Liam was able to make contact with some people still operating in what used to be your father’s mines. Sympathizers. They’ve been sneaking us crates of it ever since.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Okay. Keep going.” 

“So, on the way to Athebyne, we stopped, and the drift of fliers that we’d been delivering daggers to stopped to warn us that there’d been venin attacks in the area.” He pauses, glancing at my dagger, freshly cleaned and re-sheathed. His brows knit. “Shit, we’ll get you some alloy daggers,” he says as if he’s making a mental note. “I… should have thought of that already.”

“I have some,” I say. 

He points to it. “That’s not alloy.” 

“No shit, Bodhi. I didn’t anticipate running into any venin between my bunk and the Third Year dorms.” I roll my eyes at him. “Of course Mom gave me an alloy dagger. Liam sent me one, too. I’ve just been keeping them in my trunk because I don’t want to forfeit them if someone challenges me and I lose.”

“When you lose,” Imogen clarifies. 

Without breaking eye contact with Bodhi, I reach down and pinch the sensitive skin under her knee. She yelps, jumps, then kicks me—hard—in a big mauve bruise on the side of my thigh that’s the size of my hand. I suck in a breath, turning toward her. “One more time, Imogen,” I tell her. “I will fucking leave if you bring it up one more time. I swear to all the gods.”  

“Enough,” Bodhi drawls. He takes an alloy dagger from the sheath across his chest and puts it next to mine, then taps it twice, smiling tightly at me. He seems to think about it for a moment, then pulls out a second and places it next to that. “I’ll get you more. I can help you imbue them with runes, too, if you want.” 

“That sounds like a lovely bonding experience,” I say earnestly; then I take a grape from the bowl of fruit he left for me on the bed and throw it at him. Hard. “Can we please finish the fucking story now?”

He smiles and shakes his head, looking back and forward between me and Imogen. “You were a terrible influence on her,” he says. 

“No, I wasn’t,” Imogen says primly. “I am an excellent mentor.” She gives me a meaningful look, rubbing at the back of her knee.

“So, the fliers warned us that there had been venin attacks nearby,” Bodhi says, picking up the story. 

I frown. “While Sorrengail was there? And she didn’t have any thoughts about the fact a drift of flyers was dropping by for a chat?”

Bodhi snorts. “Oh, no, she had thoughts,” he says. “And feelings. Lots of them.” He grimaces. “Anyway, when we get to the outpost, we find a letter from Colonel Aetos waiting for us. And in it, he gives us an impossible choice: abandon Resson and its three-hundred citizens to venin, which would have been co-signing their slaughter, or reveal ourselves as traitors.” His shoulders lift in a stilted shrug. “We took a vote, Sloane. It was unanimous.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Of course,” I murmur. “How many venin?” 

“Four.” 

My jaw drops. My mom once told me that a single venin was a death sentence, so the idea that they faced down four boggles my mind. “Shit,” I murmur, my stomach roiling. “That’s… a lot.”

“Not to mention the wyvern,” Bodhi adds, picking up his own dagger and balancing it on the tip against Imogen’s desk. He spins it, his eyes clouding. “I couldn’t get a good count, but there must have been at least a dozen, maybe more.” 

“Wyvern?” I repeat. 

“They’re like dragons, but—”

“I know what wyvern are,” I tell him, irritated. “The provincial idiot who raised me used to tell me they’d eat me if I didn’t do as I was told. I just didn’t realise they were real.”

He frowns. “Well, they are.” He glances at Imogen. “Did you know what wyvern were before Resson?”

Imogen shrugs.

We talk late into the night. Bodhi and Imogen take turns recounting the events of the Battle of Resson, and I try to pay attention to the details, but I’m preoccupied by my anticipation for the end, for the bit where they make my world make sense again by helping me understand why Liam would choose to leave me here, all alone. I can tell that we’re finally coming to the point when Bodhi stops making eye contact with me, his attention focused solely on the dagger that he’s still spinning across the table, and Imogen stops cracking jokes. 

It’s nearly twelve a.m., and my eyes feel gritty; the rest of me feels wide awake, buzzing with nervous energy. 

“You should know that Liam took down a venin unassisted,” Imogen says. She’s moved, no longer sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed but right beside me, gently rubbing circles into my back. “That’s a huge achievement. Liam didn’t make a single misstep on that battlefield, and I really want you to know that, from the bottom of my heart; I think he would want you to know that, too. He fought harder than anyone has ever fought. He gave it his all, because he really wanted to make it home to you. But not long after he brought down the venin, he and Deigh saw that Sorrengail was in trouble and…”

Her voice cuts off abruptly. She turns to the side, blinking rapidly. 

Imogen Cardulo never cries. Even while we stood watching the execution of our parents at Calldyr, Imogen didn’t cry. So to see her face crumple, to watch her turn away from me and swipe at her cheek, crushes me. 

I clear my throat, which feels tight. 

“And he saved her,” I finish. “And it cost him his life.” 

Bodhi twists his knife three times before he answers, and it pirouettes across the wood. He still won’t look at me. “It’s not quite like that,” he tells me. “Deigh… put himself between Violet’s dragon and the wyvern, and in the skirmish, Liam was unseated. Violet caught him, and she held him on her dragon while Deigh was trying to fend the wyvern off.” His knife goes still. “Wyvern are mindless, Sloane. They’re mindless, furious, vicious… When they get their jaws into something, they don’t let go until it’s dead or they are. That wyvern got its teeth into Deigh, and…” 

He looks tired, so tired, as he turns to toy with the alloy dagger on the desk. 

“Those words in the Codex, the ones they carved into the dais, aren’t a light-hearted statement, Sloane,” Imogen whispers. “It’s not salesmanship. It’s the reality of being a rider. A rider without their dragon is dead, and without Deigh, Liam could never have gone on. You’ll understand what it’s like soon, the bond between—”

“So, where were you in all of this?” I interrupt, my voice breaking. But I’m not crying, not sad; I’m mad. Spitting mad. Livid. I keep my eyes fixed on the coverlet, reaching down to twist the fabric in my hands. “Where the fuck were either of you while Liam was dying? Where the fuck was Xaden? Where the fuck was Garrick? What was Sorrengail doing to help the person who’d just saved her life?”

Imogen takes a shaky breath. 

There’s a long, frictional beat until Bodhi manages to speak. “I didn’t know until it was too late,” he says, his tone sheepish. “None of us did. Even if I had, if any of us had, there’s no way we could have disengaged and made it there in time. There was so much happening. We were completely overwhelmed…” 

“And yet, you’re still alive,” I say bitterly. 

Imogen rests the side of her head against mine, her hand still rubbing my back reassuringly. It makes me think of my mother, and more spasms of anger race through me. “I’m… so sorry, Sloane,” she says. 

“Me, too,” Bodhi says. I look up at him, and he finally meets my eye again. “I wish it had been different, and I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life that it wasn’t. But, eventually, I have to accept that there’s nothing more I could have done, nothing more that anyone could have done. And so do you.”

No, I don’t, I think petulantly. I don’t have to do a godsdamned thing that any of you tell me I should. 

“What was Sorrengail doing?” I repeat.

“Nothing,” Bodhi admits. I can see pity in his eyes. And I hate it, and I refuse to be pitiable. I hate that everyone forces their pity on me like a burden to bear. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do, Sloane.”

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault,” Imogen insists, and there’s a note of determination in it. 

“Someone is always at fault,” I tell her belligerently. Familiar, cogent anger burns through my veins, and it feels like having a relic burned into my skin, except worse, because eventually the relic-burn stopped but I’m pretty sure the anger could smolder forever. “Things do not just happen without reason, Imogen. The gods don’t sit around rolling dice to decide our fates. There are actions and reactions. There are actions and consequences. Liam’s death did not just happen.”

I’m like the way Bodhi described wyvern, I think, turning my eyes back to the coverlet: mindless, furious, vicious. Ever since my parents’ death, I have wanted nothing more than to sink my teeth into something and refuse to let go until one of us is dead. I try to subdue the anger, to be less sullen, but pain is my most constant companion and my anger is the only thing that quells the pain.

So I nurse it, cultivate it, then unleash it on anyone who causes me to hurt.

“Where’s Colonel Aetos now?” I ask, lip trembling. I rub my blistered tongue against my tooth and savor the sting of it. 

“Gone,” Imogen promises me. 

“Why did he send you beyond the wards—to Athebyne, to Resson?” I ask after a long silence, my mind racing. I’m trying to find the right person to blame, someone to hate. If I don’t, then without a target to direct it outward at, I worry the anger inside of me may burn me alive. “He must have known what you were doing with the daggers, or at least had a pretty good idea, to risk sending you there, to force your hands like that. You said you thought you’d covered your tracks, so how did he find out? Or does he just hate us because of who our parents were?” 

Bodhi looks at Imogen uneasily. His mouth opens once, twice, as he tries to calibrate an answer. 

Imogen gets up and starts picking up the clothes that are thrown over the floor, hanging leathers up in the armoire and tossing sparring clothes in a basket of dirty laundry. “Well, at some point, Xaden told Violet some stuff,” she hesitantly admits. “Stuff about the trips we’d been doing to Athebyne, I guess? Not what he was doing, obviously, but just that we had been… making trips to Athebyne. That would have been enough for Colonel Aetos to figure out the rest on his own, to be honest.”

“And Xaden discussed this with you beforehand, I assume? Before he gave her information that put us all in mortal peril?” I say, arching one eyebrow. 

Bodhi huffs out a laugh. “Not really, no.”

“Of course he didn’t,” I say under my breath. I cross my arms. “So, how is it relevant that Xaden told his girlfriend about the dagger shipments? Putting aside the fact that her mother is who she is? She can’t have shared whatever he told her with anyone important, because if she had, she’d already be dead. Or we’d be dead.”

“She didn’t,” Imogen says quickly, and the words are tinny. “Not exactly,” she adds. She looks down at the sparring pants in her hand guiltily. “You know… how our wingleader is Dain Aetos, as in Colonel Aetos’ son?”

My brow furrows. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Well, you shouldn’t tell anyone you know this, because it’s need-to-know, but his signet is… retrocognition. He can see people’s memories by touching them like this.” She puts her hands on her temples.

“Which is why you should try to give him the widest berth you can,” Bodhi says. “Avoid him whenever possible.”

I reel back, horrified. 

I was just in his fucking room.

Alone.

And he must have known the whole time that my brother was dead because of his actions, and yet he had the fucking audacity to pretend that he was a decent person, an impartially concerned wingleader; to pretend that my pain and resignation and apathy weren’t a direct consequence of his actions.  

Well, fuck Dain Aetos. Fuck the entire Aetos family tree, in fact. I hope he choked on his apology; I hope it killed him to look me in the eye and apologize for ‘what happened’ to Liam, as if it was something he had no hand in. He happened to Liam. And I wish I had known what I now know hours ago so that I could have made him choke on his apology, or at least died trying.

“So, she didn’t know about his signet, and he touched her?” I say, frowning, still trying to process about a million pieces of information at once.

Imogen shrugs. “Before Xaden and Violet, I guess she and Aetos used to be a thing. He touched her face a lot, and she never put it together that he was getting at her memories some of those times. I guess she figured he wouldn’t do that to her. And whatever he saw in there, he took it to his dad, and if there was missing information that his dad needed to finish the picture, he went and found it.”

“So she didn’t realize he’d been rifling around up there?” I point at my head. In a sharp tone I add, voice thick with disgust, “She hasn’t heard of shielding?” 

“When Aetos uses his signet on you, you don’t feel it,” Bodhi tells me. “I can tell you that from personal experience.” He grimaces, and a muscle near his temple jumps. “And not everyone learns about shielding when they’re a child, Sloane.” 

“I can also tell you from personal experience that you don’t know what he’s doing or what he’s looking for,” Imogen says darkly. “And even if she had known how to shield, Sloane, he’s extremely difficult to keep out. I wouldn’t blame anyone for failing at it.”

“He’s done this to you?” I say, shocked. “And he’s alive?”

Imogen sighs. “The curriculum expands in your second year, and it’s a treat for all five senses.” She gives me a resigned look. “I would try to explain RSC to you, but honestly, I think it’s better if you don’t know what’s coming. Once you know, anticipating it is half the torture.”

Bodhi leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “So, how are you feeling?” he asks, giving me a sympathetic smile. 

I feel like I’m burning. 

I shrug. “I understand why you don’t want to blame anyone for what happened; I really do. I even understand why you don’t want me to blame Sorrengail for what happened with Aetos or what happened to Liam. But I’m not in the same place as you two are right now,” I tell them plainly. “I have every right to be mad and to grieve the brother that I lost a few weeks ago. I have every right to be angry that I have to grieve him here, in the place that took him from me. And it’s not up to either of you to tell me how I’m allowed to do that, or how to feel, or who I can or cannot blame for my brother’s death, or if I’m allowed to blame anyone at all.” My voice quivers, and I swipe angrily at my cheek, then turn my head away. “But I have heard everything you’ve said, and I appreciate you sharing it.” 

Mairis do not cry. 

Not in front of other people, anyway. 

“Sloane…” Imogen whispers, her voice cracking. But she doesn’t bother to say anything else. She knows she can’t change my mind if it’s made up; the only person who has ever convinced me to change my mind about anything was Liam, and he’s gone.

Bodhi sits still as stone, staring at the floor. 

I stand and cross to the desk, picking up my dagger. My nails have dug into my palms so hard that they drew blood. I leave the two alloy daggers, turning to the door; I have to get out of this room before I cry or vomit, or both.

Imogen reaches for my hand.

Three swift knocks echo through the room, and Bodhi and Imogen exchange a long glance before she goes to it and pulls it open. I’m shocked to see that Xaden is standing on the other side, and he smiles tightly as she pulls him through the ward. I take in the planes of his face, feeling dizzy and sick, palms sweating. I haven’t seen him in years, but he would look exactly the way I remember him, like no time has passed, if not for the scar notched through one brow and over one cheekbone.

His eyes flick to mine, then over my mottled flesh, the evidence of just how much I don’t belong here and just how much I am struggling with being here. He meets my eyes again, and I see what I think must be pity in his. And I don’t want his godsdamned pity.

“Sloane,” he says, then shakes his head. “Sloane, I’m so sorry.” 

I’m standing in front of him before I realize my feet are moving, my neck crooked back to stare up at him. He puts his arms out as if he’s going to pull me into a hug, and all I can think of is the fact that he put our secrets in Violet Sorrengail’s hands and now my brother is dead.

He doesn’t get to pity me. He doesn’t have the right to pity me. I don’t want his pity; I don’t want anyone’s pity. What I want is to have my fucking brother back.

There’s always someone to blame, I think. There has to be.

It’s just that simple.

Because if there isn’t, if it’s not, then how do I keep going, knowing that I am powerless, knowing that things will just keep happening to me and there’s nothing I can do about it?

Without blame or revenge or vindication, how do I survive the pain of all of the losses that have been rained down on me, all the losses to come?

Before he can crush me to his chest, I rear back my fist, and I punch Xaden Riorson right in his stupid fucking face. His head doesn’t snap back in the satisfying way that it does when Aaric punches someone, but the feel of my fist colliding with his cheekbone is still rewarding. 

He blinks down at me, frowning.   

“If there is ever another occasion in your miserable life where you forget that your secrets are our secrets, too, Xaden Riorson, and that those secrets could cost us our lives—that those secrets cost Liam his life—I will kill you,” I promise him. “I don’t know through what mechanism I will achieve that yet, but I need you to know that it’s not an empty threat. I will find a way.”  

“Noted,” he replies. He puts his hands on my shoulders circumspectly, like I’m a skittish animal. “Now, do you want a hug, or do you want to punch me again?”

He pats my hair, flattening it over my ears in the exact way Liam used to, the way that used to annoy me.

“Both,” I mutter as he pulls me toward him. 

“Hug first,” he recommends, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “And then I’ll show you how to punch someone properly.”

Chapter 5: No Thoughts, Just Fists

I won another dagger today. I’ve been keeping them in a drawer so I can give you some when you get here. Not that I’m implying you’ll need lots of them, but… the first few challenges might be rough. We’ll work on it.

I can’t wait to watch you win your first dagger, though, Sloane. I’m going to be the proudest big brother there ever was. Actually, I already am, but I’ll be even more proud (if such a thing were possible, obviously).

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early August

 

“Eat something,” Aaric demands, putting a plate in front of me as he sits down at what has become our table in the dining hall. He’s given me a selection of bland foods, colorless foods, things that won’t upset my stomach. He takes a bowl of fruit from the crook of his elbow and places it between us.

I stare at them both, expressionless.  

I’m not hungry, and even if I were, I’m too nauseous to eat. I push the plate away without a word.  

“Sloane,” Aaric says, pushing the plate back across the table. “Eat.”

Beside me, Visia lifts her head from the textbook she’s reading, her cheek still resting on her palm. “If she doesn’t want to eat, then she doesn’t have to fucking eat, Greycastle,” she snaps, pressing one finger to the page to mark her spot. “Sloane’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. 

“Hopefully she’ll live to regret them,” she adds under her breath, turning back to her book. 

I frown. 

Aaric stares at her, then at me, with an unreadable expression. “You need to eat, Sloane,” he says quietly, leaning across the table towards me. “You barely ate dinner yesterday, and I know you won’t eat at lunch.” He gently nudges the plate. “Just try something, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Aaric,” Visia barks. 

“It’s fine,” I tell her, taking a slice of apple from the bowl. I chew it slowly. 

It’s ripe, sweet, but it might as well be flavorless and grainy. I swallow it and pick up another slice, turning to my own book. Aaric watches me for a moment, then looks away with a quiet, resigned sigh. 

When he’s not looking, Visia silently hands me a piece of bacon, and I take that and mindlessly chew it, too.  

Aaric and I have spent most of the weekend practicing, and annoyingly, I haven’t been able to get Dain’s words from Friday out of my head; I’ve started noticing all the times Aaric is too patient with me, too lenient, too compensatory. I spent an hour with Xaden on Saturday, before he left to return to his post, and I saw more improvement from his tough-love approach than I have from weeks of Aaric’s tutoring. 

Baylor takes the seat beside Aaric’s and looks between us. “Everything okay?”

Aaric nods at him, not looking up from his food. He clenches his jaw as he stabs viciously at his eggs. 

Avalynn, who is seated next to him, watches the motion with a raised brow. She brushes a strand of hair that’s escaped its clasp behind her ear as she leans across the table to look past Aaric at Baylor. “Sloane isn’t eating.”

Baylor looks between us. “Sloane never eats,” he says, his brow furrowed. “Why are we suddenly fighting about it now?”

“We’re not fighting,” Aaric tells him. 

“If no one’s fighting, then why does it feel like everyone’s fighting?”

“No one’s fighting,” I confirm. I take another piece of bacon from Visia’s plate and chew it. “Look, I’m eating! Can we all move on now, please?”

Baylor puts his elbows on the table, either side of his plate. He looks from one face to the next, frowning, and no one meets his eye. “What is with everyone today?” When Avalynn’s eyes flick towards me, understanding dawns across his face. He rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Oh,” he says slowly. “Right. You’re due a challenge, and today’s probably the day.” He grimaces. “How are you, uh, feeling, Loany?”

Gods, I hate that nickname.

I place my bookmark between the pages of my book, then snap it shut and return it to my satchel before I respond. “How am I feeling about what, Lorry?” I ask as he picks up his cutlery and begins to eat. 

He gestures illustratively with his knife, which is smeared in runny eggs. It draws my attention, and the sight of the egg goo stuck to it, the rubbery whites and oily yellow yolks, nearly turns my stomach. “You know what I mean,” he says with his mouth full. He swallows, then picks up his juice and drinks it, watching me over the rim of the glass. 

“No, I don’t,” I tell him, smiling tightly. “Why don’t you explain?”

“Your prospects,” he elaborates.

“Sloane has nothing to worry about. Right, Sloane?” Aaric glares at Baylor, who holds up his hands defensively.

“Sloane can answer for herself, Aaric,” Visia says darkly. 

He gives her a pleasant, absent smile as he lifts his fork to his mouth, then chews. “I’m well aware of what Sloane is capable of.” His tone is briefly, uncharacteristically sharp. He takes a deep breath, and when he continues, his voice is back to being placid, emotionless. “I was just saying that Sloane has nothing to worry about, because she doesn’t.” 

Baylor grimaces. “You guys worked on it all weekend; right?”

Aaric nods.  

“And did you… see improvement?” Baylor continues, in a way that implies doubt.

“Can everyone stop talking about me like I’m not here, please?” I ask, but there’s not much fire in it. 

Avalynn gives me a sympathetic smile. “We’re just worried about you.”

“Why?” I ask her pointedly.

“I’m sure you’re feeling nervous,” she suggests. “That’s, like, so normal.”

“Stop telling her how she feels,” Visia snarls before Avalynn can continue, slamming her book shut. “She doesn’t need your fucking pity; she needs your support.” She points at Aaric, Baylor and Avalynn in turn, and her finger shakes. “She needs you to stop treating her like she’s delicate and weak. She needs you to stop infantilizing her. She needs you to start taking her seriously, because humoring her won’t get her anywhere but dead. She isn’t delicate or weak, and she isn’t going to fucking die today!”

“I don’t—” Avalynn begins. 

“All of you treat her like she’s an old, sick dog that you’re trying to keep comfortable until the inevitable happens.” Visia’s nostrils flare. “It’s fucking rude. And it pisses her off, but because you’re Aaric’s friends, she lets you get away with it.” 

Avalynn’s brow twitches. She sits back and crosses her arms. “Well, please don’t stop there,” she drawls, clenching her jaw. She gestures for Visia to continue speaking. “Go on, Hawelynn. Tell us more about how Sloane feels. Tell us more about what Sloane needs.” Her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes glitter menacingly. “I wouldn’t know, since apparently I’m Aaric’s friend, not hers.”

“To be clear,” Baylor says, “we’re fighting now, right?”  

I sigh and stand, tugging my satchel over my shoulder. “I’m going to the Archives until formation,” I tell no one in particular. 

Aaric moves to stand, his breakfast half-eaten. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’d rather be alone,” I insist, turning to leave. 

“I don’t mind—”

Visia slams her palm against the table. “She said she’d rather be fucking alone, Aaric.”

Baylor lifts his eyebrows as he turns to his plate, scowling. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Hawelynn,” he says, “but things are a lot more peaceful around here when you sit at your own damn table.”

“Feel free to take this the wrong way, Norris,” she retorts as she gives him the finger, then throws her chair back and grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the table and stomping towards the door. 

Aaric swears as he scrambles out of his seat. He stumbles after us, following us into the hallway. 

Visia lets go of my wrist once we we’re out of the dining hall, putting her hand on my shoulder instead and shepherding me—practically pushing me—towards the bridge that will take us to Archives. She’s walking with purpose, irritation seeping off of her like the steam from a rain bakes off of a hot stone road; I’m nearly running to keep up with her long strides. We’re already at the foot of the north-most staircase to the dorms, students jumping out of our way as we barrel through them. 

“Are you okay?” I ask her. 

“Are you okay?” she shoots back. 

I smile at her grimly. “You’re worried about me dying today, too, aren’t you?”

Her head snaps towards me. “No, I’m not.”

“Look, Visia, if I go to Malek today, then—”

Aaric catches up to us and curls his hand around my shoulder. He whips me around to face him partway through my sentence, and I stumble to a stop, nearly crashing into him. “Sloane,” he says insistently, “will you just fucking talk to me, please?”

Visia rounds on him, pale eyes blazing with cool anger, and for a second I think she’s going to punch him. If there’s one thing I know intimately, one thing in the world I can instantly recognize, it’s untethered, bone-deep rage. And Visia Hawelynn has nearly as much rage humming through her veins as I do.

Aaric falters at the expression on her face, his gaze flicking toward her curled fists. There’s no question in my mind that he would beat her in a fight, but I know that if her fists start flying, his won’t. He would sooner let her beat him into pulp, then find a way to apologize for it.

“It’s okay, Visia,” I tell her, putting my hand on her shoulder. 

Her head turns slowly. She glares at me for a long, tense second, then makes a sound of disgust before stomping away in the direction of the bridge, muttering to herself.

“Visia!” I call after her, exasperated; she ignores me.

Aaric watches her go, and his expression is pained. “Sloane, have I done something wrong?” he asks, turning back to me. 

“Nothing,” I promise. I shift my weight across my hips and run my tongue along my bottom row of teeth, massaging it against the sharp, angular crevice of my deviated tooth. 

“Are you sure?” He swallows nervously. “Because you’ve been weird with me all weekend, and I’m not sure what I did. If it’s about Friday night, I genuinely wasn’t trying to imply that you—” 

“It’s not about Friday,” I insist, interrupting him. “It’s not anything. I’m fine, honestly.”

“Okay.” He glances towards the bridge. Haltingly, he asks, “Does Visia know something I don’t?”

“What?”

“All that stuff she just said in the dining hall, is that true? Is that how you feel?” His gaze is unyielding, breathtakingly green eyes boring down into mine. I drop my head and stare at the scuffed toes of my mother’s rider’s boots, kicking them against the stone path. “Do you think I infantilize you or something?”

I hesitate. 

“No,” I reply after what I recognize is a too-long pause. 

Aaric reels back as if I’ve slapped him. “Sloane…” 

“Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” I say, pivoting at the hips and nodding towards the bridge behind me. “Visia is… Visia. Sometimes, I think, she’s just looking for an excuse to be mad at someone, and for whatever reason, today she picked… well, all of you. And she’s worried about me, just like you are.” I take a deep breath, then add, “I don’t think you treat me like a dying dog; I don’t feel like you’re humoring me.”

“Well, good. Because I’m not.”

I cross my arms and hunch my shoulders, tapping the fingers of my left hand against my bicep, then tentatively say, “But you did make me promise that I would give this everything I’ve got, and you never hold me to that. And I guess that after training with Xaden this weekend, I kind of realized how much you’ve been letting me get away with. Which makes me wonder why you’re not holding me accountable. Like maybe you think I can’t do this.” 

His eyes search mine, and then he drops his hand as if the white-hot anger that’s always simmering under my skin has burned him. Guilt douses the flames inside of me as he takes a step back, but the damage is already done; I’ve scalded him, and I don’t know why I did it. “And you talked to Visia about this?” he asks, incredulous. “But not me?”

“It’s not a big deal or anything,” I hastily say. “I’m sorry. All of that came out wrong. Just, um, ignore me. I’m in a weird mood; I’m nervous. It’s nothing.”

His shoulders are rigid, and I watch him take five deep breaths.

“You know what, Sloane?” he says quietly, in a voice that makes something pull taut in my chest. “I haven’t judged you for being angry at the world, because I get it. You have every right to be angry. And you can be angry at everyone else, if that’s what you need.” His jaw clenches, but his voice remains even, calm. “But you don’t get to be angry at me, because I know I haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“Aaric,” I murmur, reaching out towards him. “I didn’t mean—”

He takes a half-step back, and my hand drops to my side. My fingertips tingle, but not with anger. 

It’s shame, I realize. I feel ashamed of myself, and it burns as hot as rage. 

“If you’re not trying, then that’s on you,” he says, crossing his arms. “But I won’t stand here and let myself be accused of allowing you to be complacent. I have been patient with you, because your brother just died and because you never got a choice about coming here. I have been sympathetic, because I can see that you’re overwhelmed and that this kingdom has dealt you a shitty fucking hand. I have been kind to you, because that is the least of what you deserve.” He pauses, and, for the first time since I’ve known him, he almost sounds truly angry as he adds, “And if you need someone to be heartless towards you so that you’ll pay attention to them, if you need someone like Xaden fucking Riorson to guide you through this, then so be it. But I’m not that person, and I’m not going to waste my time trying to be that person for you.”

“No,” I murmur, reaching out for his arm again. I’m not even sure which part of what he said I’m refuting.

“Hold yourself accountable,” he scowls, shaking my hand away, and the disappointment I hear in his voice stings me to my bones. He sighs and looks away, back towards the dining hall, raking his hand through his hair. “I’m going to find Visia and apologize on Avalynn’s behalf,” he tells me dismissively. “I’ll see you at the mat, Sloane. And so that we’re clear, because I know you, and I know how you get in your own head: I’ll still be rooting for you. I will always root for you, even though you can be cruel and you make me want to tear my fucking hair out sometimes.” 

He walks away before I can answer, and I blink at the space where he was standing, dazed. 

I have managed to make two friends in these early weeks at Basgiath, the only two friends I have ever had who aren’t now inextricably bonded to me by a rebellion relic, and I’m pretty sure I just hurt both of them.

I feel a single tear fall, and I quickly swipe at it. Then another falls, and another, and another. It feels like I am being pushed from all directions, and my knees wobble; I nearly fall to the ground, letting the crushing weight of the grief bearing down on me take my knees out from under me, but by some miracle, I remain upright long enough to stagger to the wall. I slide down it until I’m seated, and for the first time in years, I let myself really cry. I let myself openly weep in the middle of a hallway, where anyone could see my vulnerability.

It feels like an act of self-harm.

I cry for my parents, my childhood, Liam. I cry because I can never control myself and my inextinguishable need to hurt the people around me. I cry because I’m not sure I like the person I’ve become, but I don’t know how to be anyone else. I cry because it feels good, and I’m tired of pretending that it won’t. 

It occurs to me, as I let tears stream down my face, staring at the wall in front of me until my vision blurs, that I feel exactly the same way as I did when I was trying to stick my father’s broken vase back together—the one Bodhi remembered me breaking. Like my hands are full of porcelain shards and paste, and I’m trying to shape them the way I know they should be, but the pieces won’t hold together. My face is hot with shame and guilt. I’m angry at myself, angry and frustrated; I’m disgusted with myself. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? I think. Why can’t I just be normal? Functional? Why do I have to ruin everything I touch?

When my eyes refocus, the hallway is almost empty and I realize that Dain is crouching in front of me, that we are alone. 

“Sloane! Are you okay?” he asks, his expression one of increasing alarm. It registers that he might have been talking to me for a while without me noticing. He ducks his head, trying to make eye contact with me. His face is ashen. His pupils are dilated, swallowing up the bright brown irises of his eyes so that they look nearly black. 

I become aware that I am gasping for breath, and it feels good. Primal. An instant later, it stops feeling good.

It starts to feel like I’m dying, like there isn’t enough air in the hallway to fill my lungs. I claw at my neck, nails leaving scratch marks, ragged breaths sawing through my chest. 

My pulse is thundering. 

Every muscle in my body is taut and trembling. 

“Sloane, breathe.” He reaches his hand out towards me, and I flinch away, throwing my head to the side. He holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay,” he says gently. “I won’t touch you, but I do need you to breathe.” He demonstrates, placing his hand flat against his chest. “In. Out. In. Out. Are you still with me, Sloane? Can you hear me?” 

I nod.

“You’re doing good.” He keeps both hands folded over his knee, but his fingers twitch. “Keep going. In. Out. In. Out. Do you know what grounding is, Sloane?”

I do, but I can’t possibly do that right now. I ground myself in the dining room of our house in Aretia, the last place that I saw my family whole and happy; right now, all I can think about is the fact that it's also the room where they executed my father, the room where Liam stood and watched him die. 

I shake my head.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Just focus on your breathing, then.”  

He coaches me, taking in deep, full breaths and exhaling them. We sit in the hallway, breathing together in silence. Slowly, air comes back to me, inflating my lungs, and my heartbeat slows to a steady canter. 

He stares at me, and I stare back at him. 

“Talk to me,” he demands. Gentle, but authoritative.

My skin itches and crackles.

“Talk to me,” he repeats, voice softer this time. “What's going on, Sloane?”

“Don’t do that,” I hiss, using the wall behind me to drag myself to my feet. “Don’t pretend to be some caring, sympathetic—” Breaths tear from my lungs. I feel dizzy, dehydrated. Angrily, I scrub the tear marks from my face. “I know exactly what kind of person you are,” I tell him, glaring down at him as he remains crouched on the floor, and I’m horrified by the sound of my own strangled, rasping voice. “You’re a disgusting person, Dain Aetos. If you ever care enough about another person to love them—enough to care about them more than you care about anything else in the entire world, even yourself—I hope Malek rips them from you when you need them the most, and I hope that in that moment, you know that you deserve it.”

He blinks up at me; then he stands and walks away without another word.

-----

I stand to one side of the sparring mat, arms crossed, rocking back and forth from one hip to the other as I watch Aaric take down Vinn Vasant from Third Wing. Vinn gets in a single hit to Aaric’s mouth before Aaric launches his offensive, landing a series of brutal blows to Vinn’s torso, shoulder and thigh in quick succession. I flinch every time Aaric’s fists thud against Vinn’s body, every time I hear a crack. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Dain as he moves between mats, barking orders. He pauses, turning his head and looking straight at me, then glances to the side, watching as Aaric counters an oncoming attack with expert precision; before he turns back to the match he was watching, his eyes flick to where I know Sorrengail is standing on the other side of the mat. 

I dig my nails into my arm hard enough to draw blood.

Aaric’s fist makes contact with Vinn’s jaw hard enough to make his head snap back, and I wince. I am acutely aware of how a blow like that feels, how disorienting and terrifying it is. Aaric circles Vinn, every muscle in his body lethally taut, then elbows him in the throat with jaw-dropping speed and precision.

Aaric is an excellent fighter, but usually he’s a thing of elegance and poise. I have never seen him fight like this: savagely. 

It’s a terrifying sight to behold. 

Sawyer, our squad’s executive officer, calls out from across the room as Aaric’s elbow lands. “That’s a fucking nine,” he howls as he pounds his fist against his chest. “Nine!” Ridoc (one of the other Second Years) agrees, laughing as he holds up his hands with all of his fingers splayed except the left thumb. 

Sorrengail laughs along with them, flipping a dagger in her hands.  

I grimace as I turn back to the match. 

Seconds after the strike to his throat, Aaric lashes out with the heel of his hand, and I hear a nauseating crunch as the impact breaks Vinn’s nose; I dodge the drops of blood that come flying in my direction with a hasty side step, but more of it drenches the mat, gushing from Vinn’s face in bright red rivulets. He spits out a curse, then howls, throwing his head back. 

I turn away, feeling queasy. 

“Greycastle,” Emetterio says, pointing to Aaric. The Second Years start hollering again, and I wipe my clammy hands on my pants.

My pulse is galloping again as Aaric comes toward me from the mat, dripping sweat. I hand him the towel that he left on a nearby bench, and he smiles tightly as he uses it to wipe the blood from his hands, then gestures for my water skin; I hand him that, too. He flicks his hair from his eyes, then tips his head back and pours it into his mouth. He gargles before spitting thin pink liquid onto the floor. After, he prods around in his mouth with his finger. 

“You’re amazing,” I murmur, watching Baylor wipe Vinn’s blood off the mat. He does a poor job, leaving streaks of it behind.

Aaric grunts in response as he lifts up the hem of his shirt and uses it to wipe his face. Across the room, I hear Ridoc wolf-whistle.  

“Aaric, I’m sorry,” I murmur, still staring at the bloody rag in Baylor’s hands. “And I’m about as good at apologizing as I am at roundhouse kicks or throwing daggers, so I might need you to bear with me here.” He scowls, and I flex my fingers nervously. “Everything you said was true. I haven’t been fair to you. I haven’t been very respectful of the time that you’ve put into helping me, and that’s so wrong. And it’s my responsibility to hold myself accountable for my own improvement, and it was absolutely cruel to imply that you were somehow at fault for that.”

“Generally, when you apologize to someone, you’re supposed to look them in the eye,” he tells me. 

I turn and tip my head back so I can look up at him. His arms are crossed, and I can’t read the expression on his face. “Aaric, you are already the closest friend I’ve ever had in my life, and I will never forgive myself if I have ruined that. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to, but I cannot lose another person that I care about.” My voice wavers. “So, I’m sorry, but I need you to accept my apology.”

He frowns as his eyes rove over my face. “You’ve been crying,” he says, worried. 

“I’m going to try,” I promise him. “If you say you can forgive me, I’ll do whatever it takes to get through this, because I promised you that I would try and that we would do this together, from Parapet to graduation and whatever comes afterward.”

He pretends to consider what I’ve said, and I wait, holding my breath. “You really do suck at apologies,” he says gravely after a long, long silence.

I punch him in the arm, and he grunts, rubbing the spot where I hit him before he wraps his arm around my shoulders and brings me closer to him. “Remember when you said you weren’t an asshole?”

“I was never not going to forgive you, Sloane. It was a tiny disagreement, and I was annoyed, not mad. However, seeing as you’ve offered to do anything I deem appropriate, I think I know exactly what you can do to earn my forgiveness and show me that you’re committed to our friendship and to trying.” He grins down at me, jostling me. “See, I was thinking—”

“Let me guess. You were thinking of me while you were rearranging Vinn Vasant’s face?” I mutter.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Before that,” he clarifies, “I was thinking about what you said, and I think you’re right. I think you would respond better to a tutor who’s a little less… accommodating. I think maybe I’m too lenient for your needs. You respond best to… well, maybe not negative reinforcement, but definitely not positive reinforcement. And so, it occurred to me that perhaps we should find you a new tutor. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

I groan, miserable. “You’re going to force me to train with Imogen, aren’t you?” 

“I love how smart you are.” Aaric watches Baylor throw the blood-soaked rag into a bin with a wet slap and stand, his expression a little peaked. He leans a little closer, arm almost pressed against mine. “No one gives you enough credit for that.”

“I’ll talk to her tonight,” I grumble. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, reaching up to tug the end of my braid. 

“It’s truly foul of you to blackmail me, but I suppose your absolution is worth whatever she might put me through.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Will you still help me, though? Sometimes?”

“If there’s ever a day I don’t say yes to that question, it’s because I’m dead.” Solemnly, he unravels his arm from around my shoulders and throws the rag in his left hand into Baylor’s bucket as he passes. “Now, tell me about my strategy during that match,” he commands as he fetches his water skin and drinks from it. 

“Sure,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “It’s the same one you always use. Your strategy was to be better than the other guy, and you have been since the day you were born.”

Aaric gives me an exasperated smile. “Humor me, please.”

“You overwhelmed him,” I sigh, clenching and unclenching my fist. “After he got that first strike in, you didn’t let him get momentum. You kept your blows quick, and you disseminated your hits across his body to create openings for the places you really wanted to hit him. You faked a few hits to leave him disoriented; you wanted him focused on defending his body so that you could take him by surprise when you went for his throat and nose.”

“Good,” he says, throwing the water skin on the nearby bench. “So you do pay attention.”

“Dissecting theories and stratagems of fighting is not my problem,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. I turn back to glance at Emetterio, wondering when he’ll call the next match, and see his eyes flick towards me. Did I imagine that? Dread lines my stomach, and I feel my entire body flush hot, then cold. Every one of my nerve endings feels raw, exposed. “My problem is threefold: I’m weak, I’m slow, and I think too much.”

He shakes his head at me. “Sloane, has it ever occurred to you that smashing your fists into someone indiscriminately would be an excellent outlet for all that nasty stuff you keep bottled up inside of you? And that if you just start hitting them and don’t stop, eventually they’ll go down? Why do you think Visia’s always sharpening her claws on somebody?”

I scoff. “I’m too preoccupied with the fact that fists and/or feet are flying at me at with alarming speed.” 

He rolls his eyes at me. “You can take a punch better than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life.” He pats my head. “Seriously, it’s like your skull is made of talladium. And though I’m offended that you apparently respect his teaching style a lot more than mine, I can’t deny that it’s effective: Riorson already has you punching like a pro. So, stop thinking about how you’re going to defend yourself from whoever you’re fighting and just start punching. Make them defend themselves from you.” He turns me toward him, picking up my limp hands and puppeteering them to mimic me hitting him in the chest repeatedly. He grips my wrists in one hand and brings the other up to tap at the side of my head, near my temple. “No thoughts, Sloane. Just fists.” 

I rip my hands away from him and bring one up to my mouth to bite at a cuticle, watching Emetterio scribble notes. His eyes flick towards me again, and my stomach hollows out, then heaves with nervous anticipation. I definitely didn’t imagine that. My entire body begins tingling with adrenaline, sizzling. I start fidgeting, moving my weight from one hip to the other to hide the fact that my knees are shaking. My body screams at me to turn around and run out of the room, to flee from the pain I’m about to feel. 

I glance at Aaric and smile, but I think it comes out like a grimace. “I think I’m next,” I say, rocking my body from side to side. 

“No thoughts, just fists,” he repeats. “No matter who you’re matched with, your strategy should just be that. The second that the match starts, you start punching and don’t stop. You tell yourself that whoever is on the other side of the mat is responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to you, and you make them bleed for it.”

I nod, smiling weakly, beginning to feel a little ambitious in spite of myself. Okay, I think, I can do that. It almost sounds… fun.

“Sloane Mairi and Dasha Fabrren,” Emetterio yells out. 

My face drops.

Dasha Fabrren is fast, precise and deadly.

Dasha Fabrren always strikes first.  

Most importantly, Dasha Fabrren is the daughter of Colonel Constanta Fabrren. 

Who was killed by my mother in the apostasy. 

I blink across the mat at Dasha, who is looking at me with a smug, satisfied expression, like she knows she could devour me down to my skeleton and pick her teeth with my bones. 

“You hit first, and you hit hard,” Aaric instructs as I move toward the mat. “She’s fast, but she has no stamina; she starts flagging after the three-minute mark. So if she gets you on the defensive, all you need to do is hold out for three minutes. She’s smaller than you, so she’ll be looking to use your height against you. Don’t let her. And do not let her get you on the ground, because she will pin you.”

I nod, but the information isn’t sinking in. “Okay,” I tell him. 

“You’ve got this,” he promises me. 

Some of the other First Years give me sympathetic looks as I approach my annihilation, and a few pat me on the back as Aaric shepherds me toward what is shaping up to be the ass-kicking of my life. Visia grabs my wrist as we pass. “She’s looking at you like she wants to wear your skin, Sloane,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. She smiles encouragingly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Be careful. Keep your guard up. Kill her if you have to.” 

“Visia, I’m sorry for—”

“Tell me afterwards,” she insists. “After you win.” 

I reach the mat before Dasha and watch her saunter towards me. She’s pretty as Loial, with onyx hair, pale skin and berry-stained lips, all of which is a clever disguise for how lethal she is.

She reminds me of the poisonous flowers that line the moss-covered floors of the Cygnis Forest.

I bring my fists up to my chest, forming them just how Xaden showed me to. I know you usually ignore me, but if I make it out alive, I will come to your temple at least twice and leave modest offerings, I pledge to Zihnal. 

Dasha sinks into her fighting stance, and we nod; then she grins threateningly, moving towards my left side, my weaker side. My feet are steady beneath me as Dasha prowls around me, and I try to tap into the anger that’s always simmering right below my skin.

I am afraid, so it feels close to the surface, tangible.

No thoughts, just fists, I think to myself; then I think, Shit, I shouldn’t be thinking.

I let her move me in a circle around the mat, trying to stifle the panicked certainty I feel that I’ve already lost, that I am about to hurt, that Dasha is going to kill me. It already feels like we’ve been circumnavigating the mat for at least ten minutes, but it can’t have been more than thirty seconds.

Is she waiting for me to make the first move? Is she waiting for me to get complacent, drop my guard? 

Stop. Thinking, I scream at myself.

“Let’s go, Sloane,” Baylor shouts from behind me.

“Yeah, let’s go Sloane,” Dasha sneers. “You know what? Since I’m so nice, I’ll give you the first hit for free. That way, I won’t feel as bad when I’m finished wiping the floor with you.”  

My anger intensifies. I start to feel tingling in all of my fingers and toes, then numbness; then I start to feel frustrated. My brain is screaming at me, begging me to listen to it. After another few seconds of orbiting each other, I give in, and as she circles me, I start to scan her body for vulnerabilities, trying to devise a strategy for taking her down that’s more comprehensive than just punching her indiscriminately until she yields. Which is a stupid plan, and the fact that Aaric would suggest it is ridiculous. 

My eyes flick downward, toward her knee. I could—

Dasha smacks out, her fist landing on my cheekbone, reopening the cut Jacek gave me on Friday. I feel blood trickle down my cheek and nearly stagger, but I don’t. 

Hot, robust zaps of anger pulse through the very core of my being. 

I keep moving, slowly rotating. 

There’s a scream from across the room, but I don’t take my eyes off of Dasha, even as hers flicker to the other mat. Fuck, I realize. That was an opening, and I missed it. 

“You next,” Dasha says under her breath, giving me a lazy smile. 

I don’t respond, not even with a twitch of my brow. 

“I’ll make it quick,” she promises. She lowers her eyes to my raised forearm, looking meaningfully at the relic emblazoned across my skin. I would love to clarify what she means by that, whether she’s alluding to the fact that she won’t prolong my death or whether she simply means that she’s going to dispatch me quickly because this fight is beneath her, but I refuse. 

Besides, she hasn’t pulled a knife yet, which is a solid indicator that she probably doesn’t intend to kill me.

I may have missed a perfect moment to strike, but what if I can engineer another one, the way that Aaric does? I start to close the empty space between us, coming a little closer, carefully tightening up our rotations so that I’m near enough to strike with some momentum, but not yet within her range. I decide to try a tactic I’ve seen Visia use on her opponents: move in fast; feint as if I’m going to hook a punch into her ribs; kick her in the thigh; then grab her face and use it as leverage to knee her in the groin with the full force of my body weight.

As I move to feint, I see something flicker in Dasha’s eyes. Triumph, I realize. 

She smiles as pivots from her hip and kicks out, her foot crashing into the right side of my head. It snaps to the side, my entire body following the trajectory of the kick all the way down to the mat. I land on my back, huffing mouthfuls of air. 

“Regroup, Sloane,” Aaric barks from my righthand side. “Get up!”

“Move,” Visia screams. “Move, Sloane!”

There are two long seconds where I am staring upwards, too startled to think. The bruise on my ass radiates pain through my tailbone and down to my toes, but I’ve managed to remain conscious and land without getting the wind knocked out of me; I chalk that up to my experience being thrown around this mat every which way possible. 

I’m on my back, I realize, a fresh wave of adrenaline and fear pulsing through me. I’m on the mat. I lose another second as the thought, the panic, paralyzes me.  

Three seconds is all it takes. Aaric’s warning about getting pinned echoes in my ears as Dasha falls on top of me, fist cocked. She straddles my chest, locking my arms to my sides with her thighs. “This is for my mom,” she spits as she brings her fist down into my eye socket.

I wince, dazed.

Her fist snaps back like a whip as soon as it connects with bone, and she immediately punches me again, hard. The back of my head smacks against the mat. 

The room lurches.

I don’t scream, and I sure as fuck don’t yield. 

I manage to brace before the third punch lands, tucking my chin toward my chest, lifting my shoulders and clenching my jaw. I grunt as it connects with my forehead, just north of my temple. I’ve become well accustomed to taking hits, especially the ones I’m expecting; I’ve learned how to reduce the impact force so that what was once enough to send my body into shock is now a manageable assault. 

I’m reeling from the first three punches, but I succeed in rolling my head with the left-right combination that constitutes the fourth and fifth blows, my tongue tucked to the roof of my mouth so I don’t bite down on it in the assault.

Punching is good, I think. I can take a punch better than anyone. Punching means she either hasn’t realized or doesn’t care that there are six daggers sheathed in a harness across her chest, daggers that she could currently be plunging into various very spongy, very pliant spots in my torso, neck and arms. I can brace for a punch, but I can’t brace for a knife. She’s avoiding hitting me in areas that might mean instant death or serious injury, for the most part, which is a reassuring sign. And she’s pulling some of her punches, I realize, which means she wants to drag this out for as long as possible, to enjoy it. To punish me, once again, for my mother’s actions.

Dizzily, I comprehend that Dasha is employing exactly the method Aaric told me to—no thoughts, just fists—as another savage blow lands on my mouth, splitting my lip. I guess he was right, I think as I take the seventh punch to my nose and watch blood spray across her fist; her chest; the mat beside me, mingling with Vinn Vasant’s. 

I guess it’s a solid tactic, after all.

I send another prayer to Zihnal: that I will live to tell him that.

Because while punching me means it’s more likely that she wants to hurt me than kill me, it doesn’t mean she won’t still kill me by accident. 

Blissfully, after so many blows to the head, my body is sinking into shock like a warm bath, and there’s so much adrenaline pumping through me that I don’t even feel pain. The world is spinning off its axis, and though I want to puke on myself, I know I won’t. I let the weight of her body on my chest counterbalance the nausea as I take stock of where I’m at. After so many beatings, I’ve developed a pretty good idea of how many hits I can take before I black out, and I think I have about three more solid right hooks in me before I slip away into oblivion, which will most likely be a loss of consciousness but could be a one-way trip to Malek. 

I have to make a decision: I can yield, accept that this is my fate and let her beat me into a coma or death, or I can wrest back control from the gods and make my own fate.  

Dasha bears more of her weight down on me, crushing my chest. I wheeze, and for the second time that day, I can’t breathe. 

One: A right hook lands on the side of my head, and I let my neck follow the momentum of her fist, head lolling to the side. I see Aaric crouching at the side of the mat and notice that he’s screaming at me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The room sounds tinny and muffled, like my head is underwater.

Two: While my eyes are still locked on his, I take a jab to the left eye and feel bone shatter. I groan.

“Yield,” she hisses. “Yield like your bitch mother did, Mairi, or you can tell her I said hi.” 

I promised I would try, so I have to try.  

“Your mother was a coward,” I moan as she draws back her fist for the tenth and final blow, the one that will send me hurtling into the abyss. I hope that my voice is quiet enough for only us to hear, because it sounds booming in my own ears. Summoning as much strength and fortitude as I can, I buck upwards, rutting my hips underneath her, trying to make space to get my arms out from underneath her legs, but my wriggling barely seems to be affecting her. I might as well be trying to chip away at dragonscale with a knife and fork.

I don’t give up.

I have to try.

Finally, after what feels like a million painful minutes but can’t have been more than seconds, something gives. Relief zings through me as I feel her knees lift from the mat, and I nearly choke out a sob. Her weight tips to one side, and my right arm comes free; I push her away with as much might as I can muster and suck in the sweetest breath of air I have ever tasted as she lands on her ass. 

Apparently, she’s not as experienced with landing on her ass as I am, because she lands like a ton of bricks. It occurs to me that we must be nearing that three-minute mark that Aaric mentioned, that her stamina is flagging. 

I’ve done it, I think.

I’ve survived the beating. Now, I need to return the favor. Or try, anyway.

But first…

For a transcendent moment, I lie there on the mat indulging in decadent sips of air, body singing with relief that there’s no longer hard, compacted bone bludgeoning me in the face over and over again. I can’t help but savor the reprieve. Then, there’s a long, sharp whistle in my head, and I hear Aaric’s voice cutting through the ringing in my ears, ringing that seems to originate from my tender jaw. “Now, Sloane!” he begs.

I try to roll onto my feet, and my stomach heaves. Shadows curl around me, and I feel certain that it’s Malek, here to claim me. I can hear my racing heartbeat in my head, feel it in my throat. I can see the shadows in my vision pulsing, keeping time with it. 

It occurs to me that I may not have survived the beating, after all. 

Still on my back, I let my head loll to the side again, looking for Aaric, and see that Sorrengail is crouched by the mat, too. For half a second, our eyes lock. 

“Get up, Sloane!” she yells. “Now!” 

I can see Dain over her shoulder, too, coming towards the mat, and I unconsciously time my breaths to the rhythm he set for me in the hallway, tempering them. The thumping in my ears and chest slows, evens out.

My eyes find Visia before they find Aaric, and hers are wild with terror. She’s crying, I notice, tears and snot pooling in the creases of her freckled nose and her scarred neck. “Sloane, now!”

As I roll myself onto my hands and knees, I finally spot him. He’s moving around the mat, following me, with Baylor and Avalynn trailing behind him. Avalynn’s usually tawny face is nearly white, eyes wide in fear. I spit blood onto the mat beside me, then crawl towards Dasha, who is still sprawled on the mat. The urge to vomit is all-encompassing, and I can feel that one eye is already swollen. The glare of the mage lights hurts. 

When I reach Dasha, I try to straddle her. I want to get astride her so I have the right angle and enough rotation in my hips to deliver a cross straight into her perfectly pert nose, just like Xaden taught me. In fact, I want to deliver nine: one for each of the punches I took. But I know I can't. The ground beneath me tilts as I move, and my head throbs. I guzzle air, trying to quell the nausea. 

Dasha stirs. 

In response, my mind goes blank. Survival instincts kick in. I tear back, head spinning, and slam my shoulder into her stomach as hard as I can. I know, from personal experience, that every breath of air has just gone out of her lungs and she’ll be lying there wondering if this is what it feels like to die, just like I was half a-minute ago. 

Her head thunks back against the mat. She lets out a guttural grunt that makes the anger swirling inside of me crackle and pop like a roaring fire.   

While Dasha is hacking for oxygen, I finally manage to get onto my knees and shuffle on them. Time feels like it moves painfully slow as I make my way to her head, trying not to let myself tip too far to one side or the other as I sway. The ground is wheeling up at me, and I start to think I might have vertigo; I’m shaking from the adrenaline, more uncoordinated than I would like to be in this moment thanks to repetitive blows to my fucking skull. And though I still want to crawl on top of her, draw back my fist and punch through her face so hard that I hit the floor underneath, I need to make it off this mat alive more than I need that.

If Dasha recovers and remembers the daggers she’s forgotten until now, all bets are off.

So instead of climbing onto her, I snatch up a fistful of her glossy black braid, lift her head from the mat and—resisting everything in me, every morsel of my being, which is screaming to smash it back down over and over again, until there’s nothing left of her face but a fine paste—I pull her into a chokehold, my elbow locked around her throat just like Aaric taught me. 

“Yield,” I beg her, my voice hoarse. 

Dasha bucks upwards, and I do my best to hold on, scrambling for a back-up plan. Aaric was right that Dasha flags at the three-minute mark, but what he didn’t mention, maybe because her fights are usually well and truly over by now, is that she gets a second wind not long after that. “Yield!” I say again, louder this time. I squeeze my elbow harder around her neck, fully willing to crush her windpipe if that’s what it takes. 

I am closer to tasting victory than I have ever been before, and now that I am here, with Dasha struggling under me, I understand that I would do anything to win. I have never doubted that my anger is persistent and tenacious, that it wants to endure and will keep me alive if I keep it alive, like two things that live in a state of symbiosis. But I have never appreciated this part of it. 

I’m sick of losing. 

I’m sick of assuming I’ve already lost before I even try.

I am sick of being angry as a crux, sick of feeling powerless.

It’s not enough to win today; I want to believe that I will never lose again. 

I need to win this fight.

“Yes, Sloane!” Aaric roars, slamming against the mat with his fist like he’s yielding on Dasha’s behalf. I feel a tremor of satisfaction tickle my scalp and spine. “Keep going, Sloane! You’ve got her!”

Dasha is writhing, and I hold onto her with what little strength I can find within me. My grip feels precarious, and I question whether I should start trying to angle her head down toward my knee so I can get my thigh around her neck for a more resilient chokehold, like Emetterio was showing us in the first week we were here. If Dasha manages to break my grip before I can do that, I decide I’m going to throw my whole weight on her back and start punching her at the base of the skull as hard as I can. If she dies, then so—

“Mairi,” Emetterio repeats.

I blink, looking down. 

Dasha is tapping the mat. 

Avalynn, Baylor, Visia and Aaric are cheering so loud, for a second I think the whole quadrant might be cheering with them; when I look up, I realize that almost no one else is. There are a few First Years hollering half-heartedly, a few others with relics clapping politely. Aura Beinhaven sneers as she hands someone a pouch of gold. I have somehow won, and we’re all equally shocked.

It’s a meager victory, an uninspiring victory, but it’s mine.  

I have officially won my first challenge. 

I press my lips to Dasha’s ear before I let her go. “My mother didn’t yield,” I whisper to her as I take a dagger from the ones sheathed in the harness across her ribs. “My mother went to her death proud, honorable and unafraid. I wish you could say the same for yours.” 

Then I throw her to the ground, stagger to my feet and walk off the mat, right into Aaric’s arms.

Aaric rests his chin on my head as he envelops me in a hug, squeezing me tighter than is strictly comfortable, but at this moment, I do not care. I also do not care about the blood that’s pouring from my face and seeping into his shirt, or the fact that I’m pretty sure some of it is Vinn Vasant’s and that I’m wearing someone else’s bodily fluids, or even the fact that the crush of his chest against my split cheek and bruised eye socket is agonizing. Frankly, I don’t think I’d be standing if he wasn’t holding me up.

After a moment, he pushes me away gently and starts to examine my injuries, checking for signs of anything that would warrant a trip to a mender. “I’m so proud of you and your talladium skull,” he says. “But next time I tell you to punch something until it stops moving, you’d better godsdamn listen.”

My throat constricts.  

Visia screams as she descends on me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She keeps screaming, sobbing, and the high-pitched buzzing in my ears distorts it into discordant harmonies. She’s wiped away her snot and tears, but her eyes are still bloodshot. “I told you she could do it,” she barks as she pushes Aaric away from me. She begins cleaning blood off of my cheek with a wet cloth that I didn’t realize she was holding; then she palms a water skin into my hand, but I’m too tired to even drink from it. I just hold it loosely, letting her clean up the mess Dasha’s fists left behind. 

She’s not gentle as she swipes at me, but I hardly feel a thing.    

There’s not a speck of anger left floating loose inside of me. It doesn’t burn through my veins or tingle at my fingertips. 

I have not felt joy like this in months, possibly years. 

Disoriented, I glance over at Ridoc and Sawyer and see, with a dim sense of satisfaction tugging at my chest, that they’re each holding up seven fingers, though Ridoc has his pointer finger crooked so that it looks more like a six-point-five, perhaps an even six. I have no doubt that my score has been artificially inflated, probably because I look like I could go to Malek any second now, but I’ll take it. 

-----

“Mairi.”

I glance up and see Sorrengail crooking her finger at me across the mat, gesturing for me to come to her. I’m waiting for Aaric and Visia to finish talking to Emetterio, and I genuinely don’t think I can make it to the bunk rooms without either of their help. Maybe both.

I waver before going towards Sorrengail, but in the end, I go. 

“Ouch,” Imogen says, pointing to my left eye. Currently, I’m looking through it at four people: two Sorrengails, two Imogens. “That’s going to swell shut,” she tells me. 

It’s by far the worst black eye I’ve had since I’ve been here, and it will probably take weeks to heal, but it doesn’t matter. I tilt my chin up proudly. “I won, didn’t I?” 

Gods, it’s delicious to be able to say that, to feel it for possibly the first time ever. I hope my parents were watching, I think, my heart swelling with pride. I hope Liam was watching.

Then, I realize that Sorrengail is giving me the exact look my foster mom used to give me whenever I asked, in a small, trembling voice, if I could see Liam in the months after the apostasy. It’s pity mixed with derision, garnished with a sneer. “You won because I took Dasha out for you,” she says, holding out her palm. 

I blink down at it, confused. There’s small lines of shimmering powder in the creases, carving across her hand like rivers on a map. 

“No,” I say slowly, horrified. Like if I simply refute it, it won’t be true. I’d like to blame the pummeling I took for how slow my brain is processing the information that she’s telling me, but the reality is that I desperately do not want what she’s telling me to be honest. “I won that fair and square,” I tell her. 

Even to my own ears, it sounds weak, brittle. 

Unfathomable.

What are the odds? Impossible. There’s no way I could have beat Dasha in a fair fight. It’s… so fucking obvious, so painfully obvious, that Sorrengail is telling the truth.

“Gods, do I wish that were true,” she says, huffing out a breath. “Ardyce powder, when combined with an earlier dose of—”

I’m barely listening to her, because I can hear ringing bells again and I feel like I’m about to vomit. I cannot breathe; I feel like Dasha has just laid her fist into my face for a tenth and final time, and I’m on the precipice of a blackout. My fists clench at my sides. Anger left me after the fight, but it comes back now, warm and fast, making my skin flush and my teeth clench. 

I can feel my jaw working, waiting for her to stop talking at me. 

Imogen says something I don’t quite hear, but it’s obviously not directed at me. 

“I did that for your brother,” Sorrengail tells me, snapping me back into focus, and she’s so fucking superior that I’m actually contemplating whether I can take another punch to the head without dying, because everything in me wants to put my fist through her eye socket, consequences be damned, exactly the way her boyfriend taught me to do it. I take a deep breath as she prattles on, preening. “He was one of my closest friends, and I promised him while he was fucking dying that I’d look after you. So here I am, looking after you.”

“I don’t need—” I begin to say.

“Wrong tactic,” Imogen barks. “‘Thank you’ is appropriate.”

“I’m not thanking her,” I spit, not taking my eyes off Sorrengail. I’m not thanking her for taking this from me. I’m not thanking her for stealing this moment away from me, like she stole my brother from me. The one thing I had left was my dignity, and she’s just stripped that from me, too. “He’d be here if not for you.”

He’d be here to help me, like he always promised he would be, and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I wouldn’t be so completely in over my head. I wouldn’t— 

My cheeks burn, and I can feel hate-fire raging behind my own eyes. 

I can’t believe I fucking lost.

“That’s some bullshit!” Imogen protests, visibly exasperated. “Xaden ordered—”

“You’re right,” Sorrengail admits. My eyes go to hers. “He would, and I miss him every single day. And because of the love I have for him, it’s okay that you hate me.” She holds up her hand before I can interrupt. “You can think whatever you need to about me if it gets you through the day, Sloane, but you’re going to train. You’re going to accept help.” 

It doesn’t matter that I was already intending to go start training with Imogen, that I’d promised Aaric I’d start training with her. I see red, and it has nothing to do with my swollen eye or the concussion Dasha most likely gave me. Make me, I think. Fucking poison me and drag me to the sparring mat. I dare you. 

And I want to let the anger wash over me, because beneath it there is a current of such intense shame building. 

I lost.

I could have, maybe should have, died on that mat if Sorrengail hadn’t intervened. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here. And if, somewhere above us, my family is watching, they must be ashamed of me. My mother’s line spans generations of riders, and I will be the last, because I will die here, because I cannot do this; I’m not cut out for this. Navarre made damn sure I wouldn’t be after they took my family from me.

I turn my head, clenching my jaw in spite of the pain. I would be a disappointment to every Mairi and Saorla that ever lived, and my constant failure dishonors them. 

“If it’s Malek’s will that I join my brother, then so be it,” I tell her. “Liam didn’t need help. He made it on his own.”

“No, he didn’t,” Imogen mutters darkly, and at first I think she’s talking about the fact that Liam spent years training with Xaden under Duke Lindell’s supervision while I was learning the Poromish carola and how to greet dinner guests in fucking Krovlish. But then she hesitates and adds, “Sloane, Violet saved his life during”—she glances sideways—“War Games. He fell off Deigh’s back, and it was Violet and Tairn who flew after him and caught him.” 

Wait… that was Resson, I think. Wasn’t it? Or… did it happen more than once?

She looks deep into my eyes, and I sigh, feeling my shoulders slump in defeat. I glance over at Aaric, and I see that although Emetterio is still talking to him, he’s looking at me, smiling encouragingly.

He thinks I’m asking Imogen for help, because I promised him I would; I promised him I wouldn’t give up on myself again. And, I admit to myself, dying in this godsforsaken quadrant without doing my best to survive it serves nothing and no one except the people who killed my parents and put me here, the people who set up the trap that killed my brother. It would be a far greater dishonor to my ancestors, my name, to give in.

But if I were being truly, painfully honest, the thing that finally pushes me over the line into accepting that I cannot fight this anymore is this: I know what victory feels like now, even if it was a false victory, and I don’t want to go back to only knowing loss. 

I want to know how it feels to win on my own merits, and I want to win every time.

I have felt powerless for most of my life, and I do not want to feel powerless anymore.

And I’m about to open my mouth and admit all of this, but Sorrengail speaks before I can, because apparently this is her conversation and I’m just a witness to it.

“Here’s the deal,” she murmurs, stepping toward me so that we’re almost chest-to-chest. I stare down at her—both of her. I want to shield my throbbing eye from the mage lights, but I keep my arms crossed instead. “You’re going to train so you don’t get yourself killed. Not with me. I don’t need to be part of your development era. But you will meet with Imogen every single day if that’s what she wants, because I have something you want.”

“I highly doubt that,” I scoff, crossing my arms. I look at her expectantly. 

“I have fifty of the letters Liam wrote for you.”

If I was physically capable of narrowing my eyes at her, I would. 

“Oh, shit,” Imogen says, turning to stare at her. She shifts her weight nervously, as if she can tell that I’m thinking about doing something stupid, like spitting in Sorrengail’s face. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sorrengail says, somehow looking down her nose at me, even though I have three inches on her. “And at the end of every week that you attend and participate in whatever Imogen thinks you need, I’ll give one of them to you.”

“All of his things were burned,” I hiss, because I’m suddenly conscious of the steady stream of students still milling around the room and filing past toward the door, any of whom might overhear us. It’s bad enough to be a traitor; I don’t need people deciding I’m a heretic, too. “They were sacrificed to Malek, as they should be.”

Sorrengail smirks. “I’ll definitely apologise to Malek when we meet.” She jams her finger in my face, and I narrowly resist the urge to bite it. “If you want his letters, you’ll train for them.”

-----

Aaric and Visia come with me that night to visit Zihnal’s temple, and afterward we sneak into one of the pubs in Chantara.

“I didn’t know you were so… religious,” Visia says, looking at me over her tankard of mead.

“I’m not,” I admit.

But for once in my life, a god has answered my prayer, and just like they never yield, Mairis never break their vows. 

Chapter 6: The Treaty of Resson

When I think about death, I think of how we play with it like children, the way you and I used to play touch-and-go in those endless fields of rushes near the eastern border. 

We run from death, and we laugh as we do. When it catches us, the game doesn’t end; it still goes on for everyone else. The people who used to be running alongside you seem to turn around and run from you, and you follow them with your arms stretched out, desperate for a time when you were like them and not on the outside, trying to get back in.

There’s no stopping to argue in touch-and-go, and there's no arguing with Malek. There’s no way to change the rules once either game has begun. And when the game ends, when the sun sets on the field and your parents are calling for you to come home, you have no choice but to go to them. I know this is true, because if it wasn't, your father would still be with you. He would have struck a bargain with Malek himself to have more time with you. He would have done anything for you.

He loved you so, so much. 

I was so sorry to hear about your father, Violet.

-RECOVERED, UNSENT CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET DAIN AETOS TO VIOLET SORRENGAIL

 

 

 

-DAIN-

Late August

 

“Well, that can’t be good,” Beinhaven observes. She’s sitting with her legs stretched out, her heels resting on the sandstone floor. She nudges my calf with her foot and nods toward the flight field.

In the distance, on the other side of the Iakobos, the majority of the school’s leadership race towards the flight field. From the bell tower, I can see a rainbow riot of dragons soaring low at breakneck speeds, then spiraling into the sky without landing; I watch as a small figure executes a flawless running mount, and I surmise it’s probably Kaori.

I grunt in acknowledgement before turning back to my notebook. 

For the last forty-three minutes, as Beinhaven and her friend Sarina have talked shit about this year’s new cadets, I’ve been condensing my observations from this week’s challenges into cheat sheets for my squad leaders, documents that are supposed to provide guidance on improvements I expect to see. 

For twenty-one of those minutes, I’ve been staring at the sheet I’m writing for Rhiannon Matthias, because I’ve come to the part of the document where I’ve written the name ‘Sloane Mairi’. 

And what can I possibly say about Sloane Mairi? 

Sloane Mairi is insubordinate. 

Sloane Mairi is going to get herself killed one day.

Sloane Mairi is cruel. 

Sloane Mairi is shortsighted and should be apprised of the fact that it is generally not wise to damn her wingleader to heartbreak and suffering—at least, not to his face. 

I toss the notebook to one side in frustration and turn to look at the Vale through the gaps in the stone balustrade, my head heavy with thoughts.

It’s been weeks since Violet’s spoken to me, and I am slowly falling apart. 

I think of Sloane again, of her small figure hovering defiantly over me in an empty hallway. I think of the rasp of her voice, cutting through me. I wish I could have brought myself to tell her that I know exactly how it feels to lose the person you love more than anything right when you need them the most. I know it threefold: I lost my mother as a child; I lost Violet; and now my father is across the country, and I am alone with a million questions I need to ask him, a million things I need him to help me understand, and no way of speaking to him.

For weeks now, I have been trying to distill my complicated thoughts about my father’s actions during War Games into something that makes any semblance of sense, and I can’t.  

For weeks, I have been trying to understand the anger Violet has directed towards me, and I can’t.

Was it reckless of him to send students out beyond the wards? Of course. Although, some indignant part of me keeps coming back to the fact that apparently, Riorson and possibly some of the other marked ones had taken that risk of their own free will already… 

What the fuck were they doing beyond the wards as Second and Third Years? 

And why would Violet get herself wrapped up in it?

And what, exactly, happened in Athebyne?

And why the fuck did my father send them there?

It’s not that I can’t see why Violet’s mad. I’ll never forgive him for putting First Year students at such unnecessary risk… which Violet would know, if she’d bothered to talk to me. 

But my father’s actions aren’t mine any more than her mother’s actions are hers. So why is she so mad at me?

The whole thing is confounding. Bizarre. On occasion, I’ve even let myself wonder if this is some spectacularly creative form of RSC-related torture, because nothing about my life makes sense anymore and I’m about a second away from cracking. 

I trust my father enough to tell him I’m worried for Violet’s safety; he puts her at risk. 

I thought Violet was dead; she wasn’t. 

I was so relieved to see her; she hates me. 

My father was one of her mother’s closest aides; now he’s practically exiled to the other side of the country because of one incredibly stupid decision. 

I think I’m doing the right thing; it turns out I’m doing the worst thing possible.

“Your educators depart, wingleader,” Cath drawls, interrupting my thoughts. His voice sounds as if he’s just been rudely awoken from a nap (which is almost certainly the case). 

“I can see that,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.

“I sense that you are employing sarcasm,” Cath says, a proclamation which is followed by a guttural noise of warning. “I would take this opportunity to remind you that, in all likelihood, I could eat you and survive that loss. A rider without their dragon is dead. Well, I say a dragon without its rider is fed.”

“You could eat me,” I patiently reply, “but then you’d have to bond another First Year and start this process all over again. That’s three more years of flight maneuvers and lectures until you see a battlefield. And though you might survive my loss, I think we both know that you won’t survive that.”

This is not the first time we’ve had this argument.  

Cath makes a sound which is the closest thing I have ever heard to a dragon sighing. “Once again, you speak the truth, wingleader,” he says mournfully. “You may yet live to see another day.” 

Beinhaven sits up a little straighter, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Dagolh says class is cancelled,” she gleefully announces. She leans toward me, placing her hand on my knee. It’s uncomfortably warm, even through my leathers. “What does Cath say?” 

“Tell her I am no carrier pigeon,” Cath instructs in a dangerous tone. “Tell her I am a warrior, descendant of a great line of fearsome battle dragons. Tell her my ancestor bore one of the first six riders and that my blood is old as time and rich with magic. I was born blessed with unimaginable power. It is not for me to deliver missives from your so-called betters about your piddling academic schedule.” 

“Yeah,” I tell her, slamming down my shields. “He says the same.” 

I flick the notebook on the sandstone floor beside me shut and shove it into my satchel, looking out through the gaps in the stone balustrade again, though this time I’m looking towards the Gauntlet, where First Years will begin to train soon. The sun is shining. The air is crisp, and there’s a cool, light breeze. I hear birdsong and the first of the season’s cicadas screeching from the treetops for their would-be mates. 

It’s a spectacular day, and I am miserable. 

“Attack on the Eastern Wing,” Sarina says thoughtfully, her head tipped back as she listens to the message Tuargnin is relaying. Her hair is freshly dyed, blue as the sky. She dyes it with the petals of flowers, and their lingering perfume is so pungent, it’s giving me a headache. “Only one casualty so far. Masen Sanborn.”

I wince. 

“Shame,” Beinhaven says, and it’s clear from her tone that she’s never meant anything less. If Masen Sanborn’s life is the cost of her free period, so be it. “So, what should we do with this unexpected back-to-back, Aetos?” she asks, turning to me. She tilts her head back, looking at me in challenge. There’s a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, and the hilts of the daggers strapped to her arms sparkle menacingly in the light. Her brown hair curls at the nape of her neck. 

I’ve been anticipating Beinhaven’s proposition for a while now, but it still manages to take me by surprise. And if I didn’t know her so well, I might see the appeal in it. Beinhaven can be terrifyingly beautiful in some lights, like a raging fire ripping through a forest. Her eyes are a pretty shade of grey.

But I do know Beinhaven, so I know all too well that she’s a sycophant whose interest in me is primarily founded on who my father is and secondarily founded on the fact that she knows other people, namely Sarina, want to fuck me, too. 

Beinhaven only wants something if somebody else wants it first, if she can take it from someone and make them watch while she does. 

I scratch at the stubble on my jaw, then glance at Sarina. Her face is going red, and I can tell she’s seething… but she won’t say anything. Then I stand, sighing. “I need to hit the gym,” I tell them both.

Sarina looks down at her lap, chewing her cheek. 

“You sure?” Beinhaven nearly purrs. “I was thinking we could go over those formations we discussed last week,” she suggests. “We could do it in my room,” she adds, perhaps because she worries I’m somehow too dense to get the implication in her words (despite the fact that I have bested her in every class we’ve ever taken together by a fucking mile).

I give her a tight smile. “Let’s save it for the next leadership meeting,” I suggest. “I’m pretty behind on paperwork, so if I don’t get to the gym now, it’s not happening.”

Bainhaven and Sarina exchange glances as I turn. When I’m on the stairs, I hear Beinhaven mutter, in a bitter tone, “Still not over Sorrengail, then.” 

It seems serendipitous—not serendipitous in the good way, but in the way that implies that the gods know I am suffering and want to not only prolong it, but enhance it—that after stopping by my dorm room to change, I pass Violet in the second floor hallway and Sloane in the Commons as I make my way to the sparring gym. 

Violet scurries away before I can get a good look at her, but as I pass Sloane, I manage to catch her in an unguarded moment. She’s deep in conversation with some of the other First Years, and I can’t help but take the opportunity to observe her. Part of me has been wondering if she’s as bad-tempered around everyone as she is around me, but I make a point not to look at her in the dining hall or during formation. When I catch her sneaking around the Third Years’ dorms, I don’t even meet her eye; I walk past her without a word. 

The first thing I notice about Sloane, now that I’m allowing myself to look, is that she looks very different from the girl I saw in the hallway three weeks ago. That girl was sobbing, panicking, broken, hateful. This girl is as confident and content as a queen holding court. 

Sloane is folded into a seat at one of the study tables, her legs crossed, talking animatedly. Beside her are Avalynn Campos and Visia Hawelynn, and across the table from the three women are an assortment of male riders. Like adoring supplicants, they seem to hang onto her every word as she unfurls her legs, kneels on her chair, leans over the table and presses her palms to it. She shoves her finger in Baylor Norris’ face, her own graced with a smile; Norris pretends to bite it, and she flicks him on the nose like a disobedient dog. 

She would be pretty, I think, if it weren’t for the nasty black eye that’s still healing. She’s got messy, white gold hair and big blue eyes, and I notice with some weird sense of satisfaction that she’s finally putting on weight. Her leathers no longer hang loosely on serrated ribs or sharp hips.

She has a nice smile. I never would have known, because she’s always scowling around me.

I’ve seen enough, I decide; I’m satisfied that, for whatever reason, she hates me more than she hates everyone else. She’s capable of being moderately pleasant to other people, at least. And with that question answered, I’m about to turn away, but I find that my step stutters as I watch her tip her head back and laugh. She howls at something one of the other First Years says, her palms still pressed against the table, drawing looks from the students around her and— 

I’m not looking at her anymore. I’m looking at the guy who made her laugh, Trysten Kinsby, who fucking beams as he stares at the exposed column of her throat and her flushed cheeks, pride radiating off of him. When Sloane lowers her head and catches him staring at her, he takes his glasses off and begins cleaning them as if he can't trust himself to tear his eyes away and needs an excuse to stop looking.

I recognize the look on his face, recognize all of it. I recognize it in some innate part of myself, because it’s the way I used to look at Violet. 

Cam—well, Aaric now, I guess—punches Kinsby’s shoulder jovially, and his smile grows so wide that his skin could split. 

It’s not lost on me that the First Years in Second Squad all seem to come alive around Sloane and Aaric, like Poromish desert flowers opening for the sun each day and curling in on themselves at night. Sometimes, it seems like Sloane and Aaric’s benevolence and attention feeds the earth from which the others grow. And as I watch Sloane and Aaric turn to each other, as I watch their eyes meet across the table, it occurs to me that the metaphor of them as suns is doubly apt, because they are both painful to look at: gloriously alight, blindingly radiant. 

I catalog everything about the moment in a glance, and then I look away.

In my head, I hear her voice wishing incomparable pain on me, and my jaw clenches.

-----

In the gym, I spend an hour and a-half punching a bag in the exact same combination, over and over again, and I try my hardest to direct my thoughts towards something other than Violet. The first thing that comes to mind, because we discussed it in History yesterday, is the Trade Agreement of Resson. So as I slam my fist into the leather repetitively, I think about how it was the result of a four-month standoff which only ended when Navarrian generals launched a vicious full-frontal assault, forcing the Poromish to the negotiating table under threat of death. 

I think about how long the geopolitical rivalry between the regions—the embargos, the border skirmishes, the sanctions and inflated cost of goods—might have gone on if not for those two weeks of fighting. 

I think about the thousands of Poromish citizens who were massacred so that Navarre could have slightly better cloth and wool. 

I think of how, nearly two-hundred years later, Navarrian soldiers still meet with the Poromish four times a year to exchange meat and lumber for fabric that only the nobility can afford, fabric that came at the cost of thousands of lives.  

I think of how they meet near Athebyne. 

Slowly, cadets begin to file into the sparring gym. I’m covered in sweat and my arms feel like lead; I want to collapse on my bed and sleep until the sun rises, but I have a duty to be here and I don’t shirk my responsibilities. Instead, I greet each of my squad leaders as they enter, take their reports on the day’s events, then hand each one a sheaf of paper that details, with no surfeit of specificity, the adjustments that I expect from them and their cadets over the coming weeks. 

When Matthias enters the room with Violet at her side, she comes to me and holds out her hand expectantly. 

“No notes yet,” I tell her, focusing my attention on the mat that I’m moving into place. 

“No notes?” she repeats, incredulous. 

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’m still working on them,” I reply, standing. I dust off my hands. “You’ll have them when they’re ready. Is that a problem?” I raise one brow and cross my arms, looking down at her in a way that implies it had better not be. “This is the last round of challenges for a few months, so you’ll have plenty of time to put my recommendations into action while First Years are working through Gauntlet training, squad leader.” 

Matthias shrugs, dropping her hand. “If you say so, Aetos,” she mutters before walking away. 

The First Years are, predictably, the loudest as they enter the room. Sloane is leading the pack; she seems nervous as she enters, hesitant. Both she and Aaric go straight to Imogen Cardulo’s side, and Imogen immediately starts to brief her, demonstrating various maneuvers and feints. Aaric watches for a moment, offering commentary, then moves off to one side to begin grounding himself like he always does before a fight.  

I’m relieved to see that Imogen looks confident as she runs Sloane through her paces and that Sloane, though a little green, is tracking her movements carefully, a thoughtful expression on her face. It gives me a dim sense of hope that we won’t see a repeat of last week, where Brioni Barassac from Claw Section nearly dislocated Sloane’s shoulder; or two weeks before, when Vinn Vasant came dangerously close to cutting one of her major arteries because Sloane, panicked by the knife’s presence, forgot to block his attacks; or the week before that (when Dasha Fabrren rearranged her face on the mat). 

She can’t afford to be seriously hurt right now; Nolon’s got a month-long waiting list, which probably goes some way to explaining why Violet’s wearing a brand new, pale blue sling around her arm.

Sloane isn’t good enough to fight around an injury, and at this rate, I doubt she ever will be.

Emetterio calls Tail Section to the mat I’m standing by. And as the room quietly recalibrates, as cadets shuffle from one end to the other in a disorganized thrum, despite promising myself I wouldn’t, I stand at one corner of the mat, staring at Violet and willing her to look at me. 

I know Violet. I know Violet better than anyone in the entire world knows Violet. So I know she’s just about the most stubborn, pigheaded person the gods could devise. I know she will willfully ignore me forever if I let her.

I know that she was callous to let her boyfriend embarrass me in front of the whole quadrant, to condone it, and that my feelings are deeply hurt. 

I know she has objectively terrible taste in men, based on her track record to date, and I’m therefore choosing to take it as some sort of perverse compliment that she chose Riorson over me. 

And though I don’t know what has gotten into her, I know she’s been acting wildly out of character pretty much since she came to this quadrant, but especially lately. 

Violet has an innate yearning for knowledge, perspective, context. She’s analytical. She’s a trained scribe, better than most fully-accredited scribes currently working in the Archives. She can’t definitively make up her mind unless she has all the information, but when she does, she always comes to the right conclusion, the most factually correct conclusion and the most morally sound conclusion. 

She’s smart. She’s so smart it takes my breath away. 

So I cannot understand how, without ever hearing my side of the story, Violet has made her mind up about me. 

Emetterio calls the first pair to the mat. 

Of course, Violet’s behavior isn’t the beginning and end of our friendship’s breakdown. As I watch the two opponents face off against each other, I think about the many missteps I have made in the name of trying to protect her. I know I have irreparably damaged our bond through my actions, my attempts to squirrel her away to the Scribes and the mess with Amber Mavis. In the name of protecting her, I know I have hurt her. I know that I have violated her boundaries: once when I intended to, but didn’t, use my signet on her, and once when I didn’t intend to, but accidentally did, use my signet on her. I know I have offended her by expressing doubts about her abilities, her strength, her potential.

I know I will regret those actions for the rest of my life, would do anything to undo what I’ve done.  

Most importantly, I know I miss her, would give anything to just say I’m sorry. Despite all of the blows we’ve dealt each other in these past weeks—well, all of the blows she’s dealt me—I miss her so much, and the grief of living without her is as overwhelming as it was in those painful days where I thought she had died at Athebyne. 

I know Violet down to her bones, but I don’t know who I am without her in my life. So I swallow my pride, and I go to where she’s standing. 

“How bad do you think the attack on the Eastern Wing is? It has to be something massive to call out half the leadership all day long,” Ridoc Gamlyn says as I approach. 

“Speculating is only going to fuel rumors,” I tell him, taking the space beside her. 

She takes a pointed step away from me, shoulders tensing. 

“You are off to a spectacular start,” Cath observes as the first pair of the afternoon is called to the mat. I can hear him fucking chewing, and the sound of crunching bone sets my teeth on edge.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t talk with your mouth full,” I reply.

“I will answer in three parts,” he declares, indignant. “The first: I am eating goat, and a mere morsel such as that could never fill my mouth. Secondly, I would remind you that dragons do not answer to humans. Finally, wingleader, I would point out that I am not talking with my mouth full; I am thinking with my mouth full. There is a difference.”

“And yet, I can hear you grinding something between your teeth.”

“I will not delay my meal for you,” he coldly informs me. “I will revel in the delicacy of death and savor my kill while it is fresh. If you think my repast is nauseating, I can assure you that your brooding over the lightning wielder is far more nauseating, and—”

“You finally going to talk to me?” I ask Violet as I slam my shields into place. My tone makes it clear that I already know the answer. 

“No,” she says, moving to Gamlyn’s other side, wedging herself between him and Quinn Hollis. 

It’s the first thing she’s said to me in weeks. 

It’s a start.

“Come on, Violet,” I plead, following her. I edge Hollis out of the way, squeezing into the space between them. “You have to be ready at some point. We’ve been friends since you were five.” 

Violet scoffs. “We’re no longer friends,” she primly informs me, keeping her focus on the fight in front of her instead of the one we’re having. “And I’ll be ready to talk when the sight of you doesn’t make me want to bury my knife in your chest all the way to the fucking hilt.”  

The words themselves might as well be a knife in my chest. They sting as they land, and I blink at her, mortified. 

I barely recognize the person standing in front of me. Not just in the sense that she’s physically changed during her time at Basgiath, though she has, all of her soft edges now hardened and honed, but in the sense that she is fundamentally different from the girl I once knew. 

Before I can formulate a reply, and without so much as a glance at me, she walks away. She literally flees from me, like I present some kind of grave threat to her.

I stare after her in disbelief as she stalks towards the other side of the mat. “You cannot keep running away from me!” I find myself calling after her. I refuse to believe that she won’t give me a chance to explain myself, won’t explain to me what it is I’ve done other than try to protect her and care for her, the same way I always have. 

“She is walking,” Cath notes, barging through my shields. “She is not even walking fast. Her short legs make for a measly stride. You could catch her with ease.” 

I shut him out again as she retreats, lifting her middle finger over her shoulder. 

On the mat, the First Year from Flame Section, Art, kicks his opponent from Tail Section in the mouth. Blood splatters the mat, and I see Sloane flinch and turn away, slightly green. 

I think of her brother. 

I think of Athebyne. 

I think of the Trade Agreement of Resson, which Navarre won by forcing Poromiel’s hand with bloodshed, and—

Fuck this, I think to myself as I watch Violet turn to Matthias and whisper something that makes Matthias’ face contort, her eyes flicking towards me. You know what, Violet Sorrengail? You want to stab me? Well, then fucking do it. But gods be good, you’ll need to look me in the eye when you do it, and before you do, you’re going to tell me exactly what it is you think I’ve done. And you’re going to listen to what I have to say. 

Violet can be mad at me if that’s what she needs to be right now, but she doesn’t get to ignore me. She doesn’t get to say her piece without giving me a chance to explain myself, to defend myself, or even to apologize. She doesn’t get to hide behind her boyfriend, either, and let him do her dirty work for her by calling me out in front of the entire quadrant while she stands meekly by, blushing demurely. 

Since when does Violet Sorrengail let anyone speak for her?

She doesn’t get to condemn me for making every effort to keep her safe, doing everything in my power to protect her, and then celebrate that same trait in Xaden fucking Riorson. She doesn’t get to pick and choose who, amongst the people who care about her, is allowed to be overprotective and who isn’t.

I do not accept that.

And I am not throwing away fifteen years of friendship without even attempting an explanation or an apology; I do not accept that there is nothing that I can say or do to fix this, either. 

What happened at Athebyne was unfortunate, but it wasn’t my fault. She cannot keep punishing me for it. 

I keep my breathing steady, calm, as I walk around the mat to Emetterio. He nods as I approach, gesturing to the match with his chin. “Not bad,” he says as the two First Years circle each other. He runs his hand over his beard. “Not great, either,” he admits, watching as Flame Section’s combatant makes a quick comeback, forcing his opponent into a submission maneuver. 

“They’re improving,” I tell him.

Emetterio nods as Tail Section’s fighter taps out. The Flame Section fighter leaves the mat to a smattering of polite applause. “You’ve got a decent lot of First Years,” he says, glancing down at his pocket notebook. 

I grunt in agreement. 

“Fourth Wing shows a lot of promise. You must have done the gods a favor to land Aaric Greycastle in your wing.” He hesitates. “Even Sloane Mairi is showing… improvement. I’ve got high hopes for her today.”  

“Yeah,” I say, my tone flat. “Look, I—I want to challenge Violet Sorrengail. Now, if possible. Next, preferably.” 

It has to be now, so I don’t have an opportunity to lose my nerve. 

Emetterio blinks, still staring at his notebook. He leans sideways towards me and says, in a voice that somehow manages to be both patronizing and empathetic, “You wouldn’t be the first person to try resolving a lover’s tiff on the mat, but I would forewarn you that these things rarely go the way you want them to.”

“It’s not a lover’s tiff,” I tell him, clenching my jaw. Good to know that, in addition to the whole quadrant, seemingly the entire leadership team witnessed the vicious and highly embarrassing dressing-down Riorson gave me during the graduation ceremony. “It’s a disciplinary issue. Cadet Sorrengail just showed me disrespect in front of my wing. She… made a vulgar gesture towards me. You saw it, and my cadets saw it, too. Am I supposed to let them think they all go around acting like that and get away with it? How am I supposed to control my wing without disciplining them when they step out of line?”

“I have been telling you this for weeks,” Cath snarls, dismayed. “Now you listen? It offends me that you are taking my excellent advice on the principles of good governance but perverting it by using it as a justification for—”

Emetterio tilts his head. “True,” he says. “But Sorrengail isn’t just any cadet, wingleader.”

“She might be a lightning wielder, but she’s still a cadet—my cadet. And other wingleaders have handed out much sterner punishments to their cadets for what she just did; if anything, I’m being lenient.”

Emetterio’s head snaps to mine. He clears his throat. “You’re sure?” he asks.

No, I’m not sure about this at all, I want to scream; in fact, I’m pretty fucking sure that it’s a terrible idea. I want to rip the words I’ve just said out of the air and shove them back into my mouth. 

“It’s within my rights as wingleader,” I reply curtly.

Because I’m not, nor have I ever been, the kind of person who doesn’t commit to things. If anything, I’m overcommitted. And I’m not, nor have I ever been, the kind of person who sits idly by and lets things happen to them. I am not complacent; I’m the kind of person who forces fate's hand, whether it’s to my own detriment or not. I’ve known that about myself since I was five years old, sitting at my mother’s bedside, watching a fever slowly waste her away. 

I refuse to be the kind of person who sits around, waiting for the worst to happen; I make the worst happen so that it cannot hang threateningly over my head. 

I begin to disarm, unclipping my sheaths and dropping them at the edge of the mat.

At the end of this fight, Violet will either be my friend again or she will not, but at least I’ll know if I ever stood a chance at repairing what’s been broken.

“Not denying that.” Emetterio sighs, rubbing his head as if the motion will help him think this through. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Well, alright, then. Next match is Dain Aetos against Violet Sorrengail.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Imogen turn and fucking sprint from the room.  

“No fucking way,” Matthias protests, shaking her head furiously. “She’s wounded.”

“Your wing revolts,” Cath growls. My shields can never withstand him when he’s angry (which is most of the time). He batters his way through them with ease, shredding them like they’re as thin and insubstantial as Deverelli silk. “This is a coup.”

“It’s not a coup, Cath.”

“Show no mercy,” he advises me, though it sounds more like a demand. “Remind them why it is you who leads.” 

One of the squad leaders from Tail Section scoffs at Matthias. “And since when does that matter?” he says, crossing his arms and gesturing to Violet’s sling with his chin. I vaguely remember Violet handing him his ass in a challenge last year, and I have no doubt that he’d much prefer to take her to the mat on himself if he thought he stood a chance—which he doesn’t, sling or no sling—but failing that, he’ll happily watch me do it.

“This is bullshit,” Violet insists, finally looking me in the eye. 

I feel a jolt of lightning through my body, and I resolve myself to my decision. So I fold my arms across my chest, waiting. I wait for her to say she’ll talk to me, that it doesn’t need to come to this. And when she says nothing further, I step forward onto the mat, completely disarmed in every sense of the word.

“You shouldn’t do this!” Bodhi Durran shouts, skidding into the room with Imogen hot on his heels. “She’s in a fucking sling, Aetos.”

“Mutiny,” Cath snarls. “Quash this contumacy, wingleader. End it. I did not bond one so weak as to permit such unruliness. I did not bond one so timid as to let disorder permeate his ranks. I bonded a leader. So lead!”

I scowl at Durran. “Last time I checked, you’re a section leader and your cousin isn’t her wingleader anymore. I am.” I stare at him, and he looks back with distrust, doing his best to seem as fearsome and intimidating as his cousin is. I find myself thinking that he could use a few lessons from Sloane on the fine art of appearing menacing. She’s standing to his left, giving me a look that could reroute dragonfire. 

Violet stares at me for what feels like a lifetime, assessing me. Soon enough, acceptance flashes across her face, and she begins to disarm. Her face is pallid. Her movements are stilted—awkward, thanks to the sling. 

“Keep the daggers if that makes you feel better, Cadet Sorrengail,” I call out to her, moving to the center of the mat. It shakes me a little, to see the fear in her face and think she imagines I could ever physically hurt her.  

“You know she’s good enough to kill you from here with those,” Durran says. 

Gods, don’t I.

“She won’t,” I reply, turning. I tilt my head at her, sizing her up. Her face betrays nothing, so I prod at her. “I’m her oldest friend. Remember?”

Violet doesn’t respond as she adjusts her sling, then steps onto the mat, dagger in hand. Her eyes don’t meet mine as we stand across from each other, but she does give the customary nod before sinking into her stance. Emetterio calls the match, and then we begin to circle each other. I feel a thrill when those ineffable eyes inevitably lock on mine.  

There’s an iron will behind them, and it’s sharp enough to cut.  

“Reach for my face and I’ll cut you open,” she threatens, brandishing her knife at me. 

“Deal,” I say, lunging for her torso instead. I figure that that kind of blow should be easy for her to defend, even with one arm in a sling. Sure enough, she deflects it with her elbow, fist still covering her face; then she whips to the side, spinning out of my reach. “You’re faster this year,” I admit, grinning at her. 

She sneers at me. "Xaden taught me a few things last year.” 

The smile slides right off my face. 

It’s not like her to be malicious.

I attack again, still swinging for her torso. I don’t want to hurt her, so I make sure I won’t; I pull my punches, ensuring that any hits that land are enough to startle, but not to wound. I want her too focused on what her body is doing to think about whatever it is that’s gotten into her head, whatever it is that’s convinced her I am anything but her biggest supporter; I only want her distracted enough by the physicality of what we’re doing to let her guards down emotionally and be vulnerable with me. 

Unfortunately, it seems like Violet thinks this is a real challenge, one where I want to inflict pain. Or maybe she thinks it’s an excuse to get my hands on her so I can use my signet on her without her consent, like I almost did during Amber’s trial. Either way, she’s blocking my shots like her life depends on it, and as I see her dagger flip, I feel a sense of deep concern that I have made a grave miscalculation and that Violet may actually be willing to kill me, that I might meet Malek today at her hands. 

It occurs to me that she may actually want to kill me, and the thought makes my stomach coil tight with nausea. 

Violet ducks under my arm, landing an uppercut on my jaw that makes my head snap backwards. I blink, staggering away as I rotate the joint. It becomes immediately evident that while I’m pulling my punches, Violet has no intention of doing the same, so I come at her faster the next time, favoring her weaker side, her injured side. I land a series of blows on her before sweeping her feet out from under her. 

If I can get her down to the mat, I figure I can hold her still long enough to figure out what the fuck is going on.  

Sure enough, she hits the mat on her back, rolling toward the shoulder that’s in a sling, and lets out a muffled scream; I feel a hot flash of guilt. 

But I didn’t come this far not to go the whole way, so I commit. I go to the mat with her and pin her, my elbow to her collarbone. And the whole time, I do my best to ignore the very sharp knife in her hand, now aimed at my throat, and the uneasy sensation that still lines my stomach. 

It shouldn’t be like this. 

“I just want to talk to you,” I whisper. I look into her eyes, and I’m begging her to look at me again, to see me: her best friend in the world; the person who has loved every version of her, first as a friend and occasionally as something more; the person who has been there for her through everything that has been and wants to be there for her through everything that will be, in whatever way she’ll have me. I’m silently begging her not to believe the worst of me, the least of me, because her opinion is the only one that’s ever mattered.  

“And I just want you to leave me the fuck alone,” Violet counters, pressing her knife harder against my skin in warning. “It’s not an idle threat, Dain,” she says, and in that moment I feel something in me disintegrate. 

The fight might as well be over, because I have already lost. Because she could end my life if she felt she needed to, but I could never end hers. 

“You will bleed out on this mat if you even think of taking a single one of my memories,” she continues.

If I even—?

I blink at her slowly, processing her words. 

I can’t believe I was stupid enough not to see it before. 

Athebyne. 

My father sent them to Athebyne because of me, because of the memory I told him about at the Reunification Day party, a memory about Riorson going to Athebyne. I can’t believe I never put the two things together before, never conflated what had seemed like two entirely separate pieces of information about the same fucking place.

He sent them there so that they would know that he was onto them. A generous interpretation of his decision would be that he sent them beyond the wards (to scare them, probably, or induce them into desertion). A more cynical analyst might infer that he sent them there to die.

As that thought lands, another follows, and the second one is paralyzing. 

There’s an argument to be made that I killed Liam Mairi and Soleil Telery, because I set in motion the chain of events that led to their death. 

And in doing so, I almost killed her. 

“That’s what Riorson meant when he said ‘Athebyne’, isn’t it?” I whisper, horrified.

“You know damn well what he meant,” she growls, wriggling underneath me. She winces as the movement pulls at her shoulder, and I ease up a little of my weight, though I still keep her pressed to the mat.

I feel my brow knit. “I told my father what I saw when I touched you—”

“When you stole my memory,” she insists.

I want to tell her it was an accident, but it doesn’t really matter. I want to tell her that I lost control at the Reunification Day party because she looked so beautiful that it made me want to weep, because I was burning with desire and drunk on happiness for the first time in years when I touched her, because I was so busy trying to control the need to kiss her as I held her face that I forgot to control my fucking signet.

Except, I know the fundamental issue isn’t that I saw the memory, but what I did after: when I ran to my father and told him about that brief flash I’d seen of Violet and Riorson alone in the dark; when I gave him the information about marked ones making unauthorized trips to Athebyne that set all the wheels in motion. 

Gods, he must have acted quickly, to reroute Riorson’s War Games headquarters to the outpost at Athebyne. How convenient it must have been for him, in that moment, that Major Neema had abandoned the outpost just days before, when he had advised that reinforcements would not, could not, be sent. And while he would have had no way of knowing that a drift of gryphons would attack them, it would have been a safe assumption. There had been constant raids in the area for months, and with the outpost deserted, it was inevitable that drifts would have descended on the area to search for resources or intel left behind.

I can’t help but wonder, as my mind churns through all of this information, what he would have done if the outpost hadn’t been abandoned.

Would he have killed them himself? I wonder.

I know he would have interrogated them, tortured them, but would he have had the decency to kill them quickly afterwards or would he have made them suffer?

Could he have looked them in the eyes and felt righteous as they died?

I have always known my father to be uncompromising, illiberal, as merciless and ruthless as the people he’d sworn to protect this kingdom against. Lately, I’ve even come to question that. But what truly makes my head spin is the realization of just how complicit I am, how like him I am. I put Navarre first, irrespective of the cost. I did what I was raised to do, the thing this place has trained me to do: put the good of the many before the good of the one.

My actions led to their deaths.

For some reason, I think of the Trade Agreement of Resson again. I think of thousands of lives lost, stolen, so that the Navarrian peerage could have more affordable silk. If I’d been one of those commanders at the border, would I have made the same choices as they did?

“But it was a flash of a memory,” I protest, almost as if I’m trying to convince myself of my own innocence. “Riorson told you he’d gone to Athebyne with his cousin…” I stare into her eyes, praying that she sees the truth in mine: that I never meant to cause her pain, never meant any of this. I only ever meant to keep her safe. “Second Years don’t get leave for that kind of flight, so I told my father. I know you were attacked on the way there, but I had no way of knowing—”

I can see the past, not the future.

“You said ‘I’ll miss you’,” she hisses, “and then you sent me to die, sent Liam and Soliel to their deaths. Did you know what was waiting for us?”

“No!” I shake my head, alarmed. “I said ‘I’ll miss you’ because you chose him. I told you I knew things about him, that he had reasons you don’t know about to hate you, and you still chose him. I knew I was saying goodbye to any chance of… us… on that field.” 

And it killed me inside, because she has always been the one thing I wanted most. And in what I now know was the aftermath of my father’s machinations, the plot I had unwittingly instigated, when I had thought she was gone and that those were the last words I had ever said to her, my shame and self-disgust nearly killed me.

“I had no clue gryphons were going to ambush you,” I swear. 

She tips her chin towards me in challenge, just like she used to do when we’d debate each other about history or literature, except this time there’s no joy in her eyes. There’s nothing but contempt. “If you expect me to believe that, then you sorely misjudged me.” She hesitates, then adds, “And I know every reason Xaden has to hate me, and none of them matter.”

“So you know about the scars on his back?” I ask.

“The hundred-and-seven for the marked ones he’s responsible for?” She huffs out a breathless laugh, and I realize I’ve been too distracted to hold my weight off of her. I ease away. “Yes. You’re going to have to do better than—”

“Do you know who carved those wounds into his skin?” I interrupt.  

I see doubt in her eyes. 

“Tap out!” someone yells.

“My hand is a little busy at the moment,” she says, still staring into my face.

“Violet,” I begin. I shake my head, trying to find the words that will convey to her just how sorry I am. I never intended any of what happened, but it doesn’t matter. I caused it; I’m to blame. “I—”

“You may have been my oldest friend, my best friend, but that all died the day you violated my privacy, stole my memory, and got Liam and Soleil killed,” she hisses. “I will never forgive you for that.” She presses the knife harder against my throat, and I feel a trickle of blood.

In that moment, my heart fucking breaks, because I know every word of it is true and there is nothing, not one damn thing, I can do to fix it.  

“Your mother did it,” I whisper, getting to my feet. My body feels sluggish, non-responsive, like I’m moving through molasses. She should know. The pain and hatred he felt when she did it, when she carved those lines into his back… I’m haunted by the memory, and it isn’t even mine. “She wins,” I mutter to Emetterio, turning to walk off the mat. 

I nearly fall to my knees when I realize that Sloane stands by my intended exit point, arms crossed. She looks up at me, and blue flame—the flame of complete combustion—burns in those impossibly large, omniscient eyes. As I walk away from the mat, I think how happy she would be if she knew that her wish for me had more or less come true. The person I love most may not have been taken from me, but she is gone forever, and I know that I deserve it. 

But then, maybe she wouldn’t be happy.

Maybe she’ll never be truly happy again, because of what I took from her.

I stay long enough to watch Sloane win her second challenge, tucked away in a hidden corner, and then I leave. 

Chapter 7: Trysten

Right before the apostasy, Dad told me something that I wanted to pass on to you:

“Dying is inevitable, so the burden of each life is making sure you’re proud of what you leave behind. If a man can do that, then he can meet Malek unafraid.”

I don’t know if he ever told you the same thing, but I think they're good words to live by. 

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early September

 

Avalynn whistles as she tips her head back, looking toward the cloudless blue sky with her arms crossed. “You know,” she drawls, wide eyes grazing across the series of obstacles that make up the climb to the top of the cliff, “I’m not particularly eager to die, but if I have to go, I guess today is as good a day as any.” She turns to Baylor and grins. “I can’t believe you did your laundry yesterday. Imagine if you died on this thing, and you spent the last night of your life conditioning leathers.”

Baylor tugs her toward him by the hips. “You mean, instead of with you, Campos?” he asks, grinning devilishly. “Is that what you’re implying? Is this your way of letting me know you’ve changed your mind and you’re finally ready to open your heart to me?”

She shoves him off of her. “Get the fuck off of me,” she hisses, flushing furiously. “There’s exactly one thing you want a girl to open for you, Baylor, and we both know it isn’t her heart.” 

“Can you two act with some semblance of decorum, please?” Aaric says, not turning his head towards them. As he stares up at the rock wall, arms crossed, I see him grimace. I can see that he’s already busy plotting his approach, the same way he sits silently by the mat before challenges, coldly assessing his prospective opponents and plotting his strategies. 

Baylor curls his hand around Avalynn’s hip. “Sorry, Your Majesty,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Aaric flinches. “I’m not uptight,” he says after a quiet pause. “If you two want to paw each other in front of our combat master and our wingleader, then go right ahead. I’ll happily return my focus to the series of death traps in front of us that could end all of our lives today.”

I lean back, gravel digging into the heel of my hand, and follow his gaze all the way up—up, up, up—to the top of the Gauntlet, shielding my eyes from the sun. From where I’m sitting, on the ground near Aaric’s feet, perspective warps its height, making it seem about eight-hundred feet tall, though it can’t be more than one-hundred and forty. 

Still, the idea of dangling one-hundred feet or more above the ground…

Ew.

I feel my chest constrict.

“What is it with these people and fucking heights?” I mutter darkly, dropping my hand to the ground; I pick up a stone and toss it, just for something to do.

“Not a fan?” Baylor asks, still grinning like an idiot. I’m starting to think his face may be permanently frozen that way, like the wind changed while he was making that expression and locked it into place, the same thing my foster mother used to threaten would happen to me every time I wore an unladylike moue. “You’re afraid of heights, so you came to dragon-riding school?”

Avalynn smacks him across the back of his head. “She didn’t get a choice,” she hisses. “Gods, you and your big fucking mouth.”

“I’m indifferent about heights,” I tell him, shrugging. 

Beside me, Visia is stretching. “It looks worse than it is,” she assures me as she crosses her arm across her chest and rotates her hip, one leg straight and the other bent. 

“Oh, we know,” Trysten Kinsby says, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose. He’s standing above us, scratching the back of his head as he cranes his neck, taking in the challenge ahead. “You know how we know, Visia? Oh, I’ll tell you, Visia. It’s because it couldn’t possibly be worse than it looks.” He shakes his head, biting his lip. 

Adorable.

Lately, every time I look at him, all I can think is that he’s adorable.

Visia grins. “Honestly, by the third or fourth time you run it, it starts being fun.”

I snort. “I somehow doubt that.”

“Guys! Where is all of this negativity coming from?” Baylor asks as he throws one arm around Aaric’s shoulders, the other still curled around Avalynn’s hip. Aaric doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even twitch. He’s too preoccupied, staring up at the Gauntlet with his eyes narrowed. “This is not the attitude of an Iron Squad in the making.”

“Is anyone else concerned that Matthias isn’t here to… I don’t know... shepherd us through this?” Lynx asks, looking around. Yesterday, his hair was white. Today, it’s baby pink, the exact color of the prized delphiniums in my foster mother’s garden. I hate it. “Our squad leader should be here, right, to talk us through something like this? Don’t get me wrong, Aetos is fine, but…”

He trails off. 

“He’s not Matthias?” Baylor prompts. “He lacks Matthias’ maternal energy?”

Avalynn snorts. “If Matthias reminds you of your mother, I feel sorry for you. That woman is a hard-ass.”

My eyes flick to Dain, who’s standing to one side with Emetterio and another squad. He and Emetterio are taking turns gesturing at the cliff face while the cadets standing in front of them stare up at it in wide-eyed terror. No doubt, they’re giving them the same speech they’ll give us in a matter of minutes. Dain turns, pointing in our direction, and catches my eye; I stare at him unabashedly, daring him to look away from me. 

He doesn’t—not at first, anyway. His expression turns grim, but to his credit, he doesn't immediately yield.

“Aetos doesn’t look enthusiastic about our prospects,” Avalynn says dryly.

“He’s probably still miserable that Sorrengail handed him his ass on the mat,” Baylor suggests.

“To be fair, I think he let her have that one,” I tell him, still staring at Dain. 

He looks tired today, I think. Withdrawn. Baylor’s right that he’s looked off for weeks, at least since he challenged Sorrengail in front of half the quadrant, but he looks especially wan right now. I can’t help but wonder if Avalynn’s right, if he lacks confidence about all of us making it through this.

That thought leads me to considering the statistical odds of me making it out of this alive. 

There’s a ditch that runs alongside the cliff face, dug to catch fallen bodies; I wonder if I will be one of them soon.  

Finally, Dain’s eyes flick away from mine.

“Sorrengail’s missing, too,” I point out. I know this because she didn’t show up to give me Liam’s fifth letter after my training session with Imogen, and I spent half the morning looking for her in a rage. “All of the Second Years in our squad are.”

“Does it matter?” Avalynn asks, rolling her eyes. “What’s Matthias supposed to do that Aetos can’t, Lynx? What, you think Matthias would get up there with us and hold our hands while we climb it? She’s going to do exactly the same thing Aetos is about to, the same thing everybody in leadership around here does: stand down here and watch while we nearly get ourselves killed, then fill out the paperwork if we do.” 

Baylor grins. “Besides, it’s better this way,” he says. “If we’re lucky, Aetos might yell at us about what a disappointing, ragtag group we are, and then we can watch our little Loany tear him a new one.”

“I’m working on my anger issues,” I say lazily as I lean back again, crossing my legs at the ankle. “Which you should be grateful for, because you know I fucking hate that nickname and you keep using it anyway.”

Baylor rolls his eyes. “Why work on that which feeds you?” he says, disgusted. “I like it better when you’re angry, anyway. You’re fun when you’re mad.”

Lynx shrugs. “It’s just weird that Matthias isn’t here,” he says defensively. “She missed yesterday’s combat training, too.” He nods self-consciously in my direction, as if he’s trying to point out that I noticed their absence, too, and therefore he’s exactly as innocent as I am. “All the Second Years did.” 

Visia snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure this has everything to do with the fact that you’re concerned for the Second Years and nothing to do with the fact that you want to fuck our squad leader.”

“I do not,” he protests, though his skin flushes.

“Never going to happen,” Visia tells him, still stretching. She gives him an evil grin. “For one thing, you’re in her chain of command, and they strongly discourage that around these parts. For another, I’m pretty sure she’s fucking that girl Tara.”

“I’m not trying to fuck our squad leader,” Lynx insists. 

Visia and Avalynn are rarely on the same side of an argument, but they’re on the same side of this one. They exchange looks, then snort with laughter. “Yeah, okay,” Visia scoffs. She straightens out and stands, dusting off her leathers, then holds her hand out to me; I take it, letting her pull me to my feet. 

“So, what should we be looking out for?” Aaric asks Visia. “You did this last year; right? And survived?”

“Obviously,” Visia barks, though she seems pleased that he’s sought out her advice. She turns to point at the Gauntlet, and I follow her finger as she indicates toward the various stages of the course, which another squad of cadets is currently navigating. “The first ascent”—she points to a spinning log, four granite pillars spaced three feet apart and a giant spinning wheel, all of which dangle at a neck-breaking, body-pulverising distance above the ground, jutting out from the cliff face—“is nothing to worry about. If you made it over the parapet, you’re fine. Just watch your timing on the wheel. If you’re too eager…” 

“Yeah, I’m so eager,” Avalynn says, wan. She points to the next ascent, where the course switches back on itself diagonally. “I’ve been looking forward to dangling from a giant metal ball over a steep drop for years now; I can’t believe the day has finally come.”

Visia shrugs. “They’re not great,” she admits, “but I think the technique is fairly obvious.” 

“Don’t die?” Baylor suggests. “Hold on for dear life?”

Visia, as usual, ignores him. “Third ascent: swing from those three rails, then get yourself onto those two pillars,” she says. “If you can hold your body weight, then you should be fine.” She turns to me; Aaric turns to look at me, too. I nod subtly, thanking Amari for Imogen’s sick obsession with weight training, and do my best not to be offended that they haven’t expressed the same doubt about anyone else’s capabilities. 

“Are they vibrating?” Lynx asks, horrified, gesturing to the pillars that stand between the dangling iron rods and the path.

“Violently. Stick the landing, please,” Visia says, blowing out a breath that flutters her short, choppy fringe off of her forehead. “Once you’re across those, you come to the Staircase,” she continues, pointing to a ramp constructed from wooden logs. “Do not underestimate the Staircase. Statistically speaking, it’s the ascent where you’re most likely to die. Each of those logs rolls in the opposite direction to the one before it. The trick is to hit it at a full pelt and push through as fast as you can. No hesitation.”

“What happens if you hesitate?” Trysten asks, scuffing the toe of his boot against the gravel.

Visia turns to him, raising her eyebrow. “You meet Malek,” she tells him. 

He nods, his shoulders tensing. “Noted.” 

“Well done, Hawelynn,” Emetterio says as he and Dain approach our squad. He smiles placidly at her as the other members of our squad who’ve been standing slightly apart from us move in to close off the circle. “I see you’ve done my job for me. I should bring you back next year.” 

“After this year, I have no intention of running this thing ever again,” she says, smiling even while she’s gritting her teeth. She nods her head sideways at Baylor. “Luckily for you, no dragon would be stupid enough to bond Norris, so he’ll be around to run the course for you. Although, I doubt he’ll be capable of explaining it beyond, ‘It’s, like, super hard, man’.”

“Ouch,” Baylor says, putting his hand to his heart.  

Dain narrows his eyes. “Enough,” he says. “You can joke when you’re at the top.”

Avalynn rolls her eyes. 

Trysten, who’s standing beside me, leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper as he says, “Someone’s in a bad mood.”

I turn to him, tipping my head back to look at his face, and he smiles when he notices that I’m staring at him. Gods, he has a pretty smile. In fact, everything about him is pretty, although now is probably not the time to be thinking about that; I should be focused on surviving the Gauntlet.

For a brief moment, I remember admiring Aaric’s shoulders before Parapet and wonder what it is about impending doom that makes me so concupiscent. 

“He’s probably missing Sorrengail,” I mutter under my breath, turning back towards our instructors. “She’s been missing for a few days.”

“Where do you think the Second Years are?”

I shrug. “I’m reliably informed that the curriculum expands in your second year to include orienteering. They’re probably stumbling through a forest somewhere on a field trip, trying to reach a consensus about which way is up and which way is down.”

He chuckles softly to himself. “I love it when you’re catty,” he says, pushing his glasses higher on his perfect, straight nose.

“You must be really in love with me, then.” I try not to revel in the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “I thought I told you to get your glasses fixed last week, Kinsby?”

“You did,” he quietly admits. “But when I was getting ready to go down to Chantara, I started thinking—”

Visia shifts her weight, subtly nudging my shoulder with hers just as Dain barks, “Pay attention!” 

I flush, head snapping back to face the front.

Emetterio hums thoughtfully, putting his hands on his hips. He’s got his back to the Gauntlet, and I find myself wondering how many people he has watched die on this thing, whether he’s bored of watching cadets attempt it year after year. “As I was saying, dragons are not particularly concerned with how long it takes you to climb the Gauntlet. Their only concern is that you can.” 

“Are they watching?” Aaric asks. 

Emetterio points up at the sky, where dragons circle lazily overhead. “You tell me,” he says. “On Presentation Day, you will complete this course or you will not be presented; however, though you will be timed during your practices, those times will only be used to discern the order in which you are presented. On Presentation Day, the only thing that matters is that you make it to the top. Make every effort to remember that. Riders who came last on this course have bonded dragons, and riders who have broken records on this course have not.” 

Aaric uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again. “Does order matter? When we get presented, I mean?”

Emetterio gives him a shrewd look, furrowing his eyebrows. Even his bald head furrows. “It would be to your advantage to be presented as early in the day as possible,” he advises. “Some dragons have short attention spans, while others tend to make snap judgements. Few dragons change their mind once it's made up. If you’re the last squad presented, there is every chance that all dragons willing to bond this year will have already selected their prospective rider.”

“So, no pressure,” Baylor says, grinning.

“No pressure,” Emetterio confirms. “However, that’s not to say that you are guaranteed to remain unbonded if you are in the last group to be presented.” It’s hard to miss the way his eyes flick toward Visia.

Visia sighs. “And the opposite is true, too,” she confirms, sullen. “I was in one of the first squads to be presented last year.” 

Emetterio shrugs. “In further answer to your question, Cadet Greycastle, sending squads through the Gauntlet by ranking has been proven to be more… expedient. It’s for everyone’s benefit if the most adept squads are first to run the course, giving those who are slower the time that they need to complete it safely.” 

“The concept of ‘safety’ is fundamentally incompatible with that thing,” Avalynn hisses, leaning over Visia to make a face at me. I stifle a laugh, and Dain’s eyes flicker in my direction again, delivering a stern but silent warning.

He turns to glare at Avalynn next, who makes an exasperated face as she flicks her short, sparse ponytail indignantly in response. 

Emetterio grunts. “The course honed into this rock will test your agility, strength and stamina,” he says, once he seems satisfied that we’ll remain silent for the remainder of his briefing. “It will test your ability to withstand the rigors of battle. It will test whether or not you have what it takes to be a rider.” He gives each of us a meaningful look in turn before continuing. “Once the squad currently on the course completes their hour, yours will begin. And you will be able to make as many attempts at these ascents as you can manage in that hour, which I recommend you do, in fact, do.” Trysten’s hand shoots upward, and Emetterio turns to him with an expectant look, as if he’s been waiting for Trysten to ask a question the whole time. “Yes, Kinsby?”

“What happens if we don’t make it to the top?” he asks, scuffing his boot against the gravel again. 

Baylor scoffs, patting him on the shoulder. “I think you’re good, Kinsby,” he reassures him. “You’re, like, seven-feet tall and built like a tree trunk. You might not be able to fight for shit, but you could practically walk up this thing like it’s a gentle Sunday hike.”

Trysten frowns, turning to look at Baylor over the top of Visia, Avalynn and me. “I can fight,” he says, unconcerned. “The fact that I don’t enjoy fighting doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“Yeah, sure,” Baylor says, smiling malevolently. “How’s that arm of yours, man?”

“What does happen if you can’t make it to the top?” Avalynn asks, speaking over them, and I see her glance at me out of the corner of her eye. 

My fingertips tingle in response.

“During practice, you can use the ropes suspended between ascents to climb back down if you need to,” Dain says, pointing to them. His face is expressionless, eyes cold. “I would recommend you don't unless the stakes are life-and-death, because it won't do you any favors.”

“What about on Presentation Day?” I ask, glancing up at the ropes. 

Dain turns to look at me. “Every time you touch them, you'll earn a thirty-second penalty, which can obviously affect your presentation order. On Presentation Day, there’s no climbing back down,” he tells me gravely. He turns away from me, addressing the rest of the squad. “Not if you want to be on the ground at Threshing, which”—Dain shrugs at the foregone conclusion—“you do.”

I nod, resolved. Turning back to the course, I take a cue from Aaric and begin to think out my approach, my arms crossed and brow knit. Weeks of training with Imogen and Aaric have begun to hone my body, and I feel stronger and more vital than I ever have. I can do things that I never thought I would be capable of: lifting impossibly heavy things, landing blows with precision, withstanding mind-numbing pain. I’ve even won my first dagger. 

(Well, second, but I’m not counting the first.)

I can do this, too, I think to myself. I glance upward at the dragons surveying us anxiously. I don’t know if I can do it well enough to impress them, but I’m pretty confident I can make it to the top. 

“You have almost three weeks off of challenges so that you can give this course your undivided attention,” Emetterio tells us, his posture preternaturally staunch. He’s a weapon of a man, his fists like anvils. “I suggest you use them very, very wisely.” He looks down at his stopwatch, then up at the cliff. As he turns, a cadet who was climbing the fourth ascent, the staircase of logs spinning in alternating directions, hesitates, glancing up at one of the dragons overhead as it lets out an ear-splitting roar.

“Oh, shit,” Visia says in a sickly tone. Quickly, she turns away, trying to turn me, too. 

I don’t turn—not straight away, at least. Instead, I watch, horrified, as the cadet who was ascending the Staircase is sucked between the two logs he was standing on. A hoarse scream rends the air as I turn, followed by a series of sounds I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget: a sickening splintering, the crunch and groan of bone and wood. The logs must continue to churn, spitting him out; his lifeless body must fall to the ground from at least sixty feet in the air, landing in the wide gravel ditch dug below with a crack that echoes off of the rock. 

Avalynn gasps, turning into Baylor’s shoulder. 

I blink, feeling the blood rush from my face. 

“Like I said,” Visia grimly observes as she turns back to face the Gauntlet, her face even paler than usual. “Once you hit that ramp, keep fucking moving.” 

I barely notice as the circle breaks and Emetterio steps away to talk to one of the other squad leaders. I study each ascent instead, shoving my tongue into that crevice in my bottom rung of teeth and reopening the blister there; I watch carefully as the squad currently climbing the Gauntlet completes their last run of the day. 

There are only two left on the course, and I cannot imagine how it feels to approach that staircase having just watched someone die on it.

I guess I’ll know firsthand soon enough. 

“Can I speak to you, Mairi?” 

I turn away from the Gauntlet and realize that Dain is hovering by my side. I blink at him, noticing that however bad I thought he looked before, he looks worse up close. There are dark bruises underneath his eyes, and his skin is slightly sallow. Clearly, he hasn’t been sleeping. 

I’m so startled by how bad he looks that I forget to tell him to fuck off.

He clears his throat, taking my silence for an invitation. “Look, I just wanted to say that—” He swallows, then takes a deep breath. “I, um, just wanted to let you know that the right way isn’t the only way,” he says quietly. “Emetterio is going to have Hawelynn do a demonstration soon, but you don’t necessarily have to do the course the same way she does it. If you can think of a way that works better for you, then you should—”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What makes you think I can’t do this the right way?” I ask.

He blinks slowly, as if he’s surprised by my outburst. “I’m sure you can,” he says patiently. “I was just—”

“If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Dain sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and tucking his chin into his chest. “Mairi, I’m just trying to say—”

“If you want to apologize for what you did to my brother, then you should just do that. And you should look me in the eye when you do it, too,” I tell him, chagrined. “I’m reliably informed that you’re supposed to do that. Look people in the eye when you apologize to them, I mean. Honestly, I won’t accept your apology either way, but at least if you can look me in the eye, I’ll know you mean it.” I hesitate, then add, “And if I might make a suggestion, perhaps this time you shouldn’t patronize me by telling me that my brother seemed like a ‘good person.’” I spit the last two words at him, eyes burning into the side of his face.

He drops his hand and lifts his head, turning to stare into my eyes. I’m pleased to notice that his are framed by completely average lashes, because if Dain Aetos had eyelashes as beautiful as Aaric’s or Bodhi’s, it would probably be my last fucking straw. 

“Sloane,” he begins, “I should never—” 

“Cadet Hawelynn,” Emetterio barks, waving Visia forward as the last member of the former squad begins the final ascent.

Dain turns away, sighing. 

I blink. 

“Why don’t you show them how it’s done?” Emetterio suggests to Visia as he approaches. As he gestures to the space behind her, he barks, “The rest of you, get in line. Orderly, please. Once Hawelynn has reached the top, I’ll be sending you in sixty-second intervals.”

Dain walks away from me without another word, and I move to join the queue, feeling strangely disappointed. My body is, at once, languid and tense, ready for a fight that isn’t coming; I resolve to give that energy to the Gauntlet instead. 

Visia turns and winks at me over her shoulder as Emetterio resets his stopwatch. When he lifts his hand, then waves it toward the ground, she races forward, sprinting toward the shoulder-width gravel path that cuts up from the ground and through the cliffside, the pathway which will take her to the first ascent.

She climbs the short incline at pace, then dashes across the spinning log. 

“Gods, she makes it look easy,” Trysten says from behind me as we watch her hop from one granite pillar to the next. As I glance at him over my shoulder, he pushes his glasses up on his nose again, studying me intently. I can’t help but agree with what Baylor said: Trysten is tall (taller than Xaden, even) and strong. He’s the last person in this line who should be worried right now.

Is he worried about himself? Or… me?

“Visia might be making this look easy, but she makes basic social interactions look hard,” Baylor says from his place ahead of me in the queue. He pivots slightly to grin at us. “We all have our strengths.”

I punch his shoulder, turning back to watch Visia dive into the spinning wheel. It rotates just once before she emerges on the other side, sprinting across the gravel path and diving for the first of the metal buoy balls. “You just don’t like that she calls you on your bullshit.”

Baylor feigns offense. “I never bullshit,” he insists. “Do I, Greycastle?”

Aaric is first in line, watching Visia steadfastly, analytically. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard what Baylor said. 

Baylor turns back to me and shrugs. 

“So, why are you nervous?” I ask Trysten, tipping my head back to watch as Visia dangles from one of the suspended iron rails. It undulates menacingly as she shimmies herself along it; when she reaches the end, she swings her weight back and forth, working up momentum before letting go. I start to shift my weight across my hips. “Baylor said you practically skipped across the parapet.”

I hold my breath until she catches the third iron rail.

“I’m not nervous,” Trysten says.  

“Well, you seem nervous,” I tell him. 

“You seem way more nervous than I do,” he points out. 

“I never said I wasn’t,” I tell him, bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet. “I’m fucking terrified.”

Visia hits the second-last ascent, the chimney, and clambers up it, rolling herself onto the gravel path at the top. Within seconds, she’s hauling herself over the edge of the vertical ramp beyond. 

Standing at the top of the course, she turns to us and bows. 

“Greycastle,” Emetterio says, putting a hand on his shoulder and shoving him forward. 

Aaric, to no one’s surprise, fucking flies through the first ascent of the course. 

“Does anyone else ever find it annoying that he’s so… perfect?” Trysten drawls as he dives through the spinning wheel.

“No,” Baylor says without hesitation. “You only think that because you’re in love with Loany, and you’re scared that she’ll never notice you with him standing in the way.”

Trysten splutters. “I’m not—”

Dain is prowling up and down the line. He pauses near us, giving us all appraising looks. “I would recommend you stop talking and start paying attention to how your squadmates are tackling the obstacles in this course,” he says darkly, pointing to the cliffside, where Aaric has just pelted over the shaking pillars and is rapidly approaching the ramp of rotating logs. “I’d hate for any of you to get up there and die because you were busy gossiping about each other’s love lives in your final moments.”

Baylor rolls his eyes at me before turning to face forward again.  

“You know, I would love to be doing this in literally anything other than constricting leather pants,” Avalynn opines from her spot at the front of the line. “Doing it naked would probably be preferable. I don’t want to be excessively sweaty when I fall to my death if it can be avoided.” She turns to Emetterio, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “How come we can’t do this in sparring clothes?”

“On a battlefield, you’ll be doing it in flying leathers,” Emetterio says, not looking up from his stopwatch. “Unless, of course, you intend to fight naked. In the alternative, you may as well get accustomed it now.”

Seconds later, Emetterio taps her on the shoulder, and she bursts forward and hits the spinning log at a sprint.

Avalynn stumbles towards the end, practically falling on top of the first granite pillar; she’s picked up too much momentum, I realize. In all likelihood, she’s probably trying to compensate for her height and has overcompensated. As she jumps to the next pillar, she falls just short of the three feet that separate them. Thankfully, she manages to catch the lip and pull herself onto it, and I feel my shoulders sag with relief.

“So, there’s such a thing as too fast,” Trysten says over my shoulder, as if he can read my mind.

I nod.

By the time she reaches the third ascent, the suspended iron rails, Avalynn—small, mighty Avalynn—is visibly exhausted. She stares at them, chest heaving, shaking out her arms at her sides. For one long second, I think she’s about to go for it, but then her shoulders crumple in defeat. She turns to one of the ropes spaced at six-feet intervals around the course and begins to shimmy down. 

“It’s going to kill her that Visia can do it and she can’t,” Baylor says, chuckling to himself. Emeterrio waves him on, and he hits the incline at a jog, picking up momentum. 

When Baylor is gone and it’s just the two of us, I hear Trysten clear his throat. “Hey, Sloane?” he says quietly. 

“Hey, Trysten,” I reply absentmindedly, still bouncing on the balls of my feet as I step to the front of the line. I reach up and check my braid, making sure it won’t fall loose on the course, then kneel to tighten the laces of my boots. I feel weightless with nerves, like I could jump into the air and float back down to earth. “What’s up?”

“I was just thinking—” he murmurs.

“Now is probably not the time to think,” I tell him; I turn and grin up at him. 

He stares down into my eyes. Since I met him in the quad after Parapet, I’ve always thought that Trysten has nice eyes, though maybe not as disarming as Aaric’s. They’re a warm, comforting brown, and there’s so much earnestness in them that it sometimes makes my heart race. Right now, they’re incredibly solemn. “Sloane, I’m thinking that if both of us make it off this thing, you and I should date,” he blurts out. “What do you think?”

“Mairi,” Emetterio barks.

I start, turning back towards him. “What?”

Emetterio cocks one eyebrow, amused. “Go,” he suggests. 

“Oh!” 

I take off from the ground, doing my best to keep a steady pace as I jog towards the course, and though there is every possibility of me dying in the next few minutes, my thoughts are suddenly consumed by the fact that I was just asked on a date for the first time in my entire life.

And it was Trysten Kinsby who asked me, and he’s adorable.

My cheeks are pink from more than just exertion as I hasten up the narrow gravel path and throw myself across the spinning log, lungs already burning. 

Do I want to go on a date with Trysten? I wonder as I leap onto the first granite pillar. I think he’s funny, but not really my type. He's a little shy. But that smile, and those eyes…

Although, is it really a smart idea to date anyone right now, when— 

“Fuck!”

I wobble as I pitch to one side, then drop my weight low to keep my centre of gravity tight and grip the pillar’s sides. I wait until I’m steady on my feet to stand, and because I’ve lost momentum, it takes more effort than it should to launch myself onto the second pillar.

Stop thinking, I tell myself sternly. There’ll be plenty of time to think about it afterwards, but only if you manage to live through this. 

And besides, you already know the answer is ‘Yes’.

Ahead, Baylor comes to a stop at the spinning wheel. He’s missed the opening, but instead of waiting for it to complete another rotation, he dives forward, using the metal rims either side to walk himself up it. As the wheel rotates, he crouches, getting his feet underneath him. And when he reaches what would be nine o’clock on a clock face, he pushes himself off, flying through the air.

As he lands, he lets out a pained shout.

“Baylor? You okay?” I call out. I can’t see him at this angle, but I don’t see a shape falling towards the ditch below us, either.

“I’m alright,” he yells back, his voice strained. He limps forward into my line of sight. “Fuck, I rolled my ankle on the landing.” He shakes his head. “That’s going to be a problem.”

“Climb down!” Avalynn shouts from her spot by Emetterio and Dain.

There is no fucking way Baylor is touching one of those ropes, I think as I dance over the three pillars that separate me from the gravel path. I skid, kicking up stones as I land, then tear towards the spinning wheel, determined not to make the mistake of losing momentum again. Thankfully, Zihnal is on my side today, and the wheel is in the perfect position as I approach; I dive into the opening, but inside, my nerves get the better of me.

I let three full rotations pass before I lunge through the other side.

Sure enough, when I emerge from the wheel, Baylor is already flinging himself off of the last shaking iron pillar and limping his way toward the seven rolling logs, his face nearly green from the discomfort of limping along on a swollen ankle. 

“Faster!” Visia screams down at him, and it startles me that she sounds genuinely afraid for him. “You’re not going to make it if you don’t go faster, Norris!”

I hear him groan as he picks up speed.

With the first ascent behind me, I feel confident for all of the ten seconds it takes me to reach the second ascent, at which point the certainty that I am about to die crushes me again. As best as I can, I ignore it; I take a deep breath, back up three paces, then run forward, launching myself off of the edge of the path, terror singeing through my veins hotter than anger ever has. 

I’m still stuck on the first metal buoy, desperately wishing that I could wipe my clammy hands on my leathers and praying they won’t send me to my death, by the time Trysten catches up to me. He glides to a halt on the path behind me, folding his hands on his head and panting for breath.

“You okay?” he huffs.

“Do I look okay to you, Kinsby?” I look at him over my shoulder, noticing with annoyance that he looks like he’s having the time of his life. “You’re crazy,” I tell him, choking out a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I was nervous down there,” he admits, grinning from ear to ear, “but I gotta say that I’m enjoying this a lot more than I thought I would.”

Well, I have to keep going now, I think.

I grunt as I launch myself onto the second buoy. My heart lurches into my throat, strangling the sound, as my hands wrap around the chain. My mind is screaming at me, telling me to just let go and fall to my death. I can feel the skin of my hands tearing, even though, logically, they're so slick with sweat that there shouldn't be enough friction for the skin to tear. 

It feels like gravity is trying to pull me down toward the ditch below—gravity or Malek. 

Trysten lets out a breathless laugh as he backs up and launches himself onto the first buoy. “You know, I’m glad I caught up to you, Mairi,” he says conversationally as he begins to clamber over it.

I toss myself onto the third buoy and cling to it as it jerks on its chain. My aching arms protest as I edge myself into a better position, then start to swing the ball to the left, ignoring the burning deep in my muscles. I’m past the rope; I have no choice but to keep moving forward, and even if I didn’t, Mairis don’t yield. At this point, climbing down a rope and letting this course get the better of me would feel an awful lot like yielding. 

I hurl myself onto the fourth ball, gasping as my chest hits hard, unrelenting iron, clawing at the chains that wrap around it.

I try my hardest not to think about how many bodies might be lying in the yawning ditch beneath me. 

“‘Why are you glad you caught me, Trysten?’” He says from behind me. “I’m so glad you asked, Mairi. You see, I wanted to ask you something.”  

I bark out a startled laugh, pausing as I sidle around the side of the buoy. “So ask,” I suggest, and if I wasn’t so scared for my life, I would probably roll my eyes. “Why not? It’s not like I might have more important things on my mind right now.”

“Well, the last time I asked you, you ran away,” he points out. “At least if I ask you now, you’re not going anywhere.” He pauses. “So, was that a no, when you ran away? Or was that a sign that I should ask you again when Emetterio isn’t about to cockblock me? If it was a no, you can just tell me. I’ll never bring it up again.”

“Never?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’ll still, like, pine for you from a distance, but I’ll try not to be too weird about it.”

I swing myself to the last buoy, fingers scrambling for purchase. “It wasn’t a no,” I tell him as I edge myself around the side of the ball and begin to rock my hips back and forth, nudging it towards the path. The chains that wrap around the ball jangle and whine, and for a second I feel a jolt of irrational fear that they might snap. I'm tempted to calculate the odds that they might, but I'm too terrified to think straight. Instead, words slip through my teeth, mingled with grunts of exertion, as I pitch the ball I'm on towards the next. “Ask me again later. Like, when I’m not dangling precariously from the side of a cliff, for example.” 

Breath flees me as I free fall. 

I land on my knees in the gravel, wincing as sharp stones poke through my leathers and dig into my palms. As I get to my feet, I brush grey dust from my pants, hands stinging.

“You’re not dangling anymore,” he points out, looking over at me. He grins, swinging to the next ball with ease. “So, how about it, Sloane?”

“Trysten Kinsby, you really are crazy,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. I stand with my hands on my hips for a moment, huffing air, before I set off towards the pensile iron rails at a sprint.

“Is that a no?” 

I ignore him, focusing all of my attention on the task ahead as I launch myself off of the path, throwing myself onto the first railing. Almost immediately, I realise that I’ve miscalculated the jump, and a scream tears from my throat as I wrap my elbows around the iron bar, clinging to it. My feet kick in the air, scrabbling for purchase, as I hug myself to it, and it jerks to the side in response to my sudden, aggressive movement, slamming my shoulder into the rock to my left.

There’s so much adrenaline coursing through my veins that I barely feel the impact.

“Sloane?” Aaric shouts from somewhere above me. 

“I’m fine,” I bite out. 

I’m not fine. 

I’m paralyzed.

I’m going to fall. 

I can’t—

“You’re doing good, Sloane,” Trysten says from behind me, as if he can read my mind. Or maybe he’s just reading the tense lines of my body, the way I’ve curled into myself and into the bar. He must have made record time across the last of the buoys to get to me.

I don’t dare look back at him, but I manage to nod, acknowledging that I’ve heard him.

“You caught it,” he reassures me. “You’re okay. You’re doing so good, Sloane. You just need to keep moving. Do it slowly, one hand at a time. Okay?”

I hold my breath as I uncurl one elbow, wrapping my right hand around the bar, then slide my other forearm downward to wrap my left hand around the bar, too. My arms shake violently, and though I lower myself as steadily as I can manage, the sensation of dropping toward the earth makes my stomach churn.

“That’s it,” he says gently. “Now, one hand over the other, Sloane.”

I catch myself holding my breath again as I drag my weight along the bar, then begin to swing my legs, driving it towards the next. The two rods clang as they hit each other, and as if the sound has beckoned me forward, I catapult my weight upwards, grasping onto the railing. As soon as I catch it, I begin moving hand-over-hand towards the center, wasting no time. The rod I’m on wobbles; the one I just left pendulates back, smacking into it a second time. 

“I’m okay,” I say breathlessly. “I’m okay.” I keep crawling forward, and I realize that it’s not just my arms that shivering, but my entire body. Though my muscles are overworked, I’m shaking because I’m so panicked. “Be careful, Kinsby. The chains have more give than I was expecting.”

“Hot on your heels,” he warns. 

I hear the scuffing of shoes against gravel as Trysten backs up behind me, then takes a flying leap for the first bar. Not even a full second later, I hear a strangled gasp, a thud, and the clank of the metal rod crashing against the rock beside it. I see a flash of movement somewhere below me, but I refuse to look down, to let my eyes track the movement, because if I look down at that ravine, I won’t be able to look up and I sure as fuck won’t be able to keep moving. “Trysten?” I ask, voice thick with trepidation. “You okay?” 

There’s a deathly silence, but I can still hear him taking deep, panting breaths, so I know he hasn’t fallen. 

“Trysten?” I repeat, my voice high and tinny in my ears. 

“Yeah,” he says after a pause. His voice sounds resigned, but calm. “My, uh, glasses started to slip, and I couldn’t catch them. I had to let them fall.”

Oh, shit. 

“How bad is it?” I ask tentatively, pausing my progression towards the other end of the bar even though I can practically feel my muscles tearing from exertion. I think of all the times I’ve sat in his lap in the past few weeks, his glasses perched on the end of my nose, and joked about how blind he is.

My stomach drops one-hundred feet, right down to the ground below.

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “I can see the next rod, I think. It’s blurry, but it’s a different color to the rock.” I hear him starting to inch forward. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Sloane. Without my glasses, my depth perception is pretty shit. In fact, it’s pretty much non-existent. I, um, might need some help here. Is that okay?”

“The next rod is about half a-foot higher than the one you’re on now,” I tell him. My heart is drumming in my chest, fast and hard. “Aim up, not across. Try not to angle yourself too high. I’m just going across to the third railing now; I’ll let you know when I’m clear.” 

I follow my own advice as I curl up my legs and swing my body toward the third, final rail: aim up, not across. It takes every ounce of strength I have left to catch my own weight, but I manage it, choking back a sigh of relief. 

“You got it, Mairi?” he murmurs. 

“Clear,” I tell him. 

I hear him take a deep breath, followed by the muffled sound of movement and a dull clang; then hear Trysten grunt as he hits the second rail. I hold on tight as the rod shifts forward into mine, nearly rocking me off. “How’re you doing back there?”

“Can’t lose my glasses twice,” he says, almost breezily. “Out of curiosity, how many hand spans long would you say these rods are?”

“I can tell you how many of my hand spans they are, but I don’t think I could guess how many of yours they are.” I frown. “I can’t remember how big your hands are right now.”

“I mean, they’re pretty big,” he says, his tone almost defensive. 

“They’re maybe about four-feet long,” I say, ignoring him. I force myself to take deep, even breaths, trying to stave off the dread swelling inside of me. I try to ground myself in the dining room in Aretia, but I can’t; instead, I almost hear Dain’s voice coaching me through my breathing in the hallway. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

I follow the rhythm, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to swallow me whole, the certainty that Trysten and I are about to die. 

Trysten makes a tutting noise. “There’s nothing you need to worry about, Sloane,” he lies, and he does it so well that I want desperately to believe him. “The worst part of it is over. Why don’t— Why don’t you tell me about the next part of the ascent?”

I look ahead at the course, trying to discern how I can best describe what’s coming. “The pillars here are wider than the ones from before,” I tell him. “They’re only about five feet away from the rod, too. Someone as tall as you are could probably get their feet onto the first one without letting go of the bar, but you’d have to shift your weight forward pretty quickly when you let go and hope you didn’t overbalance.” I swallow around the lump forming in my throat. “I’ll have to jump, though. I’m about to go for it, okay?”

“I’ll be here if you need me,” he says. “Just hanging around.”

I take a deep breath and pitch myself off of the rod, onto the pillar. I stumble to my knees as I land, quickly scramble onto my feet, then nearly topple over again and almost plunge into the abyss. The pillar shudders violently beneath me, threatening to throw me off, and I divert the sudden shifting of my weight, using it to propel myself onto the next pillar. From there, I leap onto the gravel path before I can hesitate, landing on my knees again as the movement of the column alters my momentum at the last second. 

This time, I don’t have the energy to drag myself to my feet, but I manage to swivel my body so I can see Trysten, kicking up gravel dust as I go. I can hardly help my body from folding over on itself, exhaustion washing over me in waves; I barely manage to stop myself from heaving over the edge.

Overhead, I see a red dragon separate from the spiraling riot and dip lower as if it wants to get a better look.

A second Red follows.

Trysten looks strangely calm, considering the circumstances. He squints directly at me, eyes unseeing. “Did you make it?” he asks, his voice still a lot less panicked than I would expect. “I—I, um, can’t see you.”

“I made it,” I assure him. “I’m on the gravel path.”

He relaxes as much as someone can when they’re dangling from an iron bar over a ravine, blind. “That’s good,” he says, licking his lips. “You’re doing so well, Sloane.”

“Sloane?” Aaric bellows. “Is everything okay?”

I wave my hand absently, then realise he probably can’t see me. “It’s okay,” I call out breathlessly. “Trysten lost his glasses, so I’m helping him find the rope. Did Baylor make it up the Staircase?”

“I’m insulted that you would ask,” Baylor yells in response.

Trysten’s jaw clenches as he shuffles his hands along the bar. He huffs out a strangled laugh. “So, what should we do when we go on that date?” he asks, as if this is a conversation we’re having in the hallway outside of the barracks. “Our options are limited,” he admits. He heaves a deep breath, face knotting with the first hints of fear as he swings himself onto the third rod. He manages to catch hold, then continues talking as he slides his hands along it. “I was thinking maybe we could have a picnic by the Iakobos, but I don’t really mind. I’m pretty sure you could recite the Codex to me three times in a row, back-to-back, and I’d still have the time of my life.”

I laugh in spite of myself, watching the movements of his hand with eagle-eyed attention. It feels so strange to laugh when my body is so tense, when the stakes are so high.

“Reciting the Codex on a date? Who do you think I am? Dain Aetos?” I lick my lips nervously. “You’re about three hand spans from the end of the rod, Trysten. You’ll want to start thinking about jumping off soon.”

Three. 

“So, the Iakobos?” he asks, as if he’s unconcerned by his predicament. He hesitates, then shuffles forward. 

Two.

“I think there are more pressing things for us to deal with right now,” I tell him. 

One. 

He stops, his face contorted into a sardonic expression. “I don’t know,” he says dryly. “I’d much rather think about sitting by the Iakobos with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen than the fact that I’m probably about to die because I was too stupid to get my glasses fixed.”

“One, I can’t believe you’re managing to be sarcastic right now. Visia would be so proud.”

He smiles weakly. 

“Two: You’re not dying,” I promise him. “You can’t, because I’d love to have a picnic with you, and I can’t do that if you’re… not here. I would have told you as soon as we were off this thing, but you’re the most impatient man I’ve ever met.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice, try to keep my tone light and teasing now that I’m the one on solid ground, now that I need to return the reassurance and guidance that he’s just given me, but every nerve in my body is sizzling with terror. “And for our second date, I was thinking I could teach you how to do the Braevi quickstep, and you can twirl me around the Commons like it’s King Tauri’s own ballroom. Okay?” 

He grins, his eyes unfocused. “Okay,” he says, nodding. He chuckles nervously, then says, in a quieter voice, “Okay.”

He doesn’t swing himself onto the pillar gently, like I hoped he would. I watch, horrified, as he propels himself off of it in the direction of the pillar. He lands, scrambling for purchase on the tower of iron, and a breath saws out of me. Though his weight tips awkwardly to one side for a terrifying second, he manages to stay on. 

“Rope on the right, remember?” I tell him, and my fingertips feel numb—not from anger, but from anxiety. “Can you see it?” He pivots to the right, eyes desperately searching. “It’s directly in front of you now, Trysten.”

“Yeah,” he says, but his tone is unconvincing at best. “I—I can see it.” He takes a deep breath as he gets to his feet, still looking slightly to the left of where the rope is. “I’m gonna jump now,” he tells me, his voice cracking. 

“Wait,” I begin, my heart in my throat. My stomach heaves again.

Would it be safer to take him with me through the rest of the course? I can probably drag him up the ramp of spinning logs hand-in-hand, but will he be able to make it up the chimney or the vertical ramp? And if I try to take him over the ramp and he hesitates or loses his footing, how likely is it that he’ll take me with him? 

“What if—”

“Stop freaking out, Mairi,” he gently scolds me as he readies himself to jump. “I’m gonna climb down this rope now, but I’ll see you by the Iakobos,” he promises. “And I guess I’ll get some new glasses between now and then so that I can, y’know, actually see you.” Earnestly, he adds, almost as an afterthought, “You know, if I knew losing my glasses was all it took to get two dates with you, I would have thrown them away the first day we met."

He smiles to himself as he jumps, leaping from the column that’s doing its best to shake him off, aiming for the rope. 

My mind is still racing as I watch him leap, and before I even consciously realize I’ve begun to calculate his trajectory, I realize that it’s off. 

My mind is still racing as I watch his body twist in the air, watch the fingers of his left hand graze the rope, watch as they fail to close around it. 

My mind goes blank as I watch the smile fall from his face, as I watch him accept that he has overshot. The expression of terror that distorts his handsome features afterwards—ripping the warmth from his sparkling brown eyes and tearing his mouth wide open in a desperate cry for help that isn't coming—will haunt me, I realize, for the rest of my life. It’ll haunt me just as surely as the sound of wood grinding bones, crawling into my marrow and living permanently inside of me.

As I watch him begin to fall, I hear a bloodcurdling scream that I will also never forget, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s mine. 

 

Chapter 8: The Wyvern

Remember when we were kids, way before the secession, when Mom used to take you flying on Oranmor? It used to make me so jealous that you got to go flying and I had to sit in meetings with Dad and his advisors. Little did they know that Grandma was taking both of us on Anail.

Anyway, I was thinking about it because I’ve started working on my wood carvings again. They’re not as good as Dad’s yet, but they’re getting better. I’ve done three so far: Oranmor, Anail, Deigh. I’ll give them to you when you get here. If I haven’t given them to you by the time you read this, remind me. Although, you’ll probably be bonded to a dragon of your own by then, so I guess I’ll have to carve you a fourth, too…

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE FROM CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early September

 

For what feels like a long time after Trysten falls, I stay sprawled in the dirt, staring at the place where he was standing moments ago. It feels like I’m watching myself through the dispassionate eyes of one of the dragons above, not that I’m present in my own body. I know I should move, but I can’t control my limbs.

I feel as disoriented as I did after Dasha Fabrren nearly pulverised my face, like I’ve just taken nine vicious right hooks directly to the skull. 

Dimly, I’m aware that Aaric is shouting down at me, but it feels as if I'm wrapped in a ward that impedes sound, and everything—from the crinkle of the stones beneath my knees to the mechanized whirring and grinding of the obstacles on the course—sounds garishly distorted, as if it’s passing through a barrier before it reaches me. 

My breathing, on the other hand, sounds thunderously loud. 

You can’t stay here forever, I scold myself. I have lost people who meant a damn sight more to me than Trysten Kinsby and somehow kept going. 

This is nothing, I promise myself. 

I have to get up, I plead, and finally my body responds. I watch myself put my hands on the gravel, leaning forward to push myself upright; as I stand, I stumble, pitching towards the end of the path towards the pit below. I manage to steady myself on the wall of rock beside me and use it to pull myself fully upright. 

Once I’m on my feet, I become aware of my entire body at once, as if the movement has snapped me back into consciousness. Instantly, my legs tremble underneath me, struggling to bear my weight. My heart feels too big for the cavity of my chest, and every inch of my skin is too tight over my bones. I can feel my joints rubbing at each other. 

The totality of sensation returning to me is uncomfortable and unbearable and overwhelming. For a moment, I wonder if I will ever be able to move unconsciously again, if I will remain forever aware of my own internal mechanisms: my bones grinding each other down, my heart throbbing in my chest, my breath tearing through my lungs. 

I take one step, then two. 

My head swims. 

I stop. 

My knees buckle again, but I manage to keep myself from tipping over the edge of the path by curling my shoulder into the wall.

I have had worse days than this, I tell myself. 

Keep going. 

“Sloane,” Visia calls out, her frantic voice breaking through my malaise. It sounds like she’s moving, her voice swimming from one ear to the next; I glance up and see that she’s running along the ridgeline, sprinting towards the stairs that will take her back to the beginning of the course. “Sloane, wait there! Don’t move! I’ll climb back up and—”

“Stop,” I say, and then I say again, a little louder, “Visia, stop! I’m fine. Okay?” 

My voice echoes, bouncing off of the rock wall beside me and down through the valley below.

Visia is visibly unimpressed, but to her credit, she stops. She glances back towards Aaric and Baylor, who both look like they’re trying to find a plausible way to climb back down the course, throw me over a shoulder and carry me to the top. 

I expect to feel a flare of anger, and I can’t help but think that I would welcome it, the way I’ve always welcomed it in times of grief and pain. Usually, anger makes me feel stronger, capable of withstanding almost anything. 

I expect to feel offended that they think this will break me, that I’ll crumble under the weight of this. 

I expect to feel hurt that they think I’m so delicate, so fragile. 

I don’t. 

I’ve been pushing the anger back for weeks now, pushing it down instead of cultivating it like I should have been so that it was ready when I needed it.

It doesn’t come.

I take two more steps, then a third.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice a thin and reedy rasp. 

Two more steps forward. 

Then I take eight steps backwards, my feet nearly slipping over the edge. 

I know I need to get off of this course and that I won’t be able to make it to the top in my current state, but I also know I can’t climb down the closest rope without looking at my feet. And if I look down, I’ll see him—his body. 

I can sense, in some deep part of myself, that seeing his body will unravel me, so I need a different rope. 

“Sloane?” Aaric calls out, nervous. 

Run, I command myself. 

I barely hear any of them shouting as I take off towards the Staircase, moving as fast as my feet will carry me. It barely registers that I’m crossing the obstacle where I am most likely to die; I don’t register the height, or the jarring sensation of alternating rotations beneath my feet, or the voices that call out.

I don’t feel fear. 

I feel nothing, because the anger is too far away. 

I don’t slow down as I hit the gravel on the other side of the ramp; I throw myself straight off the edge of the gravel path and onto the rope. Though my hands wrap around it, about a foot of coarse anchuram cord slides through my fists as I drop towards the earth, and I savor the hot, reaffirming slice of friction burn through my skin. When my hands hit a ligature, I’m yanked to a stop; I swing for a second, the rope oscillating beneath me, until I can get my feet squared on the closest knot. 

I alternately climb and slip down, and don’t stop moving when my feet hit the ground at the bottom. I don’t give Emetterio or Dain a chance to stop me or Avalynn—face contorted with pity and sorrow—time to approach.

Instead, I drop the rope from my hands, turn and brush past them all, walking in the same direction I was facing when I landed.

I make it all the way to the stairs to the flight field, and I’ve climbed about three of them before my knees give out, at which point I collapse onto the step I’m standing on. I sit across it the way I was taught to ride a horse, with my legs folded demurely to one side and my back rigidly straight.  

I want to cry. Now that I’m safe on solid ground, I feel that Trysten deserves my tears and I want them to come. In this moment, I’m not a Mairi, but just a girl. So it doesn’t matter that Mairis don’t cry.

I will the tears to come.

They don’t.

Instead, I’m so painfully aware of my body that I want to scream. My cold, clammy skin is covered in gooseflesh, and pins and needles prickle across its entire surface. Bones sit right beneath, catching their teeth on each other like the gears that turn the obstacles of the Gauntlet. Blood is rushing through my veins—too fast, too thin. I can hear it roaring through me. There’s pressure behind my eyes, but none of the hot tears that could ease it no matter how much I beg myself to cry. 

I fold my trembling hands into my lap, palms up. Seconds pass, then minutes, and I use them to do nothing more than breathe. 

In. Out. 

In. Out.

When I hear footsteps approaching, I know it’s Dain without having to look. I can tell by the sounds of his steps, somehow both timid and sure. Whenever he approaches me lately, which has only happened once or twice since his fight with Sorrengail, he does it the way we’re taught to approach a Green: eyes lowered in deference, moving with caution, watching for any sign of movement that might indicate a hot stream of fire to follow. He almost seems to make a point of scuffing his feet against the gravel as he edges closer, a warning.

But I can’t bring myself to stir, to lift my head, to scream at him. I’m too preoccupied by staring almost unseeingly at my shaking hands, at the rope burn lesions that cut across my skin in angry, weeping slashes. 

There are wounds on my fingers and palms that are the size of gold coins. I flex and feel a loose sense of satisfaction in the pain.  

Above, a dragon lets out an angry cry. 

Dain’s boots come into my line of sight before I look up. Beneath the gravel dust that’s gathered on the toes of his shoes, they’re polished to a high shine, and I wonder if he will polish them tonight, if he’s perhaps the only person in this college who polishes his shoes every night. He wears them laced to prevent any risk of snagging: crosses on the inside, tucked safely flush against the tongue; verticals on the outside, through the eyelets. 

Will they bury Trysten in his boots? I wonder. Do they take them off, polish them and give them to some other cadet?

It seems entirely possible that they might.

Dain seems to hesitate for a second, then bends to place a water skin beside my feet. As he stoops before me, I stare at the crown of his head, the unruly part of his messy brown curls. My throat constricts when I notice, with a tremor of discomfort that’s quickly followed by a shiver of annoyance, that he has half-opened the water skin—not so much that it will spill if knocked over, but enough to save me some of the pain of aggravating my rope blisters. 

Slowly, Dain begins to back away.

“If I was anyone else, you would be telling me to get over it,” I say. 

Lobbing the accusation at him feels the same way as it does to buckle my injured fingers. It’s a head-spinning, delirious sensation that overwhelms every other thought, and it’s followed by a dull ebb of pain and a thin sliver of regret, neither of which will be enough to stop me from doing it again. If I cannot cry the way I want to, then I want welcome, familiar anger burning through my veins instead. I want it to scorch away the sudden, unrelenting cognizance settling over me, the sickening awareness of my own tenuous mortality.

I want a diversion.

Dain pauses, his back still to me. His shoulders stiffen, and I watch him with rapt attention, anticipation fizzing inside of me as he turns. There’s a small lick of flame coiling inside of me as if it’s ready to strike. 

“I’m not going to fight with you,” he tells me gently, and the words and his tone do set me aflame, but not the way I want them to, not with anger. It’s a strange, unfamiliar emotion I don’t recognize and can’t place. It’s a cold flame that douses whatever of my rage has begun to be kindled and leaves me feeling empty again. He hesitates, then gives me a pitying smile. “I know you think it’ll make you feel better, but it won’t.” 

I sneer at him. 

I want to keep flexing my fingers—split the skin wider, tear deeper and deeper towards the bone—even though I know it’s a bad idea. I want to start a fight with him, because some dumb, animalistic part of me believes there might be something life-affirming in the hurt I can inflict on myself, the hurt I can inflict on others. If nothing else, it will be a sorely-needed distraction. 

“Just admit that—” 

Whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue as he moves swiftly towards me. To my surprise, he kneels on the ground at my feet, putting his hands on the lip of the stairs either side of my knees. I stare into his face, into those warm brown eyes, as he leans forward, and his breath ghosts across my face as he talks. “If you were anyone else, I would be doing exactly what I’m doing already,” he earnestly promises, meeting my gaze. “I would make sure you had what you needed, and then I would leave you the fuck alone, Mairi. And I will never tell you to get over it, because I know that there is no getting over it. What you just saw will live inside of you forever, and if you’re lucky, you’ll learn to live around it.” He shrugs. “Maybe you won’t.”

“I will,” I insist. “I barely knew him.” I immediately feel guilty, because while it’s true that I hadn’t known Trysten for a long time, I did know him, and it feels like a betrayal to say that I didn’t. “I mean, I knew him, but I only knew him for seven weeks. That isn’t enough time to get to know someone properly. It’s not like it was when I lost my parents or…” 

Dain gives me a smile that’s both guilty and sympathetic, and I look away. “You don’t need to know someone ‘properly’ to mourn them, Sloane, or to be sorry that they died. You’re allowed to feel—”

“I’ve lost people I cared about a lot more than Trysten and been fine,” I insist, voice trembling. I massage my tongue against my teeth, blinking away the bite of tears at the corner of my eyes. It seems almost comical that I was willing them to come just seconds ago, and now that they’re coming, I want them to go away again. 

Still, I refuse to let Dain see me cry again. 

Dain scratches the back of his neck, sighing. He glances upward, toward the dragon orbiting overhead. “Look, generally speaking, I recommend cadets don’t form attachments,” he tells me. “Getting through this place unscathed is hard enough without giving yourself more things to worry about, things you can’t… control. If I can give you one piece of advice, Sloane, then I would say to keep your circle as small as you can for the rest of your time here.” He hesitates. “Don’t give anyone the power to hurt you, even if they only do it unintentionally.”

“That’s sage advice, Aetos,” I grit out. I pick up the water skin, reveling in the pain of bending my fingers at the knuckles, where the rope burns are worst. “Can I give you some advice in return?”

I look up at him from beneath my lashes and watch him nod, a grimace painted across his face as if he already knows what I’m about to say.

“If you’ve been telling yourself that you have no friends because you choose to be a loner, then that sounds like a convenient excuse.”

Dain’s eyes glint in the light of the blaring sun. He snorts derisively, his head skipping backwards, then bears his teeth. “Yeah, well, that might be true,” he admits. He looks down at his hands, placed either side of my knees, and retracts them. “I probably deserve to hear that.”

“You really won’t fight with me, will you?” I murmur, my eyes sweeping across his face. 

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, stoic. “You can take out as much of your anger on me as you want, but I’ve promised myself that I won’t fight back. I’m not going to sit here and defend myself against something I deserve, and I deserve your contempt.”

He gives me a look that seems to say it really is that simple. 

“But I want you to defend yourself,” I tell him, almost petulantly. “It feels wrong to fight someone who’s not fighting back.”

Dain sighs, turning his head to the side, and there’s a weak, self-conscious smile on his face. “Well, that’s because you’re not actually a cruel person. You act like one, but deep down, you’re not.” He turns his head back toward me briefly, and I stare at the dimples I haven’t noticed before and the scar on his jaw and the smattering of barely visible freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re spectacularly good at behaving like a cruel person. In fact, you’re so good at being cruel, I sometimes hope it’s a completely implausible, early manifestation of your signet, because the idea you might have some other power soon that can do more damage than your tongue can is terrifying.” 

The short, sharp bark of laughter that’s ripped from me takes both of us by surprise. “Maybe my signet will be seeing people’s weaknesses?” I suggest. “That could compound my gods-given talents nicely.”

Dain’s eyes cloud. “No, I know someone with that one,” he says, apprehensive. “You’re not the type. Besides, you’re already plenty good at seeing people’s weaknesses, and signets don’t give you more of what you already have. They give you something that you don’t have, something that you need.”

I find myself leaning towards him, intrigued. Now that I’m distracted, I can barely feel my bones gnashing, and the pins and needles are beginning to fade. And it’s not what I wanted, not what I was looking for, but it’s… good.

Better.

Better than feeling numb, waiting for tears or anger that won’t come.

“So you needed to see people’s memories?”

His gaze hardens. “Yes,” he says simply. He hesitates, looking around, then mutters, “Who told you? My signet is classified.”

“If it’s supposed to be classified, maybe you should stop using it on people with relics,” I suggest in an exaggerated whisper that mocks his. “We tend to talk amongst ourselves.”

He grunts. “Yeah, well, someone in leadership figured you’d all make good test subjects.”

“Oh, I’ll bet. Plus, there’s the thinly-veiled implicit threat, right? ‘Watch what you do, marked ones, because Dain Aetos can claw your memories out of your brain.’ I bet it makes you feel really powerful that you can do that,” I prod. 

Dain makes a face, and I can tell that he’s reconsidering his commitment not to fight with me. “It doesn’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to do it to other students, but I don’t exactly get a choice in who’s sitting in an interrogation room before they pull me into it.”

“So it’s never occurred to you to say no?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, if you refuse to use your signet on your fellow students, what’s the worst thing they could do to you? Your dad is probably, like, close, personal friends with the king and your signet is once-in-a-generation. They’re not exactly going to take you out if you don’t do as you’re told, are they?”

Dain doesn’t answer, but his expression implies that he thinks they might do exactly that.   

I hum, sitting back and keeping my eyes on Dain instead of the Gauntlet. “So, what kind of signet do you think I’ll get, seeing as you know me so well?” I ask, because I’m scared he might leave if I don’t change the subject soon and I don’t want to be left alone with nothing but breathing to fill the emptiness.

“Do you really want to talk about this?” he asks, his brow knitting. “Are you trying to start another fight with me or something?”

“Could I?”

“No.”

I shrug. “I need to take my mind off what I just saw, and it turns out you’re a very effective distraction.” I swallow, then add, “Is that okay? Is it, like, bad that I want to talk about something else right now? Or weird?”

Dain shrugs, eyes flicking up towards mine. “I think you’re the only person who can decide what you need right now.”

I nudge his thigh with the toe of my boot. “Well, go on, then. Tell me about my signet, Aetos.”

He nods, introspective, then gives me an appraising look. “Well, I get the impression you’ve developed your charming, completely bellicose personality because you’re secretly a gentle person shoved into a merciless, unrelenting world.”

I snort. “I asked you to tell me about my signet, not diagnose me.” 

He grins self-consciously. “It’s the same thing,” he insists. 

“Fine.” I wave my hand, implying that he should continue. 

He licks his lips nervously. “It’s a world that’s inexplicably cruel, a world that makes you feel powerless and vulnerable.” He shakes his head, almost as if the thought makes him feel sad. He chews his lip. “Lashing out is the thing that makes you feel safest; I’m pretty sure all your anger is just some kind of survival mechanism or coping mechanism. So… you’ll probably end up with a signet that makes you feel powerful.” He shrugs. “Fire, maybe. Or something that makes a big boom, like Violet’s.” 

I blink. “Wow. You must spend a lot of time thinking about me, Aetos.” 

Dain rolls his eyes. “Try not to let it go to your head,” he says, getting up and dusting off his knees. “I’m your wingleader, Sloane. It’s my job to extract the maximum amount of value out of you for the good of Navarre, and I can’t be effective at my job unless I understand you—what motivates you, where you’re vulnerable, how you’ll respond to challenges.” 

“So, after all of this careful study of me, you’ve determined that I go through life with a hurt-or-be-hurt mentality?” I grimace. “I’m not sure whether I’m flattered that you believe there’s some good still buried in me or annoyed that you think my completely justified anger is probably just a trauma response.” 

His eyes watch me intently as he tilts his head to one side. “Am I wrong?”

I reach down, picking up the water skin he left for me. I begin to open it, wincing at the burn in my fingers. “I don’t think I know myself well enough to answer that,” I admit, staring at him as I lift the water skin to my lips with still-shaking hands and drink from it. “You’re probably right, though.” 

Dain looks at my fingers and gently sucks in a breath. “Shit,” he says. “I knew you’d have rope burn, but that’s worse than I thought it would be.” His hands twitch as if they’re itching to take mine in his own, but he tucks them into his pockets instead. “You should see a mender.”

“Can’t.” I choke back another mouthful of water. “There’s a waitlist.”

For a long moment, we’re silent. In the distance, I can hear the remainder of my squad navigating the Gauntlet, but I can’t bring myself to look in that direction, to look towards the ditch where Trysten’s body lies. I hear a scream and flinch. “Does it get easier?” I hear myself ask in a meager voice. “It’s not like Trysten is the first person I’ve watched die, but…”

Dain hesitates, then turns his body, angling himself onto the stair below the one I’m seated on, his head level with my bent knees. “You tell yourself it does, but it doesn’t,” he murmurs, blowing out a heavy breath. “It’s different when you know it’s coming. There’s this sort of proud forbearance about someone who knows they’re headed towards their death that makes it easier to watch them go, I think.” He smiles, but the expression is cold and tense, almost reflexive. “When you watch it take someone by surprise, there’s a brutal inscrutability about it that tends to stick you”—he taps the space below his heart, or at least right below the spot where I’m pretty sure his heart would be, with his index finger—“right here.”

I turn to look at him, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re so obnoxious,” I say, but there’s no fire behind it. It’s not a call to arms, but an observation. “‘Sometimes there’s a brutal inscrutability to death?’” I repeat, mocking him. I roll my eyes. “I bet you write poetry. Bad poetry.”

Immediately, I feel reprehensible. 

Trysten is dead, and I’m making jokes. 

Even if Trysten weren’t dead, Liam is, and Dain is responsible for that. I should not be gently goading him; I should be screaming at him. 

Tomorrow, I promise myself. I’m too tired to scream right now; too physically, mentally and emotionally drained by the Gauntlet. My anger is too far away to summon.

Plus, I’m fairly certain that if I start yelling at him, he’ll walk away like the sanctimonious prick he is, leaving me alone with nothing else to think about but the sound of Trysten’s scream; the inevitability of death; my breath; the look on Trysten’s face as he began to fall; the possibility that I might meet Malek next; that horrible awareness of the friction of my bones scraping against each other, slowly abraiding each other to dust beneath too-tight skin.

There’s a-million-and-one excuses for why I’m having a conversation with Dain right now and a-million-and-one reasons why I shouldn’t, but only one of them matters.

With him here, I feel a better kind of nothingness than I’d feel if he was gone.

Dain leans back on his elbows and gives me another hollow smile, rubbing his jaw with his palm. “I tend to think of myself as obsequious, rather than obnoxious,” he demurs. 

“I tend to think of you as obsequious, too,” I assure him. I grimace, then try to turn it into a smile. It feels like a betrayal of my own features, dry lips stretching over dry teeth. “I also happen to think of you as being incredibly obnoxious, and the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

He snorts. “Well, I guess that’s fair.”

I’m still holding his water skin in my hands, and I use it to gesture towards the Gauntlet. “Shouldn’t you be over there? I’m not about to have another mental breakdown like I did in the hallway, if that’s what you’re worried about. I promise I won’t embarrass you again,” I say, because I may not want him to leave (or, more accurately, may not want to be left alone with my thoughts), but I also don’t want him to think that I’m happy he’s here. 

Dain sighs, staring at the fresh squad making their way toward the Gauntlet as the rest of mine finish their run. “For now, you have my undivided attention, Mairi. Do with it as you wish.” He turns to look at me, nearly resting his head on the step I’m sitting on. “You can tell me to fuck off if that’s what you really want to do. I’ll go.” 

He stares at me until it’s clear that neither of us is calling the other’s bluff, then turns back to watch the Gauntlet.

As we sit in contemplative silence, I flex my hands over and over again, watching the skin split and weep; I chew the flesh on the inside of my cheek. Then I take a deep breath, and the terrible thing I haven’t wanted to say that has quietly been growing bigger and bigger inside of me—in my chest, and my head, and my throat—comes out.

“I told Trysten to take the rope down,” I admit hoarsely, breaking the silence that’s fallen over us. “I should have known it wouldn’t be safe. I should have dragged him through the rest of the course behind me. Or I should have done a better job making sure he knew where the rope was in front of him. If I had… I could have…” 

I take a shuddering breath. 

There’s always someone to blame. That’s how I’ve lived my life, the belief that gives me strength to navigate the turbulent world in which I exist. And if I believe that as wholeheartedly as I do, then I need to accept that it’s entirely possible I am the person to blame for Trysten’s death.

I should have done more.

I should have done better.

I should have—

Dain nods thoughtfully, still looking toward the Gauntlet, his eyes carefully tracking the cadets who are climbing it. I can practically see him making mental notes for the essay he’ll no doubt write Matthias about what must be done to improve our times. “Maybe,” he says dismissively. “You could have taken him through the rest of the course with you. And if you had and he’d hesitated or stumbled on the third ascent, we’d be mourning both of you right now, not just him.” 

“But if—” I protest.

He sighs, shaking his head. “And if Trysten had gotten his glasses fixed,” he continues, “he’d probably still be here, but we’d probably be mourning someone else. Maybe you, for all we know. And if Fen Riorson hadn’t fallen at Calldyr, maybe I’d be the one with a relic on my arm and we’d be having this conversation in Aretia. You see where I’m going with this, right?” He turns to me, brow furrowed. 

“Is that how you rationalize what happened to my brother?” 

His face crumples. 

Immediately, I want to snatch the words out of the air. 

“Sloane,” he begins, moving to stand, “I don’t—”

My hand snakes out, and I grab at his wrist, leaving a thin smear of blood on his skin. “I’m not trying to fight,” I promise him, quickly snatching my hand away. I wipe it on the leg of my leather pants, leaving smears of blood across them, too, that will most likely soak in and stain, never to be buffed out; I curl my hand into a fist. “It was a question borne of genuine curiosity. I guess I’m just trying to understand how you can sit here and be so nice to me, knowing… well, what happened.”

I would rather say knowing what you did, but that feels like bad faith, and my father always told me that operating in bad faith is lower than low. Beneath a Mairi. 

Dain looks at my blood on his wrist for a moment, then cards his hands through his hair. “I didn’t intend for your brother or Soleil to get hurt,” he tells me. “If I’m being completely honest, when you first got here, I didn’t even realise that it had happened because of me. So when I offered to help you or when I sat with you in the hallway, I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Dain trails off awkwardly, shrugging. “And now that I do know what part I played in it, I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. Not around it, but with it, Sloane. I want you to know that I’m not shying away from the fact that I bear responsibility for what happened to your brother.” He hesitates, then adds, “I also want you to know that I’m not here because of it, either. I genuinely want to help you, just like I want to help all of my cadets.”

I nod, looking down at my hands. “Well, you’re almost as bad at apologies as I am,” I say, shaking my head. “But I do genuinely believe you feel bad, so I guess that counts for something.”

“That wasn’t an apology,” he clarifies, still standing. I can feel him staring at me intently, but I don’t look up. “Candidly, I… I can’t bring myself to apologize to you yet, because I’m not really sure how to.” He breathes out a huff of air. “Every time I try, it just feels so hollow and patronizing.”

I make a face. “Everything you say is hollow and patronizing,” I point out. “Why fight it?” 

He scoffs. “Well, even if I knew exactly what hollow, patronizing thing I should say, it wouldn’t be right to apologize when you’re… like this. I would be taking advantage of your vulnerability, and I’m pathetic, but I’m not that pathetic. When I apologize to you, which I eventually will, it won’t be while you’re processing a traumatic event.” 

I bite my lip. “So not ‘til after I graduate, at least?”

He laughs. “Probably never,” he agrees. “Whatever’s going on out there has to be way more fucked up than what we’re dealing with here.”

You have no idea, I think. And it occurs to me that that might be true, which gives me a second of pause. Despite who his father is, despite his signet, Dain probably has no idea what’s happening beyond the wards, what’s waiting for him beyond Basgiath.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

“You know, aside from the fact that I find your entire being deeply offensive, I think I could have liked you—respected you, at least—if things had been different,” I say to my hands. I let my gaze flick up to his face, and something in him hardens when our eyes connect. 

His shoulders stiffen. 

“We’ve already established that things aren’t different,” he says. 

His eyes widen as I pat the stone beside me, and the stiffness slowly settling over him immediately melts away. “Will you stay with me a little bit longer?” I ask. 

“You sure?” He glances from my face to my hand, still tapping against the step. 

“Just until the others get here,” I assure him, nodding to the ridgeline. Aaric, Baylor and Visia are racing through the trees toward us. “I promise I won’t say anything too inflammatory. We can pretend you’re just my wingleader and I’m just any other First Year who witnessed a horribly traumatic event, if that’s what you want.”

He snorts. “If you were any other First Year, I probably wouldn’t be here,” he admits. “I would have told you to get over it and then moved on to something more important. I’m a busy man, Mairi.”

“I knew it.” I turn to him and watch as he folds his tall frame into the narrow space beside me, one step higher than he was. Next to me. I manage to give him a teasing grin, though I’m sure it’s a little insipid. “Try not to take it as a compliment that I asked you to stay, Aetos. I just really don’t want to be by myself right now. I feel… funny. There’s, like, a million different things that I feel like I’m supposed to feel, but mostly I just feel empty and weirdly conscious of my breathing.” 

“Shock,” he grumbles. He rubs at the scruff of his beard again. “You know, there was this guy in my year, Aimon,” he says quietly. “He was probably the best person I ever met, if I’m honest. He was the first and only real friend I ever made at Basgiath, and when he died, I feel like it fucked me up for a really long time.”

“Did he die on the Gauntlet?” I ask. I lean to the side, pressing my shoulder against his, and murmur into his ear, “Is this the part where you tell me that you know exactly what I’m going through and we bond over it against all odds?”

Dain shakes his head, smiling grimly, and pushes me away. “No.” He chuckles to himself. “No, he died during Threshing. I’m just being selfish for a second, because I never talk about this and I don’t have anyone else to share it with.” He turns towards me and gives me a stern look, but his eyes gleam in the sunlight. “Luckily, I’m your wingleader, so I can force you to listen to me. It’s one of very few perks to the job.”

“Well, as long as we’re clear that this story is being imposed on me against my will,” I say, and I tilt my head and watch him rub his index finger and thumb against each other absentmindedly. 

Overhead, a dragon cries again, and Dain rips his head back, frowning. 

“Friend of yours?” I ask. 

“Cath,” he says. “He’s annoyed that I’m blocking him out right now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I heard it’s hard to block a Red out when they’re angry.”

“Mmm.” 

His head is still tipped back toward the sky, and for a second, I allow myself to stare almost hungrily at the sharp angle of his jaw, the exposed column of his neck, the bob of the apple in his throat. I feel another white-hot stab of guilt, because I know for a fact that I never looked at Trysten the way that I’m looking at Dain now, even though I had every reason to like Trysten and have every reason to hate Dain. I thought Trysten was attractive; in spite of myself, I have always thought Dain was something so much more than that.

I turn in my seat, eyes tracking my squadmates as they come closer to the lip of the stairs. They must be exhausted after climbing the Gauntlet: Visia is jogging, her face flushed red; Baylor is limping. Only Aaric is still sprinting, and he’s left the other two well behind him.

“Your mother was a rider, wasn’t she?” Dain asks, turning to look at me. “Oranmor; right?”

“Yeah.” I grimace, still looking away. “My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother… The women in my mother’s family have always been riders. My grandmother used to say they could trace our ancestry all the way back to Lyra of Morraine.” I frown down at my hands, bend my index finger and suck at my teeth. “So, several dozen generations of exceptionally strong female riders all coalesced in me, only for me to suck.” 

“You don’t suck,” he says, brushing loose hair from my face. He freezes awkwardly as his fingertips brush the skin of my temple, causing me to flinch, then quickly snatches his hand back. “Sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

I tuck the offending hair behind my ear and make a point of moving as far away from him on the step as I possibly can, but I don’t stop talking. “Before the apostasy, Liam and I always said we’d break tradition,” I continue, almost pointedly. “We decided that he’d be the rider and I’d be the Duke of Benserac.”

“Well, I’m sure the residents of Benserac mourn the loss of Sloane Mairi, the duchess that might have been.” 

“Duke,” I correct. “I didn’t want to be a duchess. Duchesses float around ballrooms bitching about each other and pretending they aren’t. I wanted to be a duke, planning military strategies and commanding armies and deciding where to put highways.” I pause, then bitterly add, “And if they don’t mourn the loss of me, they should. The duke King Tauri installed after the apostasy is a parochial idiot, and his wife is a religious zealot. They keep raising tithes just to give it all to Malek’s temple because they’re scared of death. Idiots. Like Malek gives a fuck about how much gold they give his priests to squander. Like immortality can be bought.”

“Sloane Mairi, you little blasphemer.” Dain gasps, then breathes out a laugh. His whole body shakes with it, the dulcet rumble of it purring from his chest. After a moment, he tips his head back again, listening intently to his dragon. He makes a face, then turns to me. “Oranmor was a Red, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I say, frowning. “They all bonded Reds—my mother, my grandmother, all the way back to Lyra. Allegedly.” 

“Well, you’ll bond a Red, too,” he says. Not a question or a thought, but a statement of fact. “You think like them. You’re feisty. You know all the spots where it hurts, and you’re not afraid to poke at them.” 

I blink at him, my head turned to the side. “Why was he asking about Oranmor?”

Dain shrugs. “He’s nosy.”

“I think I saw him watching while we were up there,” I say, gesturing toward the sky with my chin. “Cath?” 

Dain nods. “Yeah,” he says, gritting his teeth. “He likes to supervise me while I perform my duties as wingleader. He has strong opinions about leadership and how it should be executed. You may or may not be shocked to hear that I often fall short of the mark.” He learns towards me and whispers, “His idea of conflict resolution is what we would call cold-blooded murder.”

I bite out a surprised laugh. “Is that annoying? Always having someone in your head, telling you what to do? Encouraging you to commit acts of butchery?”

“Oh, incredibly,” he admits. “Don’t tell him I said so.” 

He turns back to me again and grins, but this time—for the first time since I’ve met him—I see his smile reach his eyes, and it’s dazzling. It’s a far nicer smile than someone like him should have. I swallow, quickly looking away, back towards the Gauntlet, and notice that it’s clear. Emetterio is standing in front of a new squad with their leader. 

I count the silhouettes at the foot of the course or scrambling down the ropes and realize that, while no one else made it to the top, no one else died, either. Near Emetterio, Avalynn stands to one side, hugging herself, alternating between watching Dain and I and monitoring Baylor’s progress towards the stairs.

Apart from the others.

Alone.

Waiting for me.

I could go to her right now, I realize, but… will she want me to talk about Trysten? If so, I don’t think I’m ready to just yet. I’d rather talk about anything else until Aaric and Visia descend on me and force me to open up about it. 

I’d rather pretend with Dain just a little longer, I begrudgingly admit to myself.

“So, what happened to your friend?” I ask. I wrap my hands around my legs, pulling them up onto the step below me, and rest my chin on my knees. “Did he get killed by a dragon during Threshing? Or by another student?”

“He sort of got himself killed,” Dain says, sighing. He leans backward, putting his elbows on the step behind us like he did before, and crosses one leg over his bent knee. “He bonded with a dragon, but as soon as they took flight, he lost his seat.” He lets out a pained laugh, shaking his head. I watch his foot bounce. “He got all the way to Threshing, bonded a dragon, and then flew for about a minute before he fell to his death. I’ve never really made sense of it.” 

“You weren’t expecting it?”

“He wasn’t expecting it. He was the best of us, and he’s dead because he couldn’t keep his seat through some simple flight maneuvers. He must have been nervous, I guess. It’s the only way I can rationalize the fact that he fell, because he should have been able to keep his seat.” He makes a tutting noise, pressing his tongue against his teeth. “I couldn’t tell you how many people I’ve watched die since I’ve been here, but that’s the one that’s stuck with me. And after that, I guess I decided that it would be easier here if I never got too attached to anyone. Not that it was easy. I made other friends, even when I didn’t mean to; I lost them.” He turns to look at me and gives me a self-deprecating smile that feels painful after the radiant grin I saw before. “Or maybe I’ve just been telling myself I’m lonely by choice when, in actuality, my hideous personality has been keeping people at arm’s length the whole time?”

“And when Sorrengail came along?” I ask. 

His face falls into what I can only think of as an expression of pure grief. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Then Violet came along, and I kind of lost my mind, because suddenly there was someone here who I really couldn’t stand to lose and I was pretty sure I was going to lose her.”

“Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, huh?”

He nods. “I guess so. I guess I had worked pretty hard to cultivate this sense of invulnerability, but with Violet here, I couldn’t keep it up, and it ended up being my ruination.” He pats my shoulder. “See? You and I have something in common. So maybe you can do us both a favor and learn from my mistakes.”

“Did that dragon bond another rider?” I ask, pushing his hand away. “The dragon that your friend fell off of? Did he bond with another rider after your friend died?”

“Yeah,” Dain says, staring at my knee. “Yeah, he bonded with another rider a few weeks after that.”

I nod, reflective. After a pause, I ask, “Are you and Cath friends?”

Dain laughs again—a true, full-bodied laugh. “Cath is insulted by the suggestion that he would ever befriend me,” he announces, still smiling as he turns to look at me. He hesitates, turning his head to the side and listening. “Now he says he’s more than my friend.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not repeating that. No, I’m not telling her that, either.” 

“He’s talking to you right now?”

Dain nods.

“Tell him I say hi,” I request.

Dain pauses, then laughs again, his shoulders shaking. “I’m definitely not telling her that.”

“It’s weird, seeing you laugh with him. From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t really seem like they give a fuck about us,” I say, tipping my head back to look at the sky again. I watch Cath dip lower, and for a moment, his golden eyes seem to lock on me; I quickly look away. “It scares me, the idea that I have to bond with one of them to survive this place. They don’t really care about us, but once we bond with them, we can’t live without them. That’s crazy.”

“They care. You’ll understand soon,” he promises me. “Cath’s seen me—every part of me, every crevice of me I’d rather hide from—and stuck around. He knows my every weakness, my every personal failing, but he’s still there, rooting for me.” He clears his throat. “He’s probably the most supportive figure in my life.”

“If that’s true, I feel really sorry for you.”

Dain sucks a breath between his teeth. “Yeah,” he says. “It is, and sometimes that makes me feel sorry for myself, too.”

We sit awkwardly beside each other for a long time, watching the next squad begin to traverse the Gauntlet, until one of the Second Years from Claw Section approaches from the direction of the quadrant. “Wingleader Aetos?” she says nervously. “Professor Varrish sent me to come find you. He, um, says he needs your urgent assistance.”

Dain glances towards the ridgeline, and I follow his gaze; Aaric is nearing the top of the stairs now. “Will you be okay?” he asks, ignoring the Second Year.

I turn and wave to Avalynn, whose face nearly collapses with relief when she sees that I’ve finally acknowledged her. She begins to jog towards us. “I’ll be fine,” I promise. “The one good thing about giving people the power to hurt you is that you’re giving them the power to help you, too.” 

“There might be some truth in that,” he tells me as he stands. “Go to the infirmary tomorrow morning before formation. There’s a mender there who… owes me a favor. I’ll make sure he looks at your hands.”  

“Thank you,” I say quietly. I reach out and touch his wrist again.

He hesitates, looking down at my hand pressed loosely against his with an unreadable expression. The Second Year hovers awkwardly at his side as he lifts his head to stare at me. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever asked someone…” He sighs, then scratches the back of his head again. He gives me an almost shy smile as he asks, “Would you like a hug or something before I go?”

“From you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. 

He nods. 

I pretend to think about it before leaning forward, smiling politely. “No fucking way,” I answer, kicking him gently with the flat of my boot. 

 

-----

My eyes are bloodshot when I stand in formation the next morning, and I feel like something made of quartz: brittle and almost translucent, a thing of defects that could be easily shattered. But I’m standing, head held high, and that’s got to count for something.

Visia stands beside me, my hand in hers as Captain Fitzgibbons reads the death roll from the dais. 

I never listen to the death roll at morning formation, because there’s something so fucking bleak about it, but this morning I listen intently. I’m disappointed, but not entirely surprised, to learn that the Gauntlet took the lives of almost a dozen First Years, people who I have sat beside in Battle Brief or lined up next to in the dining hall, people who I have heard snoring. 

Of all of the squads who attempted the Gauntlet yesterday, ours fared the best: only one fatality.  

“Trysten Kinsby,” Fitzgibbons reads, somewhere in the middle. My heart squeezes, even as I find myself wondering why his name fell where it did in the order of names, if they read the deaths out in chronological order, if the others simply happened to die minutes before he did and so had their names read first. Visia’s thumb strokes my wrist reassuringly, but tears don’t come.

Quickly, the moment passes. 

Fitzgibbons reads the next name, and then another, and then another. 

Today, they’ll gather up Trysten’s things from the barracks and throw them into the burn pit. They’ll gather up the things of everyone who died yesterday. I’ve watched them gather other First Years’ belongings, and I know that it won’t be done with any sort of reverence. It’ll be unceremonious, and depending on how lazy the cadets who are sent to collect them are, they might even pick up whole trunks without separating out the regulation items—boots, uniforms, daggers—for returning to the armory and dump them into the roaring fire in their entirety.

I can guess, from what Trysten has told me about his life before Basgiath, that his parents won’t be able to afford a trip to Chantara to collect his body, so he’ll be buried in one of the fields beyond the school beneath an unmarked stone. Many cadets are.

The impersonal nature of it all strikes me as cruel, but for some reason, I still can’t summon the energy to be angry.  

I spent the entire night crying, and now I feel nothing again. 

No pins and needles across my skin.

No discomforting awareness of my bones.

Nothing.

When formation breaks, Aaric places his palms on my shoulders and begins to direct me through the crowd, toward the stairs that will lead us to our next class, on the fourth floor of the academic wing. Visia stays at my side, moving my hand so that it’s placed in the crook of her elbow; she pats it absentmindedly as we walk.

From the corner of my eye, I see Dain talking to Aura Beinhaven by the dais, and I think about his advice: that this would all be a lot easier if I didn’t give anyone the power to hurt me. 

How lonely he must be, I think as his eye catches mine. He looks at Aaric and Visia before looking away, the corner of his mouth twitching.  

“Guys,” I moan, tugging away from Visia and Aaric. I turn to give each of them a serious look. “I’m alright,” I insist. “I’m not grieving any more than either of you are; I lost a friend, maybe someone who could have been more than a friend, but not the love of my life. It sucks, but everything about this place sucks. I’m sad, but I’m not devastated. I have lived through far more traumatic things, and I don’t need you to drag me along like I’m seconds from collapsing.”

They exchange guilty looks. “We know,” they both say in unison, though neither of them sounds particularly convincing. 

I sigh, rubbing at one brow. “Look, I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but I don’t need or want to be babied. I cried about it all night, and now I just need to move on as best I can. That’s the way I’ve always dealt with it, and”—I think intrusive, unhelpful thoughts about how I should not have a familiar, preferred way of processing death at this age, but do—“it’s served me fine.”

“Of course.” Visia nods.

“In a few hours, I need to get back on the Gauntlet again; then I somehow need to get through Presentation and Threshing. There’s going to be challenges and classes and all sorts of things to keep me occupied. I just need you to not make this weird. Okay?” 

“It’s weird that the Second Years are still missing,” Avalynn says as she, Lynx and Baylor approach, wending their way through a knot of Third Years that’s stopped in the middle of the hallway. I feel guilty for a moment that I underestimated her yesterday, because she’s the only person who hasn’t been looking at me like I’m made of glass, ready to shatter if someone handles me wrong. Somehow, her complete disregard for my fragility makes me feel stronger, more vital. She gives the Third Years a disgusted look as one nudges her to the side with his elbow, a look he returns without hesitation. “You’re excused,” she growls.

In return, he gives her the finger. 

She rolls her eyes at him.  

“That is weird,” I agree. I give Aaric and Visia pleading looks. “We should absolutely talk about that.”

Lynx, usually placid in nature, manages to look offended. “When I said it was weird that they were missing yesterday, everyone made a huge deal out of it,” he points out, looking between us all with a cynical expression on his otherwise sweet face. “Now we should talk about it because Avalynn says it’s weird?”

“Well,” Baylor says, draping himself across Avalynn in that way he usually does, “it’s less weird when Avalynn says it because she doesn’t want to fuck any of them.”

“That’s not true,” she says with a grin, the offense caused by the Third Year apparently quickly forgotten. She brushes a lock of her red hair behind her ear, and the eight rings that line its curved edge glint in the light. 

Baylor hesitates, looking down at her. “Really? Which?”

“Hmm?”

“Which one do you want to fuck?”

Avalynn snorts. “The better question is which one I wouldn’t fuck. They’re all hot.”

He pouts. “You’d fuck every single Second Year in our squad, but you won’t fuck me?”

She smiles at him sweetly. “Did I stutter?”

I turn, walking toward the staircases and falling into step behind some of the Third Years, who have now begun to disperse. “See?” I say to Aaric as he moves to my side. “Isn’t this nice? We can all just pretend yesterday didn’t happen and carry on with our lives, and if I need to cry or have a mental breakdown, I can do it in the privacy of my bunk or in Imogen’s room, like a normal person. Like I did last night.”

“You’re allowed to have feelings, Sloane,” he says. “We all have feelings about the fact that Trysten isn’t here.”

“I know,” I agree. I turn to glance up at him and smile weakly. “And I do have feelings, Aaric. I have too many feelings, and right now, it’ll probably do me some good to compartmentalize them, because I don’t want an accident, no matter how tragic, to send me spiralling back to where I was a few weeks ago.”

Aaric shakes his head. “I’m not telling you—”

“They need to stop letting people with glasses in here,” I hear the Third Year who just elbowed Avalynn snarl, and it cuts through whatever Aaric is saying and the din of the busy hallway like a freshly honed sword could rend flesh. I stare at the back of his head, my eyes narrowing, as Visia wraps her arm around mine again. “I mean, look at Masen Sanborn. He died the second he hit a battlefield. He probably lost his glasses, too, and now he’s dead.” The Third Year snorts. “If anything, I guess that First Year did us all a favor by dying now instead of wasting an opportunity that should go to someone actually deserving. Sanborn, on the other hand—”

Without warning, every ounce of anger that has ever lived inside of me—anger that seemed so far away yesterday and even this morning, anger that I’ve been working really hard to distance myself from for some dumb reason I can’t remember—fuses and amalgamates into a writhing thing in my veins. Before I truly realize what I’m doing, I’ve reached out and closed my hand around the Third Year’s shoulder, pulling him around to face me. “Trysten Kinsby and Masen Sanborn were both twice as deserving as you’ll ever be,” I spit as he nearly stumbles into me. “How about you have some fucking respect?”

As the Third Year rounds on me, I realize that while I’m no longer empty, I’m not really there, either. I’m dizzy, confused; I’m neither, in truth. There’s a distortion in the air again, the strange field around me that I felt on the Gauntlet which makes everything sound weird.

I feel… not myself, which is strange, because with anger coursing through me, I feel more like myself than I have in weeks.

I’ve become the wyvern again, I realize as I stare up at the Third Year, jaw tensed and brow furrowed. I’m the wyvern I became in those months and weeks after my parents’ death and Liam’s death: a mindless instrument of teeth and rage that will bite and bite if the opportunity presents itself, ignorant of my own destruction.

Suddenly, I’m exactly where I was a few weeks ago, exactly where I just told Aaric I didn’t want to be. 

Aaric’s hand curls protectively around my shoulder, and for a second, it’s almost enough to shock me out of it. He looks between me and the Third Year, and although I know it’s a fight he could win (and I can tell, from the curve of his brow and the set of his mouth, that the Third Year knows it, too), it evidently isn’t a fight he wants to have on my behalf. “Come on, Sloane,” he says quietly, trying to steer me away. 

I shake Aaric away, cross my arms and bare my teeth. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. 

“How about you mind your own fucking business?” the Third Year suggests, sneering at me. “I was having a private conversation that you were not a part of. Did your dead parents not tell you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

“Well, it wasn’t very private if she could hear it,” Visia points out. “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re yelling in the middle of the hallway like a self-absorbed asshole.”

“Visia,” Aaric barks out, and from the way she flinches, she must recognise it for what it is—a warning, a repudiation. But she doesn’t back down. She squares her shoulders instead, as if confirming that if this is my fight, then it’s her fight, too. 

Aaric makes a disgruntled noise.

“You should deal with these two,” the Third Year tells him, looking over the top of my head. 

“I don’t need to be dealt with.”

“We’re both more than capable of handling you, asshole,” Visia agrees. Her eyes flash. “Keep going, and you’ll find out for yourself exactly how capable we can be.”

Baylor clears his throat and leans towards me, and out of the corner of my eye I see him subtly push Avalynn out of the way. “Loany, I, um, know I said it was funny when you get angry yesterday, but I didn’t mean like this,” he clarifies. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got your back no matter what, Sloane. I’m just… I’m wondering if this is really a fight we want to have today?”

“Sloane?” The Third Year looks down at the relic on my arm and snorts. “Oh, I know who you are,” he says, glancing at his friends over his shoulder. “You’re the one whose brother—”

Baylor groans. “I guess that answers my question,” he mutters, straightening up. 

Aaric steps in front of me. “That’s enough,” he says, calmly interrupting the Third Year before the situation can spin further out of control. “Why don’t you apologize, and then we can all go to class?” 

“I’m not fucking apologizing.”

“Fuck his apology,” I hiss at the same time, stepping around Aaric. The Third Year steps forward, too, looking at me down his nose. He’s as tall as Aaric, with hands like hammers and eyes as hard and barbed as morningstars, but I stare up at him in defiance, too angry to be afraid. Some part of me wants the hit I know is coming, because I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing that will snap me back into control of my body again, put the wyvern back in a cage and douse the white-hot flames licking at my bones. “I fucking dare him to finish that thought.”

“You should listen to your boyfriend,” the Third Year mutters, nodding at Aaric. “If you aren’t careful, you might discover that some people don’t take too kindly to mouthy little bitches with rebellion relics,” he adds under his breath, looking meaningfully down at my arm. He reaches out and pokes my shoulder, pushing me back.

Aaric’s hands curl into fists, his entire body going tense.

“You should watch how you fucking talk to her,” Avalynn hisses, and I hear what I can only interpret as Avalynn trying to escape from behind the barrier of Baylor’s shoulders. But I don’t look away from the Third Year, from his smirk.

My hands clench into fists, too.

I’m about to respond—I don’t even know what I’m about to say, just that there’s some cruel retort curling off of the tip of my tongue and an itch in my palms telling me I should just start punching instead, no thoughts, just fists-style, just like Aaric is always telling me to (although I doubt he’d want me applying that advice to this particular scenario)—when someone pushes me to the side, barging into the minuscule amount of space between me and the Third Year. I blink, and for a second I think, beyond all rationality, that it’s Avalynn.

Then I recognise the proud set of those shoulders; that shock of messy brown curls; that tall, powerful frame. 

Dain shoves the Third Year away with both hands, following him as he stumbles backwards across the stone floor.

“You appear to be looking for a fight, Cadet Gilly,” he says in a low, malicious voice that I’ve never heard him use before. He’s so far into the other guy’s personal space that their chests are practically touching, and despite the inch or two that Gilly has on him, Dain manages to look at him like he’s about two-feet tall. “Unlucky for you, I’m looking for one, too. So unless you want to give me the excuse I need to lay my fists into your face, I would think very fucking carefully about how you handle the next three seconds.”

The Third Year, Gilly, glances back over his shoulder like he’s checking that he’s not imagining the turn this altercation has taken. He seems to almost be in disbelief that Dain, of all people, is talking to him like this. “I don’t want to fight you, Aetos,” he says, holding out his hands to put some space between them. 

“You sure?” Dain tilts his head, then jerks it back towards me. “You seemed pretty fucking eager to fight the First Year.” 

Gilly points at me. “She’s the one who wants to fight.” 

“I’ll deal with her next,” Dain assures him, and the way he says it almost makes me want to turn tail and run. He leans into Gilly’s space again. “If I ever see you touch another one of my cadets like that outside of the challenge mat, there will be ramifications, and they will not be prescribed by the fucking Codex.” He pivots slightly, pointing to me with his thumb, but his eyes are still locked on Gilly’s. “You better pray to every god twice that Cardulo doesn’t hear about this, because if she thinks for even a single second that you might be a threat to that girl, you won’t see the sunrise. And while you might manage to avoid Cardulo, there isn’t a place in all six provinces that Igolach could hide where Glane won’t find her. Understood?”

Gilly narrows his eyes. Apparently, he doesn’t respond well to threats. “What the fuck has gotten into you?” he scoffs. He glances back and forth between us, and his eyes widen almost gleefully. “Wait… Wait, Aetos, don’t tell me you’ve developed a taste for traitor—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Before he can, Dain’s fist connects with his face with a sickening crack.

There’s a blur of motion as Gilly rears back, then starts swinging; while Dain ducks the first punch Gilly throws, the second one lands. Aaric pulls Visia and I to one side, putting his body in between us and the scuffle, and I duck under his arm to watch the short-lived, ferocious fight, relieved to see that within seconds Dain has Gilly backed up against a window. He lays his fist into his cheek two more times, then tosses him to the side; Gilly lands on the ground with a thud and spits blood onto the stones.

The anger inside of me purrs, then abates almost as quickly as it came. Satisfied.

“What’s Beinhaven gonna say about this?” Gilly asks, glaring at Dain from the floor. 

Dain rolls his eyes. “Go tell the whole fucking cadre,” he replies, turning his back on him. His lip is split and bleeding, but otherwise, he’s more or less unscathed. “Frankly, I don’t give a shit.” 

I wince as he reaches out and grabs my arm, tugging me after him. He drags me halfway to my next class, the rest of our squad scurrying after us, before practically shoving me into an empty classroom. Visia seems like she’s going to follow us through the open door, but Aaric holds her back. 

As if to make a point, Dain kicks it shut and flicks his wrist, locking us both in.  

“Dain, I’m sorry,” I begin, but my voice dies as he turns on me. 

I realize, in that moment, that I have never seen Dain truly angry, not even close, and it's a much more terrifying sight to behold than I ever could have guessed. There’s so much anger bottled up inside of him, so much anger spilling out of him now, that it could nearly match up to mine. 

I wait for the anger inside of me to blaze in response, but it doesn’t.

I know he’s angry, but I also know, somehow, that whatever he’s angry at, it isn’t me.

And I know I’m not scared of him.

Strangely, I think I might be physically incapable of being scared of him. 

“If you ever pull some shit like that again, Mairi, I will make you regret it,” he coldly informs me, jabbing his finger into my collarbone; I stand my ground. “If you’re mad, be mad, but don’t take it out on the first person who gives you an excuse. If you’re mad and you need someone to be mad at, come be mad at me. If you’re sad, then go cry in a fucking corner. Don’t pick random fights with Third Years who are twice your fucking size for kicks, like an idiot.”

“I didn’t—”

He leans over me, and there’s no warmth left in his brown eyes. The bruises beneath them are darker than yesterday, too. “You’re on kitchen duty for a week, and if I ever find you picking another fight without a combat master present, you’ll be on kitchen duty until you graduate, because I’ll make damn sure your next two wingleaders know your punishment is perdurable for as long as you walk these halls.”

I reel back, leaning against the desk behind me. “What?” I splutter. “I didn’t—”

“I have made more than enough excuses for you,” he growls, barrelling over me. He rakes his hand through his hair angrily, then turns and starts pacing. “I’m done coddling you, and I’m done giving you special treatment. I find you skulking around the Third Year dorms after curfew on a weekly basis, reeking of fucking churam; I look the other way. I find out about you sneaking into the pub after you visit Zihnal’s temple on at least two occasions; I give you a free pass. Lately, I have let guilt make me complacent when it comes to you, and it’s not happening anymore.” He turns back to me, nearly wild. “If you cannot be trusted to conduct yourself properly, then you leave me no choice but to—”

“Dain,” I snap, “will you please shut the fuck up and let me talk? I’m sure you’re doing a very good impression of your dad or whoever the fuck it is that you’re trying to emulate, but—”

His step falters. He blinks down at me, taking a step closer, and his eyes are nearly black. “What did you just say to me?”

“I’ve been trying to apologize for, like, a minute, but you keep ranting.” I wait for him to interrupt, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “I’m sorry you got hurt, although if I’m honest, I’m not sorry you got in that fight. I enjoyed watching you beat the crap out of that other guy. He was an asshole, and he deserved it. You’re also a fucking hypocrite, by the way.”

“I beg your pardon?” he snarls.

I find myself reaching up to wipe the blood from his split lip, and his eyes flare; with interest, I watch a muscle in his jaw jump. “I said you’re a hypocrite,” I repeat. I look at his blood on my thumb, and for a second I have the strangest urge to lick it off. Instead, I wipe it on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Elucidate,” he demands, grinding the word out from between his clenched teeth. His tongue flicks out as I pull my hand away, collecting the fresh drop of blood that beads over the cut. And though I’ll die denying it, I watch that with interest, too.

“I don’t know who you’re mad at or what you’re mad about, but it isn’t me,” I reply. “I piss you off, but I’m pretty sure I’m not capable of making you this mad. And I’m sure you weren’t exactly pleased to find two of your cadets bickering in the hallway, but I’m not sure it warranted the ass-kicking you just handed out.” I turn away and walk towards the door. When I reach it, I hesitate, then gesture at the lock. “Would you mind?” 

“I’m not finished with you,” he mutters darkly. 

“Oh?” I turn and lean against the wall, crossing my arms. “Well, I’m not doing fucking kitchen duty for a fight I didn’t start or even get to finish, so you can jot that down in those little notes you’re always making.” I tilt my head. “Would you like to argue about that until we figure out which one of us is the most stubborn? Or would you like to tell me what’s actually pissed you off, seeing as you’re a friendless loser who clearly has no one else to talk to once we step out of this room?”

He stares at me for a moment, then turns away to wipe more of the blood from his swollen lip. “I said no,” he says quietly. 

My brow furrows. “You said no to what?”

“They asked me to read someone’s memories, and I said no,” he sighs, sucking blood from the knuckle of his index finger. “You were right. Nothing happened. For all I know, I could have said no every single time, and nothing would have happened. I’ve been… violating people for two years now, and I told myself I didn’t have a choice about it; turns out I did. The entire time, I could have said no, and it never occurred to me to do that until you said I should.” He takes a shuddering breath. “What kind of person am I, that it never occurred to me to say no?”

I nod thoughtfully. “You’re the person they raised you to be,” I tell him. Once again, I find myself feeling sorry for him. Annoying, seeing as I’d much rather keep hating him, and it’s hard to hate someone you feel sorry for. “Now you have to decide if you’re going to keep being that person or become someone else. You can’t undo what you’ve done or all the damage you’ve wrought, but at least now you can make better choices. Informed choices.” 

He rubs his hand across his face. “Something must be fundamentally wrong in my life if I’m considering taking advice from the most petulant child I’ve ever met.”

I smirk at him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but would you like a hug, Dain?”

He scoffs. “Get fucked, Mairi.”

His gaze flickers towards my hands, and I hold them out, palms extended towards him. “Fixed,” I tell him. “I’m not sure how you pulled it off, but that Nolon guy fit me in this morning. Whatever they have him working on, they should give him a fucking break, by the way. He almost looks as bad as you do.” I cross my arms again. “Now, are you finished with your lecture, or would you like to reference some specific provisions of the Codex before setting me free?”

“If you’re not at kitchen duty tomorrow, I will kick your fucking door down and drag you there for the rest of the week.”

I roll my eyes again. “Good luck with that,” I tell him.

The lock behind me clicks open, and I slip out of the room without either of us saying another word. 

Chapter 9: Churam

Cadet Aetos,

Both Varrish and Carr have written to advise that you have been refusing to train your signet. As your far superior officer, it is no business of mine, though I would comment that such obstinacy does not bode well for your prospects next year and will likely impede any hope you entertained of being stationed near Basgiath (assuming that remains your desire, in light of recent events).

As your father, I am severely disappointed. It is a feeling I neither enjoy nor expect to feel again. I remind you that you are permitted to live, in spite of your very dangerous signet, only at the munificence of those with whom you have entered into an unspoken agreement. That agreement, in case it has not been made sufficiently clear to you, is one whereby your signet is tolerable only if, and for as long as, it is used for the benefit of Navarre.

Consider this: Through your recalcitrance, you now repudiate the terms of that contract.

I will be more explicit, in case you truly are as stupid as your actions indicate. Use your signet as and when instructed, or risk death.

Do not make me write a second time.

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF COLONEL ALASTOR AETOS TO CADET DAIN AETOS

 

 

 

-DAIN-

Mid-September

 

For two weeks after I see Violet in the interrogation rooms, bruised and battered and half-dead, I am a specter. I’m there, but I’m not really there. I attend classes, I walk to the flight field, I practice maneuvers, I sit in leadership meetings. I give answers in Battle Brief, usually the correct ones. I sit at the same table in the dining hall where I have always sat, at a table full of people I do not give a fuck about, but I stay only long enough to eat my food.

I watch squads of cadets attempt the Gauntlet, and I watch some of them die. 

Through all of it, I’m not really present. 

Not accountable. 

Not anything.

At night, I study; I fill out paperwork. I achieve a level of productivity and fastidiousness previously unknown even to me (shamelessly productive, notoriously fastidious), because I have managed to shake off the mantle of sleep. Sleep brings dreams—dreams of her, broken and suffering. Sleep brings dreams where I put my hands to her temples while she’s chained to a chair in an interrogation room, like I’ve done to so many others. Remorselessly, I take things from her that she would never give me. I steal from her again, but this time I mean to.  

It sickens me to know how tempted I was to do it, to take the knowledge that I need to know so badly that it makes the marrow of my bones itch. 

Why him? 

Why not me?

Why not me, even as a friend?

What is fundamentally wrong with me, that the person who has loved me most dearly, known me most intimately, could throw me away? 

Am I really that contemptible?

Did she ever even actually care about me?

Did I imagine our entire friendship?

When there’s nothing else to be done, no more paperwork or studying to complete, I read. I read the same book on the Lucerish famine of 481 AU three times, cover to cover, and I don’t absorb a single word. Sometimes I sit in silence, staring blindly at the page, listening to the sounds of doors closing and floorboards creaking in the hallway. 

Sometimes I think I can pick out Sloane’s footsteps creeping by in the direction of Imogen’s room. Sometimes I detect the faintest hint of churam through the gap at the door’s sill and assume it’s her, coming in from her nightly jaunt with one of the marked Second or Third Years. Sometimes I think I hear Bodhi’s low whisper or Imogen’s rasp, then hear Sloane’s breathy laugh accompanying it like ellipses at the end of a sentence.

She has a promissory laugh, I find myself thinking when I hear it ghosting down the hall. It’s a laugh like a covenant, a suggestion. It augurs something, and I’m never quite sure whether it’s something good or bad. Each time I hear it, it occurs to me that I should go out into the hallway and check if it’s really her, tell her she’s on kitchen duty for life if it is, but I don’t; I never do.

I’m busy, preoccupied by pretending I’m reading and steeping in my own self-hatred. 

“You embarrass yourself,” Cath says. Often. “You embarrass me. Stop it. I did not bond with one who is emotionally fragile, and I am agonized by your constant whining. This is not the behavior of a leader. You will take control of yourself immediately, wingleader, or I will—”

When I can’t maintain a shield solid enough to shut him out, I take to straight up ignoring him. He doesn’t take to that well at all. In fact, he takes to punishing me in response, doing his best to throw me during flight maneuvers. After his third successful attempt, where he lets me drop almost eighty feet before catching me in his talons (none too gently, I might add), Kaori pulls me aside. 

“I do not recommend getting on your dragon’s bad side,” he says, patting my arm in what I’m sure he thinks is a sympathetic gesture. I rub at my rotator cuff, which feels tender, inflamed. “It’s… not a fight you’re likely to win. If I might suggest, perhaps it would be a good idea to do as you’re told? For a while, anyway.”

“For once, this idiot speaks wisdom.”

I stare at the ground and grind my teeth, thinking about how my entire fucking life can be boiled down and distilled into that simple phrase: Do as you’re told. 

Behave. 

Obey. 

I have always done exactly what I was told to, and what do I have to show for it? Who has it made me? 

Or have I always been this person?

Have I always been a person who takes, someone who’s willing to steal? 

What does my signet say about me, about the kind of person I am at my core?

“It says you are powerful,” Cath declares, and I can feel his heavy golden gaze on me as I walk from the flight field to the quadrant, passing the Gauntlet. I think Sloane and her squad are probably on it; I don’t look. “It says nothing more and nothing less. You humans always try to ascribe petty meaning to these things, but there is no meaning. It is all chance.”

We both know it’s a lie. 

I study reports from my squad and section leaders while I eat dinner, then go to my room and sit at my desk, staring either at the wall or at the pages of the hateful book in front of me in turns. There’s a scrap of leather that lives on my desk now, a garter strap for Sloane’s knife holster that she left discarded on my bed. I haven’t thrown it away yet and haven’t returned it. It’s unwanted, abandoned. Like me. I pick it up and wrap it around my hand ‘til my fingertips turn purple, waiting for the sound of Sloane’s laugh ghosting through the halls.

Tonight, I promise myself, I will say something. I’ll go out into the hall and start doling out the punishments I promised her two weeks ago. I’ll deal with things, and there will be no more churam and no more sneaking around after curfew. 

The minutes tick by. 

“Go find something to better occupy your mind,” Cath suggests. “Your moping is pathetic.”

“What would you have me do?” I think bitterly. “I’m an obedient creature, after all.”

“Go punch something,” he demands, not bothering to hide the note of annoyance that seeps through. “Pretend it is your father. That often makes you feel better.”

I glance to the side, look at the letter my father sent me—the one and only letter he has sent since he was stationed in Luceras, at the furthest reaches of the kingdom—and feel a frisson of anger tingle through my spine. The hair on the nape of my neck stands on end like he’s standing beside me, looking at me sternly. Disappointed. 

My hands curl into fists, and for some reason, I find myself thinking about how good it felt to punch Gilly straight in his fucking mouth in the hallway a few weeks ago: no combat master, no unspoken code of honor, no delicate exchange of daggers. I think of how it was worth the talking-to I got from Beinhaven, whose tone seemed to imply all would be forgiven if I would simply give her what she wanted: myself, first prostrated before her, then available for her pleasure at her beck and call. I hung my head, feigning shame I didn’t feel, and though she didn’t seem satisfied, it was enough.

“Behave,” she told me, patting my cheek. 

That night, I scrubbed my face raw. 

“You know what? Punching something sounds like an excellent idea,” I tell him.

In my mind’s eye, I remember myself sitting in the branch of a tree in the woods, where I’m hiding from Violet. I can hear a babbling stream where we’ll swim when the game is over, and the wind ruffling the leaves, and Mira and Brennan laughing as they crash through the underbrush. Violet is fast and quiet, her steps lightsome. I won’t hear her until she wants me to, but I can sense that she’ll find me soon, and the anticipation makes me feel light as air. 

I remember the feel of the bark under my hands and the breeze carding through my hair. I remember how it feels to know that my father is away on a mission, so at nightfall we’ll all return to the Sorrengails’ quarters and I’ll spend dinner with them, debating the merits of various flight formations and dead languages. Before I fall asleep, I will pray to Zihnal or Loial or whoever is listening that one day, it is Violet and I debating across a dinner table while our children and their friends laugh.   

It’s funny how grounding works. Most people imagine a place, the place that feels most like home. I feel most grounded in my own memories.

Once I’m safe in the heart of that one, I shut Cath out for the first time in days.

-----

The sparring mats are abuzz when I enter, the way they always tend to be in those weeks when the challenge mat is closed. When you predicate an entire curriculum on twenty-somethings beating the shit out of each other for any minor grievance or even just because, a few weeks without fighting is enough to make them antsy. On one mat, I notice Sloane and Aaric circling each other under Imogen Cardulo’s watchful eye. Visia Hawelynn, the First Year repeat, stands to one side, hissing instructions; a few Second and Third Years bearing rebellion relics watch Sloane and Aaric with varying degrees of engagement. 

Outside of classrooms and the dining hall, this is the only place in all six provinces where more than three marked ones can be present simultaneously. 

For a time, I lift weights, both watching and not watching Sloane and Aaric fight. She’s shown significant improvement in the weeks since her first challenge against Dasha Fabrren, thanks in no small part to daily private tutoring with Imogen. On one occasion, I walked past the gym on a weekend and caught her training with Riorson, visiting from the outpost at Samara; Violet was conspicuously absent (because, as it turns out, she was busy being tortured).

Sloane’s movements, I’ve been pleased to note, have become precise, discriminating, often strategic. The blows she lands are mostly solid and occasionally what I would call ‘pretty fucking good.’

But she’s still too… hesitant, maybe. Conservative.  

Aaric smiles at Sloane as he kicks out at her shin, then smiles wider as she dodges smoothly to the side. He beams as she twists her body into a backhanded punch that lands against his sternum, staggering backwards as her fist connects. “Good,” he grunts. 

They take a break from sparring, and he begins to demonstrate another flurry of kicks and punches. She watches with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in concentration. Minutes later, she uses that same combination to take Aaric down to the mat. She makes a dissatisfied face as he falls, like she knows he could have blocked her hits but didn’t. 

Imogen comes towards me when, after forty-five minutes, I move from the weights to a punching bag. “Aetos,” she says as she approaches, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. 

I grunt in acknowledgement, fist connecting with leather. 

Imogen and I are not what I would call friendly, but we are squadmates and have been for two years now. I would die for her if the occasion called for it; she, I have no doubt, would briefly entertain risking grievous bodily harm for me, though I’m unwilling to consider in too much detail whether she would ultimately decide my life was worth any risk to her person. The fact that she might hesitate is enough to satisfy.

“What do you think?” she says, nodding her chin towards Sloane.

I glance over my shoulder briefly. “I think he’s going soft on her,” I say. As if to demonstrate my point, Aaric takes a punch to the chin, his grin never faltering. “For what it’s worth, I also think she’s going soft on him.” I glance over my shoulder again and consider them for a second, then turn back. “She keeps pulling her punches.”

“We’re on the same page, then.” Imogen chews her lip, thoughtful. “You okay, Aetos? You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy being weird?” she suggests. 

I smack my fists into the leather punching bag several times before I answer, and in the end, my answer is a non-answer. “You’ve got her training late,” I say. “It’s almost curfew.” 

Imogen crinkles up her nose as if to express her distaste. “I don’t have her doing anything,” she tells me. “I told her she could leave an hour ago, but she won’t fucking go. She’s relentless.” Then, leaning towards me, she drops her voice and says conspiratorially, “I think she’s working off some steam about the Gauntlet. She’s a little tense about her run this morning, since there’s only a week left to work on it.”

I grunt again, trying to remember her runtime from today’s reports. Matthias said she fumbled the Chimney, but she wasn’t the only one in her squad who did; overall, she made decent time. Only had to use the ropes once or twice. The thump of my fist against the leather punctuates my words as I say, “Her times are fine.”

Imogen shrugs. “She doesn’t want her times to be fine. She wants the Gauntlet patch, like her brother.”

I huff out a breathless scoff. “Well, she’ll need to pry it from Greycastle’s cold, dead hands.” 

“That’s exactly what I said. You know what she said?” She turns, watching affectionately as Sloane’s fists connect with Aaric’s jaw in rapid succession. He blinks, face painted with an expression of genuine surprise. Unlike the others, he didn’t intend for those blows to land and didn't take them willingly. Sloane smirks, dancing out of his reach. “She said that could be arranged.”

“I don’t know that I love her odds in a fair fight. She could probably ask him to give it to her, though, and he would.” I hesitate, gripping the bag as it swings toward me. My jaw works for a moment, and then I find myself asking, “Are those two fucking or something?”

“What makes you ask?”

It’s a fair question, and one I’m not exactly sure I can answer. Dimly, I feel a sense of… well, something. 

Apprehension, maybe?

Offence? 

Does she know? I wonder, watching her tackle him to the mat. 

Does she know who he really is?

Aaric and I are well acquainted, and I’ve always thought of him as decent. Better than his brothers, at least, although that’s not really saying much. Still, it doesn’t seem likely to me that he would willingly pursue someone with a relic on her arm—at least, not while actively hiding the fact that he’s the son of the man who had her parents killed, her lands and title stripped away, and a good portion of her province burned to the ground.

Then again, it didn’t occur to me that there would ever come a time when Violet and I weren’t friends, so maybe I know fucking nothing. 

“I’ve never seen one without the other,” I say, making a face of innocent bemusement.

“I’ve never asked,” Imogen tells me, rubbing her hand across the shaved side of her head. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the most surprising thing in the world. He’s hot; she’s hot.” She gestures at the two of them, circling each other on the mat, and I look out of the corner of my eye. They’re perfectly matched: lithe, virulent, golden. 

It would be about the least surprising thing in the world, and yet…

“You are bothered by it,” Cath gently observes. He’s flying, I think. I can hear wind rushing by, and I wish I was with him. I feel a tug at our bond, like he wishes I was with him, too.  

“Maybe,” I admit. “Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere,” he tells me. “I am simply flying. I may hunt, if the mood takes me, but we shall see. You are not the only one who needs to blow off steam from time to time, you know.”

He hesitates, then makes a horrifying gurgling noise.

“That was a joke,” he informs me, chuffing proudly. “I am a dragon, and so I am always blowing off literal steam.”

I send a pulse of amusement down our bond before I shut him out again.

“Honestly, I’m starting to think he reminds her of Liam,” Imogen continues, tilting her head. “She looks at him the same way she looked at Liam. She even hugs him the way she used to hug Liam.”

I study them for a moment. He comes towards her, demonstrating something that apparently necessitates him bending down and palming her thigh with his broad, thick hand. Sloane smiles down at him like she knows a prince is kneeling before her: prideful, indulgent, reverent. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if she knew who he was?

Maybe she already knows?

“Looks real familial,” I say dryly.

“You can’t tell the difference? How she acts around someone she has a platonic attachment to and how she acts around—” Imogen pauses as she glances towards them, notices that they’re no longer pummeling each other, then marches back over to the mat. 

“What if—” Aaric begins as he sees her approaching.

She cuts him off. “You’re going too easy on her, Greycastle. Swap with Hawelynn,” she commands. “Now, before I die of boredom from having to watch all this piss-weak sparring.”

Aaric’s jaw clenches, but he leaves the mat with nothing more than a puzzled glance at Sloane, who shrugs, equally bewildered.

As Hawelynn puts her water skin to the side and slips onto the mat, Imogen barks some more directions. She waits until the first punch is thrown before ambling back over to me to lean against the wall again, watching. I lash out at the bag with another smack, followed by three more jabs. 

“How’s she doing with the whole Kinsby thing?” I ask, gesturing at the mat with my chin. Imogen gives me a confused look. “You know, Trysten Kinsby? The First Year who died on the Gauntlet?” 

“No, I know who he was.” Imogen blinks. “What’d you mean?”

“Weren’t they dating or something?” I prompt.

Imogen scrunches up her face. “I doubt it. Kinsby wasn’t her type.”

Not perfect enough? I nearly ask. Not sufficiently regal? “Yeah, well, she was his,” I say instead. “The last thing he did before he died was ask her to have a fucking picnic with him.”

“Really?” Imogen scoffs. “I mean, I’m not surprised. Of course she was his type. She’s Sloane Mairi.” She rolls her eyes when the significance of this statement doesn’t seem to register with me. “Kinsby was from Tirvainne, Aetos. He was probably half in love with her before he got here, and once he saw her in person and got to experience the full force of her charms… well, you know how the story ends.” 

Now I’m the one who’s confused. “You mean they knew each other before or something?”

“Not at all,” Imogen chuckles. I must look as confused as I feel, because she frowns, then elaborates. “He would have known of her. In Tyrrendor, Sloane’s kind of a big deal. In fact, she’s a fucking massive deal.”

“Because she’s a Mairi?”

“Because she’s a Mairi whose mother was a Saorla.”

“And that’s a big deal?” 

Imogen snickers. “On the day she was born, bells rang out from Benserac all the way to Tirvainne to celebrate the arrival of the next great Tyrrish rider from the most exalted line of riders in the province.” She waves her hands in the air, and I wonder if it’s intentional that she’s making the gesture for ringing in sign language or just a coincidence. “Liam was going to be a duke, but everybody knew she was going to be so much more than that.”

“So she’s… what, famous?”

“Yeah, she’s famous.” Imogen bites out. She waves her hand demonstratively again, eyes clouded. “She was famous before the apostasy, and she was twice as famous after. When King Tauri and his advisors took her away from us and put her with Navarrian stalwarts, she became their symbol, and symbols are only effective when they’re perceived. So they made damn sure she was perceived.” She sneers. “And they installed those loyalists in the house they stole from my fucking family, by the way. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Not that it was my fucking birthright.” 

“Noted.” I hesitate. “What do you mean when you say she became their symbol? That they made sure she was ‘perceived?’”

Imogen’s face pinches. She glances at Sloane before answering like she’s confirming that she’s exactly where she left her. “After the apostasy, after they isolated Sloane from the rest of us, they trained her to be elegant, and dainty, and charming, and pretty. They taught her how to dance, sing, embroider, whatever the fuck noble ladies do. They even did their best to make her pious and meek.” In spite of herself, she grins at my facial expression. “I said they did their best; I didn’t say they succeeded.”

Beside me, the punching bag is still, abandoned, but my hands are still curled into fists at my side. There’s a sickly feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. 

They taught her all of that, and they never taught her how to throw a punch? I think, wary. They never taught her anything of use, knowing all the while that as soon as she was old enough, she would be sent to Basgiath? 

Imogen stares at me, then nods slowly as if she can see the thoughts my mind is processing. “And when they were happy with the demure little lady they’d manufactured from some of the finest, fiercest stock in Tyrrendor,” she confirms, “they trotted her out in ballrooms across the province to display their handiwork. If she didn’t perform to their expectations, they punished her. With prejudice. And all the while, they spread tales of her virtues and looks and docile nature. So now there isn’t a person alive in Tyrrendor who doesn't know who Sloane Mairi is, whether they’ve met her or not, and none of them can agree on whether she’s the pinnacle of what a Tyrrish woman should be or simply a waste of good breeding.” 

I’m so familiar with the cruel efficiency of my kingdom, the uniquely inimical way that we deal with our enemies, that none of this should surprise me. 

Somehow, it still does. 

“All so they can make a bigger statement out of her death,” I say, horrified. The strategy is glaringly obvious, once you know how Navarre operates.

Imogen nods again, her face grim. “It would be a potent way to quash any lingering, pesky thoughts of hope or dissent,” she agrees. “They made her the loveliest thing you could imagine, which is a complete violation of what she was born to be. Now they’ve sent her here to die. That’s what she’s meant to be a symbol of: Navarre’s power, Tyrrendor’s failure. That’s all it ever boils down to, right?”

I nod, nausea roiling through me. “That’s fucked up,” is all I can manage to say. I turn, wipe my face with a towel and watch Hawelynn and Sloane size each other up. There’s a bruise blossoming on Hawelynn’s thigh, a small cut on Sloane’s cheek. I’ve barely even registered that the fight had already begun. “Does she know?”

“Maybe.” Imogen grimaces. “We don’t talk about it and probably never will, but I can safely assume she has some level of awareness. She knows they want her to die here, at least, but… they want us all to die here.”

I don’t refute it.

Imogen winces as Sloane takes another hit. “I… don’t know if she realizes the extra degree of conspiracy involved in her case, and if I’m honest, I don’t know if I ever want her to.” She sucks her teeth. “Maybe I’m projecting or something, but I can’t help but think that if she found out, then the pressure of knowing that… Well, she’s already hard on herself as it is.”

I examine Sloane’s movements as she slinks across the mat, not with the critical, detached eye of a wingleader but something different. 

“I thought you should know,” Imogen says as we both watch her. “If the rest of us don’t make it out of here, then I can make peace with that, but she has to. She’s too important.”

“I can’t give her preferential treatment, Imogen.”

“You already do. And, for the record, I’m not asking you to coddle her; I’m asking you to do the opposite. And I’m trusting you to do the right thing with the information I’ve just given you.” She sighs. “We’ve been squadmates for two years now, Aetos. I know how you operate. I don’t always get it, but I respect it. You’re fair, or at least, you always try to be. And I never gave you shit about Liam because I know you didn’t—”

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t try to exonerate me, Imogen. I did what I did, and that’s on me. It doesn’t matter why I did it.”

“I wasn’t going to. I just—if you help her make it out, then—” Her jaw works as if she’s considering protesting further, but then she sighs. There’s a thick vein of pride in Imogen’s voice as she murmurs, “They think they made her soft, Dain, but Sloane was born to be strong. So I know she can make it out of here, but… not on her own. No one makes it out of here alone. And if anything happens to me or Bodhi, then I need to know… I need to know she has what she needs. That’s all.”

If I’m honest, maybe I’ve never looked at Sloane with any degree of impartiality, because she’s never been just another cadet. At first, I could tell how much it meant to Violet that she lived, and then I could tell how much it meant to me that she lived. Like despite what I just told Imogen, maybe I could be absolved of my involvement in her brother’s death if she could make it through.

Now, I look at her and think how much it means to Tyrrendor that she lives.

“You’ve done well, but she’s still too hesitant,” I mutter, throwing the towel I’ve been wiping myself down with to the side. I pick up a water skin and twist the cap in my hands. “She leaves too many openings, hers and theirs.”

Imogen sighs, but there’s relief behind her eyes. “Trust me, we’ve talked about it. She says she’ll step up when it counts.”

“Not good enough.”

Imogen shrugs. “I’ve tried,” she assures me. “If you want to go tell her that and see where it gets you, then please be my guest.”

I scoff as I open my water skin. “Yeah, right. That could only go well.”

“Maybe you should.” Imogen punches my shoulder. Hard, but playful. I wince and cradle my sore shoulder, and in the back of my mind, I hear Cath quietly chuff something about how it serves me right. Or maybe I’m imagining it. “C’mon, wingleader. Show me how you got that patch. Go work your wingleader magic on the disobedient First Year.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t be shy, Dain.” Imogen gives me a shit-eating grin. “Tell you what. We can make it a bet. If you can get her to stop throwing her punches ‘til curfew, I’ll—”

“Not interested.”

“I’ll give you amazing odds.” She taps her chin thoughtfully, her arms still crossed. “I’ll—” 

“Imogen, she won’t listen to me.”

“She might.” She narrows her eyes, calculating. “If you can get her punching straight from the shoulder by curfew, then I won’t give her any churam ever again,” she swears. “I know it drives you fucking insane that she’s pushing boundaries, but you feel so guilty about Liam that you keep letting it slide. If you help me with this, I’ll help you.”

I shake my head, but the idea is tempting. Very tempting. And I did promise myself that today was the day that I did something about the situation with Sloane…

“No churam?” I repeat. 

Imogen nods solemnly. “She won’t get any churam from me,” she confirms. 

“Keep her away from the Third Year dorms, too, and you might just have a bet.”

“She won’t be welcome in my room for a month. If she comes to my door, I’ll turn her away.” She puts her hand to her heart. “I swear it.”

“What if I don’t succeed?”

“Then I get to watch you fail at something,” she replies. “Which is exactly what I’ve always wanted most.”

I rub my chin. “Fine,” I say after a long pause. I’ve barely taken another breath before an idea comes to my mind fully formed, because some part of me innately knows how to get on Sloane’s nerves. And it’s a sick part of me, a broken part, because it’s a part of me that fucking revels in being on the receiving end of her disapprobation, her taunts, her teasing. “You have yourself a bet, Cardulo.”

“Good luck, Aetos.” Imogen salutes.

“Fine,” I repeat.

As I approach the mat, water skin still in hand, I’m happy to see that Hawelynn (unlike Aaric) is not letting Sloane off easy. She sends Sloane to the mat with a thud; Sloane rolls as she lands, a scowl etched across her face, and throws herself onto her feet, straight back into a defensive stance. The fists she raises in front of her chest are well-formed: straight wrists, well compacted, with her thumb and the knuckle of her index fingers slightly angled towards the ceiling. 

It means nothing if she’s softening her blows, which she is. 

It means nothing if she’s letting openings slip past her, which she is.

It means nothing if she’s not defending herself adequately, which…

Sloane’s eyes remain on Hawelynn, her posture straight and solid, but somehow I sense that she’s noticed me standing at the side of the mat. Her eyebrow twitches, and the sight of it is infinitely satisfying for reasons I can’t fully comprehend. She’s been doing her best to ignore me since I pulled her into that classroom to yell at her two weeks ago, and it’s compounded the sense that I’m not really there, that I’m pellucid and transpicuous, not a solid thing to be heeded. I’m so insignificant, even the person who hates me most has been pretending I don’t exist. 

I’d much rather she went back to yelling at me, sneering at me. That might make me feel real, at least. 

It’s a particular sort of fight when Hawelynn and Sloane face off against each other. It’s a fight of lulls and flurries, fakes and feints. Hawelynn pretends to go left; Sloane disregards the motion, her eyes on Hawelynn’s right foot. Seconds later, she blocks Hawelynn from landing a kick against her and backs away. Though Hawelynn’s movements leave her ribs unguarded, Sloane doesn’t strike. 

“That was an opening,” I observe from the side of the mat.

Sloane’s shoulders tense. She takes a long, heavy breath. 

“That was another opening,” I say a second later, as she and Hawelynn continue to circle each other. “I know you saw it, because your arm spasmed.”

“Shut up, Aetos,” Sloane hisses, head weaving to the side to dodge an oncoming hit. 

They circle each other again. 

“So, what are you waiting for, Mairi?” I drawl, crossing my arms. I tap my water skin against my hip and watch her jaw clench in time to the same rhythm. “Do you need a wax-sealed invitation on fancy vellum or something? Her thigh is undefended.” Hawelynn adjusts her stance. Pleasantly, I drone on, watching the flush creep up Sloane’s neck and onto her cheeks. “Ah. Well, not anymore. What are you going to do now, then? I can tell you’ve been working your way in for a punch to her inner thigh, because you always go for the femoral artery when you’re up against someone who’s got a solid kick.” 

“No, I don’t,” she mutters darkly.

“Anyone with a halfway decent kick knows it, too, which means they’ll be on their guard. You’re predictable,” I sigh. “And predictability is a vulnerability.”

I see a flare of anger in Sloane’s eyes. Hawelynn must, too, because she slides a half-step backwards, tightening up her defenses. “Don’t you have something better to do with your night than waste your time bothering First Years?” Sloane asks, striking out with a heel kick that Hawelynn dances away from. 

“I don’t,” I confess. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here. Just your luck that you once again have my undivided attention.”

“And here, I thought Zihnal and I were finally growing on each other,” she says as she deflects a kick to her shin. She winces as it hits her calf instead, landing on a spot where Hawelynn has kicked her twice already. 

Sloane steps curtly to one side as Hawelynn lead punches for her jaw. I’m pleased to see her using her off-hand to deliver a jab to Hawelynn’s stomach that makes her opponent grunt and curve in on herself. I’m slightly less pleased when Sloane’s right hand swings out and, at the exact same time that it connects with Hawelynn’s left cheek, Hawelynn takes the opportunity to plant her left fist into Sloane’s very unguarded, undefended face. 

Sloane staggers backward. 

If Hawelynn were anyone else, someone less sympathetic towards Sloane, someone who was facing off against her in a challenge, Sloane would be in a headlock already, at which point the fight would be more or less over. Getting out of the clinch would depend almost solely on how many hits Sloane could withstand to her entirely too thick skull. 

So far, her record is still the nine punishing blows Fabrren landed on her during her first challenge, and I don’t particularly want to find out if she can break it. 

By it, I mean both the record and her skull.

“Well, you deserved that, Mairi,” I tell her gravely. “You know better than to drop your guard. You don’t just sidestep.” I chide her like she’s a silly child. “You’re supposed to knock her arm out of the way. Are you alright? Do you need a moment?”

In the weeks that I have known her, I have learned that there are two things Sloane hates as much as she hates me: being pitied and being patronized. Combining both has the desired effect, and I try not to smirk as she rounds on me. 

“Which is it, Aetos?” she hisses, even as she’s recovering from the hit. She’s bent at the waist, leaning her weight on the palms she’s pressed against her knees. “Am I supposed to be defending or attacking?” 

“You’re supposed to be doing both simultaneously.” I smile at her sympathetically, as if I’m sorry to be the one who’s telling her this. “That’s how fighting works, I’m afraid.” 

She’s sweating, and I can see the muscles in her arms quivering. I know she’s tired and sore. I know she hates me. Gods, do I know she hates me. Sometimes when she looks at me, I half-expect that I’ll burst into flame, either from the heat burning behind her unnervingly pale blue eyes or from the shame I feel. 

“Why don’t you try again?” I suggest. I smile encouragingly, the corner of my mouth twitching as I watch her curl her hands back into fists.

Hawelynn studies us cautiously, hands intertwined on her head. She pants as she stretches, her chest heaving. She grimaces at me, and then her eyes flick towards Sloane, brows knitting with concern; I can’t quite tell if it’s concern for herself, given that I’m goading her opponent into a quiet rage, or concern for me. “Maybe we should—” she begins. 

I look at her expectantly. “When did you get promoted, Hawelynn?” I ask as if I’m genuinely curious. 

“I didn’t.”

“Oh.” I feign surprise. “So I am still your wingleader?”

She sighs. “Yes,” she says petulantly.

“I thought I was.” I narrow my eyes. “Which means I’m the one making decisions here, not you. If I want your suggestions or input, I will solicit them. And did I ask you for your opinion, Hawelynn?” 

She clenches her jaw, then shakes her head. 

“No, I sure fucking didn’t,” I confirm, smiling politely. I raise an eyebrow at her. “Get in your stance, Hawelynn. Sloane is going to try again, and this time she’s going to practice attacking and defending. Concurrently.”

Hawelynn hesitates. 

Sloane snarls.

“Do it,” I demand. As an afterthought, I add a please and a thank you. 

“It must make you feel about eight-feet tall, bossing everyone around all the time,” Sloane huffs as she pulls herself upright and calibrates her limbs into the exact same fighting stance that Violet developed last year, the one I can only assume they both learned from Imogen. I grit my teeth as it occurs to me that they could have both learned it from Xaden fucking Riorson, and though it’s a perfectly good stance, I find myself looking for something to critique. Sloane keeps her weight on the balls of her feet as she advances. “It must give you a real sense of worth that you wouldn’t otherwise find in your life. It must be a real comfort to you when you’re sitting in your dorm alone every night.” 

When it comes to wishing ill on me, Sloane is eerily apt. Like a prophecy made by someone who travelled back in time and already knows what’s about to happen in gory detail.  

“You would think so,” I reply.

She springs for Hawelynn, who blocks her attack. “What a relief for you, that your otherwise purposeless, insignificant existence can be justified by the endless churn of paperwork and pulling rank.” She hesitates, dances away from an opening instead of towards it. She’s still pulling her punches, I note with slight vexation, but that’s okay. We’re on the right track. “Do you think it would feel better if you’d actually earned it?” she asks, throwing out her fist and connecting with Hawelynn’s chin. Her voice is guttural, coarse. “Instead of relying on nepotism, I mean?” 

Hawelynn’s head rears back, and she stumbles all the way to the edge of the mat. 

Sloane doesn’t follow. 

“That was an opening,” I mock whisper. I gesture with my hand. “You’re supposed to follow her across the mat.”

“I know it was an opening!”

Unlike Sloane, Hawelynn doesn’t run away from openings, but towards them. With Sloane distracted, she shakes her head twice before charging across the mat, lurching onto her back foot and delivering a vicious kick to Sloane’s chest. Sloane goes down. To her credit, she lands on the mat with her legs bent and smacks out with a series of powerful kicks, making room to get up off the mat without Hawelynn raining an assault down on her. It’s all promising, exactly what I’m hoping to see, except as she tries to swing herself up onto her feet, she makes the grave mistake of holding her arm out in front of her to defend her head. 

Hawelynn visibly sighs, her eyes flickering towards me. Then, with an almost guilty expression on her face, she seizes Sloane’s wrist, tugging her off-balance, and slams the heel of her palm down into Sloane’s cheek before retreating. 

“Arm down,” I point out as Sloane scrambles back to her feet, only slightly dazed. 

Sloane lowers her fists and turns toward me, her expression murderous. Already, a bruise is blossoming on her austere, regal cheekbone. Hawelynn doesn’t advance but doesn’t drop her stance either, her eyes darting between us.

“‘Keep your arm up, Sloane,’” she mocks. “‘Don’t put it down, ever. Don’t drop your guard. Don’t miss an opening. Oh, but now you put your arm up when you shouldn’t!’” She throws her arms out to her sides in challenge. “Are you trying to torture me? Are you a fucking sadist, Aetos? Is that what this is?”

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” I say, giving her a mystified smile. “Why would I want to torture you, Sloane? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

It occurs to me, as I watch a muscle jump in her neck, that this is the closest I have felt to real, to tangible, in days.

She stares at me for a beat. I raise my eyebrows, but don’t move as she stalks towards me and jabs her finger into my chest, her voice low and threatening. “One conversation does not make us friends, Aetos. We are not friends. We are not even friendly.”

“Technically, it’s four.” I count them out on my fingers. “Dorm. Hallway. Gauntlet. Fight. This makes five.” I hold up my hand, fingers extended, and wriggle them in a wave. I tilt my head and smirk at her. “Would five conversations make us friends? I wouldn’t know, given that I’m a friendless loser, as you so kindly pointed out the last time we spoke.”

Her pupils are swollen, rimmed by a corona of blue as bright and clear as tourmaline. I watch the fire raging behind them with intrigue. There’s something different about her anger today, something… unusual. It’s cold, not warm. “One vulnerable moment doesn’t give you the right to come and play the affable mentor at your leisure. I”—another jab—“do not”—another jab—“forgive you.”

“Are you saying that for your benefit or mine?” I ask, and I watch something else flit across her eyes that nearly looks like guilt.

“Fuck. You,” she enunciates. 

“You know, if you keep leaving openings as wide and well-paved as a portico every time you get on this mat, you won’t live long enough to hear my apology, let alone forgive me. And I’ve been working on it, so I’d really like for you to hear it.” I grin at her pleasantly, leaning into her finger. She takes a half-step back, eyes going slightly wider. The cold fire in them rallies. “I think it would heal something in you to watch me grovel.”

“Try it and we’ll see.” She blinks. “A portico?” she repeats. 

“They’re those things—”

“I know what a fucking portico is.” She leans forward, toward my ear, and I feel her warm breath on the side of my face. “If you somehow think you can atone for the death of my brother with a few sparring tutorials and a heart-to-heart chat, you are sorely mistaken. Sorely.”

“I’m just trying to keep you alive,” I repeat. “As your wingleader, it—”

She makes a disgusted, sibilant noise in the back of her throat that makes my blood feel like it’s turned to sparkling wine. I bite back a snort. 

“I feel sorry for you,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Do you, now?”

“You have to keep reminding us that you’re our wingleader because you know no one would bother talking to you if you weren’t.”

Cath batters against my mental shields, and they shatter. “Inform her that I am your constant companion,” he demands, sounding genuinely perturbed. “Inform her, wingleader.” 

“Cath takes offence,” I say.

“Well, you can tell Cath that I feel sorry for him, too.”

“You can tell that fork-tongued demon that she is highly flammable and easily digestible,” he hisses in response. “You can assure her that I will swallow her whole so that I do not have to taste her bitterness on my tongue.”

“Down, boy,” I tell him. “We don’t eat our cadets.”

“Relate my message, wingleader. She should know who she trifles with.”

“No.”

She pushes me away with the finger still pressed to my chest, and I pay her the respect of stumbling back a few steps. Her eyes flare in satisfaction. 

“You are a wretched, paltry thing,” Cath growls as Sloane returns to the center of the mat without sparing me another glance. “Women are your undoing. First it was the lightning wielder, and now it is this one.” 

“Women are not my undoing. This has nothing to do with the fact that Sloane is a woman.”

It feels incredibly vital to me that she should live, but that has nothing to do with her feminine attributes and everything to do with the fact that Navarre has sentenced her to die for a crime she didn’t commit. None of which sits right with me, even though it’s the Navarrian way, the way I was raised to accept.

It’s a strange and uneasy thought to contend with. 

“At least you have demonstrated slightly better taste this time around,” he continues, ignoring me as he rants. This is the usual course of things. “For what it is worth, while this one is a beast from hell, I do not mind her quite as much as the lightning wielder.”

“Sloane isn’t a beast from hell.”

“She has some tolerable attributes, I suppose,” he says, almost petulantly. “She does not back down from a fight, though perhaps she should, given that she is a mediocre fighter at best based on what I have seen. Still, she does not yield. That is admirable, a very desirable trait in a potential mate, I think. She is not intolerably feeble-looking and resolutely disinterested in you, despite your best efforts; that makes her a superior option to the lightning wielder.” I hear a hot, sulfuric breath of discontent, and I can easily envision steam and snot shooting from his nostrils. “These are vast improvements. Still, she is rude and stupid, and you can do better.”

“I’m her wingleader,” I tell him. “This is all moot, because it’s not happening. And I wouldn’t want it to happen, anyway, so it’s doubly moot.” I grin as I watch the two women begin to circle each other again. “You seem to have put a lot of thought into that pros and cons list, though, Cath. And so many pros, too. Gods, it almost sounds like you like her.”

“I do not.”

“You don’t like anyone,” I tease. 

“I tolerate you.”

“Exactly. You tolerate me, but you like her?”

Cath chuffs angrily. “Once again, I did not say I like her. Now, pay attention to your cause, wingleader. Your cadet is flailing.”

Sloane hits the mat with a quiet moan, rolling onto her side. Hawelynn hesitates, casting a sideways glance my way, before helping her to her feet and gently patting her back. 

“Again,” I insist.

Seconds later, Hawelynn sees that Sloane has left her left side undefended, then slams a foot into her waist. Sloane hits the mat again, air gusting out of her. 

“What the fuck was that, Mairi?” I ask gently, crouching at the side of the mat.

“Falling,” she grunts as she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. “You should try it sometime,” she suggests as she crawls towards me. “Preferably off of your dragon and from a very tall height. Then again, I heard you already did.”

“That was on purpose,” Cath says, defensive. “Tell her it was on purpose and that I caught you, so it does not count.”

“She knows you caught me because I’m not dead.”

“Well, remind her anyway.”

She looks at me as I offer my hand to her and slaps it away with the back of hers. “Don’t fucking touch me, Aetos.”

“You must be very used to hearing that by now,” Cath observes. “That’s all anyone seems to say to you lately.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I think. 

“You enjoy the blatant disrespect of your wing?” Cath asks, sounding genuinely concerned, like I have fundamentally misunderstood the concept of leadership and may need his urgent and profuse guidance. 

I sigh. “No, Cath,” I tell him. “That was sarcasm, bud.”

“I am not your ‘bud’, wingleader. Though I allow you to call me Cath, I will not allow you to forget who it is that truly bonded you. I am Smaoineachadh, son of Aonghus and Muiredach, seventh of my—”

I shut him out before he can recite his entire family tree, pointedly offering Sloane my hand again. She slaps it away a second time, looking at me like I’ve just suggested she might like to take a piss on Malek’s shrine. “Fine, then,” I say, watching her as she pants, still propped up on her hands and knees. Her body convulses. “So, if I’m a sadist, what does that make you?” I ask conversationally, leaning forward. I’m intrigued to see a shiver travel her spine. “Masochist?”

“What?”

“I’m starting to wonder if you enjoy having the shit kicked out of you.”

She drags her body into a standing position, her face clearly displaying her displeasure and discomfort; I stand with her. “Fuck off,” she spits.

“So eloquent.”

She tugs herself up to her full height, or as close to it as she can get in the circumstances; her shoulders are crumpled inward. She glares up at me with narrowed eyes, the kind that seem like they’re staring directly into your soul, weighing you and finding you wanting. 

To be fair, that’s probably exactly what she’s doing. 

Eventually, she smiles demurely, almost coquettishly. “Go fuck yourself,” she suggests, her breath ghosting across my face again. She moves to limp past me, off the mat and toward the bench where Aaric is sitting. 

“I didn’t say you could leave, cadet.” I grab her shoulder before she can barge past, and she tries to smack my hand away a third time. This time, I don’t let go. “I asked you a question,” I murmur, leaning into her space. “I expect an answer. Is there a particular reason that you’re pulling your punches and refusing to seize openings?”

Sloane looks taken aback for a second; then her expression hardens, those unsettling blue eyes going flinty and glinting like sharpened steel under the harsh mage lights. She leans toward me and whispers, her tone savage, “Touch me again, wingleader, and I will make you sorry for ever—”

I shrug. “So make me sorry.”

Her eyes dart over my face as she looks up at me with frustrated, impotent rage. If she could kill me with a glare alone, they’d already be wiping my blood off the mat. “From the bottom of my heart, Aetos, I wish—”

“No, not like that,” I interrupt. I smirk at her, my hand still curled around her shoulder. “Make me sorry with your fists, Sloane. Not your words.”

Finally, she shakes me away. “Leave me the fuck alone, Dain,” she says, her tone defeated. To describe Sloane Mairi as defeated is a terrible, unnatural thing.

I feel an obligation to reignite the fire in her.

“No, Sloane.” I shake my head, sigh. “Unfortunately for us both, I can’t just leave you alone. I have a responsibility to my wing and to you as an individual under my command to ensure that you’re properly trained. Right now, I’m not sure that that’s the case.”

“I don’t need training from you.”

“Imogen and Aaric have made you a competent fighter,” I admit. 

She frowns. “Competent, huh? I’ll be sure to pass on your high praise.”

“What I’ve seen so far is a demonstration of competence at best,” I inform her, no longer trying to be solicitous, and it feels like a relief to drop the act. I’m cold and calculated; I’m as wizened as I feel. My cheeks hurt from smiling, but at least I feel present with her eyes trained on mine. “I don’t want you to be ‘competent’, Sloane. I want you to put anyone who’s stupid enough to challenge you into the fucking ground. I’m pretty sure that’s what you want, too. So, I’m pretty sure you could, but for some reason, you won’t. So, I’ll make you a deal.” Evidently, making deals is the theme of the day. “Prove to me that you can, and I’ll leave you alone, content in the knowledge that your training is safe in their”—I gesture vaguely towards Imogen, who’s watching with barely suppressed glee—“hands.” 

She scoffs, purses her lips. Her jaw is working, like maybe she’s biting the inside of her lip or doing something with her tongue inside her mouth, and I find that I have to make a concerted effort not to stare. She’s harrowingly beautiful and all contrast: sharp eyes and sharp cheekbones, soft lips and silken hair. She’s far too beautiful to be within a hundred miles of this place. “This is a practice sparring session. I’m not beating the living shit out of Visia or Aaric just to prove to you that I can.”

“Don’t you want to, though? You want to hurt something; I can tell.”

She tosses her head, but can’t deny it. “So I had a bad day,” she haughtily replies. “So what? I’m still not going to take it out on them. That’s lunacy, and I won’t—”

“You could beat the living shit out of me though, couldn’t you?” I practically croon. I watch a vein pulse in her neck. “That shouldn’t be a problem; right? If there’s one person in this entire college you can happily lay your fists into, it’s me; right? You wouldn’t need to pull your punches or feel bad for seizing an opening. You could take your bad day out on me without a single shred of guilt. Prove to me that you can and make me leave you alone.”

Her eyes flicker as she takes in the grim set of my mouth, whatever’s reflected in my eyes, the knit of my brow. She snorts softly. “You poor thing,” she murmurs. “You’re so touch starved, you’ve resorted to letting girls beat you up on the mat.”

I sigh. “Clock’s ticking, Sloane. There’s ten minutes until curfew, and if you don’t show me beyond a doubt that I have nothing to worry about, I’ll be back here tomorrow to supervise your training myself.” 

“To be clear, you want me to kick the shit out of you?” She shakes her magnificent head, and the tendrils that have escaped her braid caper with the motion. One of them tickles the back of my hand. “Who’s the masochist now, Aetos?” She sizes me up again with another withering look. “What, is this your apology? You’re offering to let me beat the crap out of you so you can feel absolved of your guilt? Is that supposed to placate me or something?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re really telling me you’re not jumping at this opportunity?” I widen my eyes at her. “Mairi, are you all talk, no action?”

“Get on the fucking mat,” she bites out. Her eyes are bright, flashing dangerously. 

Gotcha.

“No weapons or killing blows,” I clarify. 

She nods, then says, “You can’t touch my face.”

“Let me be very fucking clear, Sloane,” I murmur, squeezing her shoulder. “I won’t touch your face, ever, without your permission.” 

She raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms. 

I blink at her, remembering that I already have. I brushed her fucking hair away on the steps to the flight field—compulsively, the way I used to brush away Violet’s hair—because I am a fucking moron.

“I won’t touch your face ever again without your permission,” I amend. 

She stares at me for a long beat, then makes a slight curtsy. The movement is practiced, unconscious muscle memory, like she’s spent hours making sure the bend of her knee and the turn of her ankle are just right. She probably has. They probably drilled her on it for months. 

It’s the single most elegant thing I’ve ever seen another person do, punctuated by another murmured “Fuck you” as she turns her back. 

I toss my water skin on to the edge of the mat and stretch my arm across my body as I watch her prowl to the other side. Hawelynn is sitting on one corner with her knees bent, talking to two other First Years in a low tone. She looks tortured as she looks up and sees Sloane walking towards her. “I’m done,” she protests, her eyes flying to me. “I’m beat, Aetos.”

“Good,” I tell her. “You can get off my fucking mat, then.”

Hawelynn’s jaw unhinges. She looks nervously from me to Sloane, whose fingers flex ominously. Her arms are crossed over her ribs, the shimmering, inky black relic that snakes across them catching the light; it blends into the bruising that starts on her forearm and graduates toward her shoulder. I remember that Matthias’ report said she hit the rock wall on the Gauntlet this morning. 

I cross my own arms and smile at her patiently, indulgently. 

“Um. Okay,” Hawelynn says, scrambling towards Aaric. 

When it’s just the two of us on the mat, Sloane smiles at me maliciously. “Last chance to change your mind,” she says.

“See?” Cath says, sounding almost proud as he bounds past my shields. “This one is an idiot who is about to be beaten mercilessly, but she still has a fire in her. If she makes it to Threshing, she would make any Red proud to bond her.”

I put one hand in my pocket and circle her slowly, watching her shift her weight across her hips and the balls of her feet. I come to a stop in front of her again and look her up and down, letting my expression show just how dissatisfied I am in what I see: a liability to my wing. I’ve seen my father do this exact routine a million times, been on the receiving end of it for plenty of them, and I know exactly how effective it can be. 

“You can hit me,” I instruct. 

She strikes out toward my stomach with a fist, and I catch it. Her eyes widen as I tighten my grip on her, still staring down at her like she’s the single greatest disappointment my life. 

Getting her on the mat with me required gentle goading, but getting her to stop reflexively pulling her punches will take something different. Inside of her, there’s an anger that needs stoking, an anger that will make her indomitable if she learns to control it, to harness it. As I stare down into her eyes, I wait for the fire in them to change from the strange, cold thing it is to the familiar fire, the fire of indignation and wrath that I first saw in the hallway before Dasha Fabrren nearly beat her to death. 

That’s the fire I want, the one she needs. 

“Let go of me,” she hisses, trying to tug her hand away. 

“Or what?”

“Let. Go,” she growls. 

“No, I don’t think I will,” I say, tugging her towards the middle of the mat. She stumbles after me, spluttering angry, half-formed expletives. When I do finally let go, once we reach the middle of the floor, she trips and barely manages to catch herself. 

I turn back to her, and she rubs her wrist as we glare at each other. “Rude,” she snarls, and I can see the first sparks of it, her hate-fire, her anger, coming to life. 

Good.

Her eyes flick toward the bench where the other First Years are now seated, watching in horror as their squadmate and wingleader bicker across the mat.

I clap my hands together and point at her feet, which are well placed beneath her. She has excellent posture. It’s the posture of the bejeweled noblewomen Violet and I used to make fun of at parties: straight back, haughty neck, diminutive shoulders. “Let’s talk about your stance,” I say. 

She glances down at her feet. “I’m not in my—”

I cuff her ear with an open hand, and she jerks backward in shock. “So, that was a learning experience,” I tell her. “Do not ever let your opponent distract you during a fight. The second you step on this mat, they’re nothing but your enemy.”

She sneers, dropping into a defensive stance. “If you want to fight me, then fight me, Dain. Tricks are beneath you.”

“I’m shocked and maybe a little flattered to hear that you think anything might be beneath me,” I reply, stepping backwards as she pivots her body and kicks out at my hip. Her eyes burn. 

There she is, I think, relieved. 

“I’ve developed an unhealthy, begrudging respect for you,” she grunts. Sloane sees that her kick won’t land where she wants it to and snaps her leg backwards again, aiming for the space where my head was a second ago. I’m faster than her, but the disparity isn’t as pronounced as most of the people in the room might have assumed; I hear a gasp of surprise from over by the benches. “That’s probably why Imogen sent you to do her dirty work.” 

“I was operating under the assumption that she just wants to watch me take a beating from a First Year.”

“Two things can be true at once.” She lets her foot land on the floor, then rears it backwards, trying to drive her heel into my solar plexus with a disturbing amount of force. 

I blink and only just manage to catch it before it crushes one or more of my ribs. 

“That was decent,” I grunt at her, gripping her ankle. It should be decent. It’s a kick I recognize from watching Aaric spar, which means it came from one of the best combat masters in Navarre. “Why haven’t I seen that on the mat yet, Mairi?”

“I was saving it for a special occasion,” she says, hopping on one foot, her body angled away from mine.

She doesn’t stumble, does nothing that might indicate she’s uncomfortable with being balanced on one leg, the other being held at chest height in an awkwardly obtuse angle. 

“I assume you see what you did wrong,” I say. I wait for her response, which doesn’t come. The only indication that she’s heard me is the malevolent glare on her face. “This is the part where you say, ‘Yes, Wingleader Aetos, I see where I went wrong.’” I wait again, for several long seconds. When she still doesn’t reply, I hum in annoyance, then push her leg upwards, over my head, and flip her onto the floor. 

She lands on her shoulder with a muffled groan.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, pausing as she howls and rolls to one side, clutching her arm.

“No.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I suggest you get up. Unless you intend to yield.” I laugh at the expression on her face. “No?”

“You know for a fucking fact that I’m not going to.”

“I do,” I agree. “You know, it’s not like you to lead with a kick, Sloane,” I note as I stroll to the other side of the mat, waiting for her to stumble onto her feet. “I guess you can be taught.”

After several short, thin breaths, she lunges off of the mat, coming at me with white-knuckled fists. I leave my face unguarded and let her land two jabs to my jaw with her full weight behind them, but I block both of the elbows she throws: one at my eye socket, the other at my throat. My head spins as she pushes me backward, kicking her shin into my stomach twice in quick succession, then lunges again, wrapping her hands around the nape of my neck and pulling my body into the knee that she has angled at my groin.

I push her away before it makes impact, huffing air.

“Don’t let me hit you,” she demands. She pounces at me again, fists pounding into any part of me she can reach; I let most of the blows land, blocking only the worst of them. “It won’t feel as good if I know you’re not fighting back.”

“You want me to fight back?” I clarify. 

She kicks out at me, and I smack her foot away. 

“Sloane,” I say sharply. Her eyes fly to mine, brimming with anger. She looks like she’s burning from the inside out, her skin flushed and glossy. “You want me to fight back?”

“More than anything.” She smiles, and the way she’s grinning is the way a dragon grins right before it opens its maw and blasts a goat with fire.

She comes toward me at a running crouch, her head on course to collide with my hip. I know, because I know exactly how she fights, that she is trying to take me down to the ground, and I suspect it’s so she can start pounding her fist into my face the same way Fabrren did to her: in a retributive fashion. I angle my shoulders underneath hers, grab her by the knee of her right leg and tilt her backwards. She goes to the mat on her back, then slings her thigh over my hip, her fist following; a brutal right hook connects with the side of my head as she rolls her body over mine. Once she’s seated, straddling my waist, she pulls back her fist and slams it into my nose. 

There’s a sharp glint in her eye, and in the pallid, late-night mage lights and shadows of the sparring room, she looks nearly colorless: white-gold hair, sky-blue eyes almost closer to grey. First-Year pale. She looks like Dunne, I think, with her fist drawn back and ready to fly. Not even a second after the thought occurs to me, she punches me in the nose a second time, then lands two more hard smacks to my cheekbone before I roll her off to one side. 

Her shoulder doesn’t even hit the mat. She tears to her feet, and I throw myself up onto mine. In a show of good faith, I land a jab, then fake a kick and use the opening it creates to land an uppercut to her stomach. I don’t follow the punch through, snapping my fist back quickly; I don’t throw my full weight behind it.

Nevertheless, she crumples to the ground, curling into herself, and I flinch.

“Shit,” I murmur, shocked. I hadn’t meant to hit her that hard; I’d meant for it to be glancing blow at best. I squat down beside her, crouching next to her feet. “Sloane, do you want to stop?” I ask gently, reaching out to rub her shoulder as ragged breaths cut through her chest. “You don’t have to yield. We can just call it a day.”

She looks small, crumpled on the floor. She’s been getting stronger with each passing week, but she doesn’t look it now. 

She shouldn’t be here, I think to myself. She should be married to some Tyrrish noble, swanning around the ballroom of a stately palace wearing forty layers of Deverelli silk and jewels the size of my fist.

She deserves nothing less.

My hand makes contact with her shoulder, and I—

Sloane strikes, seizing my wrist and kicking her leg out against my stomach again, then wrenching me across the mat as if she wants to rip my shoulder from its socket. I lie sprawled across her, dazed.

How quickly I forgot that Sloane is not who she was raised to be, but who she was predestined to be: a thing of fists and fury.  

And in underestimating her, maybe I’ve just proven that I am Navarrian, through and through. They raised her to be soft, but she was always meant to be strong. They raised me to be weak, mindless, obedient. Maybe I was born to be that, but maybe Sloane had a point when she said I could choose to be someone else? Maybe I could learn to question, to think, to become better than the thing I was bred into?

“What was that first lesson again, wingleader?” she growls between lungfuls of air. “Something about not letting your enemies distract you with cheap tricks, wasn’t it?” 

I scowl at her in response, and the sight of it seems to give her genuine delight.

“You’ve been pulling your fucking punches this whole time, you godsdamned hypocrite,” she prods, fisting her hands in my shirt to try to roll me onto my back again. She still looks like she wants to punch me in the face until I stop moving, and I grapple with her, shoving her hands down to her sides and holding them there.

Sweat beads on her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed. She takes thick gasps of air into her lungs, her eyes dark and expression sanguinary.

She is beautiful always, but she looks distressingly lovely when she is mad like this, writhing underneath me as I pin her wrists to the mat. It suddenly occurs to me that, in any other situation, with almost any other woman in the Riders Quadrant and without the audience that’s currently watching, this would be a very pleasant way to end a sparring session. In fact, I have ended sparring sessions like this, or more accurately, in this position, albeit with both sets of sparring pants hastily pushed down and the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. The thought is disturbing, and I try to shake it from my head as I lean toward her, letting her wrists go.

“I’m not,” I promise her.   

Her lips part, and she takes another shallow breath. “Liar,” she hisses.

“Sloane, I’m not—”

Before I can finish that thought, she reaches out and slaps me in the face.

For a second, I’m too shocked to do or say anything. We stare at each other, and her eyes widen as if she can’t believe she just did that, as if she’s suddenly realized the implications of slapping her wingleader in the face in front of half the quadrant. Across the room, I hear a snort, then whispering.

The rich, bright flame behind Sloane’s eyes goes out.

“Shit,” she hisses. “I’m sorry, Dain. I didn’t mean to—”

I bark out a laugh, and in my head, I can hear Cath laughing, too.

Well, it’s his version of a laugh, anyway, which is a disturbing noise that sounds like rumbling thunder.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares. “I have decided that I do like her, after all. She is stupid, of course, but very entertaining.”

Her brows draw together as I roll off of her. I kneel beside her, opening my mouth and rotating my jaw to try and get feeling back into my face. I laugh again at the look of confusion she’s wearing, which makes her pout in a way that’s uniquely adorable. It’s not a mocking expression, but one of genuine discontent.

“Something is seriously wrong with you, Aetos,” she informs me. Then she smiles at me, genuine and unreserved, and it's the most incredible, unbelievable thing I've ever seen. 

“I know.” I get to my feet and hold my hand out to her with no doubt in my mind that she’ll bat it away again. She stares at it for a second, then takes it and lets me pull her to her feet. “Don’t do that,” I say absentmindedly as she lets go of my hand and stumbles over to the water skin I discarded on the mat, still panting. 

“Do what?” she asks, unscrewing the cap and gulping its entire contents down. Some of it spills over her lips and down her neck, disappearing beneath the thin singlet soaked with sweat that she wears beneath her armored corset. Once it’s empty, she glances at the water skin and seems to realize it’s mine, not hers. Her nose crinkles, and she drops it like she’s been scalded and wipes at her face and neck self-consciously.

“Don’t trust anyone else to help you up off the mat,” I explain. “You always let your opponent help you up. Stop doing that.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “If you don’t want me to accept your help, then why do you keep thrusting your hand in my face like an imbecile?”

“During your challenges,” I grit out through my teeth, and I make a show of rolling my eyes back at her. 

“Got it,” she says sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest. “We live in an upside-down world now, where you’re the only honorable and trustworthy person around and the only help I should accept off the mat is yours. Noted.”  

I cross my arms. “I already clarified that I meant—”

She turns her back to me, deftly unlacing her corset and throwing it to the side, to the floor. I blink when she turns to face me again, fanning at her flushed, sweaty face with her hand, then realize I’m effectively staring at her chest and quickly tear my eyes up to hers. She’s smirking, and for a moment I think it’s because she caught me looking at—

“I want my dagger,” she says, holding out her hand.

“This wasn’t a challenge,” I reply, “and I don’t have any daggers with me.” 

She contemplates for a second, then shrugs. “I’ll come get it from you some time,” she says as she walks toward me, arms still crossed. She stops and tips her head back, looking up into my eyes. There’s a fresh bruise becoming faintly visible on her jaw, four rings in her left ear. When she first got here, there was one earring in each. She’s started wearing kohl around her eyes like some of the other female riders do, and it makes them starker, bluer. I allow myself the opportunity to observe her lazily, cataloging the changes in her face, her body. She stares at me defiantly while I study.

Hair has fallen out of her braid. My fingers tingle as I watch it flutter in the breeze. 

“You can come visit me anytime you like, Sloane,” I tell her, smiling politely. “You’ll be leaving empty-handed, though, because this wasn’t a fucking challenge. This was practice. You don’t get daggers for practice sessions.”

“Curfew,” Imogen bellows, smacking her hand against the wall. I nearly jump out of my skin. “You, get the fuck out,” she says, pointing at a Second Year. “You too, Iodona. There’s a wingleader present, so everybody should at least try to pretend they’re going to bed as they leave.”

For the past ten minutes, the room was as small as the two of us, and now it is uncomfortably vast and overcrowded.

“Sloane,” Aaric calls out. She turns her head and smiles at him, a genuine smile. “Coming?”

She smiles at me as she backs away, and it almost looks like it could be genuine, too. “I’ll see you soon, Aetos. Fair warning: I want the prettiest dagger you have.” 

I collect my things—my towel, my empty water skin. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I leave, because I feel strange. Disembodied, perhaps. Embarrassed, maybe. Outside, the air is cool on my sweaty skin.

-----

Within minutes, I run into Sloane by the main door of the dragon rotunda with Aaric, Hawelynn and a marked Third Year from First Wing who’s got his hand stretched out in front of her, fire cupped in his palm. I recognize it instantly for what it is: flirting, showing off. This is how fire wielders reel in unsuspecting First Years and wine-softened healers and middling scribes they meet at the pub, who are the only people impressed by such a rudimentary use of a rudimentary signet.

His expression is covetous, and I wonder if he’s looking at her like that because of who she is and how she acts, all sportive smiles and vengeful bluster, or because she’s Sloane Mairi, supposedly the most notorious woman in Tyrrendor.

Sloane holds his relic-marked wrist in one hand, and in the other she holds two sticks of rolled churam, their tips nestled in the small, controlled flame. She doesn’t even look over her shoulder as I approach, and I can hear a smile in her voice still that makes my steps falter. “When I said I’ll see you soon, I didn’t mean quite this soon, Aetos.”

Hawelynn starts, spots me and slips through the door, into the shadows. 

Aaric gives me a noncommittal grimace.

“That,” I say, stepping to Sloane’s side, “is not allowed.”

Sloane looks up at me and rolls her eyes. “It isn’t?” she says sarcastically. She puts one of the sticks in her mouth, inhales, then blows a cloud of smoke toward me as the fire wielder slinks away, following Hawelynn. “Could you go get the Codex and point me to the specific section that covers that? I must have missed it.”

She hands the other stick to Aaric, who takes two long drags, watching both of us with a vague sense of intrigue. 

He’s standing so close to Sloane that their bare shoulders are brushing against each other, and her discarded corset is hooked around one of his fingers by the laces. After a moment of meaningful silence, Sloane turns to look up at him, a prince of Navarre, and subtly nods her head. 

Immediately, he moves away. 

“I could punish you,” I tell her, leaning against the wall. “You keep handing me reasons to punish you. Wandering around where you shouldn’t be. Doing things you shouldn’t be doing.” 

She grins. Apparently, her anger is fully sated for the night, and now she’s practically purring, her body lax and curled towards mine. “You could punish me, but you won’t,” she insists. “Your guilt has made you complacent when it comes to me; remember? I believe those were your exact words.”

“I believe I also said that would no longer be the case.”

“Well, before you decide whether or not to punish me, wingleader, you should know that this is medicinal,” she says, innocently batting her eyelashes at me. My face still stings, my skin hot where she slapped me. “It helps me sleep. Maybe you could use some, too?”

“First, let me disabuse you of the idea that I will ever fall for your innocent act again, Mairi. I’m dumb, but I’m not that dumb.” She grins, her eyes savoring what I can only assume is the handprint on my cheek that’s an exact match for hers. “Secondly, there are other ways. Less forbidden ways. Sleeping tonics, for example,” I suggest. 

“Well, I prefer this way,” she says simply. 

“Enjoy it while you can,” I advise. “Imogen just lost a bet, so you won’t be getting churam from her anymore.”

Sloane raises an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth twitches. “I see,” she says, her tone infinitely serious. “Well, that’s… good to know.” She rolls the stick between her fingers, contemplative, then seems to make up her mind about something.

About me, maybe.

As she does, she holds the stick of rolled churam out towards me, eyes sparkling in challenge.

“Do not touch that,” Cath snarls. 

I barely hesitate, pulling up my shields before taking it from her. Her face curls into an expression of unadulterated delight as my fingers brush hers. “Dain Aetos, you’re so naughty,” she whispers, leaning back against the wall beside me. She turns her head and watches me with an expression I can’t name. It’s not anger, or begrudging respect or outright hatred; that’s all I know.

The taste of churam is familiar, sweet and herbal; I haven’t tasted it in years, but it’s immediately recognizable, as recognizable as the taste of apples or bread or honey.

The first time I tasted it, I was fourteen years old, sitting by a lake with Mira; I spluttered for ten minutes after my first inhale. 

“This is nice,” Sloane says, pressing her head back against the stones, studying me as I tip mine back and breathe in. I tilt my face towards her and raise an eyebrow, blowing out a torrent of smoke. “Well, not nice, but it’s a vast improvement on, ‘I’m Dain Aetos, wingleader of Fourth Wing, and as a wingleader, it’s my solemn responsibility, given that I am a wingleader, to do what a wingleader needs to do. Codex, Codex, blah, blah, blah.’” 

“That sounds nothing like me.”

She smirks. “That sounds exactly like you.”

I shrug, take another drag. I hand it back to her, and my fingers brush hers again. Where our skin makes contact, mine burn cold. “So, how long are you going to keep pretending you hate me?” I ask, feigning ambivalence. “Your commitment to the bit has been flagging lately, Mairi. I was expecting more from you.” 

“No pretense,” she assures me. She reaches over and brushes a piece of ash from my cheek—just left of her handprint, I’d hazard—and I feel myself flush under her touch. I grab her wrist and look at it pointedly. “No pretense,” she insists again, softer this time, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. 

It’s such a vague, confusing statement. I don’t ask her to refine it.

“You keep touching me,” I say instead.

“You keep touching me,” she counters, looking at my hand wrapped around her forearm. She licks her lips, then reaches up to pluck away a piece of ash on her tongue, the stick of churam still tucked daintily between her slender, graceful fingers. It’s remarkable, really, how she can make anything, even smoking illicit substances, look sophisticated and lovely. “We keep touching each other, I guess.”

“Why?”

She tuts as she turns the stick and holds it out to me, then watches me intently as I place it between my lips. Her eyes feel like they’re caressing my face, and I feel unwieldy under her gaze, like all of my limbs are too long for my body and all of my features are wrong. “You’re touch starved, remember?” she whispers.

Her fingers twitch like they’re about to knot into the fabric of my shirt again, and I think of how her wrists felt wrapped in mine, how it currently feels to have my hand wrapped around her forearm. Unwittingly, I have been stroking the small round protrusion of her ulna with my thumb in the way I used to stroke the same spot on Violet’s arm.

They’re such small wrists, birdlike. Delicate as Violet’s, but also not. Surprisingly strong. Her pulse skitters against my palm, proud but fast.

“You have very soft skin,” I think out loud, and I regret it instantly.

Her eyes flare again. That strange cold fire is back, but I don’t find it as offensive and foreign as I did on the mat. I stare at her face and try desperately to define it. Part of me thinks it could be sentiment or something like it, which is insane.

Could it be…?

No.

Except, the way she’s looking at me could almost be…

Impossible.

“Maybe I am touch-starved.” I hold the stick of churam out in front of her face, but when she moves to take it between her fingers, I pull it away, taunting her. “Although, after the Gauntlet, you were the one who started touching me. You kicked me with your boot. You knocked me with your shoulder. You touched my wrist.” 

“Interesting, for you of all people to be complaining about someone touching you without permission.”

“Not a complaint. I never said you didn’t have my permission, either.” I hand her the churam, but she doesn’t lift it to her lips. The air between us is cloying, and not just because of the sweet-smelling smoke that lingers. I tell myself that I should go, but I don’t. “Merely an observation,” I murmur.

“Well, maybe I’m touch starved, too,” she suggests quietly. 

I nod towards Aaric, or towards the glowing ember at the end of his rolled stick of churam, at least, which is all that’s visible of him and located on the other side of the courtyard. “You and Greycastle seem very cuddly,” I tell her. I’m still holding her wrist, although I’ve lowered it so that it’s pressed against my chest. “He’s holding onto your corset as we speak. I’m sure he’d touch you if you asked him to.”

“We’re friends,” she replies, her tone almost defensive. “Just friends.”

“Good,” I find myself saying.

Somehow, we’ve stumbled into a strange series of long, languid moments not unlike the ones that come before a kiss, where the air is thick with inevitability. I stare at her full mouth, then drag my eyes away.

I’m thinking farfetched thoughts; I’m high, I reason, and everything has become hazy and confusing. My brain isn’t processing anything the way it should be. That’s the only rational explanation for the fact that I might be thinking about kissing Sloane Mairi, who is my cadet, mere minutes after she slapped me in front of a quarter of my wing. The fact that she is also high is the only rational explanation for the fact that she looks like she would let me kiss her, like she almost wants me to kiss her.

I should walk away. I should walk away before I make a terrible mistake.

“You hate me,” I prompt.

She nods. “I hate you,” she says half-heartedly.

For some inexplicable reason, I think of the way she looked with her cheeks flushed, staring at my blood on the pad of her thumb, mouth gently parted and breathing hitched. I think of the warmth of her finger pressed against my bleeding lip.

I think of every time she has ever told me to go fuck myself, several of which have occurred in the last hour.

I think of her weight straddling my waist.

I think of her brother and how I am complicit in his death.

I think of how her fingers felt wrapped around my wrist; how small they looked encircling it; how even when I washed my hands that day, after the Gauntlet and even after the interrogation room, I left the ring of her dried blood intact, let it crust away slowly over the course of several hours. 

I don’t know why I did that, and I don’t know that I’m ready to guess at why I did it, either.

“Sloane,” I begin, and I have no idea what else I intend to say. My lips part, but nothing comes out.

She takes a tiny, imperceptible step towards me, and I see a flash of a memory, a memory of Violet tied to a chair and covered in bruises. Guilt coils inside of me, cutting through the haze. What am I doing? I think. What the fuck is wrong with me? This is inappropriate, and wrong, and unfair, and—

I drop Sloane’s hand, and her brow knits.

“Don’t tell me you’ve started without me,” Imogen trills, but I don’t turn my head until Sloane pushes herself off of the wall, meeting her a few paces away.

As Sloane steps away and the cloud of churam begins to dissipate, I breathe a sigh of relief.

I have the strangest feeling creeping over me that I have fucked something up monumentally tonight, but I have no idea what or how, because my brain is sluggish, groggy, addled.

“Aetos was just telling me about your bet,” Sloane says, looping her arm through Imogen’s and turning her around, walking them both deeper into the darkness towards Aaric and the dais. She glances at me once over her shoulder as she goes, eyes burning with… something.

Is it the indescribable something, or the other something? Is the fire in her eyes hot or cold? 

It’s too dark, and she’s too far away to tell.

Cath makes a rumbling noise somewhere in my hindbrain, battering through my shields. He sounds far away, distant. Quieter than usual. “Remember last year, when your former wingleader rolled the lightning wielder around on the mat in front of the entire quadrant under the guise of a teaching exercise?” he says very slowly and patiently, the way I explained entropy in thermodynamics to him as it applies to dragonfire. Unsurprisingly, he found the explanation pointless and redundant, because that is what he finds most of the things I say to be. “Remember how you were the most vocal complainant? Yet here you are, not even one year later, pawing at your own cadet in front of half your quadrant. Ironic.”  

I scoff out loud, but I don’t deny it.

It would probably be pointless and redundant.

-----

Two days later, there’s a gentle knock at my door well past curfew. When I open it, Sloane stands on the other side, a stick of churam held between her fingers. My entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. There isn’t enough time to protest before she’s slipping past me into the room, and by the time I close the door and turn to face her, she’s pawing through the daggers I keep in the drawer of my desk. 

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

She turns and looks at me over her shoulder, grinning. More specifically, she grins at my chest, then quickly turns back around. “What does it look like I’m doing, Aetos? You owe me a dagger, and I’m here to collect.”

I glare at the stick of churam between the fingers of the hand not currently rifling through my things. “Where did you get that?”

“Not from Imogen,” she declares. “It might interest you to know that Imogen has never, not once, given me anything, either in exchange for currency or out of the goodness of her heart. Next time you make a bet with her, you should probably check that she’s actually, y’know, wagering something.” She picks up a knife, discards it. “As it stands, you won the bet, but she got the pleasure of watching me slap the shit out of you while you get… well, nothing. I just came from Bodhi’s room, by the way. Apparently, I’m not allowed to go into Imogen’s for a month?” She pauses. “Bodhi’s room is bigger and usually clean, it turns out. Not really a sacrifice on Imogen’s part. If anything, I think she’s been looking for an excuse to move us out of her domain and into his.” 

I rub my jaw with the palm of my hand. “You’re not smoking that, Sloane. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Well, if your foot is down,” she says sarcastically. She doesn’t look at me, too busy sorting through my daggers. She picks another one up and examines it, then tosses it back into the drawer with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not for me, Aetos,” she clarifies, dropping it onto the desk beside the strap of leather that I pray she doesn’t recognize as hers. I’ve taken to using it as a bookmark for all the books I’m not actually reading. 

“What?”

“It’s for you,” she says. She jumps, sucks in a breath and shakes her finger; then she brings it to her lips and sucks on it. When I step forward, she angles her body away from mine, still suckling at what I assume is a cut. “When Imogen told me about the bet you two made, I felt bad for you; I felt like you should get something for your efforts. I did give you a black eye, after all.”

“Let me see that,” I insist, reaching for her hand, but she won’t let me touch her. “What makes you think—”

“I can tell you’re not sleeping, Dain,” she says, interrupting. It’s almost like she’s determined not to let me speak, not to make eye contact, not to get too close. She picks up a dagger and holds it to the mage light by the desk, then hums. The knife she’s holding is indisputably the prettiest of them all, the most valuable. There are Tyrrish emeralds and other gems embedded in the hilt.

She tucks it into a holster wrapped around her thigh, a replacement for the one she left on my bed; I don’t complain, though it’s probably worth more than all the others combined. I’d already picked it out for her, I think, in my head.

“Let me see your hand,” I plead.

“You look like shit,” she tells me as she turns back around, already leaving. Ignoring me. I don’t want her to go back to ignoring me, but it feels like that would be a weird thing for a wingleader to say to their cadet, which is what she is and all she is ever supposed to be. I don't want to analyze why, exactly, I don’t want her to go back to ignoring me; I don’t want to examine the confusing compulsions that squeeze at me when I am looking at her. I don’t want to consider whether I am having these feelings for her, or for her as a proxy for Violet, because I fear the answer may not be flattering.

And most of all, I don’t want to allow myself even a kernel of hope that she might reciprocate these complicated, messy feelings.

“Sloane, the other night—”

“Try it, and if it doesn’t work, you can go back to the sleeping tonics you’re clearly not taking, either,” she says, talking over me. “Or don’t sleep. Whatever. I honestly don’t care, either way.”

“Sloane, we should talk about the other night,” I mutter, following behind her.

Sloane opens the door and pauses in the doorframe. She knocks her knuckle against it once, twice. “You should ward this,” she says.

“Ward it?”

She doesn’t answer, because she’s already gone.

Chapter 10: K-I-S-S-I-N-G

I can already hear you calling me pathetic, but this is the only way I can think of to say everything I need to say to you. You can bring me to my knees in a way no one else has ever been able to, and the idea of saying these words to your impassive face while your eyes stare directly into my soul, expressing the many layers of your disappointment, makes me want to throw myself off the fucking parapet.

I am an inherently weak and selfish creature, and that is the first thing I need to apologize for, because these flaws in my character are the root of all the suffering that I have wrought. The second, more important thing I want to apologize for is that I ever had any part in hurting you or someone you love. And in fact, that sentiment doesn’t even begin to express the depth of what I feel.

It also feels like an understatement to say that I am ashamed of my role in Liam’s death, but I am. I am so full of shame that I am choking on it, always.

It seems like a particularly cruel irony, that my signet dooms me to a lifetime of reliving the past through the memories of others, because no matter how much of the past I can see, I will never be able to change it.

-RECOVERED, UNSENT CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET DAIN AETOS

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Late September

 

On the eve of Presentation Day, Sorrengail delivers Liam’s seventh letter to me in person, thrusting it at me as she looms over the table I’m seated at in the Archives. Which is an impressive feat, really, given that her stature doesn’t exactly lend itself to looming. 

I blink at her, shocked and a little thrown by her sudden appearance. It’s not unusual for us to exchange Liam’s letters in person, but it is unusual for her to track me down. Usually, she makes me scurry around the quadrant like an idiot, looking for her. Not to mention, this—unless I’ve somehow gotten my weeks mixed up, which I very much doubt—is the weekend she’s due to go to Samara, so it’s extra weird that she’s standing over me.

“You’re not at dinner,” she says tersely, glaring at me. 

“No shit,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t hungry and I need to catch up on stuff. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

In fact, why am I explaining myself?

She sighs petulantly. “I’ve been looking for you for an hour, Mairi. I’m starving.”

“Sorry I didn’t realize I needed to make myself available to you, Sorrengail,” I retort. “You usually give Liam’s letters to Imogen on Samara weekends, so I didn’t think to keep you apprised of my movements.”

She snorts. “Whatever,” she says, waving the folded letter at me. “I thought I’d do you a favor, do something nice. Next time, I won’t bother.”

I stare at her as she stands above me, holding the creased parchment out between us. It’s folded and wax-sealed with our family crest, like they’ve all been. So far, I’ve received them in chronological order, which means Liam must have kept them stacked like that. Sometimes I wonder if he would have given them to me all at once or one week at a time, the way Sorrengail does. 

My hands remain fisted on the table. 

“Take it,” she snaps, waving it at me. She’s visibly pissed, but she manages to keep her voice more or less even, if not slightly defeated, as she says, “I’m hungry and tired, and the sooner this is dealt with, the sooner I can go eat something and crawl into my bed.” 

I almost don’t want to take it from her, and I don’t really know why. 

Except, I do know why, I think, chastising myself. I know exactly why I don’t want to take it. It’s a letter from my dead brother, and lately—this week, namely—I have been having very convoluted, disloyal feelings for the person who’s responsible for his death.

My brow knits as I stare at it; I worry at my tooth with my tongue.

“Don’t start,” she insists. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I wasn’t going to start anything,” I tell her, scowling. “I’m just not used to you doing anything that might make my life easier, Sorrengail, and I was thinking that it’s a delightful and very unexpected departure from you being a constant pain in my ass. Calm down.”

“Why are you here?” 

I shrug, glancing around the mostly empty chamber. “I find the oppressive quiet soothing.”

“You know what? I’m sorry I asked.” She drops Liam’s letter on the table, between the pages of the Tactics textbook I’m reading. “Are you ready for Presentation Day?” she asks, her tone and expression both curt, impassive. 

“Were you?”

She smiles wryly. “No,” she admits, turning to leave. 

“I have something for you,” I tell her before she can go. “Something for Xaden, actually. I was hoping you could take it with you to Samara, in case…” I stop before I can say the following words: in case I die in the coming days and don’t get a chance to deliver it myself. “It’s not heavy or anything that could, like, get you in trouble. I wouldn’t ask, but I—I spent a lot of time working on it, and I—”

She narrows her strange, insipid eyes. They’re the kind of eyes that can look right through a person, and I detest how much having them trained on me makes me want to fidget. On the table, I curl my hands into fists. 

“What is it?” she asks, impatient. 

I blush. “I just… um, embroidered something for him,” I mumble. 

In fact, after remembering Bodhi’s sorry excuse for embroidery (on the handkerchief he left on the bed in Imogen’s room the night they told me about Resson, an insult to the entire concept of stitching), I’ve spent most of my restless evening hours this week embroidering family crests into various things in an agreeably numb, churam-induced haze: the Durran crest, the Cardulo crest, the Riorson crest. It’s become the most pleasant panacea for my Gauntlet-related stress, now that I can’t step onto the sparring mat without thinking of how much my traitorous body enjoyed Dain Aetos pinning me to it. 

My foster mom always said that idle hands make for faithless thoughts, so I’ve been finding new and inventive ways to keep mine busy. Ways that don’t make me feel like I’m about to burst into cold, all-consuming flame.  

“You embroidered something?” she repeats, arching one brow. 

I blush again. “You must be leaving soon; right? If I go get it, can you take it with you to Samara?”

“I’m not going to Samara,” she mutters, turning away from me and glowering at a nearby shelf like her continued presence at Basgiath is something it’s responsible for. “I’ll be in the Shedrick Woods with Third Wing doing an evasion exercise so that my entire squad doesn’t get a big, fat zero.” 

“Oh, shit,” I murmur. “That fucking sucks.”

She hesitates, clearly surprised to hear me commiserating any inconvenience to her. Her eyes are amber as she turns back to me, but seem to turn blue as we stare at each other. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it does.”

“Well, good luck with that,” I tell her, picking up the letter and slipping it into my satchel. 

“You, too,” she says, crossing her arms. “Good luck tomorrow.”

We both wave at Jesinia as she approaches, and her eyes seem to light up with genuine delight at the sight of us together. Her hood has slipped off of her head, and the mage lights burnish her long brown hair and tawny skin. The tower of books clutched against her chest tilts recklessly to one side as she waves back, bustling past. 

Quickly as she came, she disappears between the stacks.

“Weird question, but was she, like, dating my brother or something?” I ask Sorrengail, staring at the spot where she was. “The first time I came to the Archives, she looked like she’d seen a ghost, then made a huge deal out of telling me how sorry she was for my loss. I could barely keep up with her, she was signing so fast. Plus, she’s, like, weirdly nice to me whenever I come here to study. One time she caught me eating and let me off with a warning, and then the next week I saw her ban someone for two months for bringing in food.”

Sorrengail laughs. “I bet that warning was still the scolding of your life.”

“It was incredibly polite, but somehow that made it worse,” I say, watching Jesinia reemerge and race towards another stack, frantically preparing the Archives for closure. “I’m pretty sure even my ancestors felt a crushing sense of shame at the way she gently berated me for violating the sanctity of the library.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like Jesinia.” Sorrengail sighs. She uncrosses her arms and taps her index finger against the desk, thoughtful. “They weren’t dating, but there was some light flirtation. You know what he was like,” she adds, crinkling her nose.

“Yeah, I do,” I reply, thinking of the trail of broken hearts my brother tended to leave behind him. I know better than you, actually. “He wasn’t always a shameless flirt, though,” I tell her, turning back to my book. I place my bookmark between the pages, then close it and stand, putting it beside the letter in my satchel and swinging the bag over my shoulder. 

To my surprise, Sorrengail walks beside me to the exit, a wistful expression on her face. “He wasn't?”

“Before the apostasy, he was a hopeless romantic. When we were kids, there was this summer where he fell madly in love with our neighbor, Sylvie. We’re talking truly, deeply in love. Pining. Moping. He used to pick flowers from the garden for her, save her little cakes and things. He made her wood carvings of her ugly, yappy dog.” I laugh. “He’d sit and sulk, watching her house from the balcony, if our governess wouldn’t let him go out and see her.”

Sorrengail laughs, too. “So, what happened to Sylvie?”

I give her a sly smile. “I caught her kissing the baker’s son after the maypole ceremony on summer solstice,” I say. 

She gasps. “You’re kidding!”

“And I told her that when I grew up and bonded a dragon, the first thing I’d do was fly back to Benserac and roast her and her stupid mutt.” I grin wider, remembering my own childish indignation. “Her family put their house up for lease pretty soon after that, moved to Morraine. I guess they weren’t willing to stick around and find out how long I can hold a grudge.”

“That was probably a wise move on their part,” Sorrengail says, cocking one brow as she studies me. “Your grudge-holding is legendary. Poor Liam must have been heartbroken, though.”

“He was,” I say. “Until he fell head-over-heels in love with Vanda, our other neighbor.”

Sorrengail shakes her head, smiling softly. “Sounds so different to the Liam I knew,” she murmurs, reflective and mournful. “I wonder what changed?”

It hurts to see how much he meant to her, this stranger who shared the last year of his life with him, this stranger who held him in his dying moments. Selfishly, it feels like she has stolen something from me by loving him, and I know it’s an irrational feeling, but I can’t tamp it down.

A vivid memory of his smile sends pain spearing through my heart.

“The world changed,” I answer, and I watch her face fall. “We all had to change with it.”

Sorrengail and I hesitate in the door of the library. Students of all quadrants stream past us in a steady drip, avoiding us even though we’re in the center of the walkway. Most keep their eyes downcast, but some look at us with interest and awe.

I’m used to a certain kind of deference, but nothing more than what is socially acceptable for someone of my birth. My parents might have been apostates, rebels, but before that, they were part of the aristocracy, and even after their death I was treated with all the respect due to a noblewoman. Being treated like something different, something other and exceptional, has always been an uncomfortable but unavoidable fact of my life, and I learned to adjust from a young age. 

What I’m not used to is any deferential treatment towards me stemming from a sense of fear or admiration, to being treated like I earned differentiation.

I shift uncomfortably in the face of what feels a lot like stolen valor, my shoulders curling slightly inward. They think I’m a rider based on my appearance, my clothes, but I haven’t bonded a dragon yet and might never. I’m not owed special treatment by anyone. 

“It must have been hard on you,” Sorrengail says, her tone almost solicitous. “The… apostasy, I mean, must have been hard on you.”

You think? I want to say to her.

Instantly, I recognize that she sees this conversation as me warming up to her, an opportunity to be seized. 

Standing across from her under the stone archway at the entrance to the Archives, I look at her objectively for the first time since Parapet, since before I discovered who she was. I try to see her the way the passing students must see her. She’s beautiful, I think, dressed from head to toe in rider black. She’s uncommonly beautiful, unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before, with her distinctive hair, ineffable eyes and tiny, lithesome body. 

She’s disarmingly confident, too, which brings with it its own kind of beauty. I can’t imagine her ever harboring a single doubt that she belongs here.

For the first time, I see what Dain must have seen in her. 

I hate it, and I hate how much I hate it, too; I shouldn’t care.

“I’ll get Imogen to bring you that thing for Xaden in case I die tomorrow,” I tell her, satisfied to see her face crumple before I turn away, towards the burn pit. “Have fun with your evasion exercise, or whatever.”

-----

Visia and Baylor are—predictably—bickering as I approach. I huff a little as I climb the stairs, passing the cavernous Battle Brief classroom. My thighs ache pleasantly as I crest the top, and I’m reminded, once again, of how much stronger I have become in my time here, how much better. I hear raised voices as I slip around the side of the rooftop gazebo on which the flaming barrel of the burn pit stands and take the short flight of steps that curve down to the balcony hidden below. 

Aaric tips his head in greeting as I join them, but the other two are engrossed in their argument.

“The Dagny Alps are nicer than the Esben Mountains,” Baylor insists. 

“You’re fucking insane,” Visia snarls. 

“You have a clear view over the Emerald Sea from basically anywhere in the Dagnies, and the Esbens look out over, what, Krovla?” He tuts. “Who wants to look at Krovla? Plus, winters in the Esbens are shit.”

“No, they’re not,” Visia says as I settle at her side, leaning against the stone balustrade. She’s perched atop it, legs crossed daintily at the ankles, and it’s about the only thing I’ve ever seen her do daintily. “That’s ridiculous, Norris. You’re ridiculous. Winters in the Esbens are stunning.”

“Back me up here, Sloane.”

“I can’t do that in good conscience, Baylor,” I tell him. “Winters in the Esbens are stunning. They’re clearly the superior mountain range.”

“Ladies, the Dagny Alps are—”

“I will not dishonor my dead family by agreeing with you on this,” Visia tells him firmly. 

“You two,” Baylor says, narrowing his eyes and pointing at both of us in turn in an accusatory way, the rolled stick of churam still perched between his fingers, “are way too liberal with the dead-family card.” 

“You know, I’ve been told that before,” I say, tossing my braid over my shoulder. I drop my satchel to the ground, and it lands with a heavy pat, tipping to one side. A pot of ink rolls out of it, and I curse as I kneel to pick it up and shove it back inside the satchel’s mouth before it can topple over the side of the roof, smash on the ground several storeys below, and get us put on Archives duty for a month.

Though it’s by no means the thing I’m most looking forward to about bonding a dragon, I cannot wait for the day when I no longer need to schlep around fragile bottles of ink.

“However, the fact remains that you’re categorically wrong,” I continue as I fasten my satchel shut.

“How? How am I wrong?” He hands the churam to Aaric, who watches us with a small smile on his face and one brow raised like we’re actors in a play, an entertainment that’s been put on just for his pleasure. “You’re only siding with the Esbens because they’re closer to Tyrrendor.”

“If that were my motivation, I wouldn’t be siding with the Esbens at all,” I say, standing and straightening out my braid. “I’d be making the argument that the Cliffs of Dralor are the prettiest.”

“They aren’t mountains, and even if they were, you’re, once again, staring at Krovla.”

“I happen to think Krovla’s pretty from a distance,” I tell him. 

He makes a disgusted noise. “You’re arguing in bad faith.”

“I never argue in bad faith. I’m a Mairi.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Baylor says, turning to Aaric. “Dagnies or Esbens?”

“Or the Cliffs of Dralor,” I add.

Baylor makes an exasperated sound. “Not the Cliffs of Dralor, actually, because we’re talking about mountains.”

“Semantics,” I say, hand-waving.

“Personally, I’m partial to the western half of the Steelridge Range,” Aaric admits, laughing as the rest of us express our disapproval. Vocally. “Remind me why we’re arguing about mountain ranges?”

“Baylor loves to start arguments about stupid shit when he’s high.” I grin. “Remember when we spent forty-five minutes debating who would win in a fight between Malek, Dunne and Hedeon? We’re all going to hell for that, by the way.”

“Speak for yourself, blasphemer,” Visia says, picking at her cuticles. “I wasn’t there.”

“There was no real argument, anyway,” Baylor gripes under his breath. “It’s clearly Malek.”

Despite our close proximity to the burn pit, Visia shivers. Aaric holds the churam between his teeth as he shakes off his jacket. Not a flight jacket, because those won’t be provided to us until we make it through Threshing as bonded riders, but an expensive-looking, immaculately-tailored gambeson of bronze-colored velvet with leather straps and brass buckles. It’s a ludicrously out-of-place garment, something better suited to boozing, gambling and whoring in all the best establishments the country has to offer than a war college. 

Visia rolls her eyes as he wordlessly drapes it across her shoulders, but doesn’t remove it.  

“Aaric, what do your parents do?” I ask as he exhales. 

He frowns, leaning around Visia to pass the stick to me. “Why?”

I take it from him and put it to my lips, then shrug as I exhale. “I just don’t remember.”

“Your dad’s in the infantry or something, isn’t he?” Visia asks, curling into the mantle of his jacket as she turns to look at him. 

His brilliant emerald eyes flicker in the light of the eternal flame above us. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I thought your dad ran some kind of family business?” I say, frowning. 

“He was in the Infantry Quadrant, like most heirs are; then he joined the family business.” He makes an inscrutable gesture with his hands, something dismissive. “Why?”

“I was just thinking that that’s a really nice jacket,” I say, gesturing at it. “Fancy.”

He looks at it and makes a face of quiet unconcern. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Visia snorts, pressing her chin to her chest so she can look at the buckles. “I’m pretty sure whatever this jacket cost could have fed my whole village for a week.”

He leans back against the balustrade and crosses his arms, smirking. “To be clear, the origins of my wealth have been completely unremarkable to date, even though I’ve paid for eighty percent of the churam we’ve smoked. Now I’m fielding questions about it because of a jacket?”

“I paid for the other twenty,” I say defensively. “And I tried to pay for more, but you wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m an impoverished orphan,” Visia points out. 

“I didn’t say shit about your jacket,” Baylor tells him, patting him on the shoulder in a brotherly, conciliatory fashion. He scoffs as he steps over toward the wall and leans on it, crossing his legs at the ankles and jerking his thumb at his chest. “How come nobody ever comments on how nice my clothes are, by the way?”

“The answer to that is obvious,” Visia says, rolling her eyes. “It’s because your clothes aren’t nice.”

Baylor gives her a sarcastic smile accompanied by the finger, and we fall into a comfortable silence filled by nothing more than the crackle and snap of the burn pit echoing off of the cliff face; the hoot of an owl in a tree high above on the ridgeline; and somewhere in the distance, the quiet roar of a dragon.

I have learned to live for these moments of peace. 

“Big day tomorrow,” Aaric says after a few long minutes, grimacing as he uncrosses his arms and turns his head to the side. He looks past Visia, in the direction of the Gauntlet, then at her. She fidgets as I step away from the balustrade to lean against the wall beside Baylor, handing him the stick of churam.

From my new position against the wall, I can see that Aaric’s hand is resting beside Visia’s on the railing and that her pinky finger is splayed—stretched towards his, only a hairbreadth away from touching it.

He seems almost regretful as he stands, gesturing that Visia should hold onto his jacket for now. “I’m calling it for the night,” he announces.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” I ask. 

He nods. As he passes, he reaches out to pat my shoulder, resting his hand there for a prolonged second; I press my palm over it and smile at him, and he smiles back grimly before walking away, one hand tucked in his pocket. 

Visia watches him go with a stoic expression. 

“That was weird, right?” I ask when he’s retreated, when his footsteps no longer echo against the walls and the cliff face tucked behind us. “It’s weird how he never talks about his family.”

Visia shrugs, one hand holding the sleeve of his jacket in place and the other reaching out for the stick of churam. She jiggles her fingers impatiently as Baylor takes another drag, then hands it to her, smoke gusting from him in a long exhale. He makes a guttural noise, then turns to cough. “I don’t think Aaric is on good terms with his family,” she says, a little more defensive than she probably should be. “He probably doesn’t want to talk about them. That’s not that weird.”

I nod, worrying my tongue against my tooth again. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“I’m beat,” Baylor splutters, pounding his chest. He’s still coughing as he envelops me in a bear hug, rubbing his knuckles into my scalp. “See you in the morning, Loany.”

He turns to salute at Visia, then lopes away, leaving us alone. 

There are several beats of protracted, heavy silence. 

“Visia and Aaric, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” I sing to the stone floor beneath us, smiling triumphantly. 

“Shut up,” she insists, thrusting the rolled stick of churam towards me. 

“Your kids will have the greenest eyes in recorded history,” I say, sighing dramatically as I take it from her. I grin as I hold it to one side of my mouth, arms crossed. “I wonder if they’ll be pale green, like yours, or dark green, like his? Do you ever contemplate that while you’re staring longingly at him, being all forlorn?” She kicks my hip, hard, and I immediately feel a bruise beginning to form. My smile doesn’t falter. 

“When the challenge mat reopens, you will rue this moment,” she promises darkly. 

I skip across the short distance between us and cup her face in mine, pinching her cheeks lovingly. “Maybe I should start flirting with Lynx?” I suggest as she tries to bat me away. I crush her head to my chest in a one-armed hug, holding the churam away from her hair as she yowls like an angry cat, clawing at me. “He’s not exactly my type, but it would be so cute. The whole crew would be coupled off so nicely—Baylor and Av, Lynx and me, you and Aaric.”

“You better watch your back on the Gauntlet tomorrow, Mairi, because if I catch you, I’m pushing you off of it, and I will feel no remorse when I do.”

“No, you won't,” I trill. “You love me. Not as much as you love Aaric, but enough.”

“Unfortunately for me,” she says, snatching the churam from my hands, “I do love you.” 

“I never picked you as the crush-having type.”

“Me neither,” she says, burying her head in her hands and letting out an impotent, muffled scream. “He’s just so”—she struggles to find a suitable adjective, her mouth opening and closing to soundlessly form words, before she eventually settles on—“him.”

“He is,” I say, nodding solemnly. The heat from the burn pit tickles my face, but I’m also flushed with delight. “That’s so apt, Visia. Poetic, even.”

She tips her head back, addressing the moon as she hands the stick back to me and says, “I cannot wait until you have a crush on someone, Sloane, so I can pull this kind of shit on you.”

“I bet,” I say. 

I think of my back pressed against the sparring mat. 

I think of cold flame lapping at my insides, leaving me awash with strange and unfamiliar feelings and, more than anything, an emptiness that I don’t want to comprehend, because it’s too terrible and too much. 

I think of Dain’s head tipped back in laughter: his jaw, his neck, his throat, his teeth.

I think of how good my handprint looked stamped across his face.

I inhale a mouthful of churam and think of—

I think of Liam, who is dead.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m impervious to crushes,” I tell her. 

“Yeah?”

“Never had one,” I insist.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” she says bitterly. “I’d never had one either, and look at me now. Crushing.” 

We smoke the stick of churam all the way down to the bitter end, silent and ruminative.

-----

When we return to the girls’ bunk room, Avalynn is already fast asleep, her Physics textbook propped against her chin. She’s splayed out across the sheets, still dressed in her leathers, totally oblivious to the quiet hum of the other girls getting ready for bed. I watch her chest rise and fall with unrestrained envy for a full half-minute, because no amount of churam could get me to sleep like that these days, and I would give just about anything to experience that level of blissful slumber. 

“Was she studying?” Visia asks, staring at the scene in disbelief. 

“I guess so,” I murmur. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her open a textbook before.”

I gently remove the book from Avalynn’s hands, folding the corner of the page and putting it to one side. For a moment, I consider waking her so that she can remove her leathers, corset and various weapons holsters, but the last time I tried waking her up (for kitchen duty, liberally bestowed by Aura Beinhaven for some minor, garden-variety transgression or another I can’t actually remember), I nearly took a knife to the face; I decide she’s fine as she is. 

On the other side of the bed, Visia moves around her bunk, gathering clean clothes and her bathing things. 

For a while, I lie on my bunk reading Liam’s latest letter. I read it two times, back-to-back, quickly followed by a third; then I fold it, careful to follow the pre-existing creases, and return it to the section of my satchel where I keep the other six. Visia returns from the bathing chamber shortly after, smelling faintly medicinal in the way she always does, and I turn to say something to her that catches in my throat when she climbs into her bunk and turns her back to me. 

I try not to take it personally. She has these moments sometimes, and I remember all too well how quickly and unexpectedly I could be overcome by grief in the year after I lost my parents, in the year after Aretia burned. I quietly slip from the room and spend an hour marinating in a tepid bath, scrubbing my skin raw and thoroughly washing and conditioning my hair. 

When I return, she’s fallen into a fitful sleep, and I notice that her pillow is damp from tears.

It’s well and truly past curfew at this point, but there’s a nervous energy in the room stemming from the fact that tomorrow is Presentation Day. I occupy myself by listening to the quiet chatter and gossip of the other girls while I embroider the Mairi family crest onto a corner of my pillowcase with the needle and thread from my regulation safety kit. When the last of the candles is finally blown out and the room goes silent and still, I put my needle and thread to one side and take to staring at the slats of the bed above me. 

In spite of the churam, I can feel that sleep won’t come easy. 

Too many thoughts. 

Too many feelings. 

My mind whirs at about a million miles a minute. My heart races as I lie in my bed, listening to Avalynn’s gentle snoring and calculating the statistical odds of surviving the next few days: the Gauntlet, the parade, Threshing. 

In a week, I will either be a rider; unbonded and doomed to waste a year of my life, like Visia did; or dead.

What happens if Visia doesn’t bond a dragon at Threshing?

Why haven’t I talked to her about it? 

Will I lose another friend tomorrow?

Shit, what if I die tomorrow?

I reach behind me, pulling out the dagger that I’ve left resting beneath my pillow for the past two days, and examine it in the dim moonlight. It’s shamelessly beautiful, its hilt embedded with Tyrrish emeralds and pale, milky chalcedony that’s the exact same shade of green as Visia’s eyes. 

My foster mom was right, I think as I slip from my bed and out of the room moments later. Idle hands do make for faithless thoughts.

-----

The halls of the Third Year dorms are quiet. So quiet that, to my ears, the sound of my fist knocking against Dain’s door is like thunder booming through the hall. The lock clicks open in response, and I hesitate only briefly before pushing the door ajar and stepping cautiously into the room. 

I lean against it as I close it behind me. 

In the brief moment that I allow myself to look at him, I see that Dain is lying on the bed, on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded on his chest. It’s such an exact mirror for the way I was lying on my own bunk in the barracks that I nearly laugh, except there’s actually nothing funny about it.

“Still not warded, huh?” I ask the ceiling.

In my peripheral vision, I see him turn his head towards me. “What the fuck are these wards you keep talking about?” he says, and though his tone is sharp, stern, there’s a gentle smile detectable in it, too. 

“You’ve never wondered why you can’t get into Imogen’s room? Or Bodhi’s?” 

“Why would I ever have tried to enter either of their rooms?” 

“Social call?” I suggest, smiling self-consciously. It sounds ridiculous, even to me. “Checking that their beds were made?”

“I know you think I’m a pedantic asshole, but I don’t give a shit what my cadets do in the privacy of their own rooms as long as it’s not a Codex violation.” I feel him watching me, eagle-eyed, as I step further into the room and move towards the bookcase, studying his collection of well-loved texts. I take one out, flip to a random page and pretend to read it as he eyes me, assessing.

“You never tried to go into Sorrengail’s room after she and Xaden…?”

He snorts. “I think that question answers itself, Mairi.”

I snap the book shut and put it away, delighting in the way Dain flinches when he sees that I’ve returned it to the wrong spot. Then I curl my fingers around one of the shelves, anchoring myself to it, and give myself permission to really look at him. I’m instantly relieved to find that he’s wearing a shirt, because every time I’ve looked in his direction since the sparring mat (which I’ve done my best to avoid, but I can admit that there have been moments of weakness), I find myself thinking about his weight on top of me, his hand around my wrist and those long, horrible seconds where I wanted nothing more than for him to kiss me, right there in the courtyard.

The combination of those memories and a second look at the deep V that disappears beneath the waistband of his sparring pants would undoubtedly be a recipe for disaster. 

“Were you waiting for someone?” I ask. “When I knocked?”

“Yes,” he replies, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. “You,” he explains, chuckling at whatever he saw written on my face before he looked away.

“You were waiting for me?” I frown. “Why?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he admits, only a little sullen. “You have a habit of showing up when I least expect you to, and now I feel hypervigilant all the time, waiting for you to bust down my door and hit me right in the chest with some painfully accurate, laconic remark about what a fucking loser I am.”

“Really?” I say, a little prouder than I probably should be.

Dain’s head lolls to the side, and he rolls his eyes when he sees that I’m grinning. “Really.”

I point to the window behind him, where the bedsheet is noticeably absent. There’s a pane of clear glass suspended between the frame, and the view of the other three quadrants is unobstructed and picturesque. The citadel is mostly dark, but a few golden lights twinkle in disparate windows. “You got it fixed.”

“It was fixed last time you were here,” he tells me.

I shrug. “I didn’t notice.” 

“Too busy trying to avoid making eye contact?”

I cross to the desk and check that the stick of rolled churam I left him is still resting there. It is, sitting in nearly the exact same spot that I dropped it just a few days ago, seemingly untouched. Beside it is a textbook that predates the apostasy, an encyclopedia of now-defunct Tyrrish customs. It lays open at a section about marriage ceremonies, and I brush my hands against the diagrams on the page: one depicting the specific knots to be tied in a Tyrrish binding ceremony, the other illustrating the proper positioning for a couple performing the Tyrrish waltz. I kept the same edition of this book on a shelf in my bedroom in Tirvainne, and I’ve read this chapter a thousand times, imagining my parents dancing like that and, on rarer occasions, imagining myself dancing like that (in a world where the Tyrrish waltz isn’t outlawed and where I’ve miraculously met someone I’d be willing to marry).

Resting on the pages of the book is a familiar strap of worn, wrinkled leather with a buckle at one end. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him, turning back to face him.

“I gathered as much.” 

“I was lying there, not sleeping, and I was looking at this very pretty knife I got recently,” I continue, gesturing to my new garter, which sits precisely where it should, just below the hem of my sleep shorts. “And while I was looking at it, I started considering the odds of me dying tomorrow.”

“Sounds grim,” he opines, glancing at my thigh. 

“Grim,” I agree. “Then I started to think that I might have been a bit hasty in choosing this one, because if something happens to me, it’ll be burned. That would be a shame.” I slip it from the garter and place it on the desk, then turn to the drawer, which is open. Why is his drawer of knives always fucking open? I take a standard-issue dagger as a replacement and turn towards the door, feeling like I might implode from the unique and peculiar combination of guilt and lust that’s building up inside of me.

“Nothing bad is going to happen tomorrow,” he insists. 

I hear the sheets rustling, and when I turn back, Dain is sitting up, framed by the glittering lights that still burn in the citadel. This would make an extraordinarily pretty portrait, I think. I find myself wondering if he has ever sat for a portrait, if there is a picture of him somewhere that I can stare at so that I can commit all of his features to memory guilt-free, without having to look at the real, complicated thing.

I take a stilted breath. “It might.”

“It won’t.”

I prop my hip on the lip of the desk and lean my weight against it, staring at him. I do my best not to think about the tantalizing warmth of his breath brushing over my face. “You know, this might be your last chance to apologize to me,” I tell him. “If I die tomorrow, you’ll think back on this moment and wish—”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, frustrated and stubborn. “You’re not fucking dying, Sloane. Stop saying that.”

I examine a vein that’s pulsing in his neck, just below his jaw, and wonder how his skin would taste. I follow these thoughts up with a healthy dose of self-loathing. “What if I don’t make it up the Gauntlet?”

He rolls his eyes. “I've seen you run the Gauntlet, Mairi. I have no concerns about that whatsoever.” 

“Trysten should—”

“You will be fine,” he snarls. 

I roll my neck, studying him. “Well, what if I don’t make it through Presentation Day?” I let the corner of my mouth lift in a weak approximation of a smile, baring my teeth. I try my best to sound teasing, not nervous, as I say, “Statistically, First Years are more likely to die on Presentation Day than any other day in their whole three years at Basgiath.”

“That’s enough, Sloane.” 

“What if I make it to Threshing, but then some other cadet—”

Dain laughs humorlessly. “You don’t have to worry about other cadets at Threshing.” 

I go for the low blow, because that’s who I am as a person. “What if I bond a dragon and can’t keep my seat?” I prod.

His gaze is cold, unforgiving. “You will,” he bites out through clenched teeth. “You’re not dying,” he says eventually, making it clear that, in his mind, the matter is not up for further discussion.

Unfortunately, it’s not up to him.

“How can you possibly say that with so much certainty?” I snap.

He grits his teeth as he bites out his answer. “Cath has agreed”—the way he says that word makes me think there was some debate about the matter—“to keep an eye out for you during Threshing. So, if another cadet tries to hurt you, he will deal with it. If you can’t keep your seat and fall, he will catch you. If you find yourself lost in the valley, he will escort you to the nearest available Red.” He holds out his hands, open-palmed. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

I blink at him. “He can’t do that,” I argue.  

Dain shrugs. “He will,” he asserts. “Dragons don’t answer to us, and they sure as fuck don’t follow the Codex. If somebody has a problem with it, I’ll invite them to take it up with him, and I have every confidence that they won’t.”

“He can’t do that,” I repeat. 

“Why not? There’s no precedent that says he can’t.” 

The problem, of course, which we’re both dancing around, isn’t that he can’t do it, but that he shouldn’t be willing to. 

Why would he agree to do that?

Why would Dain ask him to do that in the first place?

I shake my head at him, scoffing. “There’s no precedent because a dragon would never interject to help a human that isn’t their rider.” 

“Well, Cath has agreed to,” he says, as if the matter is final. 

“What about the other dragons, then?” I ask, crossing my arms. “What if one of them decides I’m a liability at Presentation? Is Cath going to swoop in then to carry me off to safety?” 

Dain narrows his eyes as if he’s offended, and I think treacherous, sick thoughts about how beautiful he looks with his brow furrowed, how the way his full lips are set makes my fingertips tingle. “Any dragon would be honored to bond with you, Sloane. That’s the least of my worries.” He rakes his hand through his messy hair. “You’re a legacy. Hell, I’m a legacy. You’re something better than a legacy. You’re a fucking Saorla. There are probably Reds forming an orderly queue in the valley as we speak.” 

“I doubt that.”

He leans back on his hands, looking at me, and I feel a cold flame flicker low in my belly. “You’ll have your pick,” he insists. 

I bite my lip, turning to look at the book on the desk. I trace the diagrams again, my stomach hollow. “Have you been reading up on my family or something?” I ask him. I smile wryly to myself. “Have you developed a sudden, vested interest in Tyrrish history, Aetos?”

“I don’t have a ‘sudden, vested interest’ in Tyrrendor,” he tells me. 

“No? Writing an essay on obsolete cultural customs, then?”

“I have a sudden, vested interest in you, Mairi.” His eyes darken as I suck in a breath, and he looks away, directing his words to the wall. “You’re my cadet, which means your safety is my responsibility.” 

“And yet, I somehow doubt that Cath will be personally shepherding all of your cadets through Threshing.” I tap the book with my index finger and taste something bitter in my mouth. I lick my lips as if I can chase the taste away. “Imogen told you,” I say, my tone pointed and dismayed. “She told you I was a lamb for the slaughter, didn’t she? On the night of our impromptu training session, I presume?”

He sighs. “So you know?” 

I laugh, slowly lowering myself onto the chair beside me. I cross my legs in defiance of every deportment lesson I have ever suffered through, which feels topical and fitting. “Am I aware that I’m Navarre’s unwilling martyr?” I question, watching his face constrict. “Am I aware that my sole purpose in life is to become a public spectacle for the benefit of the people who took everything from me?” I lift one brow. “Yes, Dain, I’m aware.” 

“How long have you known?” 

I suck my teeth. “Always,” I answer. “I mean, it wasn’t hard to guess. My brother was learning swordplay while I was learning how to pour tea and wave a fan around alluringly, but we were both headed to the same place eventually. I’d have to be pretty fucking oblivious not to figure out what was happening.” I stare at the book in front of me, toying with the corner of the page. “Then I just had to figure out why they weren’t teaching me anything useful, and that wasn’t particularly hard to do, either.”

“That must be a heavy burden to bear.”

“If it is, then it’s my burden. I don’t want or need your special treatment,” I mutter, scowling. “If I die, then I die.”

I barely register that Dain is moving, but suddenly he’s kneeling on the floor beside me. I start as he turns the chair I’m seated in and pulls it towards himself, hands planted almost possessively beside my thighs. My legs uncross, and I clamp my knees together, uncharacteristically bashful. He’s not touching me, but I swear I can feel his heat warming my skin. 

“Fuck Navarre,” he tells me gravely. “Fuck Tyrrendor, too. They are not your problem yet. For the next three years, the world is as small as this quadrant. If you want to make it through unscathed, then whatever bullshit political machinations are going on out there need to have nothing to do with how you conduct yourself here, in this school. Do you want to make it through this?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“So put all of that out of your mind,” he demands.

He’s so bossy, so unequivocal. Despite my better judgement, I find it almost charming how doggedly he believes what he’s saying. 

I study him ravenously, this beautiful idiot who has no idea what he’s talking about but plenty of conviction: the barely visible dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the small dark spot standing alone and proud above his brow, the decadent bow of his mouth and pillow of his lower lip.

I loathe how my voice catches as I murmur, “You say that like it’s an order.”

“That’s because it is an order. I’m ordering you to put anything that’s happening beyond the walls of this school out of your mind. And I’m your wingleader, so you have to do whatever I say.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a devious smile as he watches me roll my eyes. He places his hand on my knee, and I grit my teeth as the cold flame in me combusts, waking up every nerve ending and flooding my body with something icy and fluid and increasingly, distressingly familiar. “Although, I have no reason to be confident that you’re capable of following orders.” 

I ache for a time when I didn’t know how it felt to be on top of him, beneath him, against him; surrounded by and surrounding him. I wish I could forget, because the guilt is killing me. 

“I can follow orders,” I whisper.

Something flickers in his eyes. 

“I’ve seen no evidence of that to date,” he points out.

I fucking yearn for a time when I didn’t know what the weight of his body felt like on mine; when I didn’t know how it felt to have his hand wrapped around my forearm, big enough to swallow the relic underneath; when I didn’t want, much less need, to hear his opinion on anything; when I couldn’t recall the sweep of his calloused thumb raking deliciously across my skin; when I could look at a stick of churam without thinking about his lips placed over a ring of my saliva, his head tipped back and smoke leaking from the corner of his mouth, his fingers brushing mine. 

Our breath, commingled.

He stares at me, bemused. “For what it’s worth, which is probably next to nothing, I don’t actually think you’re scared that you’ll fail, Sloane. I think you’re scared that you’ll succeed and it still won’t be enough, because the odds will always be stacked against you. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I reply, without hesitation. “I hate that you can do that.”

His brow knits. “Do what?”

“I hate that you always seem to know what I need and what I’m thinking. I hate how much you get me, because I don’t get you at all.”

The silence that falls between us is not the comfortable silence shared between friends, a moment of peace like the one I felt by the burn pit earlier tonight. It is a dangerous, living thing. Incendiary, almost.

“You should go,” Dain murmurs, just as his thumb begins to trace maddening circles against the patch of my inner thigh right above my knee cap. 

I don’t want to, and I desperately don’t want him to think that I don’t want to. “Why don’t you sleep?” I ask him, trying to prolong the stolen moment for as long as I can. He moves to answer, and I place my hand over his, breathing a silent sigh of relief as his thumb goes still. “Be honest, Dain.”

“Dreams.” He glances down at his hand layered on top of my hand atop my thigh with surprise written across his features, like he’s just become aware of the existence of all three things. His brow furrows.

Did he even realize he was touching me?

Did he mean to?

“Dreams of what?” I prompt him. “Or whom?”

He lifts his head back to mine and gives me a tortured look. 

“Sorrengail, then,” I say, picturing her pretty face and lithe body. 

“Mostly.”

“What about the other times?”

He stares at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and maybe he does. Liam always said I had the most expressive face of anyone he knew, after all. 

I reach out and pick up the stick of churam, then hold it out between us suggestively. 

He stares at it, and his tongue flicks out across his lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mairi.” 

“Why?” I challenge. 

“You know why,” he tells me. “You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.” He pauses, then quietly adds, “Plus, last time we did that together, it got… weird.”

“It was weird.” I throw the stick back onto the desk, and it lands on the book and rolls until it comes to a stop in the valley between the pages, resting beside the Tyrrish couple dancing at their wedding. I stare at it as I say, “I almost let you kiss me. That must have been the churam.”

If I’m anything, I’m a glutton for punishment.

“It was,” he says decidedly. He takes his hand from my knee, but I can still feel it there like a phantom limb. “I wouldn’t have kissed you, by the way,” he asserts, and I’m tempted to throw his own words back in his face and ask him if he’s saying it for my benefit or his.

I make a derisive noise. “Is that because you’re so obsessed with Sorrengail?”

He waits until I’m looking at him to arch one brow. “It’s because I’m your wingleader, meaning it would be wildly inappropriate,” he points out, and the way he says it is so morbidly satisfactory because I can tell he at least thought about kissing me, maybe even had to talk himself out of it.

“More or less inappropriate than the fact that I’m sitting in your room at one a.m.?”

“We’re not doing anything,” he mutters. 

“Because you’re my wingleader?”

“Yes,” he says, and then, right as I feel another stab of morbid satisfaction, he ruins it by adding, “and because neither of us would feel good about it afterwards if anything happened.”

It’s true, and I know it’s true. 

It still hurts to hear him say it.

“I bet you’re a terrible kisser, anyway,” I say, grimacing at my hands.

He laughs, but the sound is melancholy. “Shit, who knows?” he murmurs, eyes clouded. “That could explain some things.”

“We could sneak one kiss, purely for assessment purposes?” I suggest. I hold my breath and hope he can’t tell that I’m doing it, detesting myself all the while. “I could even write you a little essay afterwards like those ones you’re always giving Rhiannon. ‘Dain Aetos: sufficient use of pressure and notable lack of teeth gnashing, but tongue movement needs serious work.’”

I wish he would take the hand now resting in his lap and put it back on my knee, slide it higher; I’m glad he doesn’t. 

I feel so guilty that I could die. 

I’m irrationally disappointed when he doesn’t laugh again. And as further, unnecessary proof of my willingness to seek out punishment, a trait so painfully well-established by my every action so far this evening, I find myself asking, “Did you love Sorrengail? Like, was it serious for you or more of a casual thing?”

He blinks at the abrupt change of subject, but doesn’t shy away from it. “Yeah, I did.”

“Did?”

“Do,” he amends. “I don’t know.”

“What’s that like?”

“Painful, mostly.”

“Was it always unrequited?”

He grimaces. “I don’t think so,” he tells me, voice like gravel. “We never… We weren’t ever on the same page at the same time, but I think we were on the same page at different times, if that makes sense. There’s a lot of moments that I wanted to kiss her and didn’t, and sometimes I wonder if that would have changed things. Rationally, I know it probably wouldn’t have, but I think it’s human nature to torture yourself about this kind of stuff.”

I’m intimately familiar with that aspect of human nature, I want to tell him. I can torture myself over the smallest, most insignificant thing for years. I’m always chasing the next painful, life-affirming sensation, then wishing I hadn’t: the way I flexed my rope-burned fingers, the way I poke my blistered tongue against my crooked tooth until it bleeds.

The way I’m sitting here, in his room.

“So, safe to say you have regrets?” I ask instead.

“Lots of regrets,” he agrees. On the chair beside my thighs, his fingers flex. “I always thought there would be a right time one day. Later, you know?” He sighs. “Last year, actually. I thought that it would be last year. She was supposed to go to the Scribes Quadrant, and I would have been able to visit her in the Archives, spend time with her in Chantara. I had fond visions of everything falling into place when I kissed her between the stacks.”

“How did she end up here, if she was meant to be a scribe?”

He frowns, visibly chewing the flesh of his cheek. “Her mom. Her mom said she had to come here.” He looks up and grimaces at my facial expression, then adds, “Sorrengails are riders, I guess.”

I snort. “Saorlas, too. I wouldn’t have had a choice, either.” I peer down at him, itching to leave, regretting coming in the first place. I should have just kept the pretty dagger and let it burn if that was the way things fell after the Gauntlet. Pun not intended. “You know, the more I get to know you, the more I feel sorry for you, Aetos. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

He smiles wryly. “You’re always saying that you feel sorry for me, but I sincerely doubt that you actually do.” 

“It’s not fair,” I murmur, staring into his eyes. I want to be angry, but there’s so little of the hot flame of my anger burning in me. Mostly, I feel achingly empty, and I have ever since I slapped him in the face. Or maybe the emptiness started before that, when I watched Trysten fall from the Gauntlet. Or maybe I was born empty and only just noticed it. “You make it so hard for me to hate you. It’s uncanny. It’s manifestly unfair, how hard it is.”

“Then why keep forcing it?”

I snort again. “Mairis don’t yield.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking my hands in his. “I’m so fucking sorry, Sloane.”

“You’re sorry I don’t hate you?”

“I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for every fucked-up thing that’s happened to you, and I’m the most sorry for my part in it.” 

I wait for something more, but it never comes. “That’s it?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s the apology you’ve been making me wait for? That’s what you were talking up at the sparring mat?”

He grins, chastened. “What were you expecting, Mairi? Confetti?”

As he leans back on his heels, I savor the increased distance between us as much as I abhor it. 

“You promised groveling,” I protest. “You made it sound like it would be some kind of earth-shatteringly grand affair.”

“I’m on my knees for you, Sloane,” he says sincerely. “That has to count for something.”

I shake my head. “That’s not groveling,” I insist. “This is what you told me you’ve been working on for weeks? You, the single most offensively verbose person I have ever met, couldn’t come up with something slightly better than ‘I’m sorry?’”

He looks at the ground. I watch his jaw work as he weighs up his words. “Look, Sloane,” he begins, gazing up at me from beneath his lashes. His expression is so earnestly imploring that I want to look away, but I can’t. “When I realized what I’d done, after that fight with Violet, I prayed to Malek for the first time in years. I was sitting right where you’re sitting now, and I asked Malek to take me and give Liam back, because everyone would be happier that way. It would make everything right; it would fix everything. I knew it was so useless, knew it could never happen, but it was the only thing I could think of—can think of—that could ever fix what I ruined. So, if I could give my soul away for you to have your brother back, I would; I would do it without hesitation. And short of that, I can’t think of a single thing that would make things okay between us.”

“Dain, I—”

“No,” he begs, putting his hand back on my knee. I fall instantly, painfully silent. “Let me talk, please.”

I nod, circumspect. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, staring determinedly into my eyes. “I’m not asking you to accept that, but I do want you to know it.”

I take a shuddering breath, letting the statement hang in the air while I mull on it. “If it makes you feel better, even if Malek was into a trade, Liam probably wouldn’t be,” I tell him, and I realize as I say it that it’s completely true. It’s a horrid, hateful fact, and it puts me right back where I was at Parapet and then again in Imogen’s room, at the moment I learned the truth about his death: forced to confront my anger at my own brother and totally unwilling to do it.

Dain might have put Liam in Athebyne, but Liam was the one who chose to fight at Resson. The only thing he ever wanted was to die with honor, and he did. And admitting it is painful, because it leads to contemplation of whether his honor meant more to him than I did. Just like I was forced to contemplate whether my parents’ honor meant more to them than me.

“He wouldn’t risk coming back and dying of something boring like a heart attack, or liver failure or old age,” I finish.

Dain lets out a dry, acerbic gasp of a laugh, averting his gaze. “That’s not very comforting at all, actually.”

“I’ll take it,” I resolve, looking down at him. My eyes itch. In fact, my whole body itches, and I’m exhausted. “I’m—I’m satisfied, and frankly, I don’t need it hanging over me anymore. I’m reserving my judgement on whether or not to accept your apology pending any future asshole behavior from you, but for now, we’re cool.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Like I said, Dain: hating you is exhausting,” I mutter, interrupting him. “I think it’s because you’re too contrite.” I stand, limbs cumbersome. I could fall asleep in his bed quite contentedly, because the idea of the walk back to the barracks fills me with dread. “I don’t like to fight with people who aren’t fighting back, and that’s what hating you feels like. If anything should happen tomorrow, it—”

He makes a noise of protest, and I laugh, patting his head. My hand lingers, and my breath catches as he seems to lean into my touch.

Did I imagine that?

I know I didn’t. 

“You have your orders,” he reminds me, beginning to rise. As he does, his hand trails from my knee and brushes along the side of my thigh, and the entire world narrows to that sensation—wonderful, painful, as profusely distracting as splitting rope burn on my fingers.

I lean against the desk again, immobilized, watching as he eases himself into the chair. We stare at each other for a long moment. More accurately, he stares at my face, and I stare at his hands, thinking about how they felt on my thigh; wondering how they would feel on my hips; wondering what he saw, if anything, when he pressed them to Imogen’s head, Bodhi’s head, Xaden’s head. “Can I ask you one last thing?” I murmur after a loaded, tentative silence, and then, when he nods, I ask, “Why do you think your signet is… that?” 

He sighs, carding the offending hands through his curls. “I don’t know.”

“You implied there’s some kind of psychology in it.”

“There is.”

I hum, turning to pick up the strap of leather again. He watches me twist it between my fingers. “What’s your dad like?”

“Trying to diagnose me, Mairi?” I smirk, and he makes a face that I would do anything to see again. It’s boyish in a way that I haven’t seen him be, almost playful. It’s a glimpse of the person he might have been before this place ruined him, the way it will eventually ruin us all. It’s the version of him Sorrengail got, I think, and didn’t want. “Well, my dad is strict. Actually, I’m underselling it. He’s a fucking tyrant,” he amends, giving me a sheepish smile. “I don’t think he particularly wanted to be a father. If anything, he seemed to think it was a box he was supposed to tick.”

“What about your mom?” 

“She died when I was young.”

I nod. “So now he’s all you have.”

“Was your foster mom—?”

“Bitch,” I answer. “She was a raging, stone-cold bitch, and she fucking resented that they’d given me to her, but she couldn’t say no. She took all her frustration about it out on me.”

He frowns. “Imogen said they punished you a lot. Was that her, or…?”

“Yeah.” I murmur, wrapping the strap tightly around my wrist. “Nothing too crazy. Isolation, mostly. Not isolation, because they still needed me to make public appearances, but isolation from everyone I cared about.” I grimace, thinking about the loneliness so deep, I could feel it in my bones. “I would go months without seeing Liam because of some stupid minor infraction, like using the wrong honorific in Old Braevi. Sometimes she wouldn’t give me food, and then I would refuse to eat when she started giving it to me again, which would be a whole thing.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Lots of time spent at Hedeon’s temple, praying that he would give me the wisdom needed to reflect on why I’m compelled to misbehave. Well, that’s what I was supposed to be doing, anyway. If I could get away with it, I napped.”

He swallows, his expression unreadable. “Did she ever hit you?”

I shrug, then shake my head. “Not really.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, turning his head to stare at the desk. “The other day, I asked you if you liked getting the shit kicked out of you on the mat, and you never answered,” he comments. “It was a genuine question. You dragged your ass on training with Imogen, and that was the only rational explanation I could think of for why you would do that.” He turns back to me, and his eyes are uncomfortably attentive as he asks, “Do you?”

The question hangs heavily between us. 

“I don’t know,” I admit, feeling the answer out as I speak it aloud. “When I first got here, that could have been true. Less now. Sometimes, though…” I rub my own knee in the spot where his hand was and watch his warm brown eyes flick toward the motion, study it. “I don’t like being hit, but sometimes I think I want people to hit me. Sometimes I feel out of control, and it feels like being hit might snap me back into myself or something.” 

He makes a noise I can’t decode. “Do you think you deserve to be hit? When you feel like that, I mean?”

I nod, then shake my head. “I don’t know; I’ve never thought about it.” 

His voice is a rasp as he asks, “You know you don’t deserve it; right? You know you didn’t deserve any of this?”

“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”

“No one should—”

I don’t let him finish the thought, because I’ve heard it a million times before, and it’s not nearly as comforting to me as people think it should be. “Honestly,” I say, “aside from not seeing Liam, it wasn’t that bad. I tolerated the punishment a lot better than I tolerated the parties.” I pause, thinking. “Though, I guess they were also meant to be a punishment, in a sense.”

“You didn’t like the parties?”

“I liked dancing,” I say, putting the leather strap back on the desk. I pick up the knife instead, examining the Tyrrish emeralds in the dim mage light. It really is the prettiest knife I’ve ever seen, as pretty as any drawing I’ve seen of the Blade of Aretia. Idly, I wonder if that’s what it was modelled after, if that’s why it appealed to me when I first saw it. 

“I’ll dance with you,” he offers. 

I laugh dryly. “I’ll come let you know if I’m ever that desperate.” 

His smile doesn’t falter. His eyes are warm, glittering like the lights in the windows of the citadel. “So, just dancing, then? That was the only tolerable part of all those fancy parties?”

Gently, I press the tip of the blade to the pad of my index finger. “Your dad is a colonel, so I know you’ve been to those kinds of parties. Do you enjoy them?”

“I could take or leave the small talk, but I’m a huge fan of an open bar.”

I scoff, twisting the knife in my hands. “Well, imagine being at one of those parties, but you’re not allowed to drink. And every one of the guests is either planning your death or aware that you’re going to be assassinated by the host someday. Imagine making small talk, but you’re predestined for immolation and everyone in the room knows it, including you, but nobody can talk about it. If you’re having trouble imagining it, let me paint the picture for you: It’s pretty fucking awkward.”

He takes the knife from my hands and calmly swaps it for the one in my garter. I try not to think about the fact that his fingers are brushing against the skin of my thigh again as he does, cursing the shorts I wear to bed. 

Bodhi and Aaric were right, I think, when they criticized these shorts all those weeks ago. They’re far, far too revealing. I’ll never leave my room again in anything but head-to-toe leathers, not an inch of my skin exposed. 

“So, you’re happier here?” Dain asks, intently focused on my knife holster. 

“No, Dain,” I tug his hair in the same way I would Aaric’s, without really stopping to think about it. He tips his head back and smiles at me in a way that feels far too satisfied, far too easy to be comfortable, but I don’t let go. “I’m miserable, and I miss Tirvainne terribly. I long for the days when I had to stand at the side of a ballroom being stared at like I was an animal in King Tauri’s menagerie.” I roll my eyes as I add, “The reason I sought you out tonight is because I miss painful small talk so, so much.”

“‘Yes’ would suffice.” His thumb twitches against my thigh.

“Sometimes I miss my dresses,” I confess, looking down at where our skin is touching. His knees are bracketing mine; I’m standing between them, my ass still planted on the desk. When did that happen? Did he scoot his chair closer without me noticing? It doesn’t feel possible that there’s a moment of this interaction that I wasn’t brutally aware of. “I had a lot of dresses. They probably burned them all or something when I left.”

“Were they nice dresses?”

A brush of his thumb an inch higher than where it is right now would probably be enough to put me on my knees.

“Yes, but that’s not why I miss them,” I whisper, voice regrettably taut. The energy between us has become charged and dangerous again. I know he can feel it, because he’s poised on the edge of his chair like his body is locked in fight-or-flight. “They were, like, my one source of comfort. They were the one thing about the way the world saw me that I could control. I can’t control the way I look here, not really, or the way I’m perceived. There’s an illusion of individuality, but actually, beyond the Riders Quadrant, we’re all pretty homogenous. We’re one big indistinguishable mass to the rest of the Continent.”

He frowns. “I’ve never thought of it that way,” he says as I unwind my fingers from his curls. He hums, turning back to my knife garter; checks that it’s fastened properly; then deposits the standard-issue knife I took back in the drawer before crossing his arms. 

I hesitate, then glance at the clock. “I should go.”

Dain looks at the clock, too, then mutters a quiet curse. I wait until he’s standing to move, terrified that if any part of my body brushes his, I will start crying and begging for him to touch me again. While I wait, I slide his knife drawer shut.

I feel so tired, and I am overwhelmed by thousands of conflicting emotions. 

“So, where did we land after I let you down with my apology?” he asks quietly as we walk the short distance to the door. “It feels like you hate me less, but I could just be delusional.”

I pretend to consider it as I come to a stop. “I’m ambivalent towards you,” I declare as he reaches out for the door handle. 

“Ambivalent,” he repeats. 

“Are you ambivalent towards me?”

“No.” He says it so quickly and quietly that I can tell he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He grits his teeth, blows out a slow breath as his nostrils flare. “I should be, but… I’m not. You know that already, though, Sloane. If I was ambivalent about you, you wouldn’t be in my room at nearly two o’clock in the morning.” He pulls the door open, gestures for me to walk through it. 

His expression is heavy, penitent. For some bizarre reason, I think of him pining for Sorrengail all those long years. Specifically, I think of all those times he wanted to kiss her and didn’t. 

I think of how it’s entirely conceivable that my life would be different if he had, possibly better. 

She’d be in the Scribes, I think. 

My brother would never have died trying to save her.

Maybe nothing would have changed at all, though. Or maybe some details would have changed, but the outcome would have remained the same. It’s also entirely possible that things could be worse. 

Maybe Liam was always fated to die at Resson, whether Sorrengail was a scribe or a rider.

I cannot help wondering, though, how quickly, succinctly, the course of history can be altered by a single kiss as Dain cocks one brow, looking meaningfully into the hallway again. 

There is something fundamentally wrong with me, but if I die tomorrow, or at Threshing or even in the next year, I don’t want—

I stand on my toes and place my hands on his shoulders, then press my lips gently to his before quickly pulling away. A second later, I step back, face lowered and flushed with shame, unable to meet his eyes. He stiffens, reacting to the kiss after it has already happened; I feel him looking down at me.

I stare at the floor resolutely as I turn toward the open door, wondering what I have just wrought upon history by putting my lips to his. 

The door clicks quietly shut behind me, and I curse myself out all the way back to the barracks. 

 

Chapter 11: Presentation Day

I remember how Mom used to tell you that when you met your dragon for the first time, you’d know. She said she knew Oranmor would be hers when she saw him flying over the Vale while she crossed the parapet. I remember I used to think that was crazy. How could you possibly know, just by looking at a dragon from a distance, that they would be yours?

Then I saw my dragon, and suddenly everything made a lot more sense.

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

-SLOANE-

Presentation Day

 

The air is timorously still as Aaric and I walk through one of the graveyards that line the roads to Basgiath. He’s already dressed in rider black, ready to start the day; I’m still in my cotton sleeping pants and a sparring shirt, my mom’s rider’s boots unlaced on my feet. We’re both wearing matching sets of dark circles beneath our eyes, and it’s the first and only time I’ve ever seen any indication that Aaric is exactly as fragile, as mortal, as the rest of us.

“It’s this one,” he says, coming to a sudden stop and gesturing to the ground. 

What he’s pointing at is a grave, indistinguishable from the others that surround us and marked only by the presence of a smooth, misshapen rock. He turns, counting the stones that lie on the other evenly dispersed mounds of dirt that span the field all the way back to the road.

The sun rises behind him, gilding the crown of his head. 

Nervously, I twist the ragged stem of the flower I hold in my hands, a crisp white parnassia I collected from the riverbank on our way here. Looking down at the aggregated loamy dirt and hunk of bedrock that mark Trysten’s final resting place, I feel a bitter wave of sadness and regret. 

No one deserves to be buried like this, I think. No one deserves an unmarked grave. 

Then I think of a long list of people who I would happily see buried in these exact circumstances, and I quickly change my mind. King Tauri, for example, could be buried with nothing but a river stone to mark his burying place, and I would still think the honor bestowed on him was too great. In fact, I would probably come and take the stone away so that no one would know he was there, then spit right on him for good measure.

Trysten, however, didn’t deserve to be buried like this. He should have been buried at home in Morraine, where his family could visit his grave and leave flowers. 

He should have been buried somewhere far, far away from here. 

Aaric nods. “It’s this one,” he repeats, squatting beside it. He places something on the stone: Trysten’s glasses. 

The lenses are cracked; the arms are bent. 

They’re still here, but he isn’t.

I squat at Aaric’s side and exhale, taking my time to place the flower just so atop the grave, making sure that the stem is buried deep enough that the bud won’t be taken by the wind even though there’s currently no breeze. It feels crucial that I get the placement of this flower exactly right, because I want to imagine, beyond all reason, that it will stay here forever, never wilting or withering if—for whatever reason, but most likely my death or disfigurement—I can’t come back to replace it. 

Aaric watches my fingers curl through the dirt for a moment, then stands, squeezing my shoulder, and walks a few short paces away, giving me some vague semblance of privacy even though I didn’t ask for it.

I’m not sure I deserve the friends I’ve made here, but I hope one day I do.

I certainly didn’t deserve Trysten.

“I’m sorry it took us so long to find you,” I whisper, patting the dirt back into place around the flower’s delicate, pristine petals, careful not to sully them. My hands are filthy—clammy, covered in thin mud. “I promise I didn’t forget about you,” I murmur. I wince as I remember the sound of his scream, the look on his face as he realized he was falling. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”

I sit for a moment longer, listening as the birds begin to sing.

“I’ll see you by the Iakobos,” I tell him before I stand, patting the mound of dirt one last time. 

I barely slept, and my feet are heavy as I stumble towards Aaric, who’s waiting under a sturdy oak only a few paces away. He pulls me into a brief hug, chin resting on my head, before shepherding me back toward the road.

“So, who’d you end up bribing for the directions?” I ask as we walk along the road in the direction of the castle. Around us is a scene of autumnal splendor, all golden trees and blooming wildflowers. My feet scuff against the road, and the sound is painful in the early morning quiet.

Aaric reaches into one of the many pockets of his leather jacket and pulls out a clean handkerchief, handing it to me. I would laugh at the fact that he keeps a handkerchief in his pocket, ready for any damsels in distress he may come across, but it feels wrong to laugh when we’re still in a graveyard. For a brief moment, though, I do manage a small smile as I find myself wondering whether he always puts the handkerchief in the same pocket so he can quick draw as and when needed.

I wipe my hands with it, then fold it into a square and hold it in the palm of my hand. Maybe I’ll ask Jesinia to help me look up the Greycastle family crest so I can embroider it for him once it’s clean.

“There’s a guy at Basgiath who coordinates this stuff,” Aaric grunts. “Burials.”

Idly, I think, That guy must be the busiest person in the whole fucking kingdom.

“Was it—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, patting my shoulder. 

I nod. I let silence hang between us, and then I ask, in a strained voice, “Do you think that was actually Trysten’s grave?” 

Aaric makes a guilty face, pivoting to look back towards the graveyard over his shoulder. I turn, too, and manage to convince myself that I can see the small white speck of the Iakobos parnassia I left behind, that even from a distance I can tell which grave is Trysten’s (or, at least, which grave we were told is Trysten’s). “Do you want me to answer that honestly?” he asks. 

I snort softly. “So we’re in agreement that whoever you bribed could have taken your money and directed us to a completely random grave? And, in fact, it’s probably very likely that that’s the case, because he probably has no fucking clue who’s buried where?”

“More likely than not,” Aaric admits, sucking his teeth. 

I loop my arm through the crook of his, and we walk towards Basgiath the exact same way we walked through the courtyard after Parapet, marching like king and queen. “It’s the thought that counts; right?” I say, grimacing.

He places his other hand over mine, nodding. “We had good intentions.” 

“Trysten would probably find it hilarious, anyway,” I add. 

“I think he wouldn't mind whose grave you visited as long as you were thinking of him while you did it.” He pats my hand affectionately. 

“I hope it was his, though.”

“I know.”

-----

If Imogen is surprised to find Aaric and I walking arm-in-arm along the road to Basgiath a little after sunrise with me still dressed in my sleeping clothes, it doesn’t show on her face. “Good morning, cadets,” she croons as she runs up behind us, then turns to begin jogging backwards in front of us. “Isn’t it a great day to have a great day?”

I smile as I lift my hand and give her the finger, dirt still caked under my fingernails. 

“Well rested, then?” she says, lifting her hand like a salute to shield her eyes from the sun. 

“You’re not going to ask where we were?” I prompt. 

“Were you fucking?” 

“No,” I laugh. 

Imogen shrugs. “Then it’s probably a boring story,” she tells me, turning to face the looming college. “Bodhi wants to see you before breakfast,” she calls over her shoulder as she runs ahead. I stare at Glane’s warm, shimmering orange relic, its wings stretched wide between her toned shoulder blades, and feel intense gratitude that of all the tortures Imogen has inflicted on me, morning jogs haven’t been one of them. 

Yet.

“Why does Bodhi want to see me before breakfast?” I yell at her retreating back. 

She spins, shrugging exaggeratedly. “Go ask him,” she suggests as she pivots back towards Basgiath, demonstrating a level of ankle stability that would have made her a phenomenal dancer if she’d ever been willing to learn. Over her shoulder she adds, “What am I, his fucking XO?”

Aaric chuckles to himself. 

The citadel is coming to life as we pass through it. Healers tend to work and study in shifts, preparing their bodies for the unusual hours they’ll keep after graduation, so there are always plenty of them around; today is no exception. The Infantry and Scribes keep earlier hours than Riders, too, and many of them are already filing towards their dining halls and gyms as we wend through the college’s main campus. 

“I’m sorry for the stuff about your jacket last night,” I tell him. “I was just teasing.”

He stiffens, then shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he assures me. 

“You clearly don’t want to talk about your family, and I should have just dropped it. I should never have brought it up in the first place. It was rude.” I hesitate, then can’t help saying, “It’s just that sometimes I get curious, because you barely ever talk about your life before this. It’s like you didn’t exist before you materialized on the parapet. I just don’t understand how someone as amazing as you could possibly come to be, and maybe some part of me hopes that if I can parse out every aspect of how you did, all the unique things that have made you who you are, I could learn to… be more like you, I guess. Calm. Kind.”

He stops, turning me to look at him. His hand is warm and comforting on my shoulder, broad. For a long moment, he stares at me very intently, as if he’s considering whether to say something he might regret.

“Sloane, you have nothing to apologize for,” he promises me eventually, smiling softly. “And, for the record, I think you’re perfect exactly as you are.” His eyes harden—almost imperceptibly, but I see it. He takes my arm again, and we begin to walk towards the bridge that will lead us to the Riders Quadrant. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, and I certainly wouldn’t want you to be more like me.” 

We turn, and Aaric pulls me out of the way of a mob of infantrymen, glaring as they do double-takes. At first, I wonder what the fucking problem is. Then I realize that I’m walking around in my sleeping shorts and cross my arms over my chest. 

“What do you want to know?” Aaric asks quietly, staring at the cobblestone road beneath us.

I turn to look at him from the corner of my eye. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me, Aaric.” 

His jaw clenches. “I want to,” he says, a thin reed of determination creeping through. “I want you to feel like you know me, Sloane. You do know me. You know all the important stuff.” He laughs dryly. “Hell, I think you know me better than anyone else in the entire world. But I want you to feel like you know me, and you don’t. So ask me anything you want to ask me, and I’ll answer.”

I nod, thinking. “Do you have any siblings?” I ask. 

“Two brothers,” he says quickly. His face falls slightly, and he takes a steady breath. “Well, one. I had two brothers, but one… died.”

I suppose a normal person would express some surprise at that, maybe dig a little deeper. 

I, however, am not a normal person. 

I know better than to dig.

“Do you get along with your other brother?” I ask instead.

He shrugs, visibly relieved. “We haven’t seen much of each other in the past few years,” he answers. “He was here at school, in the Infantry Quadrant, and I was at home, in Calldyr. He’d come home for summers, but he was usually pretty occupied during the day. Drinking mostly. Socializing with eligible young women occasionally and frequently some pretty ineligible ones. Learning the ropes of the family business from our father when he could be bothered.”

“You didn’t chat over dinner?”  

“Dinners were a pretty formal, rigid affair in my household. No room for familial bonding on the agenda.” 

I nod. “I’m surprised your father let you join the Riders Quadrant,” I say, watching a bespectacled scribe scurry past with heavy satchels slung over both shoulders. There are stains on his cream robes. He flushes red when he notices me looking at him, his own eyes flicking to my bare legs and then away almost as quickly. “Most noblemen I know want a spare handy in case something happens to their heir, and being a rider isn’t exactly a safe occupation, which is assuming you even live long enough to become one.”

Aaric rubs the slope of his sharp jaw with his hand, grinning. “Well, my father doesn’t exactly know I’m here,” he admits. “I… snuck away from home. Technically, I’m in hiding.”

I laugh. “Stole away like a thief in the night, huh?”

“Something like that.”

-----

Back in the barracks, I bathe and dress quickly, then make my way to the Third Year dorms. I feel painfully conspicuous as I stand in the hallway outside of Bodhi’s room, staring intently at the wood grain of his door and listening with an unparalleled degree of intensity for the sound of any other doors opening or approaching footsteps. I’m thin-skinned and anxious, like Dain is about to walk around the corner and find me standing here, which will then force me to engage in a conversation that I’m not quite sure I’m ready to have yet.

I still cannot believe I kissed him. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I still cannot believe he didn’t even try to kiss me back.

What the fuck is wrong with him? 

Did I wildly miscalculate his level of interest somehow? Could it be possible?

As proof of the fact that Zihnal and I are on much better terms than we used to be, Bodhi’s door swings open almost as soon as I knock, and I practically barge into the room and throw myself onto his bed. “I’ve been summoned?” I say, arching a brow at him. 

Bodhi’s room is the happy medium between Imogen’s and Dain’s. It’s clean, but not anal-retentive. There are some sentimental artefacts, things from home, but their presence is conservative (compared to the many trinkets and objects that litter every available surface of Imogen’s room, at least). What he does have on display is what’s most meaningful to him. With envy, I look at the runestone on his desk and the sketch of the Aretian skyline—well, what was once the Aretian skyline, anyway—that’s bonded to the wall with lesser magic. 

As I glance to the side, I notice one of the handkerchiefs I embroidered for him sitting in pride of place on the bedside table; I smile. 

In the days that Imogen and I have been relegated to Bodhi’s room thanks to her bet with Dain, I’ve come to prefer it to almost any other place in Basgiath. It smells like him, like home somehow—familiar, comforting. It smells like sleeping under a pile of velvet doublets while stretched across chairs at state dinners; late-spring afternoons playing touch-and-go on the hills; watching the storm clouds roll in at the exact same time every afternoon in the summer, shaking the crimson petals of flame trees loose.

I take another deep breath and feel the tension in my shoulders begin to thaw. 

“Morning,” Bodhi says, closing the door and moving towards the desk. His hair is slightly damp and unkempt, curling at the nape of his neck, but he’s otherwise dressed. He glances at something on the desk, a sheaf of paper. “How’d you sleep?”

I chuckle, unlacing my boots and kicking them off. “How’d you sleep the night before your Presentation Day?” 

“Like a baby, if I’m honest.” He turns to me and grins impishly. “Garrick and I smoked so much churam the night before, we both slept in. We missed breakfast and formation, and I barely made it out to the Gauntlet in time; Xaden was fucking pissed.”

“Well, that would explain some things,” I laugh, settling back on the bed. “Imogen showed me the official times for your year. Yours was an affront to the entire concept of Tyrrish superiority which we hold so dear. I assume, since hers weren’t abysmal, that Imogen wasn’t invited?”

“She was, but Garrick had a girlfriend at the time who was also invited.” He rolls his eyes, then clarifies, “Well, ‘girlfriend’ is a strong term for it. Garrick had a ‘preferred companion for his evening hours’, shall we say, and it might shock you to hear that Imogen had what might be described as ‘pretty fucking strong feelings’ about the fact that it wasn’t her. I’m sure you can fill in the missing details about what a delight that time of life was for Xaden and me, being caught in the middle of them both.”

“Do you think they’ll ever…?”

Bodhi picks something up from the desk, heaving a deep sigh; then he gives me a grave look as he comes towards the bed. “At this point, I worry that it’s divine intervention keeping them apart. Something bad might happen if they ever actually admit their feelings for each other, Sloane. Someone might end up dead.”

“Garrick,” I say without hesitation. “Imogen will outlive us all because Malek’s too scared to come get her.”

“So, did you get any sleep?” he asks, concerned. I must look as bad as I feel. 

“I got a few hours,” I say, wildly exaggerating. I’d be lucky if I got two hours of sleep, because once I returned to my bunk, I spent what must have been hours tossing and turning, replaying the moment that I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to Dain’s in my head, over and over again and with an ever-increasing sense of panic and self-loathing. I do not tell Bodhi this, for obvious reasons. “I assume you brought me here to provide some words of wisdom?” I suggest, crossing my legs underneath me on the coverlet as he pauses in front of me, hand twisted clumsily behind his back. 

He hums, his face flushing. “Um, no,” he says sheepishly. He takes a deep, calming breath. “Sloane, this is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time, and it… um, feels right… to do it.” He sighs. “Sloane, I wanted—I’m reflecting on this now, and it actually feels extraordinarily dumb, not right, but—I thought it might be nice if—”

I squint at him, trying to remember the warning signs of a stroke, because I’m pretty sure he’s having one. “You okay, Bodhi?”

He nods. “Can you turn around for a second, please?” he requests. He points to the wall he shares with the next room, where there are more of his mother’s drawings: an Aretian landscape, a drawing of Durran House, a caricature of the six of us that we compelled her to draw under threat of my tears. In it, Liam is smiling, Imogen is scowling, Xaden is pouting and Garrick is sticking out his tongue; Bodhi is rendered with only slightly exaggerated dimples, and I am perched on his shoulders, pulling his hair like the reins of a horse. “Facing in that direction, if you don’t mind.”

I make a face, but do as I’m told. 

“Would you, um, untie your hair?” Bodhi asks.

I do that, too, frowning. 

Seconds later, I feel a comb brushing gently through the long strands, and I snort out a laugh. “Bodhi, did you invite me to your room on the morning of Presentation Day so we could brush each other’s hair and gossip one last time?”

“My hair is already brushed,” he replies, carefully working the comb through the ends. I begin to protest that it sure doesn’t look brushed or maybe comment that this is one of the fucking weirdest moments of my life (and that’s really saying something, considering my life is pretty much predicated on weird moments at this point), but then I feel his hands begin to tentatively divide my hair into several neat sections. 

I hum happily, tipping my neck back, and he scratches my scalp obligingly for a moment. 

Apparently, I’m as touch starved as Dain is, because I’m no longer thinking this is weird. I’m thinking this is the single best thing that’s happened to me in weeks. 

Best of all, I don’t have to feel guilty about Bodhi touching me, because he’s Bodhi. There can be no weird, sexual subtext with Bodhi; no sticky, longing silences; no bated breath; no cold flame licking at me and making me feel disconcertingly empty.

Unlike with Dain, whose touch has awakened something in me that needs to go back-the-fuck to sleep.

Bodhi angles my head, gentle but firm. Then, once he’s satisfied with how I’m positioned, he picks up several chunks of hair, and I feel him begin to carefully shape them into what feels a lot like a braid. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” I say as Bodhi works my hair around itself, “because I’m loving this for you—for both of us, actually, because doing my hair every morning fucking sucks and I’m so happy to conserve my upper body strength for the Gauntlet—but why, exactly, are you doing my hair right now?”

He clears his throat. “They’re Tyrrish knots,” he says simply. 

I blink. “Oh,” I say. 

“Tyrrish women weave knots into their hair for special occasions, and I figured this is a special occasion,” he murmurs, his hands stuttering a little as he works with an unfamiliar medium. 

Bodhi’s better at runes than almost anyone I know, the best weaver of our age, but unsurprisingly, hairdressing doesn’t seem to be his strong suit. 

“I’m familiar with the practice,” I tell him. I’m a Tyrrish girl, after all; I’ve spent more hours of my life than I could count being sternly reprimanded for moving too much while my hair was assembled into some variation of complex knots. “I just… didn’t know you were.”

“I have eyes,” he says pointedly, and I can imagine him rolling them while he says it. “I know what a knot looks like, and I can recognize when all the women around me at a party have knots in their hair.”

“Most boys don’t,” I retort.

“Well, I did. I thought it would be a nice thing to do,” he adds, apprehensive. “I didn’t know if you knew how to do it. On yourself, I mean. I know you’re capable of weaving a knot, but I just meant that you probably had people to do this for you back home.” 

“Which knots are you doing?”

He tugs at one of the strands. “Protection,” he answers, and then, pulling at another strand, “Luck.”

Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them away before they can fall. I reach behind me and pat his knee gently. “This is really nice,” I murmur, voice a little husky. “I appreciate the thought, Bodhi, and I appreciate you. Thank you.”

Bodhi clears his throat. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you do this for Imogen, too?” 

He snorts. “Did I ever attempt to braid Imogen’s hair for her? Well, I still have hands, so I’ll let that answer your question for me.” We sit in contemplative silence for a few minutes while Bodhi works until he asks, “You feel ready for today?” 

I stare at the wall, feeling like I’ve sunk into an almost meditative bliss while also somehow feeling like I’m as volatile and explosive as maorsite. It’s a strange contradiction. “I’m nervous, but I’m not,” I admit. “I feel like I can probably do it, all of it, but then there’s also this part of me that feels like I can’t. There’s a third part of me, too, and maybe it’s the loudest part of me, that feels like it doesn’t really make a difference if I pull this off, in the grand scheme of things, because then that just opens the door to more opportunities for dying. Like, even if I do bond a dragon this week, I’ll still die eventually.”

“We all will,” Bodhi observes, holding out his hand. “Do you have more of those, by the way? I probably should have thought of that before I started.”

I pass him the leather hair tie, then pull a second from my pocket, grateful that—like Aaric’s handkerchief, presumably kept always at the ready in case any ladies nearby need to blow their nose or brush the sweat from their brow after swooning—I’ve taken to keeping them on hand as a preparatory measure. In fact, since I stepped off of the parapet, there hasn’t been a day that’s passed where I haven’t been carrying at least five hair ties on my person. 

I simply refuse to borrow a hair tie from Sorrengail ever again.

Except, technically, maybe I stole a hair tie from Sorrengail, because I’m pretty sure the one I’m holding right now is hers. 

Perversely, that makes me feel a little better. 

“I just keep thinking that if I die today, it doesn’t matter,” I continue, fidgeting. “Not really. I mean, it might matter to you, obviously, but I will be dead. It’s not like I’m going to be negatively impacted by my own death. Other than the fact that I’m dead, obviously, which would be unfortunate, but not really an inconvenience to me because… well, I’ll be dead,” I rant. “And I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about dying with honor lately. Specifically, how obsessed everyone is with the idea of dying with honor. What if I don’t die with honor? What if my death is just boring or dumb, like falling from the Gauntlet? Does that make me a lesser person than someone who dies for something they believe in?”

“Right.” Bodhi chuckles. “I take it you’re seconds away from a mental breakdown, then?”

“I’m freaking the fuck out,” I agree. 

I don’t add that part of my tenuous mental state stems from the fact that I was alone in our wingleader’s bedroom last night, which is somewhere I had absolutely no business being, and doing something Bodhi had expressly told me I should not be doing (namely, willingly spending time with said wingleader, alone, where he might have put his hands on my temples and doomed all of us to death). I don’t add that I was actively trying to goad said wingleader into kissing me.

I sure as fuck don’t add that part of my freak out is directly linked to the fact that I kissed said wingleader, but he didn’t kiss me; nor did he try to stop me as I walked away after kissing him.

And why didn’t he try to stop me when I walked away?

I can’t bear to think about it.

I can hardly bring myself to think about anything else.

Bodhi struggles a little, but eventually manages to get the tie wrapped around the end of the braid. He moves to the other half of my hair, turning my head with gentle but firm pressure. “If none of this matters anyway, then maybe you should put all of your focus into making the best of it, instead of worrying about how much it does or doesn’t matter,” he suggests. 

“That doesn’t sound very honorable, Bodhi.”

He hums, introspective. “Maybe the only true honorable death there is comes from dying at the end of a life lived without regret. That doesn’t have to mean dying in battle, Sloane, or in some great act of sacrifice. That can be as simple as making the lives of the people around you better just by being in them, or as complex as changing the world. That can be as simple as always making the people you love laugh, or performing acts of kindness for no reason, or acing every test you ever take. The only person who gets to decide what you should prioritize in life is you.” He hesitates. “You know that, don’t you?”

I look out of the window at the citadel and notice that I’m looking at it from the same angle as I did last night, in Dain’s room, but it looks completely different in the cold light of day.  

“I think your mom would be really proud of you,” I tell him quietly. 

His hands falter. “Yours would, too,” he replies. “They’d all be proud of you. Liam, your parents.” He holds my braided hair in one hand and squeezes my shoulder with the other. “I’m proud of you, too, Sloane. Whatever happens in the next few days, I’m so proud of you, and I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

I nod, but don’t answer.

“Xaden wanted me to tell you that he’s thinking of you today.”

“Did he?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “I assume he informed you that it was his intention to think of me several weeks ago, seeing as he hasn’t been around much lately.” I gasp dramatically, putting my hand to my heart. “Do you think he wrote it down on his calendar?” 

“I don’t think Xaden keeps a calendar.”

“Sure he does. ‘Six a.m. to ten, oil twelve-pack; ten to ten-fifteen, think of Sloane; ten-fifteen a.m. until bed, brood and meddle in everyone’s business,’” I suggest.  

Bodhi snorts.

“He’ll probably forget to spare me a thought,” I say bitterly. “He’ll be too busy moping about Sorrengail being stuck at Basgiath this weekend to remember it’s Presentation Day. He won’t think of me until someone lets him know I either made it or fell.”

“Xaden cares a lot about Violet, Sloane, but that doesn’t have to negate the care he has for us, or take anything away from it,” Bodhi diplomatically replies, hands twisting my hair carefully. 

He swears as he botches something, then undoes most of the braid he’s been working on and begins again. Personally, I’m not complaining. 

“This feels fucking amazing,” I mutter, sighing contentedly. “I feel sorry for you, because you’ll never know how good this feels.”

“I have hair, too, Sloane.”

“Yeah, but has anybody ever played with it?”

“I promise you that my hair has been played with. Many times, in fact. Women are lining up outside the door as we speak, desperate to play with my hair.”

“Slut.” 

“Child.” Bodhi tugs at my scalp, and I gasp, mockingly offended. In a quiet, tense voice, he states, “Xaden is going to be pretty overprotective of you for a while because of what happened last year.”

I shrug. “Yes, I know that,” I say, almost petulant. 

“Well, with that in mind and our whole conversation about honor and priorities, there’s something I wanted to run by you,” he begins, lowering his voice even though there’s no one in the room but us. “It might lead to a few arguments, so if you’re not into it, I won’t—”

“Bodhi, when have I ever backed down from an argument?”

“Good point.” He pauses. “I was thinking… Once you’re bonded, I’d like you to come on a dagger drop. They’re not very frequent for Imogen and me these days, now that Garrick and Xaden are stationed at outposts. It’s easier for them to handle, because they have more freedom of movement. But I think I could whittle Xaden down on delegating one or two, and assuming you were into it, I was thinking we could sneak you out with us when we go.”

“Where would it be?” I ask, swallowing around the lump in my throat. 

“Nowhere near Athebyne,” he says, answering the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask. “That drop site is compromised. We couldn’t stop at Resson, either, because it would probably raise alarms. We could fly over it, though, if you… wanted to see it.”

“So, is this me being invited to join the revolution?” I ask, toying with the hair tie in my hands. 

“Definitely not,” he says. “Not yet. Not officially. Xaden wants to keep you away from all of it for as long as he possibly can. He says your only focus right now should be ‘enjoying your well-earned freedom, focusing on your studies and figuring out who you are.’”

“Ew. Did he actually say it like that?”

“Verbatim.”

I roll my eyes. “What if I’m a revolutionary who likes to live dangerously? Can I explore that, or is that excluded from his narrative?”

Bodhi holds out his hand, palm up. I place the hair tie in it. “My thoughts exactly,” he murmurs. 

“Xaden can’t decide everything for all of us, all of the time,” I declare. “The fact that he’s the oldest doesn’t mean that he gets to boss us all around. We’re not children. And unless the crown miraculously decided to give us all back our titles and I somehow missed that he’s a duke again, which is the least likely thing I can imagine happening ever, we’re not his subjects, either.”

“You should tell him that to his face,” Bodhi mutters. “I think you’re one of two people in the world who could actually get away with it.”

Maybe I will, I think. “He’s not even a wingleader anymore.”

“Like you’d listen to him if he was. You’ve got Aetos on the ropes,” he says, chuckling. The suggestion is deeply gratifying, but only if I ignore all the anecdotal evidence which suggests that actually, he’s the one who’s got me on the ropes. “It’s truly been a delight to watch. The whole quadrant is talking about how you slapped him on the mat. To be fair, Imogen isn’t helping. She keeps exaggerating the story a little bit more every time she tells it, so now half the quadrant probably thinks you gave Aetos the ass-kicking of his life, then spat in his mouth.”

I shrug, then abruptly change the subject. “I’d be delighted to commit high treason with you, Bodhi. Consequences and Xaden Riorson be damned.”

He ties off the braid with nimble fingers and tucks it over my shoulder. “That’s my girl,” he says.

“Are you doing the evasion exercises in the Shedrick Woods today?” I ask, turning to look at him.

He shakes his head. “Squad leaders will be taking the lead on that one so Aetos and I can oversee things at the Gauntlet. It’s not the way they usually approach it, but this is an unusual year. Evasion exercises don’t often overlap with Presentation Day. I was supposed to be there, actually, but Aetos argued that both he and I were needed at Presentation.”

“Huh.”

I put my boots back on, then stand and stretch. Bodhi turns to watch me, sitting back on the bed, resting on the heels of his hands. When I examine myself in the mirror, I’m pleased to discover that the elaborate braid he’s plaited into my hair is only slightly lopsided. He raises a brow in question.

“You did good, Durran,” I inform him. “Fuck dragon-riding. You missed your true calling as my lady-in-waiting. You sure I can’t commission you to do this every morning for the rest of the year? It would save me a whole lot of arm strain.”

He beams in spite of himself. “Fuck no,” he laughs, getting to his feet. “Don’t expect a repeat performance. That shit was so fucking stressful, I think I’d rather run the Gauntlet than attempt it ever again. You should just shave it all off, like Imogen.”

“I think you need to run the Gauntlet again,” I say as we approach the door. “Seriously, I know you were recovering from the night before, but did you crawl up on your hands and knees or something?”

He chuckles, pausing as he opens the door and ushers me through it. “Those are big words for someone who hasn’t clocked their final time yet.”

“I bet it’ll be faster than yours,” I tease, turning to face him as I step out into the hallway. I smirk at him. “Hell, I’ll literally bet on it. I couldn’t possibly be slower than you were.”

One thing about Bodhi is that he can’t resist a wager and never could. Unfortunately for him, once I learned how to calculate statistical odds, he started to lose our bets a lot more often than he won. He stares at me, perhaps weighing up the likelihood of this being yet another loss in a long, long string of losses. 

“Okay,” he says after a beat, leaning against the doorframe. His face splits into a grin. “I’ll bite, Mairi. What’s your wager?”

I tap my chin, pretending to think about it. “You know what? I wasn’t exaggerating before when I said that felt fucking amazing,” I tell him, grinning back. “How about this: If I beat your time on the Gauntlet, I’ll come back here the morning of Threshing for that repeat performance you mentioned.”

“I mentioned it because I said it wasn’t happening.” He arches a brow as he crosses his arms, smirking now. “You liked it that much, huh?”

“Did I not seem like I was enjoying myself?” I roll my eyes as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair that’s already come loose away from my eye. “I think I needed that way more than I realized. I’m fairly sure I started purring at one point.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” 

“If I don’t beat your time, what do you want?”

“You do the same thing to me, except you come back here and do it tonight instead of the morning of Threshing,” he says, without hesitation. He laughs when he sees my indignant expression. “Also, you have to keep going until I say you can stop.”

I shake my head at him. “No fucking way.”

“What?” he protests. “You’re not the only one who’s pent up, Mairi. Now that I think about it, I could use some relaxation, too.”

“You’re diabolical. I’m not fucking doing that.”

“Isn’t it moot? There’s no possible way your time will be worse than mine, right?” He smirks. “I mean, I took my sweet time, according to you. Short of crawling up it, you couldn’t possibly run that thing slower than me, right?”

I roll my eyes, then jut out my hand; we shake. “I know you’re being facetious, but you’ll be eating your fucking words when I’m back here in two days’ time.”

Before I can pull my hand away from his, he pulls me toward his chest, wrapping his arms around me. I bury my face in his shoulder, tears quickly pricking at my eyes as I squeeze them tightly shut. If I thought his room smelled like home, it was understated compared to this; I breathe in his scent, a scent that’s reminiscent of Aretian breezes and happier times, and will myself not to cry. We hold onto each other for longer than is strictly necessary, and for a moment, I allow myself to pretend that it’s Liam I’m hugging.

“You’ll do great, Sloane,” he murmurs into my hair. 

I time my breaths to the rise and fall of his chest, holding onto him for several heartbeats; I cling to him like he’s a buoy I’m dangling from on the Gauntlet, like my life depends on it. Bodhi, sensing how much I need this in that way he always does, pats my head gently, his cheek resting against the crown of my head. When he steps away, he lifts the end of my braid, toying with it. 

He looks proud, maybe a little smug, as he surveys his handiwork. He tugs it once, twice, before turning back into the room and kicking the door shut behind him. 

I turn, still smiling.

I immediately see Dain, who’s shirtless, two doors away and seems to be approaching the bathing chamber reserved for student leadership, towel slung over his shoulder and caddy in hand. He’s standing in the middle of the hallway looking as if he’d like very much to avoid me, his expression stricken; I’m standing between him and the door that’s his intended destination, completely unavoidable. 

I open my mouth to say something, then close it. 

I think about his fingertips brushing the bare skin of my thigh.

I think about my lips on his.

I think about the door snicking closed behind me as I walked out of the room.

The look on his face confirms every one of the horrid, intrusive thoughts that kept me up last night. The look on his face, slightly agape and wild-eyed as an animal that wants to flee, confirms that I misread the moment. 

I kissed him, and I really shouldn’t have. 

Fuck, I think, smile falling from my face. 

Why am I always misreading the fucking moment? I continue, fully embracing self-flagellation as we stand in the hallway, silently staring at each other. I jam my tongue so hard into the crevice between my teeth that I taste thin, coppery blood. I nearly kissed Aaric once when it wasn’t a thing, and that probably would have made my life pretty fucking miserable. Now, having apparently learned fucking nothing from that moment, I’ve gone and kissed my wingleader, dooming myself to a year of cripplingly awkward encounters.

Encounters exactly like this one, in fact.  

Why the fuck did I kiss him? I think. He would have done it in the courtyard if he really wanted to. And it occurs to me, not for the first time, that before I kissed him, I both heavily implied and explicitly suggested that he could and should, but he didn’t. 

He even told me he had no intention of doing it, and I did it anyway. 

And all of this is ignoring the blaring, highly relevant fact that I absolutely shouldn’t have wanted to kiss him, in any event, because he’s him. And I might be slowly reconciling myself to the fact that maybe he didn’t get my brother killed in the strictest sense of the term, that maybe Liam had a little more responsibility in his own death than I’ve been previously willing to admit, but that still doesn’t change the fact that Dain, self-professedly, had some level of involvement.

He’s Colonel Aetos’ son. How do I keep forgetting that fact?

Am I missing some kind of innate self-preservation instinct? Am I completely bereft of common fucking sense? Is that why I avoided training with Imogen for so long, because I am psychologically damaged? 

‘It could change the course of history’? I think to myself. Really, Sloane?

I’m an idiot, I decide. In the course of history, there has never been a bigger idiot.

I give him a small, self-conscious smile that probably comes across as a grimace, but at least I’m trying to make this slightly less weird, which is more than I can say for him; then I pivot on my heel and walk away without saying a godsdamned thing.

-----

I read Liam’s letters—all of them, in chronological order—for about the millionth time while lying on my bunk in the quiet girls’ dorm, waiting impatiently for Avalynn and Visia to be ready for breakfast. I have entered the stage of fatigue where I feel skittishly awake, and for a brief moment, I contemplate taking a nap while Avalynn decides which of her largely indistinguishable, all-black outfits is most appropriate for today’s events and Visia berates her for being so needlessly shallow. 

I don’t nap, because I’m pretty sure that if I fall asleep now, I may not ever wake up.  

Instead, I do exactly what I spent the night before doing: staring at the slats of the bed above me, wondering whether or not I’ll die soon and thinking that it could be a blessing if I do, because at least then I won’t have to see Dain’s face ever again. Over and over again, I ask myself what could possibly have compelled me to develop this unhealthy fascination with him, to go to his room on multiple occasions, to kiss him on his fucking mouth.

I am fundamentally fucked, I think.

There is something deeply disturbed in my mind, I think. 

I must—

“Just pick one,” Visia hisses as Avalynn paws through a selection of nearly identical tunics.

Avalynn glares at her. “You’re not helping.”

“That one,” Visia says, pointing to something that sits at the top of the pile. “That one looks amazing on you. Put it on, please.”

“That one?” Avalynn says, frowning. She lifts it up, dangling it from the end of her index finger as if it’s something truly disgusting. “This is a corset. You cannot possibly think I’m going to wear a corset on the Gauntlet. Is this a joke to you, Visia? Am I a joke to you?”

“You are,” Visia replies, rolling her eyes, “but not a very funny one.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Avalynn begins, managing to sound both genuinely curious and scathing at the same time. “Were you a bitch before your family died?”

“Get fucked,” Visia recommends, crossing her arms as she leans against the bedpost. “Though, to answer your question, I used to be a slightly more decent person. Patient, even. Maybe not patient enough to deal with you, but at least somewhat more patient. Insurmountable grief has a way of changing who you are.”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me, and it’s a thought so beautiful that if it were corporeal, I would kiss it right on the mouth and never find myself regretting it.

I quietly excuse myself and head towards the Archives, a woman on a mission.

I’m simultaneously relieved and preemptively traumatized to discover Jesinia sitting at the table at the front when I arrive, already sorting through a stack of books. When she notices me standing in front of her, she smiles beatifically, then quickly stifles it, glancing around as if to check that no one saw her do something so discomposed and vulgar. “Back so soon?” she signs when her eyes flick back to me. 

I smile, tentative, then muddle my way through some polite small talk about the Tactics essay she helped me research—perfect score, I tell her—until it’s time to face the inevitable. 

“I know this is a weird request, but I’m wondering if you know of any books about sexual arousal”—I have never had to sign that phrase before, and I flush as I stumble over it, using the best approximation of gestures I can to convey my message—“as a response to extreme stress or grief,” I ask, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Or something along those lines,” I add, staring at the space right above her left ear. 

When I’m finished, I stare intently at her hands, waiting for her answer. 

Jesinia, it seems, cannot meet my eyes, either. She blushes. “What?” she very succinctly asks. 

“Are there any books about grief and stress… turning people on?” I sign, which is a combination of gestures I know in their individual capacities, and therefore a combination of gestures that I know that I’m executing correctly, but they seem uncomfortably, grievously wrong when combined into a sentence, their contextual meaning stretched to its very limits. 

Or maybe I just feel that way because Jesinia is staring at me like whatever I just signed at her was complete and utter nonsense. 

“Morbid arousal?” she queries, the motion of her hands somewhat cautious, perplexed. I’m relieved to see that she used the same gesture for ‘arousal’ as I did, that either my instinct was correct or we’ve just invented a new sign by consensus. As if she’s certain she’s misunderstood me, she adds, “You… want to know if hormonal changes, for example, in times of grief and stress can elicit feelings of a… sexual nature?”

Kill me now, I pray to Malek. 

“Yes,” I sign at Jesinia, nodding. 

I want to add, but don’t: You may be curious about this line of enquiry, Jesinia. Well, it occurs to me that some kind of stress-induced physiological damage is the only rational explanation for the fact that I kissed my wingleader last night, Jesinia. By the way, are all scribes fluent in sign language? If so, I may throw myself off the bridge on my way back to the dining hall, so try not to give me any especially rare editions of texts. 

Jesinia ponders the question, turning her head slightly to stare at a nearby section of the library. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a clock tick, and it sounds like the countdown to something truly ominous. “How soon do you need to know?” she signs, turning back to me. 

“Now,” I reply. 

She frowns, then pushes back her chair. “Wait here.”

Twelve minutes later, I arrive early to breakfast and take up a seat at our usual table, the book Jesinia gave me burning a hole through my satchel. I briefly contemplate pulling it out and reading it, because I’m that desperate for whatever exoneration from my actions the information contained within might lend me, but then I would have to explain to the others why I’m reading a book called Widow’s Fire: An Autobiographical Study of Increased Libido After Grief. 

Instead, I pull out my History homework, an essay which I know is factually incorrect but comes to exactly the conclusion Professor Dolion is looking for. 

Aaric arrives shortly after I do, carrying two plates and a bowl of fruit. He puts one of the plates in front of me with a ceremonious flourish, followed by a set of cutlery. “This is nice,” he says, gesturing to my braid. “Pretty.”

“Bodhi did it,” I tell him. 

He blinks at me. “Bodhi? Bodhi Durran, our section leader?”

I nod, making a minor correction to my homework. 

“Is that… something that Bodhi usually does?”

“It’s a Tyr thing,” I tell him absentmindedly. I pick up a grape and chew it slowly, watching as some of the Second and Third Years from our squad trickle into the dining hall, each dressed in their flight leathers. Ridoc Gamlyn says something, and Sorrengail tips her head back and laughs at him. She’s always laughing, and there’s something familiar about the way she does it: the downturned corners of her smiling mouth, the angle of her head.  

I think about the fact that Dain told me he might still be in love with her, quickly followed by the fact that I kissed him. 

My stomach roils, and I push my plate away.

“Absolutely not,” Aaric says, pushing it back towards me. “You’re eating today, Sloane, and I’m not fucking arguing about it.”

“I’m not hungry,” I whine. 

He turns, narrowing his eyes at me. “I don’t give a shit,” he says, pointedly looking at the plate in front of me. “We can save this argument until Visia’s here to back me up, if you prefer, or you can accept that you’ve already lost. Your choice.”

I sigh, picking up my fork. “Sometimes you feel more like my brother than my own brother did,” I say, spearing a piece of grilled tomato and lifting it to my mouth. 

He grimaces, then pats my knee beneath the table. 

Avalynn and Visia are still bickering when they arrive. Avalynn is wearing the first thing she put on this morning before deciding it was the wrong shade of black, and Visia is wearing a scowl that makes it clear she’s on her last fucking straw. “You’re explaining this concept to me like I don’t get it, but I do,” Visia says, throwing herself into her seat. “You’re just wrong. We call it fluid dynamics, but when it’s applied to dragon flight, there’s no actual fluid involved. It's about air flow and pressure. Inertia.” 

I take a pastry from my plate as I look up from my History essay, watching them with mild interest. 

Avalynn rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she snaps, pausing as she stabs at her food. After a moment, she turns to Visia and asks, “Well, what if a water wielder wielded water in the air? That could slow down a dragon because of the increased friction; right?”

“Maybe, assuming the water didn’t just fall straight to the ground,” Visia replies. Under her breath, she adds, “Which it would, due to another concept you may have encountered recently which we call gravity.”

Aaric leans towards me, whispering. “Am I imagining this, or are Avalynn and Visia arguing about physics?”

“I believe this is a direct result of Gauntlet-related psychosis,” I mutter in response. “When we got back to the dorms last night, we found Avalynn spooning her Physics textbook, which I’m pretty sure is the first time she’s ever actually opened it. Visia, on the other hand, is… well, Visia.”

“Right,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “It’s so weird how differently we all respond to stress.”

I think of my lips on Dain’s.

“Sure is,” I sigh, dropping my pastry back onto the plate.

-----

The remainder of breakfast is uneventful, aside from the fact that Visia and Aaric take turns fussing over how much I’ve eaten and whether it’s enough. I spend formation wedged between them, as always, and as I stand at attention, I make a point not to look in the direction of the dais until I hear Captain Fitzgibbons say, with about as little emotion as someone could muster, “We commend their souls to Malek.”

“Good luck today, cadets,” Matthias tells us before we depart. “Make me proud.”

We’re a small crew of nine First Years these days, three of whom I’ve barely spoken to: Mischa Levin, who seems to spend most of her time biting her nails; Bren Seymour, who’s stocky, somber and not very smart; and Rubin Farrell, who killed two of his opponents in challenges but is otherwise unremarkable. At some early stage, we separated into two clearly delineated cliques, which Avalynn has occasionally defined as people who have personalities and people who don’t. Today, however, we move as one unit, the Second and Third Years trailing behind us as we file out of the courtyard through the western gate and into the mage-lit tunnel that leads to the Gauntlet. 

Our voices bounce off of the walls, distorted.

Is Dain in the tunnel with us? I want to ignore him, to let him know that it doesn’t bother me one bit that he apparently found kissing me to be a miserable and regrettable experience, but there’s a part of me that’s tender and hyperaware, that needs to know where he is at all times. 

So that I can’t look at him by accident, I reassure myself.

Someone throws their arm over my shoulder, draping their weight across me, warm and unwieldy. I stiffen instinctively, thinking irrational thoughts about how it could be Dain, then smell crisp citrus soap and detect an unmistakably nefarious energy.

Imogen, then. 

“Children,” she says breezily. I scowl, trying to pull away from her as she brings her knuckles up to the crown of my head and rubs them into my scalp, loosing hair. “My felicitations on this most special of days. Today, you will either die or move one step closer to becoming real people in my mind.”

“Any advice?” Lynx asks, turning to glance at us over his shoulder. 

His hair has faded from its usual deep pink to a pastel hue. If it weren’t for the trepidatious look he’s wearing and the fact that he towers over almost everyone, he and Imogen could be siblings: same nose, same complexion, same haircut. 

“Try not to fall,” Imogen replies. 

He blinks. “That’s it?” he asks. 

“If you must, try to make it entertaining,” Imogen adds with a long-suffering sigh. She smiles and turns to me, lifting my chin so she can look in my eyes. “You, however, are forbidden to die,” she adds, pinching my cheek. 

We emerge into the daylight. “Is it just me, or does it look bigger than usual?” Avalynn asks as we approach the Gauntlet, tilting her head back to study it. 

“That’s not the first time she’s said that this morning,” Baylor says with a wink, arm wrapped around her waist. 

In response, Avalynn smacks the back of his head with her cupped hand.

We come to a stop in our usual spot, and I crane my neck back to look at the Gauntlet and study the silhouettes of students filing across the ridgeline above. The crowd of milling First Years—somewhere between one-hundred and one-hundred-and-sixty of us, I think, though I haven’t been keeping up with the numbers—eddies around us. Nearby, I hear someone skid across the gravel and turn my head, watch them fall to their knees in front of the ditch that runs beneath the course and heave their breakfast into it.  

I lift my head again, surveying the ascents. 

Avalynn might just be right. It does look bigger today. 

“He must have seen your face, Baylor,” Visia suggests, picking a piece of lint off of her shoulder. 

Imogen snorts. “Good one.”

Baylor grins at Visia. “I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” he tells her. 

“Can we conduct ourselves with some dignity for once?” Aaric hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I would prefer that your squabbling is not the last memory I have of you all. I’ve truly cherished the friendship we’ve shared to date, despite all of your best efforts to ruin it.” 

“Aaric’s mad because he hasn’t been getting any,” Baylor says to us in a mock whisper. 

“You aren’t either,” Aaric points out, turning back to the cliff. 

Baylor shrugs. “I have prospects,” he says, tucking his face into the curve of Avalynn’s shoulder and smacking loud kisses against her skin. 

“I hope for your sake that you mean ‘prospect’, singular,” Visia retorts. “If there’s one thing I know about Avalynn, it’s that she fucking hates sharing. Only children always do.”

“Are we done?” Bodhi barks, striding towards us. 

Aaric has never looked more relieved to see anyone. “Where’s Aetos?” he asks. 

I nod, co-signing the question, then catch myself nodding and bite my lip.  

Bodhi gestures to the top of the ridgeline. “He’s making his way up there for roll duty,” he says. With a wry smile, he adds, “You think he’d miss an opportunity to do more paperwork? This is his favorite day of the whole fucking year.”

“Should’ve been a scribe,” Baylor says. 

Imogen gasps. “That is your wingleader,” she says, scolding him. Immediately, her face breaks into a grin. “You’re absolutely right, though, Morris. He should have been a scribe.”

“It’s Norris,” I point out. “With an ‘n’.”

Imogen turns, peering down at me, unrepentant. “Is it?” She shrugs, the movement tightening her already punishing grip around my shoulders and neck. “Well, if he makes it through today in one piece, maybe I’ll learn to care.”

Bodhi narrows his eyes at her, then gestures towards the stairs to the flight field, where Sorrengail, Matthias and Quinn are waiting. 

Imogen raises her hand in salute. “Of course, Section Leader Durran,” she declares, walking away backwards. “Good luck, cadets,” she says before she turns, flicking her rigid, flat hand out into the air in front of her. “If this is the last time I see any of you, I want you to know that I will remember you fondly, assuming I can remember you at all.” 

Avalynn sighs wistfully as Imogen departs. “I don’t know if I want to be her or be with her,” she opines. 

I watch Imogen until she reaches the stairs; as she joins the others, I realize that while I’ve been watching Imogen, Sorrengail has been watching me. She really does look pretty today, I passively think, gaze flicking over her. Her hair is braided like a crown atop her head, and her skin is luminous in the morning sun. I wonder if Dain ever kissed her; then I wonder who initiated their first kiss, if such a thing ever actually happened. 

Him, probably. 

Our eyes meet. 

I turn away, toward the Gauntlet, and stare at it determinedly. 

“Alright, cadets,” Bodhi says, stepping forward. He waves for us to gather around him, and we comply. 

As he surveys us, standing before him, his arms are crossed in a posture that I’m beginning to think might be a compulsory aspect of being a student leader at Basgiath. I wonder if it’s something they’re trained in, how to look intimidating without looking like you actually give a shit, or if they’re all just mimicking the mannerisms of whoever came before them. 

“You’ll be running this thing in squads, but your individual order isn’t predetermined, because I couldn’t be fucked,” he tells us. “You can figure that out amongst yourselves. Generally, I recommend you go by fastest first, slowest last. That would put Greycastle up front and Campos in the back, seeing as she hasn’t completed the course yet, but…” He shrugs. “Matter for you. Based on your combined practice times, you’ll be the sixth squad to run the Gauntlet today. You should all be thanking Greycastle and Hawelynn for the fact that you’re not last, because Campos’ inability to finish the course could very easily have put you in that spot.”

Avalynn seems totally unaffected as she shrugs and says, “Sorry, I guess.”

Baylor claps Aaric on the back, jovial. “Thanks, man.” Visia glares at him as he turns to pat her back, too, and he quickly pulls his hand back, making a face that could be liberally described as apologetic but is probably more mocking. “You too, Vis.”

“Call me that again and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” 

“Enough,” Bodhi barks, continuing his briefing. “You already know the drill, but this one’s for all the money. Move fast, but be safe. Use the ropes if you need to, but know you’ll incur a penalty. You’re well aware by now that the aggregated speed with which your squad completes this thing determines the order of your presentation, but you can’t be presented if you’re dead. So proceed with speed and caution. Any questions?”

There’s a cumulative shaking of heads and murmured responses in the negative.

“Good,” Bodhi says, nodding contentedly. “Aetos will lead you through the canyon to the training field when it’s your time, at which point you’ll be briefed on that process.” He hesitates, glancing meaningfully between us. “One last thing,” he adds after a beat, and a cruel, calculating smile dawns across his face, one that makes him look so much like Xaden that I nearly blink. “I want you to be safe, but one of you better bring me back that Gauntlet patch. I’m looking at you, Greycastle.”

Aaric nods diligently. “I’ll do my best,” he replies, stoic. 

From the corner of my eye, I see Visia snort silently, then grit her teeth. “Me, too,” she says pointedly.

Bodhi shrugs dismissively, giving her an uncharacteristically patronizing smile. “If you can, then do.” Visia narrows her eyes as Bodhi turns, catching Emetterio’s gaze. The professor waves him over. “I recommend you make use of the next ten minutes, cadets,” he advises, giving each of us a meaningful look. When his eyes meet mine, he pauses for a beat that’s noticeably longer. “Stretch. Reminisce. Pray. Do whatever the fuck you need to do to, but make sure you’re ready when those ten minutes are up, because after that, shit tends to get very real, very fast. When you hear the whistle, come meet me at the beginning of the course.”

Bodhi’s barely taken three steps before Baylor turns to us. “I’ll go after Avalynn,” he volunteers, his tone preposterously serious. He presses his hand to his heart earnestly. “If I die on that thing, I want her ass to be the last sight I see.”

-----

When I’m able to form conscious thought, having made it to the top of the Gauntlet and rolled myself over the lip of the final ascent onto the gravel of the ridgeline, my arms viscous and clothes covered in dust, the first thing I think is, Which one of the gods have I pissed off now, and how the fuck do I fix it?

I huff out a breath, wishing I could just roll back over the edge of the ridge and disappear, because Dain is standing over me, looking nonchalantly down at me as I lie sprawled on the ground.

I am, I think, in the absolute last condition I wanted to be in the next time I encountered him: caked in dirt, hair ravaged, dripping with sweat. He, on the other hand, looks gorgeous and clean. I hate myself for thinking it; I hate myself for kissing him, and I hate myself because I want to kiss him again.

Quickly, he flicks his eyes back to the course, watching for rope penalties or course violations. 

“Your best time yet,” he says, painfully fucking placid.

I think of his grim face in the hallway, of the two of us staring awkwardly at each other.

“Don’t fall all over yourself to help me up,” I grumble, guzzling air as I glare up at him.

He glances down at me again. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of getting up, Sloane,” he says, then turns back to the parchment he’s holding to write something down. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

“You,” he says, without missing a beat. “Multiple times.”

He clicks the button on his stopwatch, makes a note on the roll. I sit up slowly, bending my knees. Every muscle in my thighs, stomach and arms protests the movement. Vividly. Loudly. I groan in agony, and Dain’s eyes flick towards me again.

Why didn’t you kiss me back? I want to scream. Why didn’t you fucking say something this morning? You couldn’t stop touching me last night, but now you won’t help me up off the ground. Is it because I kissed you?

Are you ashamed that I kissed you?

I am. 

“I can’t be seen showing you preferential treatment,” he says quietly, as if he can read my thoughts. He squats, peering over the edge of the ridge like he’s checking something on the course. “It would be noted, if you were the only cadet in the entire cohort I helped onto their feet. Commented on. That would be detrimental for both of us, but mostly you. So, no, Sloane, I’m not the asshole you think I am, but I can’t help you up, either.”

I blink up at him. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” a colossal Third Year who’s standing near Aura Beinhaven hisses. The outburst draws my eye, and as I look over, I vaguely recognize him as a section leader from one of the other wings. “I bet Durran three swords that Mairi wouldn’t make it up and my favorite bow that Greycastle would win the patch. This is fucking bullshit.”

Next to him, Aura Beinhaven is staring at me with unrestrained hatred. 

“Right,” I murmur. 

In the heirarchy of the quadrant, we’re supposed to exist in two almost completely separate strata, Dain and I: wingleader and cadet. I’m not supposed to know what books are on the shelf in his dorm room or how pristinely he makes his bed. I’m certainly not supposed to know how his lips feel, even if I only know it, only kissed him, because a fear of dying may or may not make me horny (due, I assume, to chemical reactions I don’t yet understand but will, once I find somewhere private to read the book Jesinia gave me). 

People are already gossiping about the fact that I slapped him in the face and got away with it; I don’t need to give them something else to talk about. 

Annoyingly, he has a point.

“Right,” I say again, swallowing convulsively.

Dain doesn’t look down at me as he stands and says, “You beat Durran’s time, by the way.” 

“What?”

“You beat Durran’s time,” he repeats, the consonants a little crisper on repetition. 

Visia walks towards me before I can reply, a smug, self-satisfied expression on her face; Aaric trails after her, unbothered. “They just confirmed it. I beat him by an eighth of a second,” she gloats, jerking one thumb over her shoulder, toward Aaric, as she helps me to my feet with the other hand. “The day is still young, but he was the favorite to win, so odds are good that Durran’s getting that Gauntlet patch he wanted so badly. From me.” 

“Let’s not celebrate prematurely,” Dain says, not looking at us. 

Visia rolls her eyes at his back. 

I hear the scrape of boots on wood as Lynx launches himself up the vertical ramp. I pivot to watch. He catches the lip with one arm and swings himself over the edge with a grace that might seem almost purposefully insulting to someone who just had to roll around in the dirt. “Nice,” I say, only a little bitter.   

“‘Nice’ yourself, Mairi,” he tells me, holding his hand out for a high-five. 

I bat at it weakly, arms still feeling spindly and weak, then place my hands on my hips and try to regulate my breathing. “I’m so fucking glad I never have to do that again.” 

“Don’t count your dragons before they hatch,” Visia mutters darkly. “I’m pretty sure I said the exact same thing last year.” 

“So, it’s fine when you say it, but not when Aetos says it?” Aaric points out.

“Yes,” I mutter under my breath, “because Aetos is an asshole.”

Dain’s shoulders stiffen. The movement is subtle, but detectable to me because, I realize, I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye.

Lynx is the seventh of our squad to climb the course so far, and Avalynn and Baylor will be the last. Currently, they’re approaching the Staircase at full tilt, Baylor hot on Avalynn’s heels. I hold my breath as I watch them both fly over it, only a single step separating them, then zigzag back on themselves, racing up the next incline towards the Chimney. 

It occurs to me with sickening clarity, as I watch them skitter along the narrow path, that Bodhi made a highly pertinent point before: Avalynn hasn’t ever finished the course. In fact, this is the first time she’s ever made it past the shaking pillars without having to use the ropes. Logically, this was something I knew, but I didn’t know it. Not like I know it now, at least, as I watch her navigate towards the last two ascents. 

Every obstacle that she’ll encounter from here on out is totally unknown to her, and she’ll have to figure it out as she goes.

My fingertips tingle; I feel a hard knot of anxiety form in my stomach.

Aaric rubs my back once, twice. 

“She’ll be fine,” Visia insists, crossing her arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nails dig into the flesh above her elbow, leaving cuts in her skin shaped like tiny crescent moons. “She’s been using the ropes as a crux in practice, but she hasn’t needed them once today. That’s a good sign.”

“She hasn’t ever attempted the last two ascents, though.”

“She’d never attempted the Staircase, either, but she didn’t have any problems with that. And I’ve talked her through the others plenty of times,” Visia assures me. “Aaric has, too. We went over it again at breakfast, and she seemed like she got it. She’s seen us do it enough times to figure it out.” She hesitates, then says, maybe to reassure herself as much as me, “She’ll do it, Sloane.”

The implication in her words is clear, an audible notch of fear biting at the edge of them. She has to do it, because on Presentation Day, there are only two ways off the course: climbing all the way to the top, or death.

“Has that one got enough wingspan for the Chimney?” someone murmurs.

I hear another voice say, “Three churam sticks and a dagger says she doesn’t.”

“You’ve got yourself a fucking deal, man.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss in annoyance, turning towards them. “Do you have any idea how fucking depraved it is that you’re betting on whether or not someone fucking dies?” 

One of them, I notice as I turn to glare at them, is Vedic, the guy Aaric traded places with at Parapet. I wouldn’t have recognized him but for the distinctive cleft chin. He was sturdy then, but now he’s a beast—a thing of bulging, flexuous muscle. 

He raises one eyebrow at me, then shrugs, rolling his neck.

“Hey,” Visia says, tapping my arm. “They’re hitting the Chimney now.”

I turn back, watching them approach the mouth of the ascent; then I realize that I’ve begun moving, edging along the ridgeline to find a better angle. I don’t fully register that I’ve gotten down on my hands and knees, that I’m leaning over the edge with gravel pricking up into my palms, until I feel Aaric’s hand fist around the back of my tunic. 

Avalynn skids to a stop, throwing her palms out to catch herself on the wall even though she’s already losing momentum.

Baylor pulls up behind her, looking like he’s about a second away from vomiting.

She heaves three short, gasping breaths, the distinct rise and fall of her chest visible even from here, with her palms still pressed against the stone. Once centered, she moves to the middle of the Chimney, stretches out her arms; then, with a hop, she extends her limbs into the X formation, feet and hands both propped on the walls, and begins to climb. 

Facing in the wrong fucking direction: outward, toward the valley.

“Fuck,” Aaric mutters, wiping his hand over his face. He turns to Visia and asks, “Did you ever tell her which way she should be facing?”

Visia groans. “I thought it went without saying.”

“So did I.”

“Sweet fucking Malek,” someone says to my right as Avalynn begins to walk herself up: one hand first, then the opposite foot, grunting with exertion. “She must be hanging on by her fingertips and sheer force of will. She can barely get a bend in any of her limbs.”

“If she was an inch or two shorter, she’d be dead already,” Lynx observes, aghast. 

Avalynn scrambles up the wall. When she reaches the top, she inhales twice, hesitating. I see her shoulders fall, then rise; then they stiffen. I can’t see her face, but I can easily guess that she’s just realized she should be facing inward and that getting herself off the Chimney now is going to be a challenge. 

“Let’s fucking go, Avalynn!” Visia screams, dropping to her knees beside me. “Drop one hand, then edge yourself around!”

“Come on,” I call out. “You’re almost there, Av!”

Two more breaths. Then she wraps her fingers around the brink and slowly releases one leg, letting it dangle. She takes a third, final breath before she drops her left hand, her weight swinging to one side, and cries out as her ribs, hips and knees hit the wall with punishing force. Several long moments pass before she begins to work toward the center, but eventually, she does. I hold my breath while she shuffles sideways; pulls herself up, a primal scream ripping out of her throat; hitches one knee over the top of the Chimney; and rolls herself over.

“Fuck,” says one of the guys from before, the one who isn’t Vedic. “I thought that was a done deal.” He hesitates, and then offers, while Baylor is scurrying up the Chimney, “Same deal says she won’t make it up the next ascent, though.”

Vedic snorts. “I’m out,” he says snidely. “I wouldn’t want to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities.”

I lift my hand over the shoulder and give him the finger, eyes still locked on Baylor and Avalynn. 

“Is she tall enough for the ramp?” Visia murmurs, unable to tear her eyes away.

I begin to calculate. Avalynn can’t be more than five feet, five inches, but I’ve never bothered to ask her actual height. It’s probably closer to five-four, maybe as short as five-three. The vertical ramp, meanwhile, is ten feet tall. Running far enough up the ramp to close the last of the distance with a jump has been difficult for me, and I’ve got at least two inches on her, maybe more. “It’s not impossible,” I say.   

“Is it improbable?”

“It’s not impossible,” I repeat. “Sorrengail did it somehow.” 

Visia nods grimly. “She can do it,” she says, determined.

Baylor makes a point of standing apart from her, never touching any part of her body, as he demonstrates the technique each of us has used for making it up so far: get speed up the slope, then jump when you hit the crest and catch the top, using your feet to walk the rest of your weight over. 

He points at a spot, indicating the height he usually jumps from. 

“Too high,” I mutter. “He’s trying to show her how to do it as if she’s six-four and got his wingspan. He could probably jump from standing and make it.” 

“I’m sure she can figure it out for herself,” Dain says; I jump as I realize he’s standing right behind us, hovering. He catches my eye as he lowers his head to write something down, and I turn away quickly.

Avalynn bails on her first attempt, sliding down the ramp on her knees. 

“You’ve got it, Av,” Visia calls out, but her tone indicates that she worries Avalynn might not, in fact, have it. 

Avalynn clambers to her feet and lifts her foot, seemingly kicking the wall before she backs up nearly to the edge of the path. She squares her shoulders as she pivots toward the obstacle, and every line of her face hardens with determination. 

On her second attempt, she somehow times the jump way too early, sending her crashing chest-first into the wall.

Her frustration mounts; when Baylor says something to her, she snaps at him.

“That’s alright, Avalynn,” I call out, but even I can admit that it sounds half-hearted. “Third time does it!”

She stands with her hands on her hips for a moment, conferring with Baylor, who makes a face of complete alarm. There’s a moment of conversation, copious amounts of arm-waving. Eventually, he relents, nods, and walks toward the ramp with her to look at something. 

Farrell, one of the guys from our squad, leans over the ridgeline. “Not to rush you or anything, but you’re on a fucking timer!” he shouts.

There’s a little more discussion between her and Baylor, and then, satisfied, she turns and walks back to the edge of the ascent. “I’m coming up now, Farrell!” she yells, seemingly resolved. “And when I get up there, I’m going to kick your fucking ass!”

As she runs forward for her third attempt (or, more aptly, approaches it at a quick, forceful jog), it’s immediately clear to me that she’s not going fast enough. 

My mind begins to race, agitated and anxious. I hear Trysten’s scream in my head, see his face as he falls. I imagine another rock on a mound of freshly-turned dirt, and my hands pinch into white-knuckled fists. 

She’s not going to make it, I think. She’s not going to make it. She’s not going to…

Instead of using the ramp the way Baylor demonstrated, the way every other cadet has tackled this obstacle so far, Avalynn—for reasons I don’t fully comprehend in the moment that it happens—jumps before she hits the ramp’s curve again. 

This time, she plants her foot on the wall at hip height, in the exact same spot she kicked earlier. This time, she leverages that foot placement to somehow vault upwards, using a hand to stabilize herself against the surface of the wall. Then she plants her other foot for the barest of seconds before vaulting herself upwards again. 

Her hands catch the lip, and she squeals, feet scrabbling to help push her up and over it. 

There’s a beat of silence, followed by someone, possibly the colossus from before, muttering, “You have got to be fucking kidding me with this squad. I owe Durran six sticks of churam now because of these freaks!”

Simultaneously, Visia and I clamber to our feet and race towards Avalynn, who is lying on her back, laughing breathlessly. As we each take an arm, pulling her up and away from the edge so that Baylor can climb up behind her, she wraps us both in a hug and begins to kiss every part of our faces that she can reach. “I’m alive!” she crows. “I’m alive! Oh, gods, I’m alive!” Several more wet kisses land on my cheeks and brow. “Physics! Physics, motherfucker! Who knew physics would have all the answers?”

Visia scowls, batting her away, her earlier worry apparently forgotten. “That’s why you were reading your Physics textbook?”

“They use mounting a dragon foreleg as an example of frictional force in chapter twenty-nine,” she says, breathless. She bends double on shaking legs, bursting into another peel of nearly delirious laughter; then she dry retches. “I have no fucking clue what any of it means, or why the number forty-five comes up so much”—she straightens, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand—“or what gravitational acceleration is, but I was looking at the wall, and I figured that jumping at it and pushing down would be a good place to start. Upward momentum. Something, I don’t know. I was kind of skimming it, to be honest, and I pieced together whatever I just did from one of the diagrams.”

I laugh, take her face in my hands and kiss it. “I’ll explain gravitational acceleration to you any time you like,” I promise her.

Avalynn wrinkles her nose. “No, I’m good,” she assures me. “That was more of a one-time foray into academics than a newfound passion; I don’t really need to know how things work as long as they’re working. Love that you get it, though. Love that for you.”

Dain strolls toward us. “I’m impressed,” he says, jotting something down on the roll. I do my best not to stare at his lips, or jaw or any part of him, really. “You made respectable time for your first full attempt at the Gauntlet, Cadet Campos, and you’ve invented a way of scaling the final ascent that I’m fairly certain has never been attempted before and should probably never be attempted by any sane person again. Congratulations.”

Avalynn beams. “Thank you,” she croons at Dain as Aaric approaches to give her a one-armed, sideways hug. “If you hadn’t agreed to let me out of kitchen duty this week in exchange for reading that chapter, I’d probably be in the ditch right now.”

“You figured it out all on your own,” he assures her. 

“Does that mean you won’t quiz me on it?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Oh, our agreement still stands, Cadet Campos. If you can’t explain the coefficient of friction to me by Monday, your kitchen duty is reinstated.”

Baylor crests the top of the vertical ramp with ease, not hesitating as he walks purposefully towards Avalynn and lifts her into the air, twirling her around and effectively putting an end to the conversation. “You’re insane,” he tells her, peppering kisses into her hair. “You’re absolutely fucking insane. Not even one of the terms you used down there was applied correctly, by the way. Remind me to explain what torque is later, because it’s definitely not what you think it is.”

Dain hums to himself as he checks his stopwatch, then records Baylor’s time. “I guess the right way isn’t the only way,” he says under his breath as he turns away, giving me a last, pointed look.

-----

When all is said and done, our squad ranks eighth out of thirty-six squads, due in large part to the fact that all of our cadets make it up the course. Dain offers us his heartfelt congratulations, waxing lyrical about how all our hard work has paid off.

Before we depart for the training field, I hear some of the leadership whispering about how fatalities were particularly high this year.

“I guess it’s for the best,” one of them says as she passes. “I heard there’s only, like, ninety dragons willing to bond this year.”

“Ninety?” the guy beside her repeats, face stricken. 

She nods gravely. 

Baylor asks Dain how Fourth Wing stacks up against last year’s cadets as we shuffle in lines of two through the box canyon, and Dain replies that we did ‘about the same’; as he does, Visia nudges me to catch my eye and shakes her head, smiling. 

Better, she mouths.

I give her a weak smile, wondering in the back of my head if our ranking can somehow be attributed to the higher number of deaths this year; then I turn my eyes back to the waterfall at the other end of the canyon.

“Look at them,” Avalynn gasps, pointing as we approach the crowd of First Years gathered at the narrowest part of the canyon, the entrance to the valley.

She’s not pointing at the other First Years, of course, but what lies beyond, in the small section of the training field we can see from this vantage point. I let myself look towards them briskly. Varicolored dragons, some as big and broad as towers, line the path on both sides, casting threatening shadows. I see a foreleg, a talon, a plume of smoke. 

I see golden eyes, judgmental faces.

“They’re already watching us,” Visia warns, pushing Avalynn’s arm down as we huddle into formation. “Don’t give them a reason to torch you before you even hit the field.”

We lingered on the ridgeline long enough that it’s our turn fairly soon after we arrive. Dain leads us right to the entrance to the field and halts, waiting. His eyes skim over us indolently, notably skipping me. “In a second, you’ll walk in a parade, straight down the meadow, until every dragon willing to bond has had a chance to survey you. You’ll walk single file and seven feet or more apart. Do not deviate from the path. It should take you fifteen minutes at most, but those fifteen minutes are some of the most important minutes of your life so far.”

“Why do we need to be seven feet apart?” Mischa asks. 

Dain’s eyes flick over to her, and he scrunches up his brows and nose in an expression of contempt. “You remember what happened after Parapet, don’t you, Levin?” We all flinch, remembering the hot scorch of indiscriminate fire that the one-eyed orange dragon let loose. “If you want to get up close and personal with your squadmates, be my guest. I hope, for your sake, that the dragons like them as much as you do, or you’re both goners.” 

He pauses for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Last year, they told us to talk,” Visia tentatively suggests. It’s weird, seeing Visia do anything tentatively. “They said there’s a correlation between bonded cadets and how much talking we do during the parade.”

“There is,” Dain says, still looking over his shoulder.

“So, was your squad dead quiet or something?” Baylor asks, which seems like it’s intended as a genuine question but comes across as goading. “You guys had three or four repeats, didn’t you?”

Visia scowls. “Not everyone has your charisma, Baylor,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“‘Innate ability to shit-talk’, you mean,” Avalynn says under her breath. 

The two of them share a provisional smile, as if they’ve agreed to a truce for now but know they’ll be enemies again later. To be honest, Visia’s been standing a lot closer to Avalynn than she usually does ever since she came off the Gauntlet.

“You’re up next,” Dain says, turning back to us. He gestures for us to walk through the opening. “Enjoy.” 

We trickle down the path, pausing at Aura Beinhaven. “There are just over one-hundred and thirty of you left,” she tells us, leering down her nose. She gestures towards the waiting dragons. “There are ninety of them.” I would calculate the odds of each of us bonding, but the odds are incalculable. Who knows why dragons bond the riders that they do? “I know some of you aren’t very smart, so I’ll dumb this down for you. There aren’t enough dragons to go around. It would behoove you to at least act like you could be a catch.”

Bren lifts his hand, and Aura raises one perfectly manicured brow at him. “What would a dragon consider a catch?” he asks. 

Aura sneers. “If you have to ask, then I doubt you are one.”

Visia scowls.

“Dragons only choose the best of the best,” Aura coolly informs us. “I would advise you to consider whether that includes you, but it’s probably too late for that.”

“It might be true that nobody knows why dragons choose their riders,” Avalynn mutters, leaning towards me, “but I would bet every dagger I have in my room right now that hers chose her specifically because she’s a bitch.”

I snort.

“If it’s any consolation, cadets,” Aura continues, sneering at me, “by the end of the day, the odds will be exponentially better for some of you, because these dragons will whittle your number down, plucking off any cadets who are obviously unfit to be part of the elite, the few, the chosen.” She smiles, and her teeth glint wetly in the early-afternoon light. “Today, they are judge, jury and executioner.”

“So, is that all the advice you have for us?” Aaric asks, letting that imperious tone he rarely uses, that vein of disappointment I haven’t really heard since Parapet, drip through his voice. 

Aura shrugs, then smiles maliciously. “If you see something on fire, go around it. Otherwise, try not to disappoint me any more than you already have.”  

I close my eyes so that I can roll them without being dealt kitchen duty.

“Form a line,” she barks, and we begin to assemble ourselves. 

“Ladies first,” Aaric says, undyingly chivalrous. He gestures at the ground in front of him, and I move to stand there, Visia behind me.

“I think not,” Beinhaven insists, shoving me back a little harder than is strictly warranted. “I want you in order of Gauntlet times, fastest to slowest: Hawelynn, Greycastle, Vespara, Farrell, Levin, Mairi, Seymour, Norris, Campos.” She waits for us to rearrange our ourselves, then nods, satisfied. “Better,” she says. “Statistics show that survival rates are best when you put the most eligible recruits up front. The dragons tend to take it as an insult if you show them the losers first. That’s why we run Presentation like this, you know.”

I tip my head back, praying to each and every god that they will give me the strength not to tell Aura Beinhaven to go fuck herself today, of all days, tempting though the thought may be. As I do, I notice a familiar Red Swordtail circling in the sky above and sigh.

Cath, I can only assume, is here to keep an eye on things.

“Go,” Aura instructs, pushing Visia forward. 

She either assumes we’ve already been informed about staying seven feet apart or doesn’t care to remind us, but Aaric waits, nevertheless, before walking.

“Don’t die,” Aura says as I pass her. It couldn’t be more clear that she means the exact opposite.

I’m not someone who’s unfamiliar with the weight of eyes on me. In fact, for most of my life, I’ve been watched everywhere I go. But there’s a marked difference between having your person assessed—your dress, your makeup, your gait and carriage, your mastery of social mores—and having your character coldly assessed. 

And these dragons are very much assessing our character, not our person. 

“So, Gauntlet was fun,” Visia begins from her place at the front of the line, audibly gritting her teeth. 

“Interesting technique on the Ramp, Campos,” Mischa says.

I glance over my shoulder and see Avalynn grinning. “Just leveraging a little thing called frictional force,” she tells her. 

Mischa grunts. “Never heard of it.”

We fall into a prolonged, cumbersome silence. I pass a Brown Clubtail who eyes me with what looks a lot like boredom, and I nearly laugh as I avert my gaze. It feels bizarre to see an expression of animalistic ennui on the face of something that could burn an entire village to the ground in a single breath.

The Brown chuffs. 

Ahead, a Red steps out of line, its head swinging towards us as if it’s agitated, impatient to see us. It stares, chortles, then steps back into line, either satisfied with whatever it saw or markedly unimpressed. 

“Is it just me, or are some of these dragons looking at Sloane like she’d be a delicious snack?” Baylor asks. 

“Dragons don’t eat people,” Avalynn replies. 

“They don’t?” Bren asks. 

“No, they don’t. What do they teach you losers in lowland schools?” Visia calls over her shoulder, and I can hear her rolling her eyes. She pauses, then adds, “Sloane comes from one of the longest matrilineal lines of riders in recorded history. That’s why some of the dragons are staring at her.”

“Meaning?” Baylor calls back. 

“Which of those words would you like me to define for you, Baylor? Matrilineal, perhaps?”

“I know what they mean. I just don’t know what they… mean.”

“Sloane’s a big-time legacy,” Visia clarifies. Nearby, I hear a rumbling sound emanating from a scaled chest. “Yes, Mairi, you’re a hot topic in Elsum, too,” she coos. “They’re looking at her like she’s a prize, because she is a prize. Her signet is pretty much guaranteed to be powerful.”

“Oh, shit,” Avalynn says. “So do you think you’ll get two signets?”

“I would need to bond a dragon who rode a direct relative, and most, if not all of those are long gone—dead or missing,” I reply. I certainly didn’t recognize any of the dragons in the illustrated flash cards Kaori gave us to review, detailing every known fact about the dragons willing to bond this year but their names. “Besides, I doubt Melgren wants someone like me to have two signets.”

“Someone with a rebellion relic, you mean?”

I shrug, then realize she probably can’t see me around the two sets of very broad shoulders that separate us. “Yeah.”

“You could keep it a secret,” Visia suggests. 

“What could they do about it?” Baylor asks. “I doubt they get any say about who dragons do or don’t bond.”

There’s a loud huff from somewhere behind me, as if one of the dragons is agreeing.

“True,” I say. “They could murder me in my sleep, though, if I bond a dragon they don’t want me to. Or they could just walk up behind me and stab me in the Commons; whichever dragon I bonded couldn’t do much about that.” Beside me, a Green Swordtail huffs morosely. “See? He knows what I’m talking about.”

“I think that’s a her,” Baylor says. 

It growls threateningly; I hear a rushing sound, feel a blast of heat on the back of my neck, and for a horrifying moment I think Baylor might be dead. 

My heart drums in my ears as I turn to look.

“Sorry,” Baylor says, sheepish, holding up his hands placatingly. The billowing cloud of steam around him begins to clear, revealing he is still very much alive, though a little frazzled. His skin is glossy, and a rivulet of sweat drips from the end of his nose. Behind him, the tendrils of hair that have escaped Avalynn’s short ponytail have begun to frizz, and her eyes are wide. “I, um, didn’t get a good look.”

The dragon chuffs again, then turns away.

Visia, I would estimate, has just passed the halfway point. We fall into another contemptible silence as we walk, and around us, the dragons begin to grow visibly disinterested.

Think, Sloane, I curse at myself. 

I’ve spent years of my life making awkward small talk in highly volatile situations. I should be able to come up with something interesting to say, something that will keep the dragons invested in us, something that will help us get through this very much alive and not—

“So, if you were a dragon, what kind of dragon do you think you’d be?” Baylor pipes up. 

“What?” Mischa barks from in front of me. She turns to look over her shoulder in disbelief. “What kind of stupid question is that, Norris?”

“It’s not stupid,” Avalynn says, shrugging. “What, you never thought about it? I think about it all the time. If I were a dragon, I think I’d be an Orange Scorpiontail.” Nearby, an Orange flicks its tail out towards her, displaying the barbed tip. “Like that one,” she says, pointing at it, and then adds, with a solicitous grin, “And if I was really lucky, I’d be as pretty as that one is, too.”

“I’d be a Brown,” Baylor says. “Not too fussed about the tail, to be honest. I’ve been reliably informed that it’s not what you’ve got, but how you use it.”

Visia snorts, and I hear it from twenty-eight feet away. “Well, when you and Avalynn finally fuck, I hope for her sake that that idiom turns out to be true, Baylor.”

“Idiom?” Bren asks. 

“Saying,” I supply. 

“You’re saying what?” he asks.

My brow furrows as I try to detangle the exchange of words that just occurred. After a moment, I decide it’s easier to just ignore him.

“I think I’d be a Green,” Visia says. 

“Aaric, what would you be?” I call out. 

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Not sure,” he says. “What do you think?”

“You’d be a Black,” Visia answers. 

“You would be a Black,” I concur. “Lynx would be a Black, too,” I say, liltingly, “because he’s so mysterious and broody and rarefied.”

“I’m mysterious?” Lynx says. 

“You do tend to be quite reserved,” Aaric agrees, and the irony of him being the one to say this is not lost on me. “The only thing we know about you is that you have an unerring lust for our squad leader and questionable taste in tattoos.” He turns to glance at Lynx’s forearm. “What is that meant to be, by the way? I’ve been meaning to ask since I met you, but it seemed rude.”

“It doesn’t seem rude now?” Visia asks, passing the second-last dragon. 

“It does, but I couldn’t live with myself if I died without knowing.”

“It’s a lynx,” he replies, defensive. “Like my name, Lynx. My mom said she saw one when she was pregnant with me, and it kind of became, like, our thing. We decided lynxes are lucky, so when I knew I was coming to the Riders Quadrant, I thought… y'know…” He trails off, then sighs. “I was a little drunk at the time,” he admits, like we’ve somehow forced this confession from him. “On reflection, it was a pretty terrible idea for a tattoo.”

Baylor whistles in surprise. “Lynx, huh? I thought it was a bear this whole time, man. Or a wolf. Or maybe a fox, depending on how you’re holding your arm.”

Ahead, I see Lynx rub the back of his neck, sheepish, and I examine the tattoo, which I’ve somehow never noticed before other than to observe that it was there. It’s exactly as bad as they’re making it sound. In fact, it might be worse. “My, uh, brother did it.”

Avalynn chokes back laughter to ask, “Does your brother have any, um, qualifications in tattooing, Lynx?”

“If he does, they should be revoked. Promptly,” Visia adds. 

Both of them cackle.

There are only a few more dragons separating me from the turning point. I feel my shoulders relax a little, feel my spine elongate. Maybe we’ll make it all the way to the end without an incident. The thought has no sooner entered my mind than I hear Bren declare, right as he’s passing a giant, intimidating Orange, “I’d be anything but an Orange. I’ve always thought Orange dragons were… I don’t know… ugly.”

Heat singes my back, and my step falters. 

Ahead, the dragons still standing between me and the turning point glance over lazily, muttering to themselves. One, the red one who’s stepped out of line a few times since we started our parade, takes a notable step forward and makes a rumbling sound that would make the hairs on my arms stand at attention if they weren’t already.

“Well, that happened.” Baylor says, his voice uncomfortably tight. “That, um, wasn’t a warning shot, in case anyone was wondering.”

I turn to look over my shoulder, though I’ll never guess what compels me to do so. There’s nothing left of Bren but a smoldering pile of ash and a scorch mark. Fourteen feet away, Baylor stares at the place where he was, wide-eyed; then, with a guilty expression on his face, he begins to sidle past it. 

I wait until he’s a little closer, then begin walking, still looking at him. So I watch as his eyes go wide, watch as his step falters. “Is something—?”

“Sloane, don’t—”

My breath huffs out of me as I run into something very, very hard and very, very big. I can easily infer what it might be, and when I swallow, my mouth is suddenly painfully dry. “Okay. Do I turn around or not?” I ask, though I’m not sure who, really, I’m directing that question at. 

The dragon I just walked into, maybe?

It might have some thoughts.

“I don’t know!” Avalynn answers. “I don’t want to tip my head back in case I accidentally make eye contact, piss it off and get burned to a crisp, but the look it’s giving you right now is… intense. Like, really intense. It’s, um, stuck its nose out into the path, which is what you ran into.” 

“What color is it?” 

“Red,” Baylor says, throat bobbing. “It’s red.” 

My shoulders slump in partial relief, and I turn slowly, hands raised and eyes lowered in supplication. The Red who kept stepping out of line is, as Avalynn said, now blocking my path with its faintly lustrous, strawberry-red snout. From my peripheral vision, I can see that its daggertail is lashing back and forth wildly and that its golden eyes are narrowed, but no longer at me. It snarls at a Red on the other side of the path that’s also taken a tentative step forward, and the second dragon quickly retreats. Overhead, I hear an almost chiding roar, and I guess that it’s probably Cath.

“What’s going on?” Aaric calls from the front of the line, his voice calm and even. Unfortunately, he can’t see me, us, because there’s a fucking dragon in the way.

“Nothing much,” Avalynn replies, so forcibly jovial that it borders on manic. “I’m pretty sure Sloane’s about to get fucking eaten, disproving the theory that dragons don’t find us appetizing, but other than that—”

A tendril of steam curls from the Red Daggertail’s nostril as it turns to face her. It huffs, then blows hot air.

“I’m not being eaten,” I announce, doing my best to sound unconcerned. I’m pretty sure it’s the opposite, actually; I’m pretty sure I’m being claimed, the same way my mother was at her Presentation, but I don’t want to presume.

The Red in front of me nudges me backwards, and I stumble. “Um, hello,” I murmur. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be doing right now, but if you give me a hint, I will happily do it. Expeditiously.” 

It nudges me again, pointedly. 

“With the greatest of respect to all dragons present, what the actual fuck is happening?” Baylor murmurs under his breath. 

“Sloane?” Visia calls. “Is everything okay?”

The Red butts me a third time, and instinctively, I do exactly what we’re told not to do and lift my head, not quite game enough to look it in the eyes but staring at the spot on its snout directly between them. It, in turn, stares directly into my fucking soul, and inside of me, I feel something begin to snap into place. The dragon must register the moment that happens on my face, because not even a full heartbeat later it nods its head once, twice, before stepping back into line, tail swishing with satisfaction.

Visia and Aaric both stare at me as we walk towards them, but neither of them can formulate a question or comment.

“So, Farrell,” Avalynn says as we turn so that she’s leading the parade, tone as breezy and light as if the most incomprehensible series of events hadn’t just occurred, “what kind of dragon”—she steps delicately around the pile of ash that once was Bren—“do you think you’d be, if you were a dragon?”

“Blue, probably,” he grunts. With how hastily he answers, I wonder if he’s been waiting for someone to ask him this whole time. “Blue’s my favorite color.”

 

Chapter 12: Threshing

If something happens to me (and I’m not saying it will), I need you to tell Liam I’ll be waiting with Mom and Dad in whatever lies beyond this life. Tell him not to be in a rush to meet us there. I want him to live before he comes looking for us. I want him to fall in love with someone who loves him with their whole heart, exactly the way he does, just how he deserves. One day, I want them to give me a niece and nephew to watch over, and let their children pick which will be the rider and which will be the duke for themselves.

And tell him that before they come, I’m sorry to ask this of him, but I want him to make a better world for them to live in than this one.

They’re monitoring my letters, so don’t bother sending any more.

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF SLOANE MAIRI TO CADET IMOGEN CARDULO

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Threshing

 

On the morning of Threshing, I find myself having a familiar nightmare. It filters through in what must be the early hours of the morning, when the churam starts to wear off. In it, I sit in a dark room with a locked door. In it, I am on the floor with my back against the wall, listening to the chitter and scratch of the vermin that live in the cellars; trying to judge how close they’ve wandered, whether they’ve drawn closer than last time, and how soon it will be before they’re emboldened enough to bite me.

I feel hunger gnawing at me like a rat gnaws at bone.

I am small and afraid; fear, stinking and clammy, covers me like a thin sheen of sweat. 

Nearby, in the barracks where I’m sleeping fitfully, I hear something thud against wood. The sound shocks me awake, and I come up from the dream disoriented, stumbling out of the darkness and into the light. 

When I pry open my eyes, Visia is packing her trunk.

Bleary-eyed, I prop myself on my elbows to watch her, taking a moment to delineate between the dream, which felt real, and the consciousness that feels painfully unreal. There’s a determined air about Visia, a stiff resoluteness to her movements, that makes me instantly anxious, but maybe it’s latent anxiety from my dream still pumping through me.

“What are you doing?” I ask her quietly. 

On the bed beside mine, Avalynn stirs. 

“I’m packing,” Visia answers, her tone almost insolent. She throws leathers into the trunk without folding them. Textbooks follow; then daggers; then the dappled feather of an Esben owl that she keeps tucked in the slats of the bed above hers, one of the few things she has to remind her of home. She throws them into the trunk indiscriminately, as if she doesn’t expect to have to unpack them later. 

Her hands shake. 

“Okay.” I hesitate. “Now?”

“I’m either moving soon or someone’s coming to burn it all,” she continues, her shoulders tense. “If I’m moving, then I’ll be glad I don’t have to pack it all tomorrow when I’m hungover. If I’m dead, then I don’t want you or Avalynn stuck gathering up all my shit, and I don’t want them touching my things.”

I nod, but she doesn’t see me nodding. “There’s a third option.”

Her shoulders stiffen. I watch them rise and fall with a tight, controlled breath. “No, there isn’t,” she says, picking up a boot and throwing it into the trunk with more anger than is probably justifiable. “If I don’t bond a dragon today, then you’ll be commending my soul to Malek.”  

“Visia, don’t say that,” I murmur, pushing back the sheets. They’re creased by my fists, damp with my sweat despite the cool, brisk air. “It’s not—”

“There’s nothing for me to go home to in Sumerton, and I’m not repeating another year here. I won’t be left behind again,” she insists, unable to meet my eye. She turns her back to me, sorting through a pile of clothes. “I can’t watch everyone move on without me, and I don’t want to start all over again. I made my peace with it last year because it only really hurt my pride, but now…”

The room is lit by nothing but the grey light of early dawn and the flickering flame of a single candle left unextinguished on my bedside table. I fell asleep reading, and there are several of Liam’s letters strewn across my bed, some crumpled by me thrashing in my dream.

At the other end of the hall, by the window, someone coughs.

A bed creaks. 

I slip from my bunk, and the stone floor is cold beneath my feet as I walk to her and wrap my arms around her waist. I rest my chin on her shoulder. “You’ll bond a dragon,” I promise her. 

Her body trembles. “I might not.”

“You will, Visia.” 

“This is the only family I have left,” she whispers, the words torn from her almost reluctantly. Her voice cracks, and after a stifled pause, she presses her hand over mine. “You guys are all I have left, and if I have to watch you move on without me, if I get left behind to do this year all over again, I think it might…” She takes a shuddering breath. “Frankly, I’d rather die trying.”

I squeeze her. “Visia, you will bond a dragon today.”

“What if I don’t, though, Sloane? What if I’m not worthy?” she chokes out, giving me a querulous look. I get the feeling she might know she’s being ridiculous, but sometimes it feels good to be ridiculous, to push your luck and see if anyone will indulge you in doing it. I know that better than anyone, so I play along. “What if I’m just not meant to be a rider?”

“If you’re not meant to be a rider, then no one is.”

“I want it so badly.” She laughs bitterly, breathlessly. “I want it more than I ever did last year, except now I want it for all the wrong reasons. I want it because I’m scared of being alone, not because I want…” She frowns, carefully considering her words. “What if they can see that, Sloane? What if they can see that I only want to bond a dragon because it means I get to stay with you guys? And like the world’s most fucked up self-fulfilling prophecy, that—that fucking fear and weakness—is what makes me undesirable to them? What if I’m already doomed?”

I shake my head, my chin nuzzled against her shoulder. 

I try to imagine what Bodhi or Aaric would say, because it would be exactly the right thing. Unfortunately, I’m nothing like Bodhi or Aaric, so my mind draws a total blank. “You’re not doomed,” I tell her.

It’s not enough, but it’s all I can come up with.

Behind us, I hear a shuffling noise; then Avalynn rests her head against Visia’s other shoulder, standing on the tips of her toes. Other than sparring or play fighting, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen them touch. “If you were anyone else, I would think you were fishing for compliments,” she mutters darkly, rubbing sleep from one eye with her knuckle before tangling her arms with mine around Visia’s waist. “I can tell you all the things a dragon will see when they look at you, Vis, none of which could be described as weakness, but we both know that won’t make you feel better.” Visia makes to protest, but Avalynn squeezes her tightly, silencing her. “I’m just going to say this instead, and then we can all go back to bed: If you don’t bond with a dragon, I’ll stay back with you next year.” She blithely smacks a kiss against Visia’s freckled shoulder. “I won’t leave that valley until you do, and if you don’t, then I’m not, either.”

It takes Visia a moment to overcome her shock. When she recovers her faculties, she splutters, “You can’t do that, Avalynn.”

Avalynn ignores her, extolling the virtues of her half-baked plan instead. “My Gauntlet time could use some work, anyway, now that I know what I’m doing. It’ll give me another year to figure out what centripetal force is.” She smiles to herself as she nuzzles closer, her eyes still heavy-lidded. “Not that I need to know what that is, but I guess I’m willing to learn if I have nothing better to do. I figured out physics, right? I might as well move on to whatever type of science that is.”

“It’s still physics,” I tell her. 

“Really?”

“Avalynn,” Visia begins, exasperated. “You can’t—”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Avalynn interrupts. “If you won’t do another year by yourself, then I’ll do it with you. Problem solved.”

I nod, thoughtful. “Me too,” I pledge.

Avalynn turns her head, resting her cheek against Visia’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m pretty sure you’re already bonded, Sloane,” she says, affectionately patronizing. “Today is just a formality.” Her hair sticks up in all directions, and there are pillow marks on her face. In my eyes, she has never looked more radiant than she does right now, cheekbones limned by the light of the guttering candle. “I’m not bonded, though, so I just won’t bond until Visia does. Or unless Visia does, I guess, but it’s probably more accurate to say ‘until’.”

“Avalynn, it’s not up to you whether you bond or not,” Visia growls. “It’s up to them. Have you not been paying attention?”

“Then I’ll use my badass new climbing skills to scale a tree and hide, and I won’t come down until I see you flying out of the fucking valley.” Avalynn retorts, rolling her eyes again. “You’re making this needlessly complicated, Visia.” 

“Dragons average twenty-five feet tall, Avalynn,” I point out. “They can see you in a tree.”

“Well, if one of them spots me and wants to bond, I’ll say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’” Avalynn chirps, unperturbed. “I’ll humbly request that they come back later, because I made someone a promise that I’m not leaving the valley without her. And if they don’t get that, then they’re not the dragon for me.”

From a bunk nearby, someone hisses, “Shut the fuck up!”

“If you try to reject a bond with a dragon, I’m pretty sure they’ll kill you,” Visia mutters dryly, ignoring them.

Avalynn considers this, then replies, “Well, then I guess I’d better start packing, too.” 

Visia pushes the heels of her hand into the sockets of her eyes and sighs, vexed. “Why are you being so pushy about this?”

“I’m not being pushy,” Avalynn insists, gripping Visia tighter as she tries to pull away. “I’m simply letting you know that if you don’t bond a dragon today, or if you decide to do something fucking reckless, then I’ll get roasted and my death will be upon your hands. No pressure, though.” 

Visia sniffles as she swipes at her cheeks, then makes an annoyed noise. “You’re impossible.”

Avalynn nods gravely. “Yes,” she replies, turning her face back into Visia’s shoulder to feign wiping her nose on Visia’s shirt; Visia squirms. “Yes, I am. So, bond a dragon today, or you’ll be stuck with me—just me, just the two of us—for the rest of your time at Basgiath. Baylor might join, actually, now that I think about it. That would be nice, right? You, me and Baylor spending lots of quality time together, just the three of us?”

“Okay,” Visia says quietly. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

I look at Avalynn, and she smiles back at me softly.

Thank you, I mouth.

She shrugs.

We stand huddled together in a dense, comfortable silence as the mage lights begin to glow dimly, their periwinkle hue only faintly bluer than the sky beyond the windows, a signal that it’s almost time to wake. When the sun crests the horizon several heartbeats later, setting the room alight and beginning to warm the stones beneath our feet, Avalynn points to something haphazardly thrown into Visia’s trunk and says, with a healthy dose of malice detectable in her voice, “I’ve been looking for that everywhere, you fucking bitch. Were you seriously gonna let them burn it instead of just admitting that you had it?”

-----

By the time I arrive at our table in the dining hall, hair freshly braided into a complex and slightly wonky Tyrrish knot that caused Bodhi to swear in ways I’ve never heard someone swear before, the rest of my squad is preoccupied with Kaori’s flash cards. Aaric has spread them across the table in between glasses of juice and abandoned cutlery. 

They’re beautiful, detailed; as my eyes travel over them, I wonder how long it took the scribes to draw and paint each one.

After today, they’ll be essentially useless.

“We should make sure we’re all on the same page,” Aaric suggests, giving each of us a serious, paternalistic look. “I don’t want us in-fighting over the same dragons, so if there’s one you plan to go for, take the card off the table. That way, we can settle any disagreements before anyone’s got a knife in their hand.”

He directs Mischa and Farrell to select their cards first, which they do with little ceremony; I don’t bother to check which dragons they chose.

Baylor points at one next, a Brown Clubtail, with the sausage that’s speared on his fork. “I think I’m going for that one,” he announces before bringing his food to his waiting maw. While chewing, he explains, “I accidentally made eye contact with it at Presentation and didn’t get torched. That feels promising, right?” 

Aaric grunts, taking the card off the table and handing it to Baylor, who pockets it.

Avalynn leans over, surveying her options. After sparing a glance at Visia, who won’t meet her eye, she selects the card that depicts the Orange Scorpiontail she singled out at Threshing. We all feign surprise as she tells us, “I liked this one.”

“Of course you’re picking an Orange,” Visia says, studying her ragged fingernails. “You’re as fucking erratic as they are.”

“Thief.”

“Visia?” Aaric asks, turning to her.

Visia shrugs. “I’ll take whatever I can get,” she says, sitting back and crossing her arms. 

Aaric makes a sound low in his throat, turning back to the cards in front of him. His eyes skim the rows; then he plucks a card from the third row, eighth column. It’s a Brown Daggertail, distinctive thanks to the deep scar gouged in its side which spans from the base of one horn to the tip of its wing. “You’re interested in this one, aren’t you?” he asks, handing it to her. It’s clear, from the way he asks, that he already knows the answer.

Visia uncrosses her arms to take the card from him, then looks at it. She blinks slowly. “How did—?”

Aaric shrugs, taking a sip of water. He’s unusually tense today, poised to strike, but he manages a gracious smile. “I saw you look back at it over your shoulder as we were leaving the field on Presentation Day,” he explains as he puts the glass back on the table between a Green Scorpiontail and a Red Clubtail. “You felt pulled towards it; right?”

“Maybe.” She rubs her finger along the edge of the card. “I don’t know.”

Aaric sits back, wrists lax against the table, fingers tapping against the wood. “You do,” he insists, impatient. It’s as close to argumentative as Aaric’s ever gotten. 

Visia frowns at him.

I look down at his fingers, still drumming the table. There’s a band of pale skin on one of them I’ve never noticed before, like he used to wear a ring there but doesn’t anymore. It’s not terribly surprising, I think, examining it. Outside of Basgiath and even in the other quadrants, most sons of noble or wealthy families wear rings that bear their family crest; no one wears them in the Riders Quadrant. 

Here, the only family tree that’s significant is one that boasts an abundance of riders. 

“I thought I felt a pull last year,” Visia replies, drawing me from my thoughts. Her eyes flick towards mine as she runs her fingertips along the side of her neck self-consciously, caressing the jagged pink burn scar there. She glances at Avalynn, too, who smiles in a way that’s somehow both encouraging and perfunctory. “It didn’t really matter in the end, did it? I still managed to piss it off somehow.”

“How?” Baylor asks, spearing a mushroom from Avalynn’s plate onto the tines of his fork. She bats him away, then makes a face as he holds it out to her like an offering. When she shakes her head, he bites it and swallows without chewing, then clarifies, “How did you piss it off?”

Visia rolls her eyes at him. “What part about me saying, ‘I managed to piss it off somehow’ makes you think I could possibly answer that, Baylor?”

“Sure,” he says, unapologetic. “But if you had to guess…?”

She shrugs. “Made eye contact before I was supposed to? Stepped toward it too suddenly? Misread the signals somehow?” She narrows her pale green eyes, cold and shrewd. Lesser men would balk, but not Baylor. “Maybe it was never calling me to it in the first place. I couldn’t exactly ask it, could I? I was a little preoccupied by the fact that I was on fucking fire.”

Avalynn leans across the table and takes the card from Visia’s hands. “I like this one for you,” she says, studying it. She holds it up as if comparing its face to Visia’s and grins. “It even sort of looks like you.”

Visia scowls. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re making the exact same facial expression that it’s making in this picture. How would you describe that?” She leans towards me to show me the card, and I flick my eyes toward it quickly. “Sneering? Scowling?”

“It’s glowering,” I reply.

“You and this dragon glower the same.” 

Visia snatches the card from Avalynn’s hands, but doesn’t return it to the table. 

“So, Sloane, which dragon do you think you’ll go for today?” Lynx asks slyly as he peruses the cards. 

I grin at him. “Lynx Vespara, was that a joke?”

Lynx shrugs, blushing adorably. “I make jokes now.”

I study him for a moment, and he flushes deeper as I do. His hair is freshly dyed again, slightly more lilac than pink this time. His eyes are so brown that they’re nearly black, but they’re not cold. I’ve spent the last three meals studying his tattoos, including the one that’s allegedly a lynx (but somehow looks like every furry quadruped I can think of synchronously except for a lynx). They’re sprinkled across his pale skin, each objectively terrible, but every time I look at them, I find myself smiling.

I wish I could take everything I feel for Dain but shouldn’t and feel it for Lynx, instead.   

I wish my life was that simple, but the gods have decided that I should suffer.

I occupy myself with wrapping a stack of crackers in a blue napkin that I’ve embroidered with a white parnassia as I inquire, “Is this something that’s developed because we implied you’re esoteric?”   

There’s a prickle across my scalp, my neck, my hands. I allow myself the brief indulgence of believing it could be Dain watching me, but I already know he’s not in the dining hall; I’ve been compulsively checking the place where he always sits ever since I entered the room, because I’m fucking sick.

When I look up, I see that the table next to ours is staring at me, a few of them casting loaded glances at the relic on my arm. I deal with it in my usual fashion: stare at them in a peremptory way until they’re shamed into looking away. When they do, I still feel eyes on me, so I check over my shoulder for good measure and spot Sorrengail sitting at her usual table nearby, analyzing me in her usual way, like I’m one of Kaori’s dragon projections: something unseeing, meant only to be viewed; something inanimate and unfeeling to be probed and dissected by her eyes until all discernible detail has been extracted. 

I glare back at her, hoping my face sends the message I want it to: Do not try to offer me unsolicited, self-evident advice about dragons today, or I will fucking scream. 

Sorrengail’s hair is piled atop her head like always. How many hours a day does she spend assembling that stupid fucking braid? In my peripheral vision, I see that Aaric is looking between us, visibly uneasy. Under the table, I feel his foot gently touch mine as if to ask a question.

I let my eyes flick to him, then turn back to my untouched plate of food and napkin full of crackers. 

“I thought you were implying I was boring at Presentation,” Lynx responds. 

“Of course not,” Avalynn says, biting into a strawberry. A rivulet of pink juice runs down her chin, and Baylor wipes it away with a napkin. “If we thought you were devoid of personality, we’d make you sit at the other end of the table with Levin and Farrell.”

“We can hear you,” Farrell says darkly. 

Avalynn ignores him. 

Lynx’s eyes dim as he appraises the cards. “I’m not really feeling a pull,” he admits sadly, his expression apprehensive. “None of them are speaking to me. Should I be worried that none of them are speaking to me?”

Aaric slides the card for the Red Daggertail that stopped me at Presentation across the table, and I take it. He takes no cards for himself before shuffling them back into a deck and putting it to one side, every movement graceful and carefully constrained. “Me neither,” he says, smiling amiably. 

His face, as always, betrays nothing.

With the table cleared, Baylor pulls a whetstone from his satchel and begins sharpening his sword. For once, no one is giving me shit for skipping breakfast, and I sip chamomile tea, ruminative and mute, staring at the Red Daggertail on the card Aaric gave me.

“People are still eating,” Visia snarls at Baylor, disgusted. “You’re getting dust in my eggs.”

“You haven’t touched your eggs,” Baylor points out. 

“What if I was about to, before you got dust in them?”

“You weren’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

I can still feel people staring at me, but instead of glaring at them in challenge or deliberately avoiding their gaze, I find myself fixing my eyes on the space where Aaric’s missing ring should be as he wraps his hands around his mug of coffee and sips from it. Idly, I wonder if Liam was wearing our family ring when he died or if it was fished from some drawer in his desk and burned with all his possessions. 

That ring was our father’s and his father’s before him. That ring was as old as the Mairi family name, and in all likelihood, it’s gone.

I feel a wave of anger threaten to overwhelm me and shove it down.

-----

Formation is uneventful, in the way that the quiet hours before a blizzard can sometimes feel cloying still and ominously calm. Captain Fitzgibbons drones on in a monotone; Aura Beinhaven makes a series of arduously boring announcements, the gist of which are that we’re all disappointments to her, in a voice that’s annoyingly shrill. The death roll is short, but tomorrow, it will be long. I shuffle my weight across my hips and fidget as five or so names are commended to Malek, and instead of thinking about the tragedy of their deaths, I find myself brutally cognizant of the fact that I’m being stared at by an uncomfortable number of people, even more than usual, but not by the one person whose attention I’m craving. 

Three days. 

It’s been three days since I kissed Dain, and he still hasn’t acknowledged it or even, really, acknowledged me.

He stands by the dais at the front of our wing, scrutinizing his cadets. I can’t help it: I stare unabashedly, willing him to look at me. He looks eminently kissable, bronze and tall and serious. The only way he could possibly look better is with my handprint stamped across his face.  

Formation breaks, and I tuck Visia under my arm, pivoting on my heel. 

I cannot get away fast enough.

“Mairi.”

“I think someone’s trying to get your attention,” Visia says, glancing over her shoulder. I don’t slow down, practically dragging her southwest toward the valley. I keep her tethered to me by an insistent grip as if her presence at my side can shield me from whatever banal lecture I’m about to get.

My glaring, apparently, did not send Sorrengail the intended message. If anything, it seems like she took it as a fucking invitation.

“Mairi!” she calls again, shoving through a gaggle of First Years.

“I don’t hear anything,” I say breezily, picking up the pace. Visia stumbles slightly as her boot catches on a loose stone where the courtyard ends and the gravel path begins. “And even if I could hear something, I wouldn’t be in the mood to trade platitudes with a person who’s hollering my name across the courtyard like I’m a dog that should come when called. So, no, I don’t hear a fucking thing.” 

Aaric gives Sorrengail an apologetic smile and a shrug as we barrel along; Avalynn, on the other hand, glowers at her.

“So, how do you two know each other?” I ask Aaric as we walk.

He doesn’t bother to clarify who I’m asking about. It must be self-evident from my tone or the expression on my face. Both, maybe. Instead, he asks, “What makes you think I know Violet?”

Visia scoffs. “Yeah, Sloane. What makes you think Aaric knows Violet?”

I shrug. “Don’t you? I’ve seen you two talking.”

Aaric hesitates only briefly, then nods. “Yeah, I knew Violet before I came to the quadrant.” He gives me a tight-lipped smile, something deprecatory and contrite. “Our families have been close for several years now. She dated my brother while he was at Basgiath, but I’m led to believe it ended badly; I’m fairly sure he cheated on her, but that’s just an educated guess based on how he generally conducts himself in relationships and the fact that neither of them seemed inclined to talk about it.”

“Huh,” I say, intrigued. “I’m guessing you mean your older brother?”

“Eldest,” he confirms.

Visia frowns, glancing between us. “You have more than one brother?” 

“I had two brothers,” he coolly replies. 

“Oh.”

I grin. “Was Sorrengail one of your brother’s ineligible conquests, then?”

Aaric smiles, shaking his head. “I know you hate her, but Violet’s not—”

“I don’t hate her,” I interject, defensive. “I think she’s pretty fucking audacious,” I innocently suggest, and in reply, Aaric gives me a lovingly vexed look. “I think she could do with a lesson or two in diplomacy, seeing as her people skills fucking suck. I think she needs to learn how to read a room, but I don’t think she’s a bad person.”

Visia quirks one brow. “Don’t try to rewrite history, Sloane.”

“Historically, I have hated her,” I concede, “but I’m still capable of recognizing that other people would find her very eligible.” My cheeks flush as I think of one in particular, partly with shame and partly with anger. I go on to say, as if detailing her eligible qualities might somehow be the antidote to the soul-crushing embarrassment and dejection now coursing through me, “I mean, her mom is a general of the Navarrian army, and her dad was a well-respected scribe who could have taken over that whole quadrant.”

“She’s hot, too,” Baylor helpfully adds.

“People say she’s smart,” Visia contributes, making a face that confirms she is not one of those people. I have never loved her more. “She’s good at rote memorization, I guess, based on the shit she says in Battle Brief. Not the same as being smart, if you ask me, but I guess it counts for something.”

“It doesn’t get much more eligible than that, does it?” I squint at Aaric, then add with some suspicion, “Unless your family are title-chasers?”

“Title-chasers?” Visia repeats, nonplussed.

“My question stands,” I say, staring at Aaric. “Did your family consider her to be an eligible conquest or not?”

Aaric sighs, pondering his answer. “I don’t think my father knew enough about it to care,” he finally admits. “If he did, he probably wouldn’t have wasted much time thinking about it, anyway. He’s dictatorial by nature, so their relationship would have been nothing more than a casual dalliance unless and until he decided it would benefit him for them to be married.”

“Wouldn’t most people find it pretty fucking beneficial to have the strongest rider in a generation marry into the family?” Avalynn asks.

Aaric gives me a meaningful look, then replies, “My father doesn’t trust riders.”

I roll my eyes, turning toward Avalynn. “Sorrengail is only the strongest for now,” I protest. “What’s to say one of us won’t eclipse her someday?”

“Size dictates power,” Baylor points out. “Her dragon is the biggest, so…”

I shrug. “Who says size dictates power?”

“Yeah.” Avalynn has a bow strung over her shoulder by the string and a quiver of arrows strapped to her back. In her hand, she holds one, her finger toying with the feathered fletching. “I thought you said it’s not what you’ve got, but what you do with it. Does size matter or not, Baylor?”

“That was a conversation about tails, not size,” Baylor retorts.

“So, to be clear, size does matter?”

Baylor smirks. “You’re trying to imply I have a small dick, Campos, and all I’m going to say about it is that I invite you to come test that hypothesis at the earliest opportunity.”

Avalynn shrugs, grinning devilishly. “If you make it out of the valley, I might.”

The look of earnest hope on Baylor’s face makes me laugh even as I point at Aaric and say, with as much gravitas as I can muster in the aftermath of a dick joke, “I’m betting on you being the strongest rider of our generation, Graycastle.”

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

We enter the shade at the mouth of the valley and begin to descend a hill into a small clearing. Kaori waits for us with his arms crossed, eyes glazing over as he tries to take in every detail of the approaching cohort. “Gather around,” he directs as we come to a stop at the foot of the modest incline.

Presentation Day has whittled the contingent of First Years down from one-hundred and sixty-five to a little over one-hundred and twenty, and our reduced number is strangely conspicuous now that we’re all one unit. I find myself noticing the empty spaces amongst the groupings of students—places where others once stood, friendship circles that are now incomplete—thinking of just how many people we’ve lost since Parapet. 

As Kaori begins his debrief, I think of Trysten and feel a heavy sense of culpability followed by a hot flash of anger that I struggle to suppress until Aaric cups my elbow and asks, “You okay?” 

I turn to him and nod.

Kaori clears his throat. “The greatest piece of advice I can give you for what you’re about to embark on is to listen,” he instructs, thumping his hand against his solar plexus. “If a dragon has selected you, they’ll be calling to you. You’ll feel a pull here. Likewise, if you approach a dragon who’s not interested, you’ll feel a sense of foreboding in your chest. I would strongly advocate that you pay attention to that sense of foreboding.” 

I hear Avalynn turn to Baylor and mutter, under her breath, “Did he seriously just tell us that angry dragons might elicit a magical sense of panic, like common fucking sense wouldn’t tell us to run?”

Visia, who is standing to Avalynn’s left stretching, makes a quiet scoffing noise.

Kaori spares a quick glance at the sky before continuing. “There are some Second and Third Year students scattered through the valley, but they cannot intervene. So, if you find yourself in trouble, you’re on your own.” I feel my eyebrow twitch. “I do not recommend travelling in groups,” Kaori informs us, still looking skyward. “Statistics show that Threshing is a task best undertaken alone.” He lowers his eyes and slides them languorously over the assembled students before glancing at his pocket watch, which is clutched in his right hand. He frowns. “With all of that said, you have until nightfall, at which point a professor or member of senior leadership will remove those of you who remain from the valley and—”

“Well, fuck me and call me Loial,” someone from Second Wing barks out, pointing up at the sky.

Collectively, we watch with rapt attention as a riot of dragons approaches. For the most part, they boast the same gradient of colors as the autumn leaves that hang from the trees surrounding us: reds and browns and oranges, with only a few handfuls of green interspersed between. There’s a single Blue amongst the riot, and judging by the way students jostle each other when they spot it, it’s highly coveted. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Aaric track its flight path, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

“Right on time,” Kaori announces. “Say what you will about dragons, but they’re nothing if not punctual.” 

Moments later, the riot begins to descend, wind whistling through their wings in a deafening rush. Most of them choose to touch down in the southeast, but a few outliers—including the Blue—land in the north. As they crash to the ground, a cascading, almost rhythmic sound echoes from the forest. It ripples through the ground beneath our feet like a seismic disturbance, and I catch Lynx as he buckles slightly, bracing his weight against my shoulder. 

“You get used to it,” I tell him, smirking. 

He flushes as pink as his hair, then straightens. “Thanks.”

Just two Reds remain above, circling. 

“With that, there’s nothing left to say but ‘good luck,’” Kaori concludes, giving us a final, protracted look before turning and making his way up the hill. 

“Alright, then,” Avalynn says as soon as he’s gone, rubbing her hands together. She tugs me into a crushing hug, then enthusiastically slaps Aaric on the shoulder. When Baylor’s hand brushes one of her ass cheeks as they share a lingering embrace, she doesn’t slap it away. “Let’s do this, team.”

“You’ll be fine,” I whisper into Visia’s hair as we hug.

“Sloane, the dragons aren’t the only thing you need to watch out for in there,” Visia warns me, squeezing me against her. I could tell her that I’m brutally aware of this fact, that I couldn’t possibly have misinterpreted the number and severity of the looks thrown my way since breakfast, but I don’t. She glares at a nearby squad from First Wing, who are watching us intently. “I need you to be hyper-fucking-aware of your surroundings.” 

I nod.  

Avalynn snakes her hand around Visia’s wrist, dragging her away from me and towards the trees, demonstrating the strength—wildly disproportionate strength for someone of her size—that makes her deadly on a challenge mat. Visia gives me a desperate, beleaguered look as she and Avalynn disappear into the forest, and they can’t have gone far before I hear their squabbling ringing through the trees.

I want to laugh, but it comes out as more of a quiet gasp.

Lynx and Baylor follow shortly after them, but at Aaric’s behest, he and I stay put until almost all of the other First Years have disembarked from the meeting point. He remains staunch the whole time we wait, arms crossed and expression steely. If anyone looks at me, they find themselves on the receiving end of his sternly reproachful glance. 

When only a handful of students remain, he uncrosses his arms and kneels in front of me, checking the fastenings on my knife garter and various other harnesses; wherever he finds an empty sheath, he takes a dagger from his own arsenal to fill it. 

“Aaric,” I sigh, “what if you need those?”

I barely recognize the students who are still milling about, talking quietly amongst themselves. Blissfully, they seem equally as disinterested in us, and it’s been a full five minutes since someone last cast a significant look at my relic or stared at me unnervingly. One of the remaining students, a guy from another section of our wing with a bright green buzzcut, is vomiting his breakfast onto the roots of an oak. 

I scrunch up my nose and look away, my own stomach clenching even though it’s painfully empty.

“I won’t need them,” Aaric says, gesturing to the sword strapped to his hip. 

“You know I can’t throw these for shit,” I say, pursing my lips as I thumb the hilt of one of his daggers. While they’re not as prettily embellished as the knife I took from Dain, which is safely ensconced in my thigh garter, they have handles of ridged ebony wood and a wavy, almost topographical pattern in the blades that belies their superior craftsmanship. They were probably just as expensive as Dain’s dagger, if not more, and Aaric has shoved at least ten of them into my chest harness alone. “If I have to get close enough to someone to use these, the quantum of knives I have is probably going to be the least of my worries.” 

“I’ll feel better if I know you have them,” he insists. 

I pat his hair fondly. “I’m going to be fine,” I assure him, voice calm and steady. I don’t even have to feign confidence, because I wholeheartedly believe that I’ll be fine. I feel a strange, sanguine sense of calm, not unlike the one I felt before Sorrengail threw herself at me at Parapet and ruined everything. “I know which dragon I’m looking for, and I’m more than capable of defending myself if the occasion calls for it. I kicked our wingleader’s ass, didn’t I?”

I could add that said wingleader’s dragon is watching over me even as we speak, but I don’t, for reasons that are self-explanatory. 

“That story has been wildly exaggerated.”

“Well, not that wildly.”

“There are too many people in this place with a grudge against you because of this,” Aaric says, looking up at me from beneath his sooty lashes as he palms the relic on my arm. He shakes his head, turning back to his task with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw. It’s strange and foreign to see concern etched across his face, which I’ve only ever seen configured in something more aloof or, occasionally, something slightly annoyed. “Visia isn’t wrong, Sloane. The real danger of Threshing isn’t the fucking dragons. If someone in there has their mind set on hurting you today…”

He trails off, apparently unable to finish that thought.

“I’ll keep off the paths,” I promise. I tug his hair, grinning. “And if things should somehow take a drastic turn, then I’ll just start indiscriminately throwing these forty extra knives you’ve given me. Statistically, at least one of them has to hit something.” 

He grimaces. “Forgive me for not having a sense of humor about the prospect of your death.”

I shake my head at him, frowning. “What’s actually going on?” I ask, cupping his chin between my thumb and forefinger and tilting his head back so that he’ll look at me. Nearby, the guy with the shorn head heaves onto the tree again. “You’re acting weird today, Aaric.”

Aaric rolls his eyes at me. “I’m acting weird because I’m worried about you?”

“You’re always worried about me, but you’re usually a lot more subtle about it than this.” I press my thumb against the creases between his brows as if to make a point, and his frown deepens. “Talk to me, Greycastle.”

He sighs, momentarily resting his head against my hip. “I fucking hate this.” 

“What?”

“Threshing. I hate the very concept of Threshing.” He stands, grimacing as he conducts one final check of my entire person, then spins me by the shoulders so that I’m facing the treeline, angled toward the northeastern section of the valley. “You and I are going this way,” he insists. 

I scoff. “You and I will do no such thing.”

Aaric turns me so I’m facing southeast. One of the Reds who’s been circling above dips lower, then disappears into the canopy near a mountain that juts out above the treetops at the other end of the valley, about fifteen miles from where we’re standing. When it disappears from view, I immediately begin to feel like a rib has been torn from my body, leaving my heart vulnerable.

Inside of me, something—something vibrating, pulsing and throbbing—urges me forward, towards the southeast.  

The other Red remains aloft, banking low.

“The people I can think of who most want to kill you went that way, where the dragons are thickest,” Aaric explains as he points in the direction of my missing rib, leaning over my shoulder so he’s whispering into my ear. He spins me northeast again, then repeats, “You and I are going this way.” 

“I can’t—”

“I’ll let you get a headstart, then follow behind. If anything happens, scream for help and I’ll come running.”

I sigh, wiping his hands from my shoulders and turning to face him. “There’s a relatively minor problem with your plan.” 

“There’s no problem whatsoever,” he demurs, shaking his head and wearing a belligerent expression. “I’m a brilliant strategist, Sloane, and accordingly, this is a brilliant plan. I’m not going to waste my time arguing with you about it.” 

I bite my lip, suck air through my teeth, then pivot at the hips. “The problem with your plan is that I need to go that way,” I expound, pointing southeast. 

He stares at me for a long second, rubbing at his throat with his hand. Tentatively, he asks, “Could you—?”

“I know what I’m feeling, but even if I didn’t, I saw her land over there.” I point to the mountain, then give him a sedate shrug. “Apparently, she’s a conformist, because she chose to land right in the middle of the action. Or at the end of the action, as it were. She’s about fifteen miles that way, and if I had to guess, I’d say she’s by the banks of the Iakobos.”

“Conformist, huh? You’re sure she’s your dragon?” Quickly, his eyes flicker northward, and whatever suspicions I had about him being called toward the Blue are answered by the crestfallen look on his face. He rubs his chest with his fist once, twice. “Okay,” he says, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, followed by another and then a third. He smiles at me, an assiduous smile. “We’ll go southwest, but the rest of the plan stands. You walk ahead, and I’ll follow about a mile behind.” 

I grin at him. “You’re being called in the other direction, aren’t you?”

“No.”

He rubs his chest again.

I pinch his cheek affectionately. “You’re a phenomenal liar, Aaric, but I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “You’re right,” he admits, guilty. He cards his hand through his hair. “I do feel like I’m being called that way, but nothing says I can’t come southeast with you until you find your dragon, then follow the river down and—”

I pull him into a hug. He’s broad and warm, and the way he rests his chin against my head reminds me so much of Liam that I feel tears prick at my eyes. “Go,” I plead with him. “I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to me between now and then, and I have never broken a promise to you before.”

There’s a painfully sustained pause, several long moments of tense silence. 

Finally, I feel him relent. “If you see someone who gives off even a slightly odious energy, I need you to maim first and ask questions later.” He holds me at arm’s length as he points out various places I should plunge his knives into should anyone give me a lingering glance, and I listen diligently. “I’m asking you to be pitiless, Sloane,” he demands, his tone unsparingly grave. “We’ve moved past ‘no thoughts, just fists’ and straight to ‘no thoughts, just stabbing.’”

-----

I spend a mostly uneventful hour wandering through the trees and scaling craggy rock faces that seem like child’s play after the Gauntlet, hiking southeast. Cath, I’m gratified to discover, maintains aerial surveillance from a respectable distance, and for once, the weight of a pair of eyes on me is a welcoming, reassuring thing. 

I make a concerted effort not to think as I’m walking, but I fail miserably. My mind keeps being drawn back to the dream I was having that morning, before I woke and found Visia packing.

Whatever happens, I will not cry. They have taken everything from me, but they can only have my tears if I give them freely; I won’t. 

I shake my head, but the dream—memory, really—is insistent. 

I am not afraid. I used to whisper those words into the darkness, willing them into truth.

I am not afraid.

I am not afraid, because I am angry instead. 

My feet have just fallen into a thoughtless rhythm when I come across Bodhi and his Green Swordtail, Cuir, in a shady thicket where a wide gravel road intercepts the course I’ve been plotting directly through the heart of the forest. Cuir regards me clinically as I approach, boots kicking through the leaves; Bodhi watches students scuffing past, visibly bored, though his eyes brighten when he sees me. “Where are you headed?” he calls, dismounting with practiced ease. 

He turns to look over his shoulder as a heavily armed group of three crunches by, each of them surveying us with unbridled scorn. Instinctively, I tuck my arm behind my back, watching them retreat. I wait until I’m sure they’re out of earshot to answer. 

“Twelve or so miles that way,” I tell him, gesturing through the trees. 

“Toward the mountain?”

“If my instincts are good, then she’s near where the mountain and the river meet.”

Bodhi chuckles. “She didn’t make it easy for you.”

“Since when is it a dragon’s job to make their rider’s life easy?” 

Cuir chortles in agreement. 

Bodhi hands me a water skin, and I take it from him gratefully. It’s a cool morning, but I’ve been walking up a fairly steep incline ever since Aaric and I parted at the mouth of the valley. I wipe away the sweat beading on my lip before I drink, then take Aaric’s handkerchief from my pocket, now clean but not yet embroidered, and pat at my brow. 

Bodhi catalogs the plethora of daggers shoved in my holsters, then leans over to check my back. “Is that it?” he asks, frowning. “Is that everything you brought?”

“I have, like, twenty knives on my person, Bodhi.”

“You have”—he counts them, eyes flicking from my shoulders and down to my boots, which have knives shoved in them, too—“fifteen daggers, which would be reassuring if you could throw them, but kind of pointless in light of the fact that you can’t.”

I shrug. “Sorrengail only ever carries daggers.”

“Sorrengail can throw them.” He shakes his head. “You need to get too close for comfort to make these useful, Sloane. Why didn’t you tell me you don’t have a sword?”

I shrug. 

“If I give you mine, will you use it?”

I decline to answer, because the answer is that I couldn’t, even if I was willing to. “Anything interesting happened yet?” I ask instead as another student chafes past.

She casts a look our way, then double takes when she realizes that both of us bear relics. Seconds later, rocks skitter under her feet as she takes off running, a frantic, slightly hysterical look on her face. It’s such a perfect example of the paradox of being marked, to have these two reactions to our relics occur in such quick succession, that I find myself laughing. 

Bodhi stares at me for a long moment, trying to decide whether to push the issue of the sword, then sighs in defeat. “There’s been two bonds, but not much else to write home about.”

“Any deaths?”

He starts to shake his head. At the same time, Cuir snaps upright and lets out an impetuous noise, something between a snarl and a growl. Bodhi pivots to look at him, and they share a silent conversation, the finer details of which Bodhi chooses not to relate. “Yes,” he says, sighing as he turns back to me. He rattles off a surprising number of names, including three relic-marked First Years I met on my first day in the quadrant. “Mischa Levin,” he adds at the end, giving me a sympathetic grimace.

I nod, chewing the flesh of my right cheek. I ate breakfast at the same table as her, and now she’s dead. “How?”

“Doesn’t really matter at Threshing.” Bodhi squeezes my shoulder. “Keep your head on a swivel, Mairi,” he advises, turning to scale Cuir’s foreleg. “Imogen is waiting to meet you on the flight field when all is said and done, but I’ll be around the forest ‘til nightfall. I’ll head towards the Iakobos after I’ve done my rounds. I can’t intercede if anything should happen, but if you run into trouble, scream out for me; I’ll come look imposing.”

I smile at him weakly as Cuir spreads his wings, blocking out the sun. “You couldn’t look imposing if you tried.”

Bodhi grins back at me, gesturing down at Cuir. “He can.”

When he’s gone, I continue down the path I was on, moving deeper and deeper into the trees, but I never get my rhythm back.

-----

When I finally reach the riverbank in the late hours of the afternoon, the sun is beginning to sag beyond the mountains. Above, the sky is vibrant, painting the glimmering surface of the Iakobos vermilion. Dragons streak through pink and gold clouds, putting their new riders through maneuvers; I watch someone fall and think about Dain’s friend Aimon, wondering where on the valley floor he landed. I could have traipsed over that spot today, for all I know. 

Do they leave the bodies in the valley after Threshing, or does someone come collect them and move them into unmarked graves?

The scene before me is splendid, like something from one of the priceless tapestries that hung on the wall in our ancestral home at Benserac, but I stare at it blindly, breaths sawing through my chest. I’ve been hiking across uneven terrain for seven hours, managing to avoid dragons and students alike by taking a meandering path through the densest parts of the forest. The scent of moss and decay has been so thick in my nostrils that I’m sure my sense of smell has been permanently damaged, because I can still smell it. Several times, I had to climb into the gnarled branches of ancient trees to hide, which I did by mimicking the technique Avalynn used to climb the vertical ramp at the end of the Gauntlet. Unfortunately, I have discovered that it’s a lot fucking harder than Avalynn made it look, and the first time I attempted it, I fell on my ass several dozen times. 

One of my socks is wet, because—as I discovered while walking through one of the tributaries that snakes through the forest—there’s a hole in my mom’s left boot. There’s also a wicked bruise blooming on my tailbone and blisters on every square-inch of my feet; I’m exhausted and dirty, covered in sweat. 

I’m tempted to rinse myself off in the river, but the current is too strong and I don’t think I’d have it in me to swim against it. 

I look around, half-expecting my dragon to jump out from behind a tree. Inside of me, the thrumming, buzzing, pulsating feeling is so strong, I’m surprised my teeth aren’t chattering, but I can’t see her anywhere.

Does the feeling go both ways?

Does she know how close I am?

I’ve no sooner begun to wonder than the feeling tempers slightly, as if she’s moved away.

“I’m here,” I call out, raising my voice. “You can come get me now.” 

In a forest populated with people plotting to kill me, this is probably not the most sensible choice I could have made, but no one ever accused me of sound decision-making. 

I hear nothing in answer but the wind raking through the golden leaves.

“Seriously?”

In response, I feel a tug pulling me beyond the mountain. 

Something stubborn in my head whispers that if this dragon wants me so badly, she can make a little effort. I react on instinct; I concentrate on the feeling in my chest that’s telling me to go beyond the mountain and imagine myself pulling it. 

It tugs again. 

I take up camp on a boulder to drink from a water skin and pick at what’s left of the ration of splintered crackers I tucked into a pocket of my chest harness at breakfast. I eat them quickly, washing them down with water because they’re mealy, too farinaceous to easily swallow. Occasionally, I glance at the mountain, trading increasingly insistent tugs with my dragon. 

I’m between a round of those tugs, wiping crumbs from my hands and clothes and morosely contemplating the dwindling tread on the soles of my mother’s boots, when I hear a twig crack behind me. 

I stiffen, feeling a lethargic sense of inevitability, then turn towards the noise to watch Dasha Fabrren emerge from the trees, a carnivorous smile stretched across her lips which is completely at odds with her freckled, milky skin and doe-eyed beauty. Somehow, that makes it all the more sinister. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, I think, heart shuddering. 

I hiked for eight hours. 

I climbed twelve fucking trees. 

I successfully evaded one-hundred and twenty-odd students, at least a third of which would have been willing to murder me in cold blood. It was a statistical improbability, but somehow, I managed it. 

I did all of that, then sat down for two godsdamned minutes to eat a handful of stale crackers and play tug-of-war with my dragon, and now I’m about to die?

She’s good; I’ll give her that. I hadn’t even realized she was tracking me. 

“Sloane Mairi,” Dasha croons, her stride even as she saunters towards me, hips swaying hypnotically. Her tone makes it clear that this is a delightful turn of events for her and an absolutely shit turn of events for me, in case there was any doubt. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Red Daggertail,” I tell her, swallowing dryly.

I take a deep breath, palming my dagger. 

Dasha grins. “I heard about what happened at Presentation. Quite the scene. Then again, you’re good at making those.” Fading sunlight glints menacingly off the knives she forgot during our challenge all those weeks ago, which are neatly lined up in the bandolier strapped across her chest. When we fought on the mat, there were six; now I count eleven. Somehow, I doubt she’ll forget them this time. “You know, I was hoping we’d run into each other today,” she tells me, her tone mockingly confessional.

My gaze flicks upward. I can’t see Cath anywhere, which makes me think he probably can’t see me, either. 

So much for that.

Dasha’s lips twitch into another grimly foreboding smile. It spreads across her face like blood seeps through leather. Her eyes are black in her pale face. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now, but the right opportunity never presented itself. I figure it’s now or never, you know?” She draws a dagger and flips it, holding it by the tip. “How did you do it? How, exactly, did you poison me?”

I eye the dagger in her hands nervously as I say, “I didn’t.”

She scoffs. “I complained, you know. I told Emetterio that you poisoned me, or had me poisoned, but he said he wouldn’t do anything unless I could prove it. I couldn’t. I retraced every step of my day, over and over again, and there wasn’t a single opportunity where you could have poisoned me. Did you have someone do it for you, Mairi?”

I smile at her, tight-lipped. “I didn’t ask anyone to poison you.”

Dasha makes a face—disappointed, affronted, disbelieving. “I know you did.” She studies me, and something about it makes me want to condense myself into smaller and smaller packages until I disappear entirely. I’ve seen that look before on a half-dozen different faces, and pain almost always follows it. “I’m not an idiot.”

“If someone poisoned you, I didn’t ask them to.”

“Liar,” she says affectionately.

I stand slowly, the emerald-encrusted dagger still in my hand. Anxiously, I brush my thumb against the smooth, flat surface of one of its emeralds. It’s designed more for ceremony than utility, but its blade is sharp and longer than the ones Aaric gave me, which means it will be better at penetrating deep and making killing blows. Dasha’s blades, on the other hand, have short, broad-cheeked blades and wide guards, meaning they won’t reach any of my vital organs. That won’t matter if she can bury one in the right spot in my skull, and Dasha, unlike me, has fucking excellent aim.

Racing through my head are the many places Aaric pointed out to me this morning. I could use any one of them to end her life, and she could use them to end mine.

I’m either about to die or kill someone, and it’s all Violet fucking Sorrengail’s fault. 

Dasha looks at the dagger in my hand and smirks. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she says righteously, like I’m fucking crazy for thinking she would. The tone doesn’t match the expression on her face, however, which clearly indicates that she intends to. “If you didn’t poison me, then I guess I have no reason to.”

“I didn’t—”

She jerks her hand; I stagger, ripping to one side. She laughs. When she flips the knife between her fingers again, my body flushes from head to toe. “Just testing,” she proclaims. 

I am not afraid, whispers a small voice in my head. I am not afraid, because I am angry instead.

I will my anger to come, but it doesn’t; it’s like trying to start a fire with wet leaves.

Dasha hefts the dagger in her hand and lets it fly, and I react with instincts Imogen has beaten into me (in the most literal sense of the word), rolling forward across the grass and scrambling towards her. Behind me, I hear her blade whistle as it soars through the air, then clap as it buries itself in the bark of a tree across the breadth of the racing river. When I glance quickly over my shoulder, I observe that Dasha didn’t aim the knife at where I was standing, but at where she expected me to go.

I feel a kernel of satisfaction, knowing that I misled her, took her by surprise.

I dodge two more knives as I sprint towards her, but a third grazes the side of my neck, drawing a thin stream of blood. 

Dasha huffs as my head connects with her hip, knocking her onto her back. Already, she’s scrabbling for another knife. 

I land a punch to her wrist with my right hand, still wrapped around the hilt of my own dagger, but she doesn’t drop the knife she’s just seized from her harness. I could have stabbed her. I could have flipped my knife and stabbed it, backhanded, right into at least three places that would have ended her life. 

Maybe I should have. 

Maybe my last, dying thought will be one of regret because I should have stabbed her and didn’t. 

I nearly let out a delirious laugh as Bodhi’s advice from the morning of the Gauntlet comes to my mind. If the only honorable death is one lived at the end of a life without regrets, then stabbing Dasha might have been the honorable thing to do. 

It seems wildly antithetical, contradictory. 

I pray to Zihnal that I get a chance to tell him that. 

With my left hand, I land another punch in Dasha’s eye socket, then swiftly dodge the blade aimed for my jugular. I’m not quite quick enough, and I gasp as it slices through the front of my tunic, making an incision in the skin beneath my collarbone. Baylor, apparently, wasn’t the only one sharpening his knives at breakfast. 

I put some distance between us, rolling to one side and putting my weight onto one knee so I can kick at her with as much force as I can muster.

My boot connects with her head; she swears, clutching at her face with one hand and slashing blindly at me with the other. I kick out again in rapid succession, making contact with her nose. 

Under the thinning sole of my mother’s boot, I feel a crunch.

I dance away, rubbing my tongue into the groove between my teeth as Dasha staggers to her feet, blood pouring in torrents down her face. She howls, trying to stanch the flow of it; I watch a spray of crimson spit arc through the air, and I’m pretty sure some of it lands on my cheek. 

There’s blood on her teeth, on her chin, down her neck. 

She grabs for another dagger, her fingertips unusually clumsy because they’re slick. I’m gratified to note that, as intended, her broken nose seems to be affecting her aim, because this one misses by about three feet. 

When Dasha draws the next dagger, she doesn’t throw it. Instead, she lunges, arm extended and blade aimed at the side of my neck. I knock her arm away, and she hisses before stabbing at me again. My body moves of its own accord: blade slicing her forearm as I step to the side, then shove her with my open palm; one boot locking behind hers as I move to kick her feet out from under her. 

When she slams to the ground, she stabs out at my calf; I step away quickly, smacking another kick into her face. 

I could dive on her. 

I could stab my knife through various parts of her, per Aaric’s explicit instructions, and call it a day.

I don’t.

“You should have died on that mat,” she growls as she climbs to her feet. 

“I’m remarkably bad at dying when I’m supposed to,” I tell her, my body loose and ready, weight shifting across my hips and balanced on the balls of my feet. In my head, I can hear Imogen’s voice barking instructions at me. 

Bodies in motion react quicker. Never stop moving.

Dasha wipes a ruddy smear of blood across her face before she comes towards me, knife raised; I skip backwards, slashing at the space beneath her outstretched arm, knife glancing across her ribs. We twirl like quadrille partners as I slice at her wrist, causing her to drop her knife; I put a little distance between us, then immediately regret it when she lashes out with her foot, kicking the dagger from my hand and knocking it to the ground. I’m still reaching for another when she leaps forward and grabs the wrist of my right hand, wrenching it tight at an unnatural angle as she spins behind my back. 

The muscles of my shoulder dissent as she tugs hard enough to dislocate something.

I feel something snap somewhere in my bicep and cry out. 

“Yield,” she spits, taunting me. “I want to hear you yield, Mairi.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl in response.

“No?” she asks, twisting my arm. 

“I’m pretty sure you’ll kill me anyway, and I’d rather die with my dignity intact.”

“You’re right,” she whispers against the shell of my ear as I blink around the blinding pain in my arm. Her voice is thick with mucus. “You know, I wasn’t planning on killing you at first. I only wanted to have a little fun scaring you.” I can feel her lips moving against my skin. She can probably taste my sweat. “Then you broke my fucking nose, so now I have to kill you. You understand, don’t you?”  

“Your ego must be real fucking fragile if you feel the need to murder someone every time you get a boo-boo.”

Dasha tuts. “I think I would have regretted it if I didn’t kill you,” she quietly announces, staring down at my face. I blink back at her, a little dizzy from looking at her upside-down. “I think that’s what my mother would have wanted, for me to avenge her death by killing her murderer’s daughter. Fitting, right?”

Fear permeates my body. 

“When you’re dead, I’m going to drag your lifeless corpse through the valley,” she tells me, exerting enough force on my arm that I let a whine rip from my throat. “I’m going to find that Red Daggertail of yours and show it what I did to you; then I’m going to bond it.” 

Inside of me, I feel a burst of anger, searing and certain. It’s disproportionate, like I have stockpiled all of the rage I’ve felt today and pushed aside—all the anger I’ve felt and pushed aside for weeks, actually—and now it has exploded like a cache of maorsite, setting everything around it ablaze. I don’t care. I welcome the burn of it through my veins; the way it makes my heartbeat race; the way it tethers me to the ground and makes me feel like I’m floating, all at once.

I grunt as I reach for one of Aaric’s daggers. “When you’re dead,” I tell her, nodding towards the Iakobos, “they’ll bury you in an unmarked grave with one of those rocks on top of it and burn all your worldly possessions.”

“Yield,” she insists, “and I might not kill you.”

My right arm aches from my fingertips to my shoulder, but I ignore the pain in favor of the rage braising me from the inside out. I feel like I could open my mouth and breathe it into life, charring everything in my path. 

“Your death will be meaningless,” I continue coolly; I manage to tug a knife from its sheath and palm it in my sweaty left hand. “You will die loyal to a kingdom that sees you as nothing more than fodder, just like your mother did. You will die for no good reason, fighting an enemy that never should have been yours in the first place, just like your mother did. You’ll die in the dark, too stupid to notice that there’s no light, because that’s what you were raised to do by your stupid fucking mother and your stupid fucking kingdom.” 

“Well, your fucking mother—”

I plunge the dagger into her thigh and stumble forward as her grip loosens, putting some much-needed distance between us. 

Dasha crumples to the ground behind me, screaming. 

I would rather do this with Dain’s dagger, but I don’t have time to fumble in the grass for it; if I have to do it with Aaric’s, if I have to do this with shorter blades that won’t penetrate as deeply, then that’s how it has to be. 

I take two from the harness at my chest as I turn on her.

Dasha rips the dagger from her thigh and gasps, then tosses the knife onto the leaf-speckled, shadow-dappled, blood-soaked grass, pressing one hand to the deep wound it left behind. With the other hand, she grabs a knife from her bandolier and hurls it at me. I dodge it, still advancing on her. The sight of her blood gushing down her leg and onto the dirt stirs a feeling of immeasurable guilt inside of me, which is almost enough to douse the anger.

I blink; then, in the same heartbeat, I dodge another dagger aimed at my heart. 

It will pain me, knowing that I killed her, but—

I hear the familiar sound of wingbeats half a-heartbeat before something impossibly large, impossibly solid and distinctly red batters me to the uneven ground. Before I can land, something sharp—a dagger, red as if it’s bathed in blood—slices through the back of my now thoroughly ruined shirt. I hear fabric tear as I am lowered gently, almost reverently, to the ground.

Once I’m settled safely with my back on the grass, the daggertail flicks away. 

The impossibly large, impossibly solid thing now standing between me and Dasha opens its mouth and roars. Steam, sulfuric and dense, barrels from its nostrils, no doubt hot enough to scald. Birds scatter in response, and the ground beneath me shakes; Dasha crawls backwards, her face white beneath smears of scarlet. She leaves a wet, glistening trail as she slithers towards the tree line, whimpering. 

Somewhere overhead, another dragon roars in answer, and the sound is one of pure distress.

The anger leeches from me entirely as I watch Dasha’s eyes go wide, watch her wipe a bubble of snot from her nose.

“Wait!” I scream.

The dragon turns towards me, smoke billowing from its nostrils. Its golden eyes narrow, and I swallow convulsively. Dasha eyes me nervously.

“Go,” I plead, staring at her. 

She watches me distrustfully for several long seconds. 

I hear more wingbeats, and the dragon standing over me tips its head back and roars again, something territorial and terrifying.

“Go!”

Dasha flees, half-crawling and half-stumbling into the trees.

“Let me look at you,” the dragon snarls, turning and pinning me to the ground with her snout. She steps over me, looming tall, her neck bent so that her magnificent, slender face and sharp, wet teeth are mere inches from mine. She sniffs my collarbone and arm aggressively, frowning as I wince at the limb being jostled. 

“I was going to kill her,” I whisper, mortified, still staring into the trees. 

“Are you hurt?” 

“I wanted to kill her!” I gasp for breath, clawing at my throat. As I do, I catch sight of my hands, then hold them out in front of me and survey them with horror. They’re caked in Dasha’s blood, thick half-moons of it flooding each cuticle. I wipe them on my tunic and hear myself emit a violent sob. “I let the anger in, and—”

I can’t breathe. 

“You did not want to kill her,” the dragon tells me, sounding almost guilty. She stares at me, through me, into me. Her voice is a sharp caress, like a razor lovingly traced over my skin. “I wanted to kill her, and that is what you felt.”

“You—?”

“Breathe,” she tells me quietly, tilting her head. “In. Out. I am by no means an expert on how much air you humans need, but I imagine that it’s more than none.”

I suck in several breaths.

The dragon seems to sigh. “This could have been avoided if you had simply come when you were bid, you know.”

“I’ve been walking for eight fucking hours,” I retort, propping myself up on my elbows and wincing at the pain in my right shoulder. I guzzle in more shallow breaths, staring at her. She’s bigger than I remember her being, but that could just be the angle. “Where the fuck were you, anyway?”

“I was waiting for you behind the mountain in a field of wildflowers, where I intended for you to come upon me as the sun was setting. I spent several hours scouting the location in which our bond would be forged yesterday, and now all of that has gone to waste.” Her tail flicks in agitation, and a globule of clear, thick snot flies from her nose and lands on me. Absentmindedly, I brush it away. “Nevertheless, we have no choice but to proceed with the formalities now, despite the inferiority of the setting.”

I narrow my eyes at her. 

“I am Thoirt,” she declares, taking a step back and puffing out her chest. “Daughter of Oranmor and Oiteag, descendant of the honorable Carnaideug line. You are Sloane Mairi.” The sharp, honeyed voice in my head curls around my name with notable delight, which only intensifies as she adds, “You are the next and perhaps last of the legendary Saorlas in all but name.”

“You’re Oranmor’s daughter?” 

“You are Orla Saorla’s daughter,” Thoirt replies. 

“What?”

“I thought we were stating rather obvious facts about our parentage.” It seems that my dragon, like me, has a very expressive face. She gives me an impatient look that would make me chuckle if it weren’t being made by a twenty-five-foot tall, fire-breathing dragon. 

“I didn’t know dragons could be sarcastic.”

“I didn’t know humans could be so stupid as to behave impertinently,” she says, pointedly tugging at the bond in my chest. 

She examines me again, a little calmer this time, sniffing at the blood on my neck and collarbone. I lie dutifully still, concentrating on my breathing. I’m being assessed, but to what end? Is she deciding whether or not she’s still willing to bond me?

Could I have disappointed her somehow by being injured?

“It is a shame your mother took your father’s name,” she observes, taking a step back to study me. The waters of the Iakobos dance as the ground trembles under her feet. “While I know you to be a Saorla, it will not be immediately obvious to others, and I would have liked for everyone to know what a treasure I now have for myself without having to boast of it. Having to boast of a thing always makes it less impressive. You look like a Saorla, though, which is… well, better than nothing.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, the Saorlas were also big advocates for Dad taking their surname, but it turned out it would have caused issues with his ducal title.” Thoirt looks at me, and I find myself babbling. “When my grandmother found out, she actually challenged him to a sword fight to prove his worthiness. Grandma beat him, obviously, but he wouldn’t yield; she said that’s when she knew he was the right man for her daughter. He was willing to die for her.” Eventually, he did. Thoirt’s face continues to be inscrutable, and I pause, clamping my mouth shut. “Sorry,” I say after a moment, surreptitiously wiping my sweaty palms on my tattered tunic. “I have this tendency to talk when I’m, um, nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?” Thoirt blinks at me, slow and measured. “You have nothing to fear from me. You are mine.” 

“I’m yours?”

She nods her head. “You are mine, and I am yours.”

I swallow. “We’re… um, definitely bonded, then?”

Thoirt sighs, and hot air washes over my face. She begins as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech. “In a sense, we’ve been bonded since I heard the bells ring out over Tyrrendor on the day of your birth. When I heard them, my heart sang in harmony, because I knew one day we would be rider and dragon. I was only eighteen then, not yet given my Right of Benefaction, but in that moment, I bestowed it upon you, committed it to you.” 

Her tail swishes, dagger singing as it slices through the air. It severs bristles from the branch of a nearby evergreen, and they fall to the ground like rain. 

I shiver involuntarily. 

“That moment would have been better in the field, you know.”

I stare at Thoirt; she stares at me. 

For several long seconds, we stare at each other. 

I note the distinctive pattern of tears in her wing; the scars in her flesh; the contours of her scales and the spaces where some are missing; her slender, serpentine face and the spikes that adorn it; the circlet of curved horns that rise from the top of her head, two of which are as long and broad as the greatswords that hung over my grandmother’s dining hall. Her mouth is slightly ajar, and I stare at her rows and rows of pearlescent, jagged teeth and the burgundy tongue which rests between them. I’m horrified to discover that it’s textured, not unlike the tongue of a cat.

She is beautiful and terrifying.

I cannot begin to guess what she sees when she looks at me.

“I came last year, too,” she tells me. She offers me the tip of her wing, and I take it gingerly, letting her help me to my feet. When I’m standing, she nuzzles her snout against my hand. It's hard, leathery, slightly damp from steam and slick with snot at the nostrils. Heat thrums beneath her scales, radiant and not entirely unpleasant to my touch, but inside she must be as hot as a forge. “I came to see your brother.”

“You didn’t think to bond him instead?”

“I was waiting for you,” Thoirt reminds me. “Besides, what use have I for a boy?” She makes another face, and this time I do laugh. “I have only ever wanted females of the Saorla line for my riders, and I do not compromise, least of all with myself. It was better as it was, though it is sad to have lost them both.” Her wing twitches. She gives me one last, lingering look before saying, almost as if to herself, “You look like her.”

“Like who?” 

Thoirt’s brows (or the formation of bony protrusions over her eye where a brow would be, I guess) furrow. I’ve just recommenced my worrying that I’ve disappointed her somehow when she tilts her head and bares her teeth, almost like a smile. I find myself smiling back at her. “You look like your mother,” she tells me.

Thoirt paces while I collect daggers from the ground, including Dasha’s; I wipe her blood from the one I planted in her thigh onto my sleeve, feeling a spasm of guilt, and hope she’s not bleeding out somewhere in the forest. I’m moderately sure I missed her major arteries, but anatomy has never been something I’ve excelled at; I’m not exactly confident. 

When all my knives are tucked away where they should be and I’ve found somewhere to put Dasha’s, I go to the Iakobos and wash my hands in the river, scrubbing as much of the blood from them as I can.  

“Come,” Thoirt says when she sees I’m ready, extending her foreleg like a ramp in the way I’ve only ever seen Sorrengail’s dragon do. When Thoirt does it, it almost looks like a curtsy. 

“I can still climb,” I assure her, even as I’m cradling my arm. I feel abashed on her behalf, embarrassed that my first time scaling her will be so uncoordinated, but if Thoirt has been waiting for this moment for twenty years, then I don’t want to make it disappointing for her. As the thought crosses my mind, I feel another tug. “It won’t be pretty, but I should be able to make it up.”

“Next time, you shall,” she says demurely, wings flaring. “This, however, is my honor to you on the occasion of our first flight together, and I would have done it whether you were injured or not.” I hear a lick of amusement in her voice as she adds, “Ideally, I would have been doing it in a field of flowers not too far from here, but things do not always happen as we plan them.”

I grin, then curtsy back at her, sinking so low that my knee touches the ground. “Unfortunately for you, your rider is impertinent and troublesome.”

“Troublesome or not, I am honored that you are my rider.”

I rise, looking up at her. “Thoirt, I assure you that the honor is entirely mine.”

“That is probably true.”

She keens proudly as I scramble up her leg and seat myself in the saddle. I’m barely settled before she crouches low, muscles coiling beneath me, and launches upward with a powerful thrust. We rise quickly, so quickly that my ears pop.

I lean forward as the river falls away, one hand—the hand not attached to the arm that feels like it’s on fire, my left—flying to the pommel that rises from the top of her spine as wind rushes past us. 

The valley blooms beneath us: lush, verdant forests of red and green leaves and rugged terrain; sprawling fields and rocky outcrops. I spent a day crossing it, but Thoirt could probably cross it in a handful of minutes. Framing the picture are the canyon and mountains, Basgiath at the heart of them, its battlements and spires looking almost like they grew out of the ridgeline naturally, as if they’re stalactites and stalagmites forming in some untouched cave. The coursing river runs through it all, parting the grasses and trees and even the mountains, a glittering curved slash like the blade of a scythe. I look down at the parapet that spans across the valley perpendicular to the Iakobos and nearly laugh. 

It seems so trivial from such great height.

I wait for anxiety, for the hollow and clench of my stomach. 

It doesn’t come. 

I glance to the side and stare at the ground stretching out below me, waiting to feel the fear that rattled my bones on the Gauntlet and at Parapet. 

It still doesn’t come. 

Despite the sensation of Thoirt jostling underneath me as she climbs still higher, the lurch back and forward as she flaps her wings and the inherent instability of being untethered on the back of a moving beast, everything feels so incredibly, breathtakingly… right. 

It feels right in my bones, in my marrow, in my veins and my blood. 

It feels like I was always meant to do this. 

Thoirt sighs contentedly, and I feel her breath rumbling beneath me through thick dragonscale. I can feel her heartbeat both beneath me and next to mine, in the cavity of my chest. It’s resonant, like a pounding drum; slow and thick and liquified, like the drip of molten metal. 

She dips one wing, turning in a circle so that I can see Cath hovering ahead, doing an admirable job at pretending he isn’t chaperoning us.

“He has been watching you since you embarked this morning,” Thoirt primly informs me. If dragons can roll their eyes, I have no doubt that she’s rolling hers. “Meddling busybody. It is a grave insult to the both of us, and I am of half a mind to issue him a challenge for impugning my rider’s honor.” 

I look down toward the forest, watching a rider approach a dragon in a sizeable clearing, wondering if it’s someone that I know. “I think his rider put him up to it.”

I feel a decadent, heady sort of freedom, surveying the world from above; I feel powerful. 

For the first time in my life, it occurs to me that my mother’s constant absences, even before the apostasy, might have been borne of something more than duty, more than honor. Who would want to be on the ground when they could be here instead? It’s a strange thought that I don’t really want to think, and I put it from my mind immediately, watching unfeelingly as the dragon and rider below launch into flight. 

“He would not be here if he did not wish to be,” Thoirt assures me, snide. “Who is his rider to you?”

That’s a fucking excellent question, Thoirt, I think darkly. I know what he should be and what I wish he was, which are as far from aligned as two concepts can be, but the actuality of it all is a mystery.

Thoirt opens her wings and drifts for a moment, and I savor the cool air washing over us. “You humans live such short lives, yet you find so many varied ways to complicate them.” 

I lean lower against the saddle and stretch my arms out, palms pressed to her scales. “You’re above such petty things, are you?” I think, hugging my chest to her. I look out over the valley, and I spot what I think must be the field of wildflowers where our bond would have been formed. It really would have been beautiful, scenic. Thoirt expended time and energy to make today special for me, and I ruined it; I feel a flash of guilt, quickly softened by an emotion that isn’t mine. 

“It was better this way,” she says, banking left, toward the mountain. “I didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t have suited you. You are not as delicate as you look, not by half. You are a little warrior.”

“You wanted me even when you thought I was delicate?”

“I have only ever wanted you, whatever you became.” She picks up speed on a gale. “If you had been delicate, I would have been your guardian and protector. If you had been wicked, I would have been your co-conspirator. If you had been bloodthirsty, I would have been your greatest weapon.”

Something inside of me stirs in response to those words, something sick and selfish. I think of my parents, who died for Tyrrendor, and Liam, who died for his friend and his honor, then put those thoughts from my mind before they can fully form.

“What am I actually, though?” I find myself asking. 

“You are like me: a thing with teeth that want to taste blood.” 

“Is that a good thing?”

“It is neither good nor bad. You simply are.” She draws my attention to a nearby pair, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice as she asks, “Shall we do some maneuvers? It is tradition, after all.”

I think of Dain’s friend Aimon again. “What if I fall?”

She snorts. “I would never let you fall.” I watch as the rider falls from the back of the Brown Swordtail she just indicated to, then let a pointed silence hang between us as I wipe my sweaty palms on my shredded tunic. “You have not come this far to fall now, little warrior; I haven’t waited all these years for you to die on our first flight.”

“Does that mean you’re planning to go easy on me?”

I hear chortling in my head as Thoirt surges upwards in a smooth arc, wings beating furiously. I react instinctively, leaning forward as we race towards the clouds, pressing my chest and cheek against her spine; boots tucked into the ridge of her scales; left arm slung around the pommel so that I’m hanging on by the elbow. I don’t think; I move as if hands are guiding my limbs, the way they did when I was a child, pressed between my mother’s chest and Oranmor’s pommel.

Thoirt reaches an angle just shy of eighty degrees, and my stomach flutters with what could be excitement, but may also be anxiety or the early stages of oxygen deprivation. When her upward momentum stalls, we hang on the precipice of a drop for an impossibly long moment, and when I begin to fear that we’re about to fall from the sky, she adjusts and dips to the side, executing an elegant stall turn. 

I press myself back into the saddle, locking my hips, and push against her pommel as we spiral towards the mountainous terrain below. I yell a stream of curses that could make even Imogen blush. 

Thoirt evens out, flying low and fast over the treetops. Chuckling. “Any requests?” 

I’ve barely begun to think before she pitches sideways, rolling her body; I hold on tight with my thighs as she spins us. For a long, life-affirming second, I hang upside down, the end of my braid dangling inches above the canopy of the trees. 

Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy.

“You’re such a bitch,” I choke through a breathless laugh, tears streaming from my eyes. 

“Let’s not pretend I can’t read your mind,” she growls, but her tone is affectionate, tender. “You are delighted.”

My right arm is still cradled to my body, muscles straining with the effort. I let go of the pommel with my left hand, thighs clenching her saddle so tightly that I’m surprised she’s not complaining, and pluck crimson flowers from a flame tree as we pass, their petals as red as Thoirt’s scales. I let a scream rip from my throat as she rights herself, giddy and joyous and full of pain; Thoirt roars along with me, a sound that could shake a mountain down to its foundations. 

“Out of curiosity, how fast can you go?” I shout into the wind. 

Thoirt’s body seizes beneath me, and I grab the pommel again as we shoot forward with all the tremendous velocity of an arrow shot from a crossbow. 

The answer, evidently, is pretty fucking fast.

-----

Thoirt lands daintily—as daintily as something of her size and mass can, anyway—in the middle of the flight field. There are bleachers erected for spectators, and sparse clumps of students and faculty populate them. More watch from the slopes of the surrounding hills, some cheering as we touch down. 

I squint in that direction, but don’t see the shock of pink hair I’m looking for. 

“Remain seated,” Thoirt instructs me, tail whipping feverishly behind her in excitement. She tucks in her wings primly, like an elegant lady preparing herself before she enters a ballroom; like she’s making sure everything is in order before she sweeps through the fray, belle of the ball. “I’ll escort you across the field, little warrior. I want them all to see my Saorla. You are sitting up straight, aren’t you?”

“I am, but I could sit sidesaddle if you’d prefer,” I suggest, rolling my eyes. 

“How interesting,” she replies, either not detecting my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “How you are is sufficient, but I would prefer one hand on the pommel, if you’d please. Try not to look injured, either, if you can manage it. Do something with your hair if you can, too.”

“Y’know, I’m starting to feel a little objectified,” I observe as I pat my braid back into place. 

Thoirt’s powerful shoulders roll beneath me. “If you choose to feel that way, then there’s nothing I can do about it.”

I snicker as I arrange myself on her back, sitting upright and proud. I fold my right hand across my lap, and as she moves, my hips roll in a natural, familiar rhythm, matching the sway of her gait. She prowls across the field between the two lines of dragons that have assembled, facing each other. On one side, I note dragons who have bonded in previous years. Cath lands shortly after we do and prowls towards the head of it, tail flicking imperiously. On the other side of the aisle, I see this year’s newly bonded riders standing before their dragons, most pallid but beaming.  

Reds tip their heads in deference as we pass; most other colors of dragons seem ambivalent at best or unimpressed at worst as they watch Thoirt saunter by.

Thoirt holds her head high, haughty. “I don’t care for the opinions of any but my rider and my den.”

The sun is setting, meaning we’re amongst the last pairings to arrive. Instinctively, I check for the members of my squad. Visia and Avalynn are bickering in front of a pair of dragons, an Orange Scorpiontail and a Brown Daggertail; Lynx is standing by a Green Daggertail, and Baylor is three dragons to the right of him, laughing aloud with the Brown Clubtail he’s now bonded to. 

Aaric landed moments before me, his hulking, jewel-toned Blue Clubtail dropping him directly in front of the dais. I watch him give his name to Dain, who’s acting as roll-keeper, with his head bowed.

Weird, I think. I’ve never seen Aaric act deferential toward anyone. 

“I am intrigued by Molvic’s new rider,” Thoirt agrees as we come to a stop behind the massive Blue. “If Molvic has chosen to bond him, then he must be—” 

“Molvic?”

“Ah,” she murmurs, and I feel a flush of embarrassment that isn’t mine. “I shouldn’t have told you his dragon’s name before he did. It’s considered a grave misstep.” We come to a stop behind the dragon I shouldn’t know the name of, and as we do, I cannot help but admire him. Like his rider, he’s a thing of true beauty, robust and dignified. The way the sun gleams off of his sapphire scales is breathtaking. If he were a Red, he would make an excellent mate, because he is such a strong fighter and—

Wait.

What?

“Feign surprise when he tells you,” Thoirt requests.

“Was that…?”

“What?”

“Was that you?”

Thoirt makes a noise. It reverberates through her body, vibrating beneath my thighs. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aaric turns, and I wave to him like a queen as he strides toward us: an elegant rotation of my wrist and cupped palm, fingers pressed together. He grins in response before turning to say something to his dragon. 

Visia races forward as I unfurl myself and stand, a little unsteady on my feet; Avalynn shadows her. 

“Down you go, little warrior,” Thoirt instructs as I make my way across her broad back towards the joint of her right wing. She shifts beneath me, and I stumble, fingers curling around the leather of her forelimb for balance. “This is as close as I can take you, given that Molvic is… in the way. I ask that you dismount with dignity.” 

“I can’t promise you that,” I scoff. One-handed, there’s only one way to dismount, and I’m not looking forward to it. 

I take a deep breath, then practically drop twenty-five feet to the ground. Before I land, I feel a toe butt out beneath me, tilted at an angle to slow my momentum. Visia catches me as I slide off of the talon at the end of it, wrapping me in a punishing hug. “Gods, I thought you were dead,” she hisses, pushing me backward so she can examine me. “I bonded, and then we had to backtrack to find Avalynn’s dragon and came across Vedic. He told us Dasha Fabrren was practically hunting you. Did she find you?”

I pat Thoirt’s leg. “Unfortunately for her, she found both of us,” I tell them. 

“Is she—?”

“She’s alive.”

Visia and Avalynn exchange a look, then shrug. 

Wind buffets our backs as another dragon lands behind us. I only vaguely recognize its rider, but we share a tight, collegial smile as she dismounts. 

“I’d better go do this,” I say, gesturing ahead, where I—

My heart stutters, then stops. 

Molvic has moved, and now I have a clear view of the dais. On it stands a collection of all the people I hate most, all the people who have caused me the most pain and suffering, with the only notable absence being that of King Tauri.

Standing at the center is General Lilith Sorrengail, bedecked in her finest regalia and an assortment of shimmering medals. She looks eerily like her daughter and nothing like her in the same breath. Their faces are nearly identical save for the differences accounted for by aging—angular cheekbones, full lips and pointed chins—but there’s something inherently vital and hale about the general, while there’s something inherently frail about her daughter. 

To her left is General Augustine Melgren, who is openly staring at me in cold assessment, as beady-eyed and calculating as ever. 

I feel a flash of phantom dragonfire on my back, and my relic begins to itch. 

Somehow, it hadn’t yet occurred to me that they would be here today. 

“Go on,” Visia says, patting my shoulder. 

My steps echo in my ears as I walk towards the dais; my mother’s boots feel impossibly heavy on my feet. My palms begin to sweat again, but I refuse to wipe them on my thighs, because I refuse to give any indication whatsoever that I’m nervous. 

“Lady Mairi,” Melgren calls out as I approach, feigning joviality. His wiry grey hair is as windblown. His eyes flash in challenge, a stark contrast to the amiability he’s trying to project.

Far be it from me not to rise to a challenge. 

“I haven’t been Lady Mairi for a long time,” I reply, meeting his gaze and willing myself not to tremble. I stare at him like he’s beneath me, because that’s exactly what I think he is. With no small degree of satisfaction, I watch one of his eyebrows raise the barest fraction of an inch. Every other time I’ve met General Melgren, I’ve been deferential and chaste, exactly as they wanted me to be. There’s no foster mom here, though, to starve me if I don’t behave or lock me in a cellar, and I’d rather die than spend another second of my life simpering before this idiot or any of the other simpering idiots on the stage. “You should be well aware of that, seeing as you were there when they burned my parents alive and stripped my family of its titles and land.”

My chin thrusts upward, prideful. 

“Are you acquainted with… this cadet?” Sorrengail asks Melgren, brow furrowed. 

“I had the pleasure of dining with her foster family several times during visits to Tyrrendor,” Melgren replies. I vividly remember every single one of those dinners, and I would describe exactly none of them as pleasurable. “I liked to lay eyes on her when I could, make sure she wasn’t causing any trouble.”

“How much trouble could one girl cause?” I ask, smiling sweetly. 

Sorrengail’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. 

“I was sorry to hear about your brother,” Melgren tells me, voice practically dripping with dishonesty. “I met him only a few days before his death, you know, at a Reunification Day celebration.” My brow furrows, despite my determination that my face and posture should betray as little as possible of how affected I am by their presence, this conversation. In what fucking world would Liam go to a Reunification Day party? Was he forced to attend? 

Sorrengail clears her throat. “I don’t think—”

“I believe he told me his gift was Farsight.” He looks to Sorrengail for confirmation, who looks to one of her aides in turn before nodding judiciously. Melgren chuckles in response, then gently shakes his head. It’s abundantly obvious that he’s taunting me, punishing me, as if I haven’t suffered enough at his hands. “I confess, I had expected far greater things from the child of the great Colonel Mairi, raised by the infamously talented Duke of Lindell. Perhaps, in time…? Who knows? Perhaps he was a late bloomer. Perhaps it will be you who impresses me instead?” He gives me a smile that’s menacing in its kindness, staring at me down the bridge of his hawkish nose. “Whom amongst us can see the future?”

I bite back a retort, flames flaring to life inside of me. At my side, Thoirt’s talons curl into the ground like they were made to till the earth. 

“I could kill them all,” she suggests. 

“You’d ignite a civil war in the process.”

“I was born for battle. So were you.”

“It is always a tragedy to lose a rider so young,” Sorrengail says, as sagacious and glacial as I remember her being. Her amber eyes strafe across my body, cataloging cuts and tears. The set of her mouth is grim, discouraging. “I’m sure you’re disappointed that you two won’t share these years together at Basgiath after such a long separation.”

My hands clench into fists at my sides, but I say nothing.

Dain looks between me and the dais, apprehensive. The Book of Riders is pressed against one of his palms, and in the other he holds a pen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him write Sloane Mairi in surprisingly neat calligraphy. He spares another glance for Melgren, who’s watching Thoirt’s head edge closer over my shoulder, swiveling. She snaps her teeth, then licks her lips lazily. Somewhere in the distance, I hear what could be rumbling thunder but might be a warning. 

“For the record, could you please tell me the name of the, uh, dragon who chose you?” Dain asks. 

“Thoirt,” I answer; then, unsure if that’s enough detail, I add, “Thoirt of the honorable Carnaideug line.” Without really thinking, I turn to Thoirt as Dain writes her name down, pressing my hand to the warm scales on the side of her snout, and murmur, “Thoirt, this is Dain, my wingleader. He’s Cath’s rider.”

“Cath?” she repeats. 

“Cath is the one you called a ‘meddling busybody,’” I clarify, and I watch the corner of Dain’s mouth twitch.

“Cath,” she repeats with obvious distaste, turning to survey Dain.

She leans forward slightly and sniffs him. 

“Congratulations, rider,” he says, somehow disregarding the fact that a dragon’s teeth are inches from his face. When he smiles at me, it seems genuine. It’s the first time we’ve made eye contact in days, and I feel a knot of feelings in my stomach more intricate and complex than any even my mother could weave. His smile falls a little as his eyes flick over my torn shirt, bleeding collarbone and neck, and the arm I’m still cradling. “You’re injured.”

“A little,” I admit. 

He frowns, eyes flicking towards Cath before he gestures with his pen to a medical station that’s been set up at the end of the bleachers. “No menders,” he says, “but there’s some supplies over there if you need a sling. There’s probably some pain medication left that will see you through until you can make it to the Healers Quadrant, too.”

I nod, stepping away. 

“Always a pleasure to see you, Lady Mairi,” Melgren says to my back as I walk away from the dais. 

Imogen stalks towards me from the direction of the ridgeline, seemingly unseen by any of the generals. And it’s probably for the best that no one on the dais seems to notice her approaching, because her face is coiled in an expression of unmitigated disgust. She pulls me into a hug, nestling my face in her shoulder, and I take several deep breaths, feeling wrung out and willing myself not to cry. It’s bizarre to be hugged by Imogen, but no less welcome.

My legs feel like they might collapse underneath me as she half-drags me towards the bleachers. “What happened in there? What took you so long?” she hisses, holding me at arm’s length so she can examine me. “Did you kill anyone?”

“No.” I glance over towards Thoirt, who is stomping down the line of newly bonded dragons, her head angled proudly. “I—I almost had to, but we were interrupted.”

“Who?”

“Dasha Fabrren.”

Imogen frowns for a second, like she’s trying to place the words I’m saying. Eventually, she clarifies, “Is she the one that—?”

“She’s the one that Sorrengail poisoned,” I say pointedly.

“Oh.” Imogen smiles guiltily. “Well, did you kick her ass for real this time?”

“It was a fairly mutual ass-kicking.” I wince, rubbing at my shoulder, then glance back towards the dais. Melgren barely acknowledges the rider who came after me, militant features expressing nothing more than unequivocal disinterest. He lets Sorrengail do the talking now, moving towards the back of the stage. “I can’t believe that fucking asshole is here,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. “You know he tried to shit-talk Liam because his signet was Farsight?”  

Imogen grimaces as she settles me onto a seat. “I should have warned you that he’d attend,” she murmurs, kneeling beside me and passing me a water skin. “Don’t worry,” she says, patting my knee comfortingly. “We’ll kill him some day. If you ask Xaden nicely, he’ll probably let you be the one to do it. Hell, he and Garrick will hold a shoulder down each for you. Bodhi and I will get his feet.”

I survey her over the water skin as I lift it to my lips and drink from it. I wipe my mouth before saying, “You and my dragon would get along great.”

“Let’s get you to the medical tent,” she suggests. 

I turn and watch another dragon land, a Red Swordtail. Dasha dismounts from it, rucking as she lands awkwardly on her leg. “I’ll meet you there,” I tell Imogen, standing. “There’s something I have to do first.”

Dasha is only just on her feet when I reach her. When she spots me, she sneers. Corkscrews of hair have escaped her braid, and her hands and clothes are stained with crusting blood. She still looks unfathomably, incomprehensibly beautiful. “What do you want?” she barks at me.

I don’t see her usual menace in her eyes. 

I see fear. 

I reach into the pocket of my harness where I stowed her throwing knives and remove them, passing them to her in bulk. 

Dasha looks at them, then at me. Something crosses her face, an expression that could be generously interpreted as begrudging respect. “There’s two missing,” she says, not taking her eyes off of me again as she tucks them into the sheaths across her chest. Her tunic, like mine, is in shreds; she tore strips off the bottom to make a tourniquet for her leg, which she’s tied with a fairly impressive knot.

I reach back into the pocket and take out the last of her knives, waving it at her. “This one is mine,” I tell her; then I take the dagger I won during our challenge from its sheath and swap them. I hand her the knife I took on the challenge mat, the knife I didn’t earn. “The other one is still in a tree by the Iakobos.”

“Right.”

I give her a guarded look. “Whatever happened before is irrelevant; we’re even now.”

Dasha takes the knife from me and tucks it away, frowning. Hesitantly, she nods. 

“Okay,” she agrees.

I nod back at her, then gesture towards her dragon. She’s similar in size to Thoirt, maybe a little smaller, though unblemished by battle. I think she must be young, but she’s no less fierce for it. She looks at me in a way that makes it clear that if I do anything to Dasha, she will do far worse to me. “What’s her name?”

Dasha takes a second to temporize, glancing over her shoulder before turning back to me and saying, “This is Sian.”

I point to Thoirt, who is watching us with eyes as distrusting as Sian’s. “You and Thoirt have already met.”

-----

As dusk falls, floating mage lights illuminate the bleachers and dais. The tableau is surprisingly festive, with lights in shades as varicolored as the dragons that still stand at attention on the field: red, orange, green, blue. There’s a largely useless sling holding my shoulder in place, constructed from a strip of fabric I tore from the bottom of my tunic and a strip of fabric Visia tore from the bottom of hers, but it’s barely warranted; at this point, I’m fairly sure that whatever pain I’m feeling is a result of the muscles zealously guarding themselves against more pain, not the result of anything that will require mending.

Farrell still hasn’t made it to the flight field, so it’s safe to assume he’s either unbonded or dead.

“It’s such a shame, because Farrell was starting to grow on me,” Avalynn says, taking inventory of her quiver. She’s missing exactly two arrows: one for Vedic, she tells me, which she shot through the tendon of his ankle after she overheard him talking about what he would do if he found me in the woods; one for someone assigned to Third Wing who was interested in the same dragon as her, which she promises me, upon seeing my aghast expression, was merely a warning shot. 

“Farrell murdered two people in cold blood,” Visia points out from her seat on the ground near her dragon’s feet. 

“Yeah, but he was kind of hot.” 

“So you can forgive a guy for being a sociopath as long as he’s got rippling abs and bulging biceps?” Visia clarifies, rolling her eyes. One of the flame tree flowers I plucked during my first flight with Thoirt is tucked behind her ear; I plucked one for each of my friends, though only Baylor, Visia and Avalynn are wearing theirs. Aaric tucked his carefully into his pocket, and Lynx is still holding his in his hand, twirling it as he leans against his dragon’s leg, watching the procession.

Avalynn grins at Visia. “I said what I said.”

Aaric sighs from where he’s standing, cleaning blood off of his sword. I don’t know whose blood it is and don’t bother to ask. I could probably guess, though, if I wanted to. There’s more than a few people nursing bleeding limbs who are shooting glares in his direction. “One of these days, you three will learn to conduct yourselves properly,” he says, almost as if it’s a prayer. 

“I conduct myself properly,” I say innocently. “I was raised to be a lady, you know.”

“Well, whoever raised you to be a lady did a pretty fucking average job.” You’re not entirely wrong, I think. He narrows his eyes at me. “Would you describe mouthing off at the commander of the Navarrian military to be proper? Well-advised? Does that seem like a sensible thing to do to you, Sloane?”

I shrug. “Only if he deserves it.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking how pretty one of my daggers would look—”

Baylor lopes over, smiling as he interrupts us. “I think we’re wrapping up soon,” he says, then adds, “Do you guys want to come meet Veirt? He’s dying to meet all of my friends. I’ve already told him all about you. He’s told me what he can about your dragons, but he knows more about some of them than others. Sloane, did you know—”

Avalynn drops her quiver at her dragon’s feet. “Lynx, get your ass over here,” she calls out, waving him over. “We’re meeting each other’s dragons!” 

Lynx says something to his dragon, then strolls over, hands in his pockets.

When Lynx is standing at my side, Avalynn gestures up at the Orange towering over us. The dragon, in turn, flicks her tail performatively, showing off the barb at the end in case any of us managed to miss it during the Presentation Day parade (or any of the many times she’s shown it off while we’ve been standing next to her). “This is Lasadah,” she says by way of introduction. “She enjoys long walks on the beach and not being bonded to Grima from Third Wing.”

We all nod respectfully. 

“Caraich, meet my friends,” Visia says proudly, gesturing at us with an encompassing wave of her hand. “I’m Caraich’s fifth rider, which means he must be fucking ancient.” She grins as he snaps his teeth at her playfully, then turns back towards us and says, “He would like me to clarify that he’s considered middle-aged in dragon years. ‘Still in the prime of his life,’ he says.”

Baylor waves. “Caraich and Veirt are brothers,” he informs us. “Isn’t that cool? I’m pretty sure that means we’re related or something now, Vis.”

Visia glares at him. “I’m pretty fucking sure it doesn’t,” she replies. 

Caraich chuffs. 

We wander down the line, stopping at Lynx’s dragon, Duibhe, who eyes us introspectively as Lynx introduces us in sequential order. “She’s pretty,” I say, admiring her emerald scales. She rewards me with a slow blink of her yellow eyes before turning her head away, as if compliments are beneath her. 

Next we visit Veirt, who makes a show of covering us in his snot. 

“Should we do yours now?” Avalynn suggests, turning to Aaric. 

Aaric looks toward his dragon and seems to have a discussion with him before turning back to us. “Molvic says he can see you just fine from there,” Aaric relates sheepishly. Molvic bares his teeth to us, then snorts dismissively, looking away. “He has no interest in meeting any of you and suggests we skip ahead to the next dragon.”

“Snob,” Avalynn says, rolling her eyes.

“So that leaves yours,” Lynx says to me, gesturing towards Thoirt. 

“Do you want to meet my friends?” I inquire, turning to look at her. 

Thoirt flexes one wing, and the blue mage light hanging behind her shines violet through the thin membrane. I look at her proudly, then feel a pull down our bond, something warm and reassuring, as she laughingly asks, “Can they be trusted to conduct themselves properly?”

I grin. “Knowing them, probably not. I would prefer it if you don’t roast anyone, though.”

“I make no promises.”

I walk them towards her slowly. “Thoirt is every inch the lady that her rider isn’t,” I tell them, the corners of my lips twitching as Aaric gives me an exasperated look. “You should bow as you approach her or curtsy if you’re a lady. Like this.” I demonstrate a flawless curtsy, as low and reverent as the one I gave Thoirt on the banks of the Iakobos. Visia studies me intently as I do, hands on her hips. It’s the way she studies Emetterio when he teaches us a new combination of kicks, except I’ve never seen her look flummoxed by anything Emetterio’s done; she looks absolutely baffled by this. I cannot help adding, “If you don’t get low enough to the ground, she might take offence, so do your best to get low.” 

Visia steps forward first, trepidation writ large across her features, and makes an enthusiastic, if somewhat precarious attempt at a curtsy. “Am I doing it right?” she asks, balanced on one ankle in a way that can only be described as ungainly.

“Lower would be good.”

“I don’t think I can go any lower,” Visia mutters, ankle wobbling. “How did you make this look so fucking easy?” 

Her face blanches as Thoirt puffs a gust of steam at her.

“You are unspeakably cruel to tease them like this,” Thoirt says, delighted. As Visia wobbles before her, she leans forward and butts at one of her shoulders with her snout, sending her toppling onto the grass. “Tell this one she pleases me. I see her love for you, and I am grateful for it.”

“She likes you,” I say, helping Visia up and righting the flower behind her ear as Avalynn approaches. 

Avalynn, having apparently had more occasions to curtsy in her life than Visia has, does a much better job at it, something that leaves Visia visibly galled. Thoirt sniffs her before nodding happily, dismissing her. Aaric and Baylor come forward next, sinking into low bows; Baylor’s is predictably atrocious, while Aaric’s is predictably excellent. Thoirt shows particular interest in Aaric, and I think again about the strange, intrusive thoughts I heard about Molvic.

Thoirt glares at me like she can read my mind. 

“I can,” she reminds me. “And I did not think any ‘strange thoughts’ about Molvic, nor would I.”

Lynx, to my surprise, pulls off a very fine bow, his lanky frame folding at a respectable forty degrees.

“Six out of eight,” Dain says, bowing to Thoirt as he passes, headed for Cath. “Not bad, Second Squad.” He hesitates, looks at me and then quickly looks away before adding, “Mairi, could I borrow you for a second?” 

He gestures for me to follow him as he walks, and I do; the others disperse towards their dragons. 

As we walk, Dain says under his breath, “I take it Cath kept a respectable distance?”

“He did,” I say. 

Dain’s face is dour, and he casts a significant glance at the impromptu sling wrapped around my arm. “Perhaps he shouldn’t have.”

“I’m glad he did.”

“He should be glad of it, too,” Thoirt says sullenly. “If he had tried to influence your Threshing, I would have taken one of his eyes.” 

I don’t clarify whose eye she would have taken.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” I say quietly, unable to meet his gaze, “but I can’t imagine how I would have explained the fact that my wingleader’s dragon was following me around if he had tried to get involved.”

Dain nods. “That’s true,” he admits, a little embarrassed. “I guess I didn’t really think it through.”

Cath sniffs as we stop in front of him, and Dain reaches out to pat him absentmindedly with his left hand. He stares at Cath’s scales thoughtfully. I take a deep breath, listening to the slow, steady growl of Cath’s breath. “I guess it doesn’t matter, though,” I tell him, although I couldn’t begin to guess why I feel the need to. “In the end, Cath didn’t have to intervene, and I spent all that time worrying about nothing. There’s no point making a big deal about something that basically didn’t happen; right?”

Dain clears his throat. “I don’t… I would have been there, but I didn’t…”

He trails off.

I look up at him, and my fingertips tingle in a way that I really don’t want them to as I study his features. My heart races as he reaches out towards me, then skips as I realize he’s just adjusting the knot of my sling, gently undoing it and fastening it tighter. 

“Thoirt pointed out that… well, it’s a little offensive that you thought I needed supervision.”

He turns me, brushing my braid over one shoulder. “Maybe I just needed proof you could follow orders so I could feel comfortable letting you operate more autonomously?”

“I’m serious, Dain.”

“It had nothing to do with me lacking confidence in your ability to get through Threshing unscathed,” he says, still adjusting the fabric on my sling.

“If that were true, then why would—”

“I was scared. I overreacted because I was scared, and I shouldn’t have.”

I blink, staring at the ground between Cath’s feet. I cannot resist asking him, “What were you scared of?”

He leans forward, speaking directly into my ear as he tries to change the subject. It’s distressingly effective, because I can barely think about anything other than the feeling of his warm breath against my neck and his hand on my shoulder, right next to the knot he’s just tightened. “What was that with Melgren?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You were goading him.” 

“He was goading me,” I answer, frowning. “Would you let the people who sentenced your parents to death and your people to subjugation talk to you the way that he was talking to me?”

“Tyrrendor won’t be subjugated for much longer,” Thoirt declares, and my eyes flick to her. She’s watching us with a leonine intensity, belly low to the ground and legs slightly bent. “Say the word, and we’ll depart, join the rebellion. I yearn for battle.”

I nearly snort out loud. “Once again, that would probably kick off a civil war. We’d doom Tyrrendor to fighting on two fronts.”

I watch her lift her wings in a gesture not unlike a disaffected shrug as she replies, “War is inevitable.”

Dain moves my braid again, then pauses, studying it. “This is a Tyrrish knot,” he says after a long pause, his tone confused. I feel him trace the shape of it with his thumb, then nearly jump out of my skin as it accidentally brushes against my spine.

I nod nervously, reaching back to tug it over my shoulder; I pull it towards me and examine what’s left of Bodhi’s handwork. It’s disheveled, but still unmistakable. “Yeah, it is.” I pivot at the hips so I’m facing towards him. “I guess you would recognize it. It’s kind of like the ones we do for wedding ceremonies, so you’d probably have seen knots that were similar in that book you were reading.” I toy with the end of it, then gently toss it back over my shoulder. “I thought it would be fitting, seeing as bonding a dragon is a lifetime commitment.”

Down the bond I now share with Thoirt, I feel a bloom of something. Satisfaction?

“Huh,” Dain says, tentatively touching the end of it again. Something dark passes above, and a nearby mage light glints off of the golden underbelly of a brown. “That would be the senior riders coming back from the valley,” he explains, taking a careful step away from me. “You should go stand by Thoirt. There are thirty-six unbonded riders watching who are trying to decide which bonds are the most susceptible to breakage. You want to send a message that you two are inseparable.” 

“We do not need to ‘send a message’ that we are inseparable,” Thoirt says, derisive. “We are inseparable.”

I nod, stepping away from Dain. I take three steps, then pause and turn back towards Cath. He watches me with glowing eyes as I walk back towards him and say to one of his distressingly sharp, yellowed talons, “Thanks for your help today. I realize I might have come across as ungrateful just now, but I do appreciate you keeping an eye on me.”

There’s a silent pause.

“He rather rudely requests that you never speak to him again,” Thoirt sighs, sounding like she’s relating this information to me against her will. “He makes several asinine allusions to the fact that you are gamey, but no less edible for that fact—which is a ridiculous and vile thing to suggest, and I promise isn’t sincerely meant—and asks me to remind you that it’s considered inappropriate to speak to another rider’s dragon.”

Dain clears his throat. 

“He says you’re welcome,” he tells me. 

I turn and smirk at him. “Did he, now?”

-----

Following the arrival of senior leadership and the unbonded, the Threshing ceremony begins in earnest. The majority of it is relatively boring and disappointing after the majesty of my first flight. It would be completely unmemorable but for the small pandemonium caused by Codagh taking flight part way through, the powerful beat of his wings knocking over several First Years and two-thirds of the bleachers. 

“He’s hungry and tired,” Thoirt tells me in a gossipy tone. “He’s getting too old for these long-winded affairs.” 

Visia, Avalynn and Baylor find the chaos hilarious and trade snickers down the line. I smile half-heartedly, but watch with apprehension until Codagh disappears beyond the mountains. I’m more than a little gratified to see him go; I’ve been able to feel him staring at me intermittently, and it’s been making Thoirt agitated. 

Shortly after, there are more screams from the bleachers as Tairn soars past at breakneck speed, headed for the quadrant. 

“Welcome to a family that knows no boundaries, no limits and no end,” General Sorrengail announces to a chorus of cheers, her voice amplified by lesser magic. She seems somewhat shaken, eyes tracing Tairn’s journey through the sky as he swoops toward the academic wing. “Riders, step forward.”

“Do you have a preference?” Thoirt drawls. “If you prefer, I can put it somewhere relatively hidden. I do, however, think it would look quite pretty if—”

I frown, turning to look at her over my shoulder. “Do I have a preference for what?”

“My relic,” she clarifies. 

My blood runs cold.

My breaths come quick. I whip my head back around and find myself frantically searching the bleachers. Bodhi and Imogen watch, somber-faced. As my eyes lock with Bodhi’s, he nods encouragingly, sympathetically. It will be quick, his expression seems to say. I didn’t like it, either.  

When I don’t step forward, Thoirt nudges me with her snout until I’m about five paces away. Acting on pure instinct, I stoop to pick up a rock. It’s not the pebble my mom wove a rune into, but for a moment, I can convince myself that it is.

I can’t help think of her, my mom. She was wild and fierce; being a rider was her greatest source of pride. She would have wanted me to be proud, too, in this moment—the moment when my dragon will claim me for all to see—but instead, I’m fucking terrified. 

“Put it on my back,” I request. “Lots of riders get them on their backs. That’s where my mom had hers.”

That way, I won’t have to see it or— 

Along my bond, I feel a tug.

I close my eyes.

I remember being fourteen, Codagh’s shadow looming large above me. 

I remember being a child who wants to scream but knows she shouldn’t; burdened with terrible pain, pain too great for her small body to process. 

I remember—

“Dragons, it is our honor,” Sorrengail calls out. “With this final act, as old as the bond between dragon and rider, our ceremony comes to a close and the true celebrations can begin.”

I clench my teeth as heat blasts my back, biting back the nausea rolling over me in waves. 

“It’s done,” Thoirt confirms as the burn slowly begins to fade. Her voice is nearly tentative as she adds, “Would you like to see it?” 

I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s lovely,” I say quietly, opening my hand and staring at the rock in it. My first relic swirls beneath it, inky and shimmering, a constant reminder of everything that’s been taken from me. 

“This one is different,” Thoirt murmurs, nudging me again with her nose. A noise rumbles through her, low and mournful. I rest my palm against her snout, then the rest of my weight, propping myself up against her. “This one is a symbol of something that can never be taken from you.”  

Visia approaches me slowly, glancing from the rock to my face. “You okay?” she asks. 

I nod reassuringly, dropping the rock to the ground. “Of course,” I say, fixing a smile on my face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

-----

“This book is fucking filthy,” Avalynn says, her feet kicked up on the wall and her head on my pillow. 

I turn towards her and flush when I realize she’s reading Widow’s Fire, the book Jesinia gave me when I asked if grief could cause sexual arousal. “I, um, haven’t read it yet,” I say carefully, returning my attention to my trunk. I tug out a pile of haphazardly folded clothes and put them in the armoire. “Jesinia… recommended it.”

“Jesinia, as in the scribe who’s, like, obsessed with you?” Avalynn quirks one brow, visibly impressed. She picks up the flask lying on the bed and takes a long sip from it, then coughs. “Well, who knew Jesinia had it in her.”

Visia is seated on the floor with her back to the wall, throwing daggers at a target she’s hung on the door for me to practice with. “Scribes are all kinky little fuckers,” she says, smirking at Avalynn over her shoulder. “If you think we get down and dirty, you would be scandalized by what they get up to. You never wondered why so many riders end up marrying scribes?”

“Is that a thing?” I ask, turning to her. 

Visia nods. “They did a census of riders and figured out that we marry scribes more than we marry anyone else. In descending order, it goes scribes, then healers, then civilians, then infantry.”

Avalynn rolls onto her belly, intrigued. “Are you joking?”

“About which part?” I clarify.

“Scribes fuck,” Visia replies, holding her hand out for the flask. Avalynn tosses it to her, narrowly missing my head. 

“This one certainly did,” Avalynn quips, holding up the book. 

I dredge the last of my meager belongings from the bottom of the trunk: a few textbooks, some quills, my hairbrush, several coins that spilled from a pouch. I place them on my desk and shove the trunk onto the floor, then move it to the foot of the bed. I wince as I stand, cradling my shoulder. I’ve taken it out of the sling, but I’m visibly drooping, one shoulder hanging lower than the other as the muscles compensate for whatever damage was inflicted on them.

“I can’t believe you’re moving in tonight,” Visia says.

I dust off my hands and look around the room. “Well, I don’t own much,” I admit, “and as much as I love Avalynn, I don’t think I can spend another night of my life listening to her snoring.” I dodge sideways as she tosses a pillow at my head. “Why not move tonight?”

I don’t add that I feel like I might need a quiet place to cry tonight, and this is probably the only one I’m going to find.

“Nobody moves on the night of Threshing,” Avalynn points out. “This was precious time that could have been spent drinking and fucking, and you’ve wasted it unpacking.”

I hold out my hand to Visia, who dutifully passes me the flask. I take a long swig from it, then hold it up proudly. “Well, now I’ve done two out of three,” I tell her, handing it back to Visia. “I’m a beacon of productivity.”

“Fantastic,” Avalynn says sincerely, flipping herself upright. “Let’s bring that energy to getting dressed.” She tosses Widow’s Fire to one side and stands, righting her clothes. The corset she’s chosen has thin straps to show off the copper relic glistening below her collarbone. 

Visia flicks her last dagger at the door. “Sloane’s not coming,” she says, rolling her eyes as it thunks into the wood. 

“Why wouldn’t she come?” Avalynn asks, crossing to the armoire. 

Visia’s brow puckers. “Her friend died,” she points out. 

“Who?”

“Eya Totleben,” I say quietly, thinking of her. We weren’t close, but I’d known her since I was six years old, when her mother was elected to the Tyrrish council. Her father once let children take turns riding his back as he raced around the ballroom at the wedding of a state official. Later that night, Eya let me stand on her feet and taught me how to waltz. Once, when I was eight and she was ten, Eya and I had fallen asleep together under the table during a small council meeting at Riorson House.

She was at Resson when Liam died, and now she’s dead, too.

“You’re not coming?” Avalynn confirms, turning to me. 

“I’m not,” I admit, beginning to strip out of my clothes. I turn and toss the remains of my tunic towards the desk. Even if it wasn’t torn to shreds and covered in dragon snot, I think I’d probably burn it. It’s saturated with bad memories. “I feel like shit, and all I want to do is take a bath, wash this day off of me, then curl up in bed and forget all my troubles.” 

Behind me, Visia snorts out a laugh. 

“What?” I ask, grabbing my towel and wrapping it around myself.

Visia shakes her head.

Avalynn leans over my shoulder to kiss me on the cheek before pulling Visia to her feet. “I can’t convince you to come tonight?” she asks, giving me one last pleading look. Beside her, Visia rolls her eyes, dusting off her leather pants. “Not even if I promise to dance with you ‘til my feet bleed? Not even if I tell you that you’ll be missing out on Lynx playing the lute? Not even if I inform you that I’m planning on kissing Baylor at some point?”

 I shake my head, smiling softly.

Avalynn sighs, then turns and smacks Visia’s ass, shepherding her out of the door. “Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Hawelynn.”

“Yeah, right.” Visia gives me an exasperated look as Avalynn pushes her into the hallway. “It’s just you and me until you and Baylor disappear together; then it’s just me, myself and I.”

“Aaric will be there, won’t he?” I tease. 

Visia gives me the finger, then catches onto the doorframe before Avalynn can pull her through it. “The social dynamic is rewritten once everyone bonds their dragons,” she bitterly declares. She’s changed since Threshing, but she still has the flower tucked behind her ear. “Now that Aaric’s bonded Molvic, we’ll probably never hear from him again.”

Avalynn scoffs. “You’re being insecure.” 

I follow them into the hallway with my caddy in hand, wrapped in a towel.

“I’ll be back in, like, an hour,” Visia assures me as I turn to lock my door.

They bicker as they walk the entire length of the hallway; I can still hear them as I settle into the bath and begin detangling my braid, and I can’t help but smile as I listen to their voices bouncing off the stone walls.

I take my time bathing, letting the warm water soothe my aching muscles. I feel like something broken: an heirloom in pieces; mended enough to be structurally sound, in spite of my fault lines and vulnerabilities, but never the same as I was. Strangely, I also feel stronger and more powerful than ever.

It’s been a day of weird, confusing dichotomies.  

When I return to my dorm, dressed in clean sparring clothes, three people are waiting in the hall outside—Bodhi, Imogen and Sorrengail. 

“Bodhi’s here to do your wards for you,” Imogen explains happily as I unlock the door. 

I nod, looking between her and Sorrengail. “Why are you two here, then?”

Sorrengail gives me a withering look before pulling something from her satchel and shoving it into my hands. I look down at it, surprised to see that it’s a pile of letters: Liam’s letters. I count them quickly, then count them again.

It’s all of them. 

“I was trying to catch you this morning because I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to stop holding them over you,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. I glance at her, thinking about how much she does and doesn’t look like her mother. “Based on what Imogen’s said about your training and your performance today, I think we can safely surmise that you can be trusted to keep doing the right thing, so there isn’t much point.”

I clutch my damp towel tighter to my chest with one hand, the letters with the other. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence between us until I ask, “Are you okay?”

The question takes us all by surprise, Sorrengail most of all.

She blinks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time, then glances at Imogen out of the corner of her eye. “No,” she answers; then she turns to stalk the length of the hall.

Imogen stays while Bodhi erects the wards on my door, observing my threadbare room with thinly veiled pity. “Is this everything?” she asks, looking into my wardrobe. There’s a modest selection of sparring clothes and unworn flying leathers in there; nothing else. I shrug. Next she turns towards the desk and notices my mom’s boots sitting on the chair, beneath the ribbons of my tunic. “What’s wrong with your boots?”

“It’s time for new ones,” I say simply, moving to lie on the bed. I curl onto one side, watching Bodhi work runes into the top left corner of the doorframe.

Imogen makes a face, but doesn’t say anything else, turning to consider my meager selection of weapons instead (which now includes the daggers Aaric gave me this morning because he’s insistent that he doesn’t want them back).

Bodhi has me test the wards when he’s done, walking into them and then making me drag him through several times. When he’s satisfied, he comes into the room but leaves the door open. He picks up the flash card lying on my desk, the one Aaric handed me this morning that depicts Thoirt, and studies it. “She’s a beauty,” he tells me, turning it so I can look at it, like I somehow might be unaware what my dragon looks like.

I feel Thoirt’s pleasure through the bond and smile. 

Bodhi turns to the wall and affixes the card above the desk with lesser magic. Then he stoops and picks up my boots and tunic. “I’ll take these to the burn pit for you,” he gallantly offers. He looks like he’s aged five years in a day. “Want to join us for a drink in Eya’s honor?”

I decline; neither Bodhi nor Imogen push the issue, though Imogen looks briefly tempted until Bodhi shakes his head.

When both of them are gone, I prop myself against the headboard and contemplate Liam’s letters for what feels like the better part of an hour. Unable to bring myself to read them, I return them to the bedside table. I’ll read them tomorrow, I decide. Soon. Someday. Instead, I pick up the book Avalynn discarded on the bed and flip back to the beginning, a leftover block of Bodhi’s sorry-your-brother-is-dead chocolate, the chocolate he brought when he and Imogen told me about Resson, sitting by my knee on the coverlet. 

I am instantly engrossed, but for none of the reasons I expect to be.

Widow’s Fire, it turns out, is the firsthand account of Sera, widow of a rider slain in battle, who took a veritable harem of lovers to stifle her grief. It’s not at all what I was looking for when I went to Jesinia seeking scientific evidence that I couldn’t be held responsible for my reprehensible crush on Dain or any subsequent actions caused by it. It’s not even close to what I was looking for.

I, however, am not complaining.

I’ve gotten just far enough into the book to concur with Avalynn’s opinion of it (and, in fact, I’m starting to think ‘fucking filthy’ doesn’t even begin to cover it) when I hear a knock at the door. 

I stand and cross to it, licking melted chocolate from my fingers.

“Visia, you have to read this fucking book,” I call out, already grinning as I close my fingers around the door handle and begin to pull it open. “If this is how all scribes fuck, then no wonder—”

My mouth slams shut.

On the other side of the door stands Dain, a flask of wine under one arm and a satchel slung over the other. He gives me a strange look, eyes quickly flicking over my sparring clothes, wet hair and the thumb still pressed to my tongue; I mimic the motion, eyes quickly flicking over his bare arms and broad shoulders.

“I was, um, just coming to check that you were alright,” he says, face flushing. 

 

Chapter 13: An Arbitrary Line

Beckett removed my clothing as if the act of doing so might remove the layers of me formed in the years we had been apart—layers of pain and fear, layers of grief and doubt. He had the steady, certain hands of a cartographer, hands which missed no detail. They mapped the valleys of my body as he undressed me, followed by his tongue and teeth. 

Brae touched me with no such tenderness.

To have both of them at once was exquisite, agonizing ecstasy. In front of me stood the scribe who had loved me from afar since our first days at the quadrant; who had longed for me and yearned for me; who would have crawled across glass to know my taste for only the briefest of moments; who I had spurned for my husband, now lost. Behind me stood the colonel who had led my husband into the battle from which he did not return, a brute of a man whose lust for me had only ever been matched by his derision and contempt. 

I was caught between their bodies as I was caught between the past and future, but finally able—if only for that moment—to exist within the present. 

-WIDOW’S FIRE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL STUDY OF INCREASED LIBIDO AFTER GRIEF BY SERA LARKIN

 

 

 

-DAIN-

Early October

 

I am an idiot.

I was an idiot when I slipped away from Beinhaven at the Threshing celebration, unopened bottle of wine in hand; I was an idiot when I went to my room and gathered things in my satchel, tearing around like a hurricane.

I was an idiot when I checked the barracks for Sloane, though blissfully, a lucky one; when I did, I discovered that they were empty. 

I was an idiot to go all the way back to my room, hunt down the dorm listings my XO gave me, memorize which dorm was hers, then come all the way here and knock on her door.

Most of all, I was an idiot to assume that Sloane was absent from the Threshing celebration because something was wrong. Her friends weren’t so concerned about her that they chose to be absent, too. She told me that she hates parties. 

Why was I so worried?

Why am I like this?

I register all of this when it’s already too late, in the moment when the door swings open and she’s standing before me, sucking on her thumb, an insouciant smile on her face that does things to me I cannot even begin to process and shouldn’t feel, because it isn’t meant for me.

I smile shyly back at her, and I’m still smiling like the idiot I am when Sloane’s jaw unhinges and her hand drops to her side, balled into a fist. She leans out into the hallway, frantically checking both sides of the corridor.

It’s not exactly the reception I was hoping for, based on the fact that she came to my room three days ago, kissed me on the fucking mouth and then practically sprinted down the hall before I could process what had happened. It’s not at all like the welcome I was expecting, considering that she seems to have no problem showing up at my door. For the sake of my ego, I chalk all of that up to her surprise; then I level what I hope is a charming smirk at her as I move to enter the room, because if I’m an idiot, then I might as well be an idiot who sees things through. 

“It’s disconcerting, isn’t it? When someone you’re not expecting shows up, then—”

“Wait! Dain!”

She reaches out her hand, and before I can discover whether she’s trying to stop me or trying to pull me closer, before I can let disappointment or hope or regret take root, a soundless wave of crackling force hits me, catapulting me across the hallway and sending me crashing into the stone wall about eight feet behind me. Cath roars in my head, the sound tearing through the shields erected between us. 

Before I hit the wall, I gather just enough sense to cradle the bottle of wine in front of me and tuck my chin to my chest. I land hard, an ear-splitting crack ricocheting through me and rattling my teeth, then blink up at her from the floor.

Sloane gapes at me from the doorway, horrified. 

There’s a brief moment where I think that I might have just manifested another signet, somehow become a distance wielder out of some crippling, subconscious need to flee the discomfort of this situation, because I cannot think of any other semi-plausible way that I just took a step forward and ended up slumped on the other side of the hallway.

“Ow,” I manage to say, rubbing the back of my neck.

“What happened?” Cath demands.

Frankly, I have no fucking idea. 

“Oh, gods!” Sloane rushes forward, throwing herself onto the ground at my side. Her hands ghost over me, frenzied as she checks for injuries. I know my body well enough that I can tell I haven’t suffered anything more significant than hurt pride, but it feels nice to have someone fretting over me. It’s especially reassuring in the wake of her less than enthusiastic greeting, so I say nothing. I watch her instead, thinking reckless thoughts about brushing tendrils of damp hair away from her face. 

“So, that would be one of those wards I’m always talking about,” she tells me in a frenetic whisper, half-apologetic and half-mocking. “No one gets through it unless I’m holding their hand.”

“Oh.”

The small, dim mage light inside the room billows into the hallway, casting a golden corona around her. 

“I, um, should have done a better job—”

She stands, pulling me to my feet.

I hold up the hand not cradling a bottle of wine as she drags me across the hallway by the arm, despite the fact that she can’t see me doing it. It’s an automatism, something almost involuntary. “I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous,” I tell her. “You didn’t invite me in, and I—”

“I didn’t realize they were that strong, so—”

I wince as we step over the threshold. This time, nothing detonates. 

Sloane kicks the door shut behind me and presses me into the chair by the desk, hands exerting surprisingly firm pressure on my shoulders. I’m unable to resist glancing around. The room is small, like all First Year dorms are small. She has a decent view of the Iakobos, and from the bed, she should be able to see the waterfall that forms at one section of the ridgeline when it rains. There’s an empty trunk; a few uniforms in the wardrobe; a modest assortment of personal effects arranged messily on the desk next to textbooks, quills and pens, including a vial of what I assume is the kohl she uses to line her eyes and another small, jeweled vial that looks like it might hold perfume. There’s a hairbrush and several combs, which I assume are purely decorative, because her hair is always charmingly messy. 

On the wall, someone—a Second or Third Year, presumably—has used lesser magic to affix one of Kaori’s flash cards to the stones. Thoirt’s yellow eyes stare out at me, judgmental in a way that’s reminiscent of her rider. I would prefer not to think about which Second or Third Years might have spent time in Sloane’s dorm room already, so I turn my eyes away from it. 

Sloane squints at me. “Hold still,” she commands, hands still resting on my shoulders. “I think I’m supposed to look at your pupils; right?”

I nod, remaining utterly rigid as I stare into her eyes, contemplating the various cliches that could be used to describe them. They’re the color of a morning sky in May and just as full of promises. When I look into them, I feel like I’m standing on a frozen lake, unsure if the ice beneath my feet will hold. 

“I hope, for your sake, that these musings are the result of life-threatening brain damage,” Cath drawls. He strongly advocated against me coming here, against getting further entangled in this situation; I came anyway.

I can feel his satisfaction at being almost immediately proven right. 

I shouldn’t have come here. 

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. 

I track the movement of Sloane’s fingers as she waves them in front of my face. 

“Do you feel dizzy?” Sloane asks, leaning forward to inspect the side of my face. She pinches my ear between two of her fingers, and from the corner of my eye I see her staring down the barrel of it with such a degree of intensity, it looks like she might be trying to examine the contents of my brain. “Did your head hit the, um, wall?”

“No.”

Sloane finishes her clumsy assessment of my physical state and stands, hands on her hips. “Well, I’ve conclusively determined that there’s a non-zero chance you have a concussion,” she tersely informs me. “I… don’t actually know what I’m supposed to be looking for, even though Emetterio’s done that to me, like, a thousand times.”

“That was fairly self-evident.” I grin at her. “Generally speaking, signs of concussion aren’t found inside someone’s ear canal.”

She scowls. “I don’t know what I was so worried for, anyway,” she says, turning away from me. “You deserve a concussion.” Something I’ve come to appreciate about Sloane is how much she doesn’t beat around the bush. We’re similar in that respect: I like to force fate’s hand; she likes to beat it into submission through sheer force of will. 

“For once, this witless guttersnipe and I are in agreement.” 

With that parting comment, Cath slams his shields down, blocking me out again. 

I clear my throat. 

“So you, um, weren’t expecting your ward to be that effective?”

She busies herself with tidying up the things left strewn across the bed: a half-eaten block of chocolate, a book that she sheepishly shoves under the pillow without marking the page. Presumably, this is the book Visia simply has to read, the book about naughty scribes.

I refuse to dwell too much on the fact that seconds ago, she was here, alone, reading something like that. 

I do, however, allow myself a moment of dim satisfaction as I consider the fact that she’s chosen to merely read about it. If she were in the courtyard right now, at the Threshing celebration, she could no doubt have found someone to actively participate in—

I put the thought back out of my mind.  

“Well, Bodhi did that one,” she says, using her body to shield something on the bedside table from view. She opens the drawer, slides that something into it, then slams it shut again before turning to me. Her tone seems somewhat self-justifying as she says, “I can’t do them yet. I’m fully across the theory, even the mechanics, really, but it would require a mastery over Thoirt’s power that I cannot yet boast.”

Seconds after she finishes speaking, her eyes fly to the window. 

Her lips twitch into an upside-down smirk. 

“Thoirt?” I ask, sympathetic. 

She nods, but doesn’t deign to relate Thoirt’s musings to me. “She says ‘hi’, by the way.”

“She does?”

Sloane snorts. “No.”

I stare at her as she leans against the armoire. Her snarl of flaxen hair is bundled loosely atop her head so that her neck is exposed. I’ve never seen her wear it like this before, and I find it hard not to fixate on the freckles that decorate the valley of her jugular; the faintly defined trinity of her hyoid, thyroid, and cricoid; the shelf of her clavicle, on which more freckles rest; the long muscle down the side of her neck, so prominent when she turns her head. I clear my throat again as I point to the door, tearing my eyes away. “Bodhi did that?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She hesitates for a moment, eyeing me critically. Then she glides to the door and points to one corner of it, where there are burn marks shaped like knots etched into the wood. I study them. “You take strands of your dragon’s magic, then weave them into the right shapes, which you place on… well, whatever you want to imbue with a rune.” She turns to look at me, still hovering by the door, and it must be obvious by the look on my face that she might as well be speaking Tyrrish, the one dead language I’ve never even tried to learn. She shrugs her left shoulder. “I guess it’s kind of hard to explain if you haven’t grown up with it, but runes are knots tempered with magic.”

It seems inconceivable to me that there’s a form of magic I haven’t heard of before today, let alone one this powerful. If I hadn’t just been blasted clean across a hallway, I would assume she was fucking with me. 

There are a million questions I could ask, but I decide to start with the simplest one. 

“How did Bodhi know which knots to use?”

“Runes,” she corrects. “Some runes are common enough,” she adds, turning to look at them as if with fresh eyes. “This one”—she gestures to the topmost shape somewhat jerkily with her right hand, then quickly lowers it—“is fairly standard. It means ‘lock’ or ‘barrier’. Used on its own, it would stop anyone from entering, even me.” She turns, giving me a look that’s faintly excited and almost conspiratorial when she sees that I’ve leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped between them. She’s flattered, I think, that I’m interested in what she’s saying. “It gets the job done, but it’s kind of like swatting a fly with a war maul.” 

“Inelegant,” I suggest.  

“Overzealous,” she agrees, sliding her finger along the wood to point at what I can now distinguish as two separate but interlocking shapes. “These are modifiers, which is where the real art comes into it. This one allows me to come and go as I please. It’s the symbol we use for ‘freedom’ combined with the symbol we use for ‘individual’, which is generally interpreted as something more akin to ‘personal liberty’. See, you can marry runes, like these three are, but you can also intertwine them, like this.”

I’m completely lost, but I don’t really want her to stop talking. This is something about her culture, something about herself, which she’s choosing to share with me, and that makes me feel a lot of things that I probably shouldn’t. I force myself to nod and then say the first coherent thing that comes to mind, which is, “So… it’s like layers of, um, meaning?”

Sloane nods excitedly, then points to the second-last rune. “This one loosely translates to ‘touch’.” Her finger drifts to the last of them, circles it. “This is another interlocked rune, which combines three others”—she points out where each separate shape begins and ends—“so that when the door is locked, the room becomes soundproof from the outside.” She flushes, then rather pointedly checks the door is unlocked. “I, um, told Bodhi that one wasn’t necessary, but he thought…”

She trails off, but it doesn’t really matter. 

I can easily imagine what it is that Durran was thinking when he made this room soundproof. 

“So, knots are a logo-syllabic language?” I prompt, hands curling and uncurling into fists.

“Exactly.” 

“And you can invent new runes by finding different ways to combine them?”

“You can if you’re good at it.” She smirks as she turns away from the door and adds, “You know, Bodhi told me that Xaden used to just use the top one on his door and unweave it every time he wanted to enter or exit his room. One time, when he was drunk, he forgot to unweave it and got blown back so hard, he left a Xaden-shaped crack in the hallway wall. I was thinking I might go looking for it someday.”

In spite of myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “I might just go looking for that, too.” 

“There can be a lot of trial-and-error involved in finding new combinations, so people tend not to attempt it unless they know what they’re doing.”

“Will you…?”

She hums quietly, elegant neck bent as she studies the runes on her door. One shoulder, the right, is hanging lower than the other, and she rubs idly, blindly, at various spots of her anatomy with her left hand, unconsciously wincing as her fingers dig into tender muscles. Pain might be radiating down to her fingers, because when she’s not touching her shoulder or bicep, she’s flexing them the way she was on the flight field. “Depends on how good I am at it, once I can exert enough control over Thoirt’s magic to try.”

“There must be a certain type of poetry to it.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it.” She traces the outlines of the runes again, long fingers elegantly bent in a dancerly formation that seems unintentional: index and thumb extended, the rest curled delicately. They spasm as they round the curve of the knot she told me means ‘liberty’. “Sometimes, I wonder if I might be too literal to be really good at weaving runes,” she says introspectively as she turns, folds her hands behind her and leans against the doorframe. “Bodhi’s more lateral; I think that’s why he’s so good at finding all the different ways to combine them.” Her eyes fall to the floor. Under her breath she adds, as if these words are meant for herself and not me, “Then again, my mom was good at it, and she was the most literal person I ever knew.”  

“You and Durran seem pretty close.”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

“Is he, like, your cousin or something?” I ask after a slight pause, doing my best not to sound too hopeful. It shouldn’t matter to me; it doesn’t.

I wait for her answer with bated breath. 

Sloane gives me a look that implies she’s once again worried I hit my head too hard. “No, Bodhi is Xaden’s cousin.”

Bodhi. 

I hate the way her lips curl into a smile every time she says his name, as if her body’s natural response to the mere thought of him is happiness. 

“I’m aware.” I pick up the bottle of wine that’s been resting in my lap, fingernails picking at the wax seal on the neck of it. “I was just wondering if you’re related, too.” I watch her shake her magnificent head from my peripheral vision, thin ringlets of hair quivering, then mutter, “You’re both nobility, so I thought”—hoped would be more accurate—“you might be related… or something.”

“Are you and Sorrengail related?”

I snort. “No.”

“Huh.” She lifts her dark, straight brows. “Your parents do the same job, so I just assumed…”

“Point taken.” I feel maladroit as I drop the wine back into my lap. I pick up one of the textbooks stacked in one corner of the desk instead, trying not to openly grimace at the broken spine and creased cover, because I can only imagine all the ways Sloane would make fun of me if I did. I flip it open only to discover loose pages with folded corners, then put it down like it’s fresh from a forge. Finally, I pick up a quill and consider it as I ask, with feigned disinterest, “So, are you two…?”

Sloane squints at me. “What?”

“You know.” I gesture illustratively with the quill.

“Clearly, I don’t.”

I tip my head back, rubbing my neck and hair with one hand. I can only imagine what Cath would be saying right now if he weren’t giving me the silent treatment. “You two spend a lot of time together,” I proffer. I lower the quill to the table, tap the nib against the wood with enough pressure to leave pinpricks on the surface. “He seems to expend a lot of effort taking care of you. More, for example, than he invests in most of the other marked ones. More than could perhaps be explained by your public profile.” I swallow, mouth dry. “When I saw you leaving his room the other morning, you seemed… very comfortable with each other.”

I could do this for hours.

You’re both immorally good looking in a way that couldn’t be more strikingly diametric and complimentary, or fucking preordained, like night and day, I could add. 

It would be a continuation of a theme, whereby someone’s lips press against mine and then, next thing I know, they’re deeply, passionately in love with a member of the Riorson family tree. 

You’ve probably known each other your whole lives. 

If your titles were reinstated, he’d be a duke and you’d be a duchess. Nobility tends to act as its own ouroboros, dukes and duchesses marrying and begetting dukes and duchesses who will all marry each other, too, in an infinitely decreasing circle. The whole of Tyrrendor would probably rejoice if your two great houses were united.

Not that I’ve spent much time thinking about it over the past three days.

“Ew.” Sloane snorts. “What?”

I feel disgustingly hopeful. “No?”

Her brow knits as she stares at me, tongue and jaw working hypnotically. Understanding dawns across her face a few seconds later, and she openly laughs at me. “To be clear, are you asking me about this because you saw me in the hallway outside of his room and formed the assumption that we’re… intimately acquainted?”

I shrug. 

“When you saw me the other morning, Bodhi had been braiding my hair, Dain.” 

I roll my eyes, then turn back to the quill. I try to make myself sound stern. “Not that I particularly need or want details, but you might want to come up with a better excuse next time you’re caught leaving your section leader’s room in the morning.” 

I have decided that this will be my excuse. 

I’m not asking because I have a vested interest in the matter; I’m asking because it would behoove me, as wingleader, to know if one of my section leaders is carrying on an illicit affair with someone in their chain of command. 

It’s not that I’m fixated on—

“He wove the Tyrrish knots you noticed earlier into my hair.” She points at the door like it holds all the answers, then points at the back of her own head with an open hand. “When you saw me on the morning of Presentation Day, that was another time that Bodhi braided my hair for me, because he’s disgustingly sentimental. You didn’t notice that my hair was different that day?” On reflection, I did notice that it was slightly neater than usual that morning, though it was back in its usual disarray by the time she’d run the Gauntlet. She shakes her head, horrified. “I would never… Bodhi would never…”

She makes a face of such distaste that I would laugh in almost any other circumstance.

“He was braiding your hair?” I repeat in disbelief.

Sloane hesitates, tugging her hands out from behind her back to cross her arms. She rubs absentmindedly at her biceps with her palms, relic swirling like glittering smoke under the mage light. “Did you think I went straight from your room to Bodhi’s or something?”

I’m more than a little defensive as I say, “It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.” 

“You’re fucking depraved.” She laughs again, shaking her head gently. She seems to consider it all for a moment before coming to an epiphany. Her eyes snap to mine, and I watch her brow knit. Light dances in her eyes, silver and topaz. “Is that why you’ve been so weird?”

I frown, twirling the quill between my fingers. “I haven’t been weird.”

Sloane scoffs, full lips forming into a pout, weight shifting across her hips like always, like she’s dancing. “You’re habitually weird, but you’ve been even weirder since I came to your room before Presentation and…” She cuts herself off. “You’ve been ignoring me for three days now, Dain, and—”

I try to interrupt. “In my defence, we have spoken during—”

“And now, apropos of nothing, you’ve shown up at my room with a bottle of fucking wine.” She narrows her big blue eyes at me; something in me stirs. I try to temper my body’s natural reaction to her by thinking of words I would combine into Tyrrish runes if I could. How many of them would produce something new and wonderful? How many of them would end in disaster? Her voice is a low, mellisonant whisper as she adds, “If anything, you’ve transcended weird. You’ve reached a plane of idiosyncrasy heretofore undefined by man.”

I’m not really sure I can deny it, so I don’t.

She stares at me for a long time before rolling her eyes. “You’re an asshole,” she concludes.

It’s a familiar refrain.

Some sick part of me is starting to enjoy hearing it.

I put the quill back on the desk, rubbing my finger over the holes I’ve left in it as if I can smooth them away. “I’m an asshole because I wanted you to focus on the life-threatening tasks ahead of you, rather than on the fairly trivial matter of a kiss?”

It wasn’t trivial. 

It wasn’t trivial at all. 

“It wasn’t trivial to me,” she murmurs, echoing my thoughts. Her expression is almost solicitous. Her body is angled towards mine, and I can practically see nervous energy thrumming through her. 

The gods must have a funny sense of humor, I think as I let my eyes flick over the room one last time. 

The gods must have a funny, terrible, cruel sense of humor. 

“Come on,” I tell her, standing. “Bring the chocolate.” I grab my satchel and the wine, then take her left hand and lead her from the room. The wall of energy that barricades the door seems to crepitate as I pass through it, rustling menacingly like it’s mocking me. I tell myself that it’s the reason I’m holding her hand, and I choose not to think about any of the reasons why I don’t let it go once we’re on the other side.

-----

My boots thud against the marble floor as we enter the rotunda. Outside, the celebration is in full swing, and screams of laughter echo through the quiet, empty halls. I shush her anyway as we take a right, then lead her down the short flight of stairs partially hidden behind the wing of a statue. Halfway down, I turn to the wall and finally relinquish my grip on her so that I can open the passageway that leads to the flight field. 

“Well, this is fucking creepy,” she whispers as she follows me into the tunnel. When the entrance shuts behind her with a thud, she jumps, crowding closer and reaching for my hand again. It usually smells earthy in the passage, but right now all I can smell is her scent, magnified to a mind-numbing degree since she’s still so fresh from a bath: barley, salt, poppies. Her chest is pressed against my side, and she curls her free hand around my shoulder as she whispers, “Is now a bad time to tell you that I fucking hate the dark?”

I ignite a mage light and throw it into the air above us. It’s dim and golden, like the one in her room.

She blinks up at me, adjusting to the glow.

There must be something halfway decent in me, after all, I think to myself as I stare down at her, because a lesser man would surely have kissed her by now. If I were half as selfish as I tell myself I am, I would surely have succumbed to the unassailable temptation already, pushed her up against the wall and— 

“Thoirt would like to know where you’re taking me,” she breathes, eyes glassy.

I think it’s lust at first. 

I think I see that strange cold flame I saw inside of her on the mat, then again in the courtyard when we shared a stick of churam; the one that began burning in me in answer the night before Presentation, when she let down her impenetrable facade and showed me a glimpse of what lay underneath. 

Quickly, I realize that it’s something different. 

It’s fear. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, dropping her hand as if I’ve been singed. 

She hisses, edging closer as she seizes it again, insistent. Her breathing, I realize, is shallow and sharp as she leans her weight against me. “Nothing. Can we just get out of here, please?”

She’s shaking.

Inside of me, some kind of biological imperative snaps into action, the drive to protect. I practically drag her along behind me as we pass beneath crumbling stone archways, through winding corners and along the steep ascent, mage light trailing after us. When we emerge out into the seemingly limitless expanse of the flight field, she bends double, choking down a deep, ravenous breath. 

“I didn’t—” I begin, guilty.

She shakes her head, and I shut my mouth and watch her tremble instead, watch her gasp for air like she could ingest the infinitude of the night. 

“I’m sorry, Sloane.”

Her eyes are closed; she shudders. “I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t have…” I stammer. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have…”

I thought she’d like the tunnel. I thought she’d be charmed by it, excited by the prospect of the two of us sharing yet another secret.

I thought…

I blow out a mouthful of air, rubbing my hand against the nape of my neck, beginning to suspect I should have just listened to Cath and sat my ass down in a corner until the party was over.

Finally, Sloane lifts her head, looking at the flight field like she can’t quite place it. It feels unearthly at night, cradled by peaks on three sides and boundless on the fourth; a patchwork of gravel and balding grass over a hundred yards wide and nearly two-hundred and fifty yards long, dropping into nothingness at the ridge. Faintly, I can hear the sounds of the Threshing celebration below: drunk cadets tunelessly singing a ribald tune, loud and immutable and alive. 

I gesture awkwardly to the mage light, conscious that once we start walking, it’ll look like a beacon from below if anyone stumbles past the courtyard walls to take a piss or find a quiet spot for some heavy petting. “Can I extinguish this?”

She nods, straightening. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

I snuff it out, then turn back to her. In the light of the full moon, she is rendered silver. 

“What?” she snaps, brows elevated. 

I realize that I’m staring, then turn my head away to hide the flush creeping along my neck. “We’re going this way,” I say, diffident. 

I take five steps in that direction before noticing that I can’t hear her walking behind me. When I turn, I discover that Sloane is still standing at the exit to the tunnel, now closed, watching me with her arms crossed. 

“I’m not—” I start, although I’m not exactly sure how the sentence will end.

She shakes her head, face breaking into a soft smile, then looks down at the ground beneath my boots. The terror has gone out of her entirely, as if she was never scared, as if I imagined it. “I don’t want to be delicate,” she drawls as she drags her gaze from where I’m standing to her own feet, “but I’m not loving the idea of walking across all that gravel without shoes on.”

I blink, then look down. 

I’m delighted to discover that, gorgeous as she is, Sloane Mairi has hideous feet. Her second toe is longer than the first, pinky toe bent at a grotesque angle. They’re covered in blisters, some fresher than others. She has prominent bunions.

I’m subsequently horrified to realize that I’ve been lugging her around the college barefoot.

She rolls her eyes at the expression on my face, entertained. “It’s not entirely your fault. My boots have a hole in them, so Bodhi took them to the burn pit for me; I need to get a new pair in the morning.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I hiss as I march back towards her, extending my hand. “Take the wine, then.” Sloane watches, bemused, as I adjust my satchel and turn my back to her, kneeling. I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I do, and Sloane looks back at me like she’s highly titillated by the sight of me on my knees in the dirt. “Hop on,” I command, smiling as winningly as I can. 

She hesitates for only the barest of seconds before stepping closer. 

Her body is warm as she presses her chest against my back, arms dangling over my shoulders and crossed at the wrists. The bottle of wine knocks against my chest as I stand. Her weight tips forward, so I catch her legs and hitch them around my waist, hands wrapping around her thighs just above the knee. I’m half-convinced I can feel the thrum of her pulse through the thin fabric of her sparring pants, that it’s racing. 

She chuckles quietly against my ear as I adjust my grip, then tucks her chin into my neck. “Am I heavy?” 

I feign dropping her as I rebalance her weight, and she squeals quietly, tangled arms squeezing around my shoulders. I stagger forward in an exaggerated way for a few steps like I’m carrying the weight of the whole world on my back before straightening up. 

Sloane presses her face into my neck and breathes slowly. I hope I smell as good to her as she does to me, but somehow, I doubt it. “You know, you’re stronger than you look.”

“Get fucked,” I suggest. I feign dropping her again, and she giggles. 

I don’t put her down when we reach the end of the gravel, but keep walking her across the patchy, wing-beaten grass instead, quietly mesmerized by the steadiness of the moment: my footsteps, her breathing, the distant thrash of the celebration below. It’s a moment that feels so much bigger than it is, as interminable as the slate sky above us. When we reach the ridgeline at the top of the Gauntlet, I place her on her feet gently, savoring the slide of her body against my back. “Thanks,” she murmurs, taking a half-step away. 

She turns to squint out at the view, moving to sit; I stop her so I can pull a cloak from my satchel and shake it out across the ground. Sloane watches, more than slightly intrigued, as I rummage around the satchel again and produce two mugs and a handful of fruits and cheeses I took from the dining hall at dinner, all individually wrapped in napkins. 

I arrange them on the cloak, then stand back and gesture suggestively, unable to help the self-satisfied expression on my face. Unless it turns out she’s allergic to nuts or something, I cannot possibly have fucked this up. 

Gods, what if… what if she is, though? I’m momentarily seized by panic. “Do you have any, um, allergies?” I bleat.

She shakes her head, frowning. 

Relief, far more vigorous than is probably reasonable, courses through me. “Good.”

“Do you?”

“No. Wine, please,” I request, holding out my hand as she folds herself onto the cloak, cross-legged. She passes it to me, and I take a dagger from the holster still strapped to my chest to cut away what’s left of the wax, then twist the tip of the blade into the cork. Once I’ve pried it out enough, I finish tugging it from the bottle with my teeth.

When I spit it over the edge of the ridge with a dramatic flourish, Sloane laughs. 

I have spent so many nights waiting to hear the sound of that laugh in the hallway, and now I’m the cause of it.

It feels strange and uncanny. 

It feels prodigiously right.

“Here,” she says, handing me one of the mugs. Her long legs dangle over the ridgeline, bare heels softly kicking the wood of the vertical ramp at the end of the Gauntlet. I pour her a generous glass of wine, then swap it for the empty mug. 

Sloane sips from the one I just gave her slowly, watching me over the rim. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?” she asks. 

“It’s your special day, so you get to pick.”

“You know, I’m generally abstemious,” she says as I sit, putting the bottle beside me on the grass. 

It should not turn me on to hear her use that word, or any of the big words she’s always using, for that matter, but it does. “You’re the opposite of abstemious,” I retort, turning to look at her. She grins into the rim of her cup, staring pointedly ahead. “You and your friends smoke churam every night.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about quitting.” Her grin turns into a smirk as she takes another delicate sip. “My wingleader doesn’t like it, and I think his patience with me is wearing thin.”

“Ah.” I reach into my satchel again and pull out the stick of churam she left in my room, the stick that’s been haunting me for days. Sometimes I pick it up just to stare at it in anguish, like its presence on my desk is somehow persecutory. “Should I toss this over the ridge, too, then?”

Sloane gives me a look that’s playfully shocked, something that makes all of the evening’s stumbles so far feel totally insignificant. I would run headfirst into a hundred wards just to have someone, her specifically, look at me like that again. I would handpick and roll an infinite number of churam sticks and deliver them to her on a platter. “How much have you had to drink tonight, exactly, Wingleader Aetos?”

I could say something stupid, something like, I drank enough to come to your room, but not enough to kiss you the second you opened the door. Instead, I reply, “I’m fairly sober.” And when she gives me another look, this one disbelieving and castigating, I hold it out to her and add, “I thought it might help with your shoulder.”

She takes the churam from my hand and turns to look out over the ridge. 

There are mage lights of every color flickering in the courtyard, strobing as they cast long shadows against the stone walls. Several students who brought instruments across the parapet or have since purchased them in Chantara have formed an impromptu ensemble to accompany the chorus of singing students as they cavort around the quadrant. The clink of bottles raised in toast is vaguely percussive, like it’s part of the song that’s carried to us on the crisp night air. Boots stomp against stone, keeping time. 

Tomorrow, we’ll stand in formation where they now dance and read the names of the fallen.

Such are the vicissitudes of life as a rider.

Sloane doesn’t look at the courtyard. Instead, she looks at the lights of Chantara that lie far beyond and the thin cirruses of smoke curling lazily from its chimneys; the peaks of the trees in the valley that stand in the space between, leaves gently tickled by the breeze; the moon and stars hanging in the endless sky above us; the dark expanse of farmland that stretches toward the horizon, broken only by the gleam of a single shepherd’s lantern. 

I can’t bring myself to look at anything but her.

“Why didn’t you kiss me back?” she asks, fingers toying with the stick of churam. 

She turns to look at me. I’ve never been this close to her before, not in my room or hers. We might have been this close on the mat, but I didn’t have the freedom to look at her then that I have now, now that her fists aren’t flying at my face. So I can’t help it as my eyes slide over her, seeking out new things to index: the dark spot on the ridge of her left ear, the smudge of kohl underneath her right eye, the natural flush to her cheeks. Her lips are full and parted, already stained on the inner edges by the tannins in the wine. 

“You know why,” I tell her quietly. 

“I really don’t.”

I sigh, then begin to tick the reasons off on my fingers. “I’m your wingleader, and it—”

She balances the stick of churam on her thigh, then reaches over and folds my finger at the knuckle, pressing it back against my palm. “I’m not going to tell anyone about this, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she bargains, a slender note of shame detectable in her voice that makes me want to throw myself over the fucking ridgeline. Her expression, however, is intransigent, like she’s already considered her options and made up her mind, like she’s resolved herself to the fact that there will be an us and it will be a secret. “I haven’t told anyone about it, and I… I wouldn’t, won’t, so if that’s all that’s stopping you, then…”

I pretend her words don’t smart as I lift that finger again, still staring at her. “Be that as it may, there’s an implicit power imbalance between us, and—”

She snorts, turning back to look out at the vista. “The idea that you have any power over me is laughable.”

This, of course, is true, but I keep that finger straightened and unfurl another. We’re sitting so close that my bent elbow is practically resting on her knee, right beside the stick of churam. “Your brother’s death and my involvement in it would hang over our heads.”

She stares resolutely at the sprawling landscape.

“That leads me neatly to my third point, actually, which is that I have a genuine fear that you tend to seek out or engineer situations where you will experience physical or emotional pain as a form of self-harm.” I watch her face intently as I add, “In my more rational moments, I find myself suspicious that this—us, whatever this is that’s been happening between us—could be another way for you to punish yourself for your perceived weaknesses. Like refusing to let Imogen train you because maybe some part of you thought that you deserved to have the shit kicked out of you.” 

A muscle in her jaw twitches, but she doesn’t deny it.

I clear my throat, extending another finger as I disclose, “There’s a possibility that I might still have feelings for someone else, so in those circumstances, it would be completely unfair to get involved with you.”

She grunts in acknowledgement.

I turn to look out at the glittering lights, at the party and the fields beyond, as I uncurl my pinky and speak aloud the reason that I have been unwilling to admit even to myself until now. It’s probably the most pertinent and crushing of them all. “If I let myself kiss you, I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with you, then end up disappointed again, because when I put all of these things together”—I wave the fingers of my open hand at her, still unable to look at her dissatisfied face—“I can’t fathom a world in which anything between us would end well.”

“So don’t fall in love with me,” she suggests, as if that would be the simplest thing in the world.

I nearly groan. “I’m not sure I’d be able to help myself.”

Her eyes bore into the side of my face, but I keep them fixed on the quadrant below. Glass shatters, the crash of it echoing through the valley and over the citadel. Someone jeers loudly, but I can’t make out the words they’re saying. 

“Do you fall in love with everyone you kiss?”

I decline to answer. 

The silence grows long and dangerous between us, uncomfortable. Sloane picks up the churam, then brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, the unlit stick dangling from between her fingers. I take it from her gently, wordlessly, reaching into my satchel again to extract a tinderbox which I use to light it. For the first and only time in my life, I find myself wishing I were a fire wielder, because something about using a tinderbox when I have access to literal fucking magic is as humanizing as it is demoralizing. 

It’s not, however, the first time I’ve wished that I had a different signet. 

I take a single drag of the stick before handing it back to her, slowly exhaling a stilted breath into the abyss before us. I keep breathing out until my lungs are empty and deflated, until I feel my diaphragm and muscles release.

I expel out all the air I can, and then I breathe in a lungful of the sweet, herbal scent of churam. 

Sloane doesn’t look at me as she takes two long drags, then mutely hands the stick back to me. As I blow another cloud of smoke into the air, she lifts her mug to her lips and drains it. When it’s empty, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then reaches for the bottle. “You’re mad,” I comment.

She grits her teeth. “I’m not mad.”

“It wouldn’t be unjustified or unreasonable if you were. I’m your wingleader, and the responsibility falls on me to maintain clear boundaries and uphold professional—”

“Stop,” she demands, covering her ears. 

“I’m just saying—”

“I’m gratified that you’re giving me your permission to be mad at you, Dain, but I’m not mad at you.” She laughs. The sound is hard and sharp and dark. She doesn’t throw her head back like she did the day I watched her in the Commons. “I’m about ready to climb down the Gauntlet barefoot in reverse just to get away from this situation, but I’m not mad at you.”

“You don’t—”

“If I’m mad, then I’m mad at myself,” she says, scowling as she turns to face me. 

I stare at her unabashedly. Her skin and hair glow faintly from the mage lights below: first red, then pink, then blue. It makes her look like something supernatural, something intensely magical, like the bioluminescent moths in the Cygnis Forest. 

She stares back, watching with voracious intensity as I lift the stick of churam to my lips. 

“Why are you mad at yourself?” 

“I’m mad that you just laid out five reasons why this isn’t going to happen, and in spite of that, I’m still trying to find some way that I can convince you that it should.” I have never been more flattered, and it must be evident. She scoffs, fire coruscating behind her eyes—hot, then cold. “I’m mad that something inside of me is so deeply broken that I find myself drawn to you, of all people, only to discover that you don’t even want me back.”

Ouch.

My fingers brush hers again as I hand her the stick of churam. How many nights have I sat at my desk reading about Tyrrish customs, thinking salacious thoughts about the simple act of stroking the pad of my thumb over her ulna? “It’s not that I don’t want to, Sloane,” I promise her, although I know I shouldn’t. 

It’s not fair to tell her that I won’t, then tell her that I want to. It’s selfish.

Then again, I’m selfish.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, tearing her eyes away to tap ash from the end of the stick. “I’m really not mad at you. I… had a kind of shitty day.”

“I can imagine,” I say as I pick up my mug. 

“Did you hear I nearly killed Dasha Fabrren?”

I nod. “And from what I hear, you would have had every right to.”

Sloane wrinkles her nose. “I had her incapacitated, and I was going to kill her anyway.” My instinct is to tell her that would have been the smart thing to do, which is obviously not how she feels. Why is that my instinct? Why is that not hers? “Thoirt says that I was feeling her anger, but I…” She hesitates, turning to look over her shoulder like she expects to find Thoirt standing there, watching us. “I think there’s something really wrong inside of me, something angry and vicious, and sometimes I can’t control myself. Thoirt says it was her, but what if it wasn’t?” 

I consider it for a moment, scratching the scruff of my cheek thoughtfully. “Do you know what shielding is?”

She nods. “It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, though.”

“You’ve tried already?”

“Yeah.” She sighs, fidgeting. She flicks more ash over the ridgeline, watches it pirouette through the air like snow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Where do you ground?”

I take a moment to set my mug on the grass beside me, then turn back to her. I wonder if she realizes how intimate the question is or if it’s innocently meant. I can’t tell from her body language or facial expression, but I want to imagine she knows. Asking another rider where they choose to ground is like asking them to reveal the depths of their soul. “It’s less of a ‘where’ and more of a ‘when’.” She looks at me like I’m the one speaking a dead language this time, and I feel the corner of my mouth lift as I explain, “Most people ground themselves in a place, but I’ve always had more success grounding myself in memories. And I can’t really tell you more than that, because I use whatever memory comes to mind first.”

She puts her own wine down, then hands me the stick of churam. “You can do that?” 

She’s using the word ‘you’ in the general sense, which ruffles me in a peculiar way. “I can do that,” I stress. 

Sloane rolls her eyes, then stares intently down at her hands; I don’t have to ask to know that she’s trying to ground herself in a memory, to shield Thoirt out the way I shield from Cath. I observe, inhaling lungfuls of churam. 

“Did it work?” I ask, dubious.

She shakes her head, huffing, adorably annoyed that she can’t do something it takes most riders months or even years to master. 

“What memory did you try?”

I half-expect her to tell me to fuck off, but she doesn’t. She rubs her shoulder gently while she answers, smiling self-consciously. “I was thinking about when Eya Totleben gave me my first dance lesson. On reflection, it probably wasn’t a good memory for grounding, in the circumstances, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and that’s what you said you do.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Eya.” 

She shrugs, exhales. “I didn’t know her that well.”

“We’ve already established that you don’t need to know someone well to mourn them.” I point to the spot at the bottom of the stairs where we sat the day that Trysten Kinsby fell from the Gauntlet. I felt it then, and I feel it again now: something crackling in the air between us, as tenuous and galvanic as the ward that stretches across her door. Something I can’t really name, but am no less certain has the power to become the nexus of my being if only I’d abandon myself to it. Through a mouthful of smoke, I murmur, “I’m fairly certain we were sitting on that step when we did.”

It seems like a lifetime ago, but it was only a matter of weeks.

Sloane smiles wryly as she turns to look at the spot where I’m pointing. “I feel bad, because I probably should be mourning her, but mostly I’m just thinking about my own mortality. Dying with honor.” It’s a vague statement, and the way her body is positioned and her mouth tilts to one side seem to indicate that she knows it, but doesn’t care to clarify. She takes the churam from me, then puts it to her lips. Between pulls, she drinks deeply from her mug of wine. “I’m sorry Sorrengail nearly got hurt,” she says after a long, heady silence. 

I nudge her shoulder with mine. “Yeah, well, I don’t really know her that well.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she cavils, handing me the stick. She gestures for the wine, then fills both of our cups. She pours it the way a lady does: held by the base, tilted slowly so that it flows smoothly into the glass without splashing. She twists her wrist as she lifts it, then brings it to the hem of her shirt, which she uses to wipe the drips from the lip of the bottle. She looks smug as she does, like this little act of rebellion pleases her greatly. “I think you make it your business to understand people, whereas I don’t think Sorrengail particularly cares to understand what motivates anyone around her. At best, I think she assumes she already knows what makes people tick and never bothers to question if her presumptions are correct.” 

Teasingly, because I don’t want to admit how heavily the thought sits in my chest, I say, “Do you think you might be biased?”

“Being biased doesn’t necessarily preclude me from being right.”

“Are you saying that she’s self-involved?”

“I’m saying that I probably know you a lot better than she does.”

I contemplate my answer as I turn to the untouched spread of food between us. I begin handing her things—a square of chocolate, a dried apricot. She takes each new offering, but I notice that she doesn’t take them in the obligatory, deferential way she takes food from her friends in the dining hall. She takes the things I hand her graciously, like she’s flattered that I’m thinking of her. “What makes you say that?” 

“You never told her about Aimon,” she points out.

I toss an apricot into the air and catch it in my mouth. I’m still chewing it as I reply. “I’ve never talked to anybody about it.”

Sloane gives me a look that could make my toes curl in my boots. “You talked to me about it.”

“I did,” I concede. 

Sloane turns again, examining the citadel and the village. “I’ve seen glimpses of the real you sometimes,” she says quietly, musingly. She bites into the chocolate, then licks smudges of it from her fingers. The apricot she tosses over the ridge, eliciting a quietly offended sound from me that makes her fondly roll her eyes. “Or, I guess, I’ve seen glimpses of what I think must be the person you were before coming here. Either way, that person is drastically, radically fucking different to the person you are now. Lighter. If any of my friends changed the way you must have changed, I wouldn’t stop asking them about what had happened, and I know it would be the same for them, even if I begged them to leave me alone.” She looks at me in challenge. In the moonlight, her pale blue eyes shine like quicksilver. “Did Sorrengail ever ask you what happened in the year you were apart?”

“She had a lot going on,” I say, strangely defensive.

It’s not like I haven’t thought the same thing in my weaker moments.

“We all have shit going on, Dain.” The stick is short now, barely more than bitter dregs. She offers it to me, and I shake my head; I watch her stub it out on the wood of the ramp, then throw what’s left into the ditch below, where bodies fell just days before. She follows it with her eyes as it carves a path through the air, too, then flinches when it lands beside the apricot. The pebbles beneath them are stained with rust-colored blood. “Just something to think about,” she posits.

I take a square of chocolate. “What if you bring out a side of me that doesn’t otherwise exist?”

There’s something smeared just below one corner of her bottom lip, and I briefly imagine kissing it away. As it is, she sees me staring at it and dabs at it with a wrinkled napkin, which I’m intrigued to see her then tuck into her pocket. “Do you come up here a lot?” she asks, changing the subject. 

“Rarely,” I confess. “They only tell wingleaders about the tunnels. When they first showed us, I came up here a few times just because I could. You’re going to make fun of me for that.” 

She shakes her head, denying it, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s serene. I bet it’s nice to sit up here alone sometimes.” She hesitates, then seems to be unable to help herself as she murmurs, “So, to clarify, you’ve never brought her up here to drink wine and look at the view?”

I don’t need to clarify which her she means. “Only you, Sloane,” I promise. 

That seems to satisfy her. 

I clear my throat, wiping my hands on a napkin that used to hold a handful of pistachios. “There’s something I want to ask you,” I start, nervous. “I… I wasn’t going to ask tonight, but I think…”

Sloane puts her hand on my arm, silencing me. “Before you do, there’s something I need to tell you, first.” 

She comes closer, so close that her face is inches from mine. My breath stutters as she crawls across me and plucks the bottle of wine from the ground, lingering for a second with her chest pressed against my arm. I’m shrouded by her scent, poppies, barley and salt; I am so fucking obsessed with her that it verges on embarrassing. I wave my hand in the scant space between us lazily, like I can wave the feeling away. “Well, don’t let me stop you,” I choke out, voice hoarse.

“This wine is fucking terrible,” she decrees, settling back. She surveys me as she pours another glass, eyes me like we’ve just played a game and I have lost.

“If it’s so terrible, why are you still drinking it? I thought you were abstemious.”

“I said I was generally abstemious, which is true. Tonight is the exception, not the rule.” She grins, then adds, “Who knew Dain Aetos would be the person who uncovered my passion for self-indulgence, my secret wild side?”

“Hardly,” I sniff. 

Gods, what I wouldn’t give to do it, though. 

“Where does one even find wine this bad?” Sloane says haughtily, pursing her lips as she swirls the wine in her mug. She sips it cautiously, then scrunches up her nose. The effect of the performance is somewhat undone by the fact that she can’t stop smiling or looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “It’s astringent and disgustingly saccharine at the same time, but with a faintly metallic aftertaste. It tastes like… peasant wine.”

I smile into my cup, rubbing my brow. “One steals it from the cellars under the citadel, where they store it between annual Reunification Day parties.”

Sloane’s eyes are slivers as she gestures for me to give her the bottle again. Dutifully, I pick it up and hand it to her. She holds it up to the pale moonlight, studying it with renewed interest. “You stole this from the king of Navarre?” I nod in answer. Something about the way she’s looking at me makes me feel intensely proud in a way I’ve never felt before, because for once I’m proud that I’ve done something someone wasn’t expecting instead of doing something that they were. “We’re drinking wine you stole from King Tauri’s Reunification Day stash?”

I nod again, slowly.

Sloane lifts her cup to her lips and takes a long, satisfied drink, then rubs her shoulder as she puts it down. “I think it might taste about a thousand times better now that I know that.” 

“C’mere,” I say, waving her towards me. She shuffles closer, obediently turning when I indicate that she should, the half-drunk bottle of wine abandoned in her lap and her mug clasped loosely in her hands. Her body stiffens as I begin to tentatively feel at the muscles around her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt, but when I rub into the right spot, she writhes, then moans quietly. It’s a susurration of sound that I’m fairly certain I’ll be able to remember until my dying day. 

Her body goes pliant underneath mine, and I grit my teeth. 

On reflection, this was a mistake. 

I couldn’t bring myself to stop if the whole school caught on fire.

I’m careful as I massage her trapezoid, biceps, deltoid, rhomboids. They’re tight and resistant, so I stroke my thumbs across them gently, releasing the tension before I start working them deeper. 

Sloane mewls gently as I begin to rub her scapula. “You should have been a healer.”

“There was a stretch of about three years where that was the dream.”

“Let me guess. Your hubris won in the end?”

“My father won in the end,” I say, gently deflating a knot. “You and Violet aren’t the only ones whose parents expected their children to be riders.”

“Is your dad heavily invested in your success?”

“He’s heavily invested in me not failing.” 

“You know, I’m fairly sure that giving your cadet a back rub is in direct contravention of your precious Codex,” she murmurs, even as she’s leaning into my touch. 

Her head falls back to rest against my chest, tilted to one side so that her cheekbone is pressed against my shirt. I wonder if she can hear my racing heartbeat. Hers, on the other hand, is languid but forceful, pulsing rhythmically beneath the thin skin near her jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, lips all but resting against the four rings in her right ear. “This is a very friendly massage, no different from the very friendly massages I give to all my other cadets. And there’s nothing in the Codex precluding a friendly massage between a wingleader and his cadet.” I knead my thumb into another knot and take sick, unfettered delight in the groan that tears from her throat. “I should know. As you love to point out, I’ve memorized it.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she hums, arching in unspoken request. I follow her meaning, redirecting my hands where she wants them; she sighs contentedly as my reward. “I’m not complaining. It’s well established that I never met a rule I didn’t want to break.”

“Like I said, we’re not breaking any rules.”

“There’s an argument to be made about meaning versus intent.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too smart for your own good?”

“Yes, but I’d love to hear you say it.”

We fall into as comfortable a silence as I’ve ever enjoyed with anyone until I’ve moved from her shoulder to her neck. 

“So, where’s your relic?” I ask her, chin resting against the crown of her head.

Sloane tries to look up at me, hair brushing against my knuckles as she moves. I try to remind myself that we are not the same: that this level of casual intimacy doesn’t mean the same thing to her that it does to me, that she is tactile by nature. Those impossibly high cheekbones are emphasized from this angle, as is her straight, austere nose and long, dark lashes. “Back,” she says dismissively. 

I try to sound nonchalant as I ask, “Can I see it?”

She blinks at me slowly. 

“You’ve seen mine,” I point out; I nod with my chin towards the gleaming red relic on my shoulder.

I suspect she likes seeing it, because she couldn’t stop staring at it the first time I found her standing outside my dorm room. It’s why I wore a shirt without sleeves tonight, even though it’s fucking freezing.

Her eyes linger on my arm for a moment as if in confirmation.

“Whatever.” Sloane leans forward, and before I’ve fully registered what she’s doing, she tugs off the long-sleeved sparring shirt she’s wearing so that she’s sitting in the chill night air wearing nothing on her top half but the constricting band of her chest bindings. She neatly folds the shirt she’s removed, putting in her lap next to the bottle of wine.

She needn’t have bothered, but I’m not complaining. 

Thoirt’s relic shimmers just above the waistband of her pants: sinuous body emblazoned across the lower fourth of her spine; daggertail coiled around itself to form a shape that’s vaguely reminiscent of a Tyrrish knot, the tip of the dagger resting just above her sacrum; wings lovingly framing each dimple of her lower back; serpentine neck reared and claws bared as if to strike. 

It’s stark as blood against her pale skin. 

“Interesting,” I say, mouth dry, because I’m unable to think of any other word I could use to describe it.

She turns, trying to look at her own back. “What?”

I brush my thumb against the tip of a wing like a man possessed. I somehow manage to stammer out, “The placement is slightly, um, unorthodox.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.” I trace the outline of it; she shivers. “When you said it was on your back, I assumed you meant between your shoulder blades.” 

“Funnily enough, I assumed that, too, when I asked Thoirt to put it on my back.” She’s silent for several long heartbeats, glaring up at the sky, and it’s not hard to imagine that she and Thoirt are exchanging words. I swallow convulsively, smiling, tracing my finger along the falcations of the relic’s body again. 

“It’s nice,” I say, when she makes a noise that seems to indicate that Thoirt has shut her out. 

My tone, I hope, is reassuring and betrays nothing else. 

“Nice?”

“Good.”

I begin to rub the muscles of her lower back just for something to do. 

“You wanted to ask me something,” she says thickly. 

I’m not even massaging her anymore, just touching her. I work my thumb in a line parallel to the seam of her spine. “I, um, wanted to ask if you would tell me about the rebellion.” 

The second the words leave my mouth, I feel the atmosphere around us change. The warmth and familiarity that’s been steadily growing between us shatters like glass, and I swear I can hear it echoing across the valley, all the way to Chantara.

“That’s your question?” She scoffs, sitting upright to put some distance between us. “Well, seven years ago, my people, the Tyrs, went to war with your people, the Navarrians. You see, we wanted to secede—”

“I’m aware of what the history books say.”

“Of course. You read them for fun, like the Codex.” Her voice is lilting, satirical, but there’s a hard edge to it. “I’m sure you’ve read every account of the rebellion”—she says the word like it’s something unnatural and wrong, used entirely out of context—“in the Archives, so I’m not sure what you think I could tell you about it that you don’t already know.”

“I want to hear what you have to say.”

She pivots to look at me. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just… want to hear about it.”

“Your dad was there.” Though I think she might be trying not to sound bitter, she does, and I can’t say that I blame her for it. “Why not go ask him?”

“Sloane, I want to hear it from you.” I find a knot, begin kneading it. She relaxes to an almost infinitesimal degree. “I’m starting to process the fact that conquerors carve the narratives that shape history, and they rarely proliferate truths that are unflattering. I haven’t spent as much time questioning what I’ve been told about the rebellion as I maybe should have.” I hesitate, then add, “I don’t think I’ve spent as much time questioning anything as I should have, and I might as well start there.”

There’s a long, sullen beat of silence until she asks, “What, specifically, do you want to know?” 

“Whatever you want to tell me.” I work my hands up and down her back, then rub my thumb into her shoulder again, watching her profile. Her pulse is racing now, fluttering below the surface of her skin. Her eyes flick to the relic that sprawls across her arm. 

“Whatever I want to tell you?” she repeats. 

“You can choose to tell me nothing.”

She chews her lip, staring at the walls of the courtyard below. “Did you know Riorson House, Xaden’s family home in Aretia, has never been breached, not through countless sieges?” She turns again to glance at me, and I shake my head. “Safest place in all six provinces,” she murmurs, glancing away. “It’s built so that most of the house is inside a mountain. There are thick stone walls, steel doors, windows runed to be unbreakable. It’s the middle ground between a fortress and a palace, and for the last three months of the secession, it felt like a prison.” She moves the wine and her shirt onto the cloak, then brings her knees up to her chest again, wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on one. “We had already been garrisoned there for a year at that point. One-hundred and six children, some of us just infants. One-hundred and five, actually, once Fen sent Xaden away. Wives. Husbands. Council members and government officials, all tucked away safely inside, waiting for the worst to happen.”

I trace idle spirals over her bare skin and the band that spans it. “You couldn’t go outside?”

“We could go into the courtyards and onto the balconies for an hour each day, but I didn’t touch grass for months. They knew it was only a matter of time until Navarre brought the war to us, so they decided to mitigate any risk of being caught unaware.”

I hum, tentative. “So you were in Aretia when…?”

She takes a slow, fortifying breath, then nods. “I watched the Battle of Aretia from the ballroom of Riorson House. I saw line after line of infantry fall; I saw dragons plummet from the skies; I saw our forces overwhelmed, decimated.” Her voice is a quiet tremor. “I watched us lose the war my parents had dedicated our lives to in the course of a single day.”

“That must have been confronting.”

She laughs dryly. “‘Confronting’ is one word for it. Yes, it was confronting watching a fucking bloodbath, watching people I had known and loved be massacred. By that time, I think there was very little of childhood innocence left in me, but whatever there was, I lost then. I don’t expect you to understand or even sympathize, but…”

My heart clenches, guilt sluicing through me. “I do understand,” I tell her quietly. I frown, unable to help that my eyes flick towards the relic on her arm. Somehow, I sense that this is exactly the wrong question to ask, but I ask it anyway: “If you were garrisoned inside, then how…?”

Sloane moves away from me, picking up her shirt and sliding it back over her head. “Did you know ‘the Treaty of Aretia’ is a misnomer, Dain?”

“What?”

“It’s a misnomer,” she spits, ripping her head through the neck hole of her shirt. “Treaties are formal, ratified agreements between states. No one from Aretia ever signed that fucking ‘treaty’, which means it was actually an edict. So that night, on what you now celebrate as Reunification Day, as per King Tauri’s edict, Melgren and two other riders flew over Aretia and burned it to the fucking ground.” She rucks up her sleeves like she had them before, then tugs them back down again, covering the relic on her arm. “You know, I heard the dragons flying overhead, and I thought—I know it wasn’t cogent, but this is how much I believed in my mother, in Fen—I thought that somehow they had escaped. I tried to run out onto the balcony to see them, but Liam stopped me. So I ran to the window I’d watched us lose the battle through instead, and—”

She chokes. 

I wait, nausea bubbling inside of me.

She shakes her head, staring out at Chantara like she’s watching it smolder. Her face is something beyond wounded, beyond rattled, beyond grieved. “Navarre claims they gave our people warning, a chance to flee.” She turns to look at me, and if I was predisposed to doubt, the look in her eyes would have killed the inclination. “They lied, Dain. They came in the night, and they burned our people while they tended their wounded and slept in their beds, and we watched them. We could hear the screaming; we could smell the sulfur. Can you guess why they did that?”

She looks at me, beseeching. 

Siege warfare, my father once told me, is not effectively won by bombardment, like so many people think. Infiltration is a sufficient tactic, when it can be achieved, but requires an unnecessary degree of time and risk. Siege warfare, in his opinion, is best won by applying the art of attrition: enfeebling your enemy by cutting off their supply lines, reinforcements, and escape routes; weakening their resolve through sustained, calculated acts of psychological warfare. You do not fight the fortress, he said, seated across from me in his frigid office, the tip of his knife pressed into the wood of the desk. You make the man inside it fight himself.

“They wanted to smoke you out,” I conclude.

“They wanted to smoke us out,” she quietly confirms, shoulders sagging. She swipes angrily at her cheek. “The burning of Aretia wasn’t just symbolic, Dain, like that fucking treaty says it was. It was strategic. They traded ten thousand lives for two hundred men, women and children who were incidental to their war, because they wanted to make a statement. They wanted their victory over us to be complete. They wanted to leave no survivors, no hope, no will to keep fighting.”

“Why didn’t you just stay inside?”

She gives me an incredulous look, and I regret the question immediately. “Our people were dying, Dain. And we were fairly certain they would spare what was left of the city if we came out.” Her voice breaks. “Everyone over the age of twelve took a vote. It was unanimously decided, and we came out thirty minutes after they started burning.” 

“Why would they do all that just to keep you alive, though?”

“I don’t think they intended to. I don’t think we were supposed to walk away from the Calldyr Executions with relics, Dain; I don’t think we were supposed to walk away at all.” She angles her body towards mine, knees hanging over the edge of the ridge as if she’s not fully conscious of the drop that hangs below. “We each had these pebbles that my mom wove a protection rune into, and if we hadn’t all been holding them when we stood in front of Melgren’s dragon, I think I might not be sitting here. Afterward, when we were still standing, the panic was palpable, Dain. They put us in locked rooms in the palace while they tried to figure out what to do with us, kept us separated. Questioned some of us, trying to figure out what happened. They made a woman who was pregnant stand up there with us, Dain, and the stress sent her into labor. Her baby was born in a Navarrian interrogation room with a fucking relic on its arm. Next thing I know, Xaden, who is still a fucking child himself, has signed an addendum to the Treaty of Aretia declaring that this was all done on purpose and, to demonstrate the king’s mercy, we’ll all be conscripted into the Riders Quadrant so that we can prove our loyalty through service or death. And the ink on that page wasn’t even dry before they stripped him, all of us, of our titles and redistributed our assets.”

I turn away, unable to look at her. “You should hate me.” 

“Why?” She puts her hand on my shoulder as if to comfort me, when I should be the one comforting her. I can’t bring myself to do it, because I hardly feel I have the right. “You didn’t do this to me.”

I speak my greatest fear aloud. “What if I would have, if I’d been there?”

“You wouldn’t,” she assures me. 

“This is why you terrify me,” I say quietly, removing her hand from my shoulder. 

“What’d you mean?” 

What I mean is that she seems to see something in me no one else does, not even myself; sees a side of me that I want, so desperately, to believe is real. Instead, I murmur, “You tell me things that make so much sense, but they make the rest of the world make less and less sense.” 

She watches me in turn with those breathtakingly blue eyes, assessing me in a way that feels threatening, but not malicious. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Conversations with you feel like… ultimatums.” I shake my head nervously, vacuously. “I feel inexplicably compelled to tell you things about my life; I don’t tell anyone things about my life, but I tell you, and when I do, you very casually suggest I should shift the entire fucking paradigm in a way that should have been immediately obvious to me but wasn’t.” I turn to her, pained. “You make me feel dumb. You make me feel like my entire life has been a waste, because I’ve been chasing all the wrong things, all the worst things.”

She shrugs. “So start chasing the right ones.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I think you learned all the wrong information, but there’s nothing stopping you from learning the right stuff. You want to learn the right stuff.” She squeezes my arm gently. “You asked me to tell you this.” 

“What is the right stuff, Sloane?” I rub my hand over my face. “What am I missing? It’s abundantly fucking obvious that there’s something, but I’ve spent hours trying to figure it out and can’t. So I would love for you to put me out of my misery and tell me now, because it’s killing me. Why has the commanding general of the Navarrian military been keeping tabs on you? Why were your parents willing to put their entire province at risk for a secession that was doomed from the start?” 

She says nothing, doesn’t even move.

She stares at me. 

“Do you know anything about Athebyne?”

“Yes.” She takes a deep breath, fidgeting again. “It’s a trading post between—”

“You know what I’m asking.”

Regret tempers her voice. “If I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it.”

“You don’t trust me?” I growl, offended.

Sloane hesitates, lips parting as if to speak. Behind her eyes, I see a war. She clamps her mouth shut again, turning away, fingers pressed to her lips. Mine tingle with the nearly irrepressible need to put them to her head and take, which I manage to suppress by curling and uncurling them. When she turns back to me, I almost wonder, judging by the look of disappointment on her face, if she can see that need shining in my eyes. “These secrets don’t just belong to me, Dain.” 

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“You can’t promise me that.” The weight of history hangs between us. “More importantly, if I tell you, then I’m a hypocrite,” she whispers, reaching out to touch my balled-up fist. She strokes her fingers against my knuckles until my hands untwine. 

“What?” I snarl.

“If I tell you secrets that aren’t just mine to tell, if I decide to bring you into something you don’t belong in yet because I think I have the unilateral right to do that, then I’m no better than Xaden.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod impatiently as if I do. It feels only natural that Riorson is, once again, standing in between me and something I want. “I’d be putting lives at stake for no good reason, including yours,” she insists as I make a sound in protest, “and it would be wrong.”

After half a stick of churam and more wine than I could accurately calculate, Cath feels about as distant as he could possibly be, even if he weren’t decidedly blocking me out. Still, I wait until I’ve grounded myself inside a memory of Violet’s father chasing us through a field of rushes and carefully reinforced my shields, then put to her the question that it’s burning through me along with a healthy dose of dread. 

“What are you wrapped up in, Sloane?”

“Nothing.” She glares heatlessly, looking more annoyed than angered. “Nothing that I chose for myself, anyway. Not yet.”

“I told you to put all of this out of your mind, so that—” 

“Well, I can’t do that,” she bites out. “My existence is inherently, innately political, whether I like it or not. I can’t just pretend that away, and the fact that you think I could is—” 

“Is it seditious?”

She licks her lips and doesn’t answer.

“Is it treasonous?”

She clenches her jaw. 

Tentatively, I ask, “Will people get hurt?”

She rolls her eyes, irritated. “People are already being hurt, Dain. In Poromiel, they’re dying in droves because Navarre won’t—”

She stops herself.

“Why should we get involved in their civil war?”

Sloane makes a noise low in her throat, then climbs to her feet, lurching away across the grass. I move to follow her, but then she pivots nimbly on one heel, pacing back and forth only a few feet away from me, gesticulating wildly. 

“You got up after I walked the parapet and made a grand, dogmatic speech about our lives being the cost of freedom and what an honor it is to defend the innocent.” Her eyes narrow as she rounds on me. “Is it less honorable if those innocents are outside the wards? Is there really an arbitrary line we can draw across a map to say that anyone on this side of it or that side of it doesn’t deserve our protection?” She arches one brow expectantly. “Or is a human life a human life, no matter where that human lives?”

I don’t have an answer for that, because, I am disgusted to realize, I have never asked myself that very fucking simple question before. I make a supplicating gesture, something apologetic, and she softens slightly. “I need to know that you’re not in danger, if nothing else,” I plead. 

“Well, then I have bad news for you,” she says calmly, only slightly patronizing. “There will never be a time, for the rest of my life, when I’m not in danger, Dain. There won’t be a time when you’re not in danger, either, because we’re riders, whether by royal decree or choice or because our dad fucking said so. You don’t see me being an asshole about it, though.”

“How am I an asshole?”

She raises both brows, then points at the sky; I follow the gesture, noticing with a start that there’s a gargantuan shadow circling over us. Previously, I couldn’t hear its slow, steady wingbeats over the sounds of the celebration, but now that I know it’s there, I can hear the swoop of them. 

Cath. 

Sloane comes towards me and kneels on the cloak at my side, taking my hands in hers. She looks at her fingers enveloping mine as she says, “I’m not a bad person, Dain. You know that, right?”

“I don’t understand what you’re embroiled in,” I reply, dodging the question. 

Sloane smirks like she can read my thoughts as easily as Cath can, like I’ve said exactly what she was expecting me to say. I can’t decide if it’s a pleasure to be known so well or agony to be so predictable. “You don’t need to. You just need to know that I’m not a bad person. Or, I don’t want to be a bad person, at least; I want to do good. You do believe that, don’t you?” 

“I do,” I answer. Her thumb skims over mine in time with her heartbeat, fast. “I know that you’re a good person, Sloane, which is what makes all of this so fucked. If you’re a good person and we’re standing on opposite sides of this, then what does that make me?”

“We’re not on opposite sides.” She smiles weakly, ducking her head to catch my eyes. “I’m on one side, and you’re still in the middle. One day, when you’ve figured everything out for yourself, I know you’ll walk over to the same side that I’m on. And if you don’t, then…” She grits her teeth as she seems to reconcile herself to something. “I’ll pull you over the line if you’re taking too long.” 

My voice is a rasp. “When?”

She contemplates an appropriate timeline. “If you don’t figure it out by the time I graduate, the first thing I’m going to do when I leave this fucking hellscape is fly straight to wherever they’ve posted you and tell you everything in excruciating detail,” she promises.

“I really wouldn’t advise deserting, Sloane.”

Sloane snorts. “I have no intentions of following any order issued by the Navarrian military. They can post me wherever they want, but it’ll be a wasted fucking effort. If they don’t like it, I invite them to come try expropriating my dragon.” She gives me a bloodthirsty smile. “See where that gets them.” 

“I don’t like you joking about this.”

She seizes my arm and puts it around her shoulders, curling clumsily into my side. “What makes you think I’m joking?”

“Sloane, they’ll kill you.”

In answer, she merely shrugs.

“Does this mean we’re friends? You said we weren’t friends when we’d had five conversations, but now we’ve had twelve conversations and you’re talking about bringing me into whatever acts of insurgency you’ve gotten entangled in.”

Sloane rubs her chin against my hand, looking up as a second black shadow joins Cath above us—Thoirt, I assume. “Is that number accurate? Twelve?”

“I could count them out for you, but I’d rather hold on to the last shred of my dignity.”

“We can’t be friends,” she resolves, although she offers no reasoning for her determination. I could probably guess. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Still enemies, then?” I prompt.

Sloane looks at me for several moments, then presses her finger to the tip of my nose. “You’re Dain,” she says simply. “I’m Sloane. I think that about sums it up.”

“We’re not anything?”

“We just are, and I guess that has to be enough for now.” She sighs remorsefully, leaning into the crook of my shoulder. It’s a balm for my soul after the rocky start to the evening, culminating in a conversation that’s made me feel like the biggest fucking idiot in all two kingdoms. “If you weren’t still in love with Sorrengail, I would have kissed you by now, by the way. The rest of your reasons were inconsequential at best or basically nonsensical at worst, but I’ll fucking die before I let myself play second fiddle to her.”

I blink at her, then feel an indolent smile creeping across my face. “Sloane, are you jealous?” 

“No.”

“You are,” I insist. 

“I’m not,” she barks, trying to pull away. 

I tighten my grip on her. “You don’t have anything to be jealous of.”

“Well, you didn’t have anything to be jealous of with Bodhi, but as we’ve determined, jealousy isn’t always logical or well-founded.” She squirms; I tug her closer, unable to resist ghosting a kiss into her hair as she tips her head back to look at the two dragons spiraling above. “I get why you would still—”

“I don’t—”

“She’s smart and pretty, and—”

“Sloane, you’re smart and pretty.” I can’t help but laugh at the simplicity of the statement. “You’re the most beautiful, quick-witted person I’ve ever met in my life. There should be temples erected across the Continent where I could leave offerings at the base of a fourteen-foot marble statue of you, places where your disgustingly symmetrical face and painfully accurate witticisms are immortalized in stone and worshipped.”

Sloane turns to me, derisive and pink-cheeked. “Oh, fuck off.” 

“What?”

“It’s ironic that you think I make you feel stupid.”

“Do I make you feel stupid?”

“In this singular context, you do.” 

“Why?”

“You brought me up here,” she says, gesturing angrily at the valley unfurling below us. “You carried me on your back for, like, half a-mile so that my feet wouldn’t hurt. You brought wine and churam and food, which means you were planning on doing this at least since dinner. You gave me a fucking massage. You asked to know all my secrets, all my history. You just gave me the single best compliment of my life like it’s nothing. What am I not getting, Dain, that—”

She stops talking abruptly, making a frustrated sound low in her throat as she grabs my face and tugs it towards hers. 

Her eyes flutter closed as she presses her lips to mine. Even in spite of the fervor and passion that’s practically seeping from her pores and perfuming the air around us, it’s as innocent and chaste as it was in my room, just her gently pursed lips against my gently pursed lips. It’s nothing like I thought her kisses would be, although I can’t remember when, exactly, I thought about it. And just like the first time, it’s over as quickly as it started, before I can even figure out a place to put my hands that isn’t her face. 

I lean over and catch her mouth with mine as she begins to pull away. It’s just as quick, as innocent. After, I rest my forehead against hers, and we breathe each other’s air for one perfect moment of stasis. 

She rubs the tip of her nose against mine, blushing. 

I want to pull her into my lap, cup her face and kiss her in a way that is very unlike the modest kisses we have just traded—filthy, carnal kisses, the type that lead to disaster. I want to kiss her until all of the reasons this doesn’t work are irrelevant. 

“That cannot happen again,” I mutter against the skin of her shoulder.

“Is that an order?” 

I indulge myself by brushing wayward strands of her hair behind her ear.

-----

We spend the rest of our time on the flight field lying on our backs with our feet dangling over the side of the Gauntlet, looking at the stars and drinking what’s left of the wine. I’ve just finished pointing out various constellations that were used to navigate the seas prior to the invention of the compass when Sloane rolls onto her side, grinning at me. “Are pirates your thing?” she asks. 

I reach over and pluck a blade of grass out of her hair. “I find pirates interesting, but I wouldn’t say that they’re my thing.”

“What do you like about them?”

I cross my arms, looking up at the sky. “I like that they’re always looking for something.”

“Treasure, you mean?”

“Adventure, I guess.”

“So they appeal to your philosophical nature.” She hums, rolling onto her back again. “‘No matter how much distance you cover, the horizon never comes closer. There’s always something new to discover, if not about the world, then about yourself.’”

I recognize the quote, but I can’t immediately recall where I recognize it from. “Now you’re getting it,” I murmur. 

Cath completes one last circuit of the sky above, then banks right, flying towards the Vale. Thoirt lingers a moment longer before following him, swooping so low that air gusts over us, ruffling the tendrils of Sloane’s hair. Below, in the courtyard, someone screams.

Sloane flinches, but quickly settles. 

“Was Threshing everything you thought it would be?”

“More walking than I envisioned,” she says, a tired smile audible in her voice. “Honestly, I don’t think I went into it with too many preconceived notions, unlike some.” That last bit feels scathing, needle-like, but not aimed at me. I assume she says it for Thoirt’s benefit. “Aren’t you going to ask me what my thing is?”

I let my head loll to the side. The grass itches my neck and the back of my arms, but Sloane seems so content as she is, curled up on my cloak, that I’d rather hack off one of my own limbs with a blunt sword than suggest that we move a single inch. “I already know what your thing is.”

“Oh?”

“Your thing is being a pain in my ass.”

Her laughter rings out across the valley, but I can’t bring myself to shush her.

-----

The Threshing celebration is drawing to a close by the time we finish the wine and snacks. When we stand to leave, I offer to take the long way down instead of returning through the tunnel. “I could carry you down the stairs,” I suggest as she shakes the grass off of my cloak, then folds it and hands it to me.  

Sloane very briefly considers it as I drape the satchel over her shoulder, then shakes her head, chuckling. “Imagine if we came this far just to die because you were trying to piggyback me down the stairs from the flight field after too much wine and churam. I’d die of shame.”

“You’d already be dead.”

“I’d come back to life just to die a second time.” She sighs before squaring her shoulders, doing her best to look plucky and tenacious. Her hands shake. “I think I’ll do better in the tunnel now that I know it’s coming.”

“Would it help if I let you pick what color mage light I make this time?”

She hums thoughtfully as she places her hands on my shoulders and uses them for leverage, jumping gracefully onto my back. So far, we’ve refrained from exchanging any more kisses, despite the many charged silences that have hung in the air between us, but as I begin to walk us back towards the passageway, she lavishes exaggerated smooches against my neck and cheeks, snickering as my steps falter. “You’re so gallant,” she says, mocking me. “Can it be pink?”

“It can be any shade of pink you like.”

She gasps dramatically. “You’re that good at making mage lights?”

“Laugh all you want, but it’s harder than it seems.”

She wraps her arms tighter around my neck, nuzzling into me. For a moment, it’s so easy to pretend that I can’t see the arbitrary line that the gods have drawn across the map with each of us on either side of it. Her breathing is steady and even. Her scent surrounds me. Her weight is comforting. I know I could turn my head and pucker my lips, and she would kiss them.

I know I could fall in love with her, but I don’t know if she could love me back. There are too many secrets, too many unknowns, too many contingencies I cannot possibly account for. 

For a time, though, I can pretend that there’s just us: Dain and Sloane, trekking across the flight field and through the passage, trading easy banter. 

That has to be enough for now.

By the time we emerge into the academic wing, I’m so tired and tipsy that I momentarily forget which direction we’re supposed to be headed in and start walking towards the Third Year dorms. Sloane slides from my back, takes my hand in hers and leads me through the halls, quietly laughing in her promissory way at whatever dumbstruck look is stamped across my face. When we reach her room, she pulls the door open—I realise we left it unlocked as she does, although I guess there’s no sense in locking it—then turns to lean against it, looking at me for the briefest of seconds, a luminous smile on her face. “My shoulder feels a lot better, wingleader.” 

I choose not to think about how much I enjoy the way she just purred the word ‘wingleader’, because I do not like what it says about me as a person. “I’m glad.”

We exchange three more heartbeats’ worth of eye contact before she slams the door in my face.

My feet feel like lead as I haul myself down the corridor and up the stairs.

As I settle onto my bed, still fully clothed and covered in grass, exhausted and emotionally spent, I think to myself that tonight has been quite possibly the strangest night of my life. My natural inclination is to vivisect it, relive it over and over again so that I can overanalyze every second, but I can barely keep my eyes open.

Slowly, I lower my shields. 

“Cath?”

“Wingleader.” He answers almost immediately, impatiently, like he wasn’t the one who blocked me out first. 

“I just had a weird conversation with Sloane,” I relate, yawning. “She said some stuff about the rebellion and Poromiel that I’d never really thought of before, and now I’m wondering why I never thought of it. She said—”

Cath speaks, his voice more than slightly guarded. “You do not need to repeat it. It was already related to me.”

“By Thoirt?”

He doesn’t respond. 

It’s weird, sometimes, thinking that our dragons know everything about us but could easily live whole, separate lives their riders know nothing about. They have their own leadership, their own politics, which we remain ignorant of unless they choose to share (which they rarely do). 

Dragons and riders exist in a state of symbiosis, but of what kind? Is it mutualism or commensalism? 

Briefly, I feel a tug of unease.  

Could it even be parasitism?

The thought flits through my mind, hazy and irresolute, too uncomfortable to settle on, and instead I soon find myself wondering if my children will ever ride on Cath’s back; if Cath will ever have a mate and children, if I will get to meet them one day. I read once, after Violet bonded Tairn, that riders of mated pairs can communicate telepathically through their dragons’ bond. Will I share that invisible link with someone, someday? What if Cath and Thoirt bonded? What if Sloane and I shared that bond, and then—

“I can assure you that will not happen,” Cath interrupts. 

Shit. 

I forgot he was listening. 

My eyelids are heavy. I think to myself that I should get up and at least take my boots off, then think to myself that I can’t be fucked. There’s a distant thought that’s been nettling me for a while now, maybe longer than I could put words to it. It’s a gruesome, lamentable thought, and touching it feels as wrong as touching the horizon would. “Cath, if I were on the wrong side, you would have told me, right?”

He makes a deep, reverberative noise. Dissatisfied. Offended, maybe, that I would ask him this. Which is understandable, really, because it’s a ludicrous question. 

Of course he would have told me, I think.

I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep while I’m still waiting for his answer. 

 

Notes:

This chapter and the prologue would not be what they are (or have been posted in this decade, probably) without the wonderful Rachel. This entire story, in fact, would not be what it is without Rachel, who is the kind of reader every writer longs for and deserves but not all are lucky enough to find. 💗

Chapter 14: Insurrection

Notes:

note: This chapter contains significant spoilers for Onyx Storm, which will continue to be present from this point forward.

 

I once told you that daughters as patient, kind and tender-hearted as you deserve mothers who would live for nothing but them. In return, you told me you didn’t need or want a different mother. 

How great and complicated the world is, darling girl. How I wish I could have explained then, or explain now, that I am only absent because of my love for you, that nothing else could have ever induced me to leave you. And yet, you have never resented me and have always seemed to understand, and perhaps that’s testament to your father’s hand in shaping you or perhaps it’s simply not in your nature to hold a grudge, but how grateful I am for it. 

If I return, then, gods willing, you will never need to know the calamity of war. If I return, I will be the mother you have always deserved, because I will know that—having helped to shape a world that I cannot say for certain will be just or good, but one, at least, where I can believe you will be always safe—I am deserving of having a hand in shaping you. And if I don’t return, then try very hard to understand just as you always have, darling girl. 

If I don’t return, then I ask too much of you and more than I deserve, but I beg, please do not resent me. 

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF COLONEL CONSTANTA FABRREN TO DASHA FABRREN

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early October

 

I’m still wiping sleep from my eyes as I stumble into the hallway in the early hours of the morning after Threshing. 

The flagstone floor is cold beneath my feet; I’m silently cursing the fact that I have to trudge barefoot to the armory (no doubt, to receive an inquisition from the Continent’s stingiest quartermaster when I ask for a new pair of boots in addition to my flight leathers), when I trip over something placed in front of the door.

I discover, as I lower my hands and blink the hallway into view, that what I’ve tripped over is a pair of boots polished to a high shine, origins unknown but not hard to guess at: first, because the pattern of the lacing is instantly recognizable in a way that causes my heart to clench painfully in my chest; second, because there’s a small pink wildflower tucked into one of the eyelets, the kind that grows on the unrulier edges of the flight field near where Dain and I sat last night. 

I stare at them with a sickly feeling in my stomach which I suspect has little to do with the hangover I’m nursing. 

They’re just boots, I tell myself, staring at them like they’re a death threat hewn into the stones they rest on, something violent written in blood. My pulse races. My head throbs. These two physiological symptoms could have something to do with the fact that I’m feeling the aftereffects of imbibing half a bottle (and, if I were being truly honest, perhaps a little more than half a bottle) of King Tauri’s profanely bad Reunification Day wine, but, like I said, I suspect they don’t. 

I suspect they have everything to do with the fact that Dain told me he would probably fall in love with me if I kissed him, and then I—swept up in the moment like an absolute idiot—kissed him right on his fucking perfect mouth, anyway.

In light of that, these boots feel like… 

Well, they feel like…

Now that I’m no longer distracted by the pretty twinkling lights, or churam or wine, or the mind-shattering delirium his physical presence seems to inspire in me, I have to wonder what the fuck I was thinking. 

Except, that’s the problem. 

Like always, I wasn’t thinking; I was being.

Suspended in a perfect moment robbed utterly of context, I somehow managed to convince myself that he was just Dain and I was just Sloane. In that perfect moment, we were orphaned from our families and our histories. In that perfect moment, we existed on a plane where we were just two bodies and two minds, bodies and minds that seemed like they could fit together like pieces of a puzzle. 

And in that perfect moment, I wanted…

Well, I wanted to tell him things that I should not have wanted to tell him, and I very nearly did. As it stands, I told him a lot more than I should have. 

Pick them up. I blink at the boots Dain left for me, suppressing the sudden urge to vomit. It feels like there’s sour wine churning in my stomach, but logically, I know there’s probably not. What’s churning away inside of me is something else entirely. Bring them inside soon, now, before someone sees them and starts asking questions you cannot answer.

Gingerly, I wrap my hands around the laces, kicking the door shut as I bring the boots into the room.

I set them carefully on the desk, where the well-oiled leather gleams like polished onyx in the low, blue mage light that always flickers on around the college in the early hours. Still staring at them, I pace back and forth, contemplating the five reasons why I should not have kissed Dain and the one totally inadequate reason why I did: 

I really, really wanted to. 

It seemed like a good enough reason at the time. 

Gods help me, but it still seems like a good reason to kiss him. 

In Tirvainne, they have a saying: He who sows maorsite upon his field will harvest nothing but misery. 

It’s hard, in this moment, not to feel like I’ve sewn maorsite on my field, watered it with shitty wine and lobbed a lit stick of churam right into the heart of it. And any second now, that sodden, highly combustible field will surely explode, and I will be left to reap my pile of flaming regrets. What that will look like, I can only guess.

In the meantime, though…

“They’re just boots,” Thoirt reminds me, startling me. I can hear her eating, teeth tearing through something that is, at once, both wet and bony. The combination of squelching and crunching makes my already delicate stomach clench painfully. I feel a bloom of something over the bond that stretches between us as she swallows thickly, then adds, “Do you know you dreamed of him, little warrior?”

I groan. “You see my dreams, too?”

“If I choose to.”

“Well, that’s… invasive.” I look askance at the mirror, wondering if Thoirt can somehow see my facial expression. Can dragons see what we see, or is it just their access to our thoughts and emotions that makes them nearly omnipotent? “Mildly horrifying, in fact. Weird, too. Why would you choose to watch my dreams, anyway?” 

Thoirt chews contemplatively. I, meanwhile, am feeling an abrupt and growing sense of mortification that my dragon watched… well, that. Whatever it was, exactly, that I dreamed last night after I settled into my bed, lips still buzzing with the sting of two very innocent kisses and body still humming everywhere his firm, calloused hands touched me. Whatever it was that I dreamt, which I can barely remember and simply will not revisit. 

Whatever it was that I dreamt, which Thoirt saw. 

Oh, gods, I can’t believe my dragon watched—

“I was curious about my new rider,” she finally answers, sounding not at all penitent. “What could reveal more about a person than their most subconscious, unguarded thoughts?”

“Right.” I turn away from the mirror and the boots, hugging myself. “In future, could we establish a hard boundary that you, like, don’t watch my dreams?”

Thoirt sighs like I’m being completely unreasonable. 

----- 

When I arrive at the dining hall several hours later, I do so having reached a truly indecorous level of productivity in the intervening hours. If idle hands lead to faithless thoughts (or memories of dreams that should certainly not have been witnessed), then I’m determined to keep myself so fucking busy that I have no time or energy to think. This morning, for example, I unlaced my new boots, then re-laced them, then re-laced them again in a diamond pattern that’s vaguely reminiscent of a Tyrrish knot; went to the armory with Avalynn and Visia to collect our flight leathers and, more importantly, Iron Squad patches, then sewed them into all three flight jackets; rewrote most of my Dragonkind essay after probing Thoirt with questions which she mostly declined to answer or responded to in with vagaries, then spent way too long trying to figure out how much of her lineage should be included when citing her in-text; then finished reading three of Liam’s letters and started a fourth. 

I even practiced shielding (extensively, but with little to no success).

That last one, unfortunately, had the opposite of the intended effect, because it kept leading me back to memories of last night and thoughts of Dain. 

Aaric is already sitting at the table when we arrive, dressed in his new flight leathers. I can only presume that he’s sewn the Iron Squad patch onto the breast of the jacket himself; I grin as I point at it. “I’m deeply gratified to discover I’m good at something you suck at.” 

He smirks as he glances down at it. “Is it really that bad?”

“Abysmal.”

He opens his mouth to answer, but then—

“So, did you and Baylor fuck last night?” Visia asks, contemplating the measly selection of fruit on her plate with tired eyes. Beneath her freckles, her pallor is faintly green, which contrasts strikingly with her red-rimmed eyes and stark pink burn scar. She is somehow more beautiful when hungover, which is fundamentally unfair. If I didn’t love her so much, I would hate her.

Conversely, the three seconds I spent examining myself in the mirror this morning confirmed that I look like something Thoirt chewed up and spat out; I’ve been avoiding reflective surfaces ever since.

“We did everything but fuck,” Avalynn says with a remorseful sigh. She, like me, looks worse for wear: droopy lids, mussed hair, pale complexion. I’m thrilled to find she’s declined food in favor of a steaming bowl of coffee, which she’s nursing like it’s the most precious thing in the world. 

I have enough on my plate today (figuratively speaking) without a repeat of Parapet, when she retched all over Aaric’s shoes.

“Oh, gods.” Aaric gently closes his jaw, then lowers his mug of coffee to the table so that he can bury his head in his hands, flight leathers creaking like a rusty door. I snort, helping myself to the crispiest bits of bacon from his plate. Under his breath, I hear him muttering Amari’s Prayer, a plea for the patience and forbearance to withstand any trial.

Visia grunts, either ignorant to his agony or uncaring. “So, what’s the verdict, then? Does size matter?”

“Oh, it matters.” Avalynn pauses to sip her coffee, smirking evilly. She locks eyes with me over Aaric’s head and takes another measured sip before asking, “Hey, Sloane, can I double-check what the word ‘commensurate’ means? You see, what I’m trying to say is that Baylor has—”

“I’m disgustingly hungover.” Aaric props his head up on one palm as he interrupts her. “So I’m about to cut you the deal of a lifetime, Avalynn: I will give you a truly insupportable sum of money if you don’t finish that sentence.”

Visia rolls her eyes, bruising a sliver of peach as she stabs at it with hands that are visibly shaky. “Don’t you guys all shower together?” She gestures incoherently with her fork, wearing a smirk that puts Avalynn’s to shame. “You’re probably more familiar with Baylor’s dick than Avalynn is.”

Avalynn snorts. “Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

Aaric glares at her in answer. 

“You can be a real princess sometimes, Greycastle.” I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. The back of my head tingles, and out of a dim sense of self-preservation that was apparently nowhere to be found last night, I choose to assume that it’s simply Sorrengail, haunting me in her usual fashion. 

Visia chews, then swallows. “How large is it, exactly?” she innocently inquires. When Aaric makes a face, she grins triumphantly. “I’m referring to this sum, of course.”

“It sounds like it’s a very big sum,” I add. 

Avalynn waggles her eyebrows, but doesn’t answer. 

“Well, don’t you all look cute.” Imogen descends upon us, leaning over my shoulder to pick what’s left of Aaric’s bacon from his plate. She washes it down with what’s left of my coffee, which she swallows in a single gulp. 

I make no effort to bat her away because, as my father once told me, you can deter neither a storm nor a Cardulo. 

Quinn stands to one side, curls slightly matted, fist pressed to her mouth as she yawns. She eyes Avalynn’s bowl of coffee enviously, then glances around the table with a supercilious look on her face. “It’s so sweet seeing First Years in their flight leathers for the first time. You all look so… optimistic.” She hesitates, then smiles as she pats the shoulder of Avalynn’s jacket and adds, “Stiff, too.” 

Briefly, I wonder if this is some bit that jaded Third Years do to remind us that they’re better than us, that they’ve been here longer, that they’ve seen it all. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. 

Of course, it could be that Imogen and Quinn are fucking obnoxious. Which, honestly, is equally plausible.

Imogen nods her head at Avalynn, which may be the first time she’s deigned to acknowledge her existence. “I didn’t know they made child-sized flight leathers, Campos.”   

Avalynn bristles, but only slightly. “They make them Sorrengail-sized, and I have at least half an-inch on her.”

Quinn squints. “You do?”

Avalynn gestures vaguely at her mop of red hair. “It’s the braid,” she explains. “It gives her an extra inch or two. I think the sole on her boots is thicker than standard issue as well.” She sighs. “I wonder where she got them? When I asked the quartermaster if he would order me thicker-soled boots, he laughed in my face.”

“Speaking of boots,” Imogen purrs, kicking the leg of my chair gently, “how was your barefoot jaunt across the college?”

I blink at her. 

Imogen surveys the contents of my plate, which comprises mostly of fruit, with an offended expression. Resentfully, she takes a handful of berries, funnels them into her mouth and chews them. Once she’s swallowed, she gives me a slow, mercenary smile, like she can see my heart pounding hard enough to break a rib. “You had to walk down to the armory to get new boots this morning, didn’t you? Barefoot?”

Aaric lifts his head, frowning at me. “You did? What happened to your boots?”

I shrug. “They had a hole in them.”

“You had boots on when we went to go get our flight jackets, though, didn’t you? Didn’t she?” She turns to Avalynn, who shrugs as she lifts her coffee to her mouth. “Did you go to the armory twice this morning?”

I nod, then shake my head noncommittally.

“Looking forward to your first flight lesson this morning?” Quinn asks Avalynn. “You know, I always thought it was such an act of violence that they make you do your first one today, when everyone’s hungover, but I guess the fact that it’s so violent is the lesson. ‘You’ve survived Parapet, Gauntlet and Threshing, but can you survive the consequences of your own actions?’”

I feel my eye spasm, because I’ve been avoiding asking myself that very question all morning. 

Avalynn turns to her, shocked. “We don’t actually have to fly today, do we?”

“We absolutely do,” Visia says, grimacing as, perhaps having noticed Imogen and Quinn staring lustfully at the pastry on her plate, she picks it up, splits it and hands them each half. “We did discuss this last night. Remember how I kept suggesting you should slow down? Or at least acquaint yourself with a glass of something that wasn’t flammable? Remember how you put your whole fucking hand over my mouth, shushed me and said, ‘Visia,’”—her impression of Avalynn is scarily accurate, but somehow more derogatory for that fact—“‘my father always told me that there’s no sense in buying tomorrow’s problems today. And he’s a magistrate, so he knows things.’”

“Now that you mention it, that does ring a bell.”

Imogen stretches lazily while they bicker, then bends over and smacks a loud kiss into my hair. “Meeting is cancelled this weekend,” she whispers against my ear, slipping into heavily accented Tyrrish. 

Well, something that passes for Tyrrish, anyway. 

The thing about Tyrrish is that it’s a beautiful language: uniquely melodic; all soft, smooth trilling and mellifluous vowels. That is, Tyrrish should be a beautiful language. When it’s spoken by someone from the far west of Tyrrendor whose parents never cared to give them lessons in diction, it’s not even remotely close to beautiful. And unfortunately, Imogen hails from Helmfirth, about as far west as you can go in Tyrrendor without plunging head first into the Arctile Ocean, and had a mother who thought proper diction was for people with soft hands and softer spines. 

I can’t help grimacing at the glottal stops and uvular consonants of her regional dialect. Imogen, noticing this, pinches the back of my arm. 

Her barking, hacking Tyrrish has, as it so often does, interrupted the cadence of the other conversations blossoming at the table, drawing attention. My squadmates watch with intrigue as I clear my throat, then reply in Tyrrish that doesn’t sound like I’m speaking around a heaping mouthful of wet oatmeal. 

“If Xaden is so obsessed with Sorrengail that he can’t commit to the fortnightly schedule he set, then maybe you and Bodhi should—”

“Bodhi and I are also indisposed.” She takes a bite of Visia’s pastry, raining flakes down on my shoulder like golden dandruff. I brush it away, annoyed, as other conversations resume. “Feel free to run the meeting yourself if this displeases you so greatly, m’lady, but ask someone to take detailed minutes. I would simply love to hear what advice you would give the other marked ones with your sum total of zero knowledge or expertise about”—she rolls her eyes—“absolutely fucking anything of substance.”

“Don’t be fucking rude.”

“I’m rude?” She scoffs. “Bodhi’s been on my fucking back about this sword business, by the way. That’s rude.”

Still brushing away crumbs, I deftly side-step the topic of sword fighting, because there’s simply no way that I’m going there. “Are you two running some kind of guerrilla gig or something? I thought Bodhi said Xaden wasn’t sending you beyond the wards anymore?”

“He isn’t.”

“What are you doing, then?”

“The only person in this quadrant nosier than you is Dain fucking Aetos, I swear.” Imogen tugs my braid once, twice, as I flush. “Can I count on you to tell the others that the meeting is cancelled?”

“What?” I laugh at her, crossing my arms over my chest. “No. Why would I?”

She gestures compunctiously. “I apologize; I misspoke. What I meant to say was, ‘Sloane, tell the others that the meeting this weekend is cancelled or for the next nine months, I’ll make your life in this quadrant so fucking miserable that you’ll long for the comfort and security of your foster mother’s home.’”

“Why do I have to be the go-between?” 

“You want to be a freedom fighter someday, right? Well, welcome to the mundane reality of insurrection. Successful resistance movements are five percent ideology, twenty percent mobilization and action, and fifty percent bureaucracy. Without the important task I have bestowed upon you, this revolution will fail. Do you want the revolution to fail, Sloane?” She clutches my shoulder like a bird of prey would clutch a mouse in its claws, eyeing me seriously. “Plus, if you prove to me that you can be trusted with this, maybe I’ll stand up for you later, when Xaden finds out you and Bodhi are conspiring against him, you fucking mutineer.” 

“Xaden can kiss my ass,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “What’s the other twenty-five percent of a resistance movement, by the way?”

Imogen pauses, counting. 

“You fucked that up, didn’t you?”

“The other twenty-five percent is luck.” This time, she pulls on my braid so sharply that I let out a wail and slap her hand away. She’s still laughing as she slips back into Navarrian. “C’mon, Quinn. I think I see them putting out more of those pastries.”

Quinn pats Avalynn supportively on the shoulder. Judging by the face Avalynn makes, this does not make her feel supported in the least. “Try not to launch any aerial assaults on the flight field today; we’re scheduled right after you.”

“Here’s hoping our Iron Squad have iron stomachs.”

We all wince as she and Imogen depart, making gagging noises and laughing at our expense. 

“Were you two speaking the same language?” Visia asks, perplexed.

“Imogen would claim we were.”

I wait, eyes skimming the room impatiently as I discern which of the marked ones have managed to emerge from their beds in time for breakfast. There’s a handful of Second Years at a table nearby and a smattering of First Years at the other end of the room. I allow myself to spare a singular glance in the direction of the table where Dain usually sits, only to discover that I’ve been making a concerted effort to look at someone who isn’t even there. 

When an appropriate number of minutes have passed, I stand. 

“You okay?” Visia asks, turning away from her conversation. 

“Yeah, of course.” I gesture inchoately at a nearby table where two First Years with relics are deep in conversation, heads bent close together; then I hold up my relic-marked arm. “I’m, um, going to make the rounds.”

“Off to do some statecraft?” Aaric asks wryly, lounging as he sips his coffee. He studies me, one arm slung across the back of my chair, long legs stretched out straight beneath the table. Solid. Golden. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that he’s a credit to the concept of flight leathers, because he wears them like it’s all he was born to do. Briefly, I find myself imagining a world where the secession succeeded; where the apostasy never happened; where I had come here trained by my mother and grandmother and belonged, too; where Liam, who probably belonged here in ways that I never will, was sent to the Infantry Quadrant instead.

The irony, of course, is that Aaric wasn’t meant to come here, or Liam, but I always was. 

“I cannot speak for anything else, but about one thing, I remain certain,” Thoirt interjects. “No matter what, you would have been mine. In any world, any life, you would always be mine and I would always be yours. The rest is mere detail, completely inconsequential.”

I feel a warm glow at her words, which might be my own feeling, or hers, or both. “Well, that’s a nice thought.”

She grunts. “I will say this, though: that you are a bonded rider, and for that reason, you belong here as much as Molvic’s rider or your brother.” 

“Did you hear that we’re flying today?” I ask her, valiantly ignoring the fact that I can hear her slurping something. “Well, I assume you fly every day, but we will be flying together in flight maneuvers.”

She chuffs excitedly. “I assure you, I have no interest in listening to your conversations. I am glad, however.”

“You’ll watch my dreams, but you won’t listen to me and my friends talk?” 

Thoirt doesn’t dignify this with an answer. She does, however, allow me to listen to her slurping and chewing for another full minute before putting up her shields.  

“I don’t have a state to craft for,” I say aloud to Aaric after a too-long pause, ruffling my hand through his hair absentmindedly. He smiles at me fondly. “Like you, Aaric, I am a mere commoner, untitled and insignificant.” 

Aaric rolls his eyes at me, tucking his tongue into his cheek. I smile at him, but then, for reasons unknown, my eyes flick towards the tall double doors. I watch Dain enter and glance at me for the briefest of moments; then I watch his eyes fall to the hand still resting on Aaric’s head and the arm Aaric has draped around the back of my chair. 

“Ow.” 

Aaric gently dislodges my hands from his hair just as I realize that I’ve been tugging at it a little too hard. As he follows my eyes to the back of the queue of people waiting for breakfast, where Dain is having a quiet conversation with the startled-looking, marked Second Year who’s standing in front of him, he frowns.

-----

Lynx and Baylor remain absent through breakfast, but make it to formation with twenty-nine seconds to spare. They race through the courtyard in disarray; neither of them are dressed in flight leathers (or fully dressed, for that matter, given that Baylor is actively buttoning up his pants as he lopes towards us and Lynx is still shoving one arm through the sleeve of his tunic). 

I believe Lynx, who moves with none of his usual grace, may still be slightly drunk. His bottle green eyes are glassy, unfocused. 

Baylor, on the other hand, is smiling beatifically at Avalynn.

Visia leans towards me and whispers, “Those two are going to be intolerable, aren’t they?”

She’s smiling as she says it.

Our squad applauds as Lynx and Baylor take their places at the end of the line, netting a glare from Aura Beinhaven; Avalynn, indignant in a way that only Beinhaven can inspire in her, uses the cover of Sawyer’s back to give her the finger. 

“Careful, cadet.”

Avalynn’s eyes widen as Dain saunters past, and I have no doubt there are visions of a dismal future flashing before her eyes: Archives duty, kitchen duty, armory duty (the worst). She begins to sputter out an excuse. “Oh, I wasn’t—”

Dain smirks, interrupting her. “You were.”

“Okay. I’m big enough to admit that I was.” Avalynn nods meekly, groaning. “For what it’s worth, Aetos, I’ll do Archives duty, but I’m not doing armory duty.” Dain glances towards the doors of the rotunda as Captain Fitzgibbons strolls through them, Jesinia trailing behind him. “If I have to spend another second of my life arranging swords by pommel circumference, I swear to all the gods and their bastard children, I’ll—”

Dain assesses her in a glance, warm brown eyes flickering over her with measured patience and only a touch of his usual derision. He hums, then turns to walk away, one hand in his pocket. Before he’s gone, those warm brown eyes flick to me, quick as lightning. 

Behind them, there’s about a thousand questions, none of which I’m ready to answer.

I glance away just as quickly, feeling rosebuds of pressure everywhere he kissed me last night—against my lips, against my shoulder, against the crown of my head—and in a few key places where he did not, but I wish he had.

When Dain is out of hearing range, Visia snorts. “Did you just volunteer to do Archives duty?”

“I’ve recently discovered a love of literature,” Avalynn mutters, turning her head to grin at her. “It would have been a good excuse to ask Jesinia if she has any spare copies of that book Sloane’s reading, or perhaps some recommendations for equally stimulating literature of dubious scientific value.”

“You don’t know sign language.”

Avalynn scoffs. “I’m sure I know enough.” She makes a lewd gesture with her hands that suggests something, but definitely isn’t sign language. I chuckle to myself as Captain Fitzgibbons takes his place on the dais; at the same time, Aaric bats her hand back down to her side, mortified.

“I wonder who pulled the stick from Aetos’ ass?” Visia says, ignoring her. Under her breath, she adds, “I wonder if we can commission them to pull the branch out of Aaric’s?”

Matthias turns around to shush us with an expression on her face which promises unmitigated violence should we not comply with haste; we fall into abrupt silence. I’m not too proud to admit that I spend all of formation staring at Dain, both thrilled and daunted to discover that he spends at least half of it staring back.

-----

That night, I stagger into the sparring gym for my nightly session with Imogen with thighs that feel painfully bruised after an hour of clinging to Thoirt’s saddle, a raging headache and a throbbing shoulder, only to discover Bodhi waiting for me on the mat. 

With a fucking sword in his hand. 

“No,” I bark, shaking my head at him, backing up several steps. “Bodhi, I’m just not—”

Bodhi holds up his hand to silence me. I unleash an exasperated sigh in response, then clamp my mouth shut. “Here’s the thing,” he tells me patiently. “One day, you’re going to come up against someone who’s bigger than you and stronger than you, and odds are pretty fucking good they’re going to be swinging a sword at you. You throw knives like someone who’s blind, dyspraxic and arthritic, which”—I make a sound of protest which he staunchly ignores—“means that currently, you’ll need to get close enough to that person to stab a dagger through their ribcage. That’s assuming you can even get a good angle on them. Now, I can’t calculate statistical odds like you can, but I can calculate them well enough to know that that’s… not likely.”

“They cannot possibly be calculated.” I take a step back, sniffing indignantly. “There are so many variables to account for, Bodhi. Who is this person? Do they have any pre-existing injuries? Is it a Tuesday?” 

Bodhi follows me, giving no quarter. “Look, Sloane. You already discovered your own fallibility the hard way during Threshing, if the report about you and Fabrren is to be believed.” 

I pause. “What report?”

“Cuir’s report,” Bodhi answers dismissively, hand-waving the question away.

“Cuir wasn’t there.”

“Well, someone’s dragon was, and they made a report to the Empyrean which Cuir then reported to me. In part, at least.”

Thoirt snarls. “Some meddling busybody, I imagine.” 

Bodhi twirls his wrist, windmilling the sword he’s holding through the air at his side. “Sloane, I know you’ve never liked swordplay. I know your mother tried to teach you and that it caused a lot of friction between you.” Understatement. My mother’s short-lived attempts at training me in sword fighting, beginning on my sixth birthday, caused an irreparable rift in our relationship when she realized what an eternal disappointment I would be because I couldn’t wield a sword from birth like Liam could, like she had. “Swords give you reach and power, though, Sloane, both of which you desperately need. Fighting in close quarters is too big of a gamble.”

“Since when have you taken issue with gambling?”

He points the tip of the sword at me. “I’d gamble on anything but your life.”

“No,” I say again, crossing my arms. “No,” I repeat immediately, a whole and complete answer, one that will not change anytime soon or, for that matter, ever. I’ve finally started to feel like I could be a decent fighter within these past few weeks; I do not need to ruin that by bringing swords into the equation. “No.”

“Sloane, I—”

“No, Bodhi!”

-----

“You’re holding it like it might bite you,” Aaric laughs, glancing down at the longsword held limply in my hands. He steps forward, gently rearranging my fingers on the thin, churam cord grip that’s been ravaging the skin of my palm for three days now. Quickly, I have settled into a routine: I attend breakfast, where I make a concerted effort not to stare at Dain or wonder if he’s staring at me; followed by formation, where I blatantly stare and revel in the moments where I catch him staring back. I attend classes, do coursework, then spend three hours in the sparring room each night with Bodhi, swinging a sword at whichever hapless idiot volunteers to be my training partner that day.

I have had no shortage of hapless idiots to be my training partners, because, as it turns out, everyone in the fucking quadrant can wield a sword capably except me. 

I glare at Aaric petulantly, flushing. “I’m holding it like it’s got a very sharp blade.”

“Forget about the sharp bit, then.”

“How am I supposed to forget about the fucking sharp bit, Aaric?” I jerk the sword in frustration; Aaric takes a measured step backwards, giving me a stern look. “It constitutes, like, ninety percent of this ridiculously large weapon.” 

“Okay,” Visia says patiently, standing at Aaric’s side. “You’re not holding the sharp bit, though, Sloane.”

“No, I’m not,” I agree, rolling my eyes at her, at them, at the indignity of this entire fucking experience and, while I’m at it, the indignity of my entire fucking life. “I’m just flinging it at my best friends’ faces and hoping for the best.” I sigh. “Shouldn’t we be doing this with practice swords or something?”

“Do you intend to fight an actual battle with a practice sword?” she asks.

“Obviously not, but, to be fair, I don’t intend—”

Visia narrows her eyes, speaking over me. “Well, then you might as well learn how to use the real thing.”

This is not the first time we’ve had this argument—collectively or individually. 

I let my eyes rove around the sparring gym as Aaric continues to make adjustments to my stance and grip. It’s late on Wednesday, and the sparring gym is quiet, occupied almost exclusively by those who are relic-marked. Imogen and Quinn sit on the nearby stands passing a flask back and forth, heckling me every time I flub something (which is often) and occasionally slipping into the courtyard, returning five minutes later with red-rimmed eyes and a soft haze of churam smoke billowing around them. 

Since Bodhi has taken it upon himself to oversee my training with swords, Imogen has taken it upon herself to make the most of both the reprieve and my public humiliation. 

“This is a pointless exercise,” Thoirt fumes, venting her frustration for about the hundredth time. “In time, I will give you vast power, which you will wield with great finesse because you are a Saorla and all Saorlas are excellent wielders. In the meantime, I will set fire to any who approach you in a sufficiently open space. And if there’s not enough room for my flame, then you will simply stab them with one of your many daggers and run to the nearest field, which I will set alight as we depart on wing. There is no need to overcomplicate it. Why are all men so obsessed with their piddling swords, anyway?” 

“I made that argument already,” I think in her direction. “Verbatim, as per your strongly-worded request.” ‘On threat of death or grievous injury’ would be a far more accurate way of wording it, but I wasn’t complaining and she needn’t have bothered. About this, if nothing else, Thoirt and I are of one mind. “You may remember Bodhi pointing out that I could end up with a mindwork signet, for all we know.”

Thoirt seems almost offended by the suggestion. “My rider would never wield a mindwork signet.”

I think of Dain and blush, which is not an unusual occurrence. In fact, it’s been painfully usual over the course of the last three days. “Mindwork signets aren’t that bad, Thoirt.”

“I wish you were using this time to work on your shields instead.”

“Yeah?” I tease. “Well, that makes two of us, because frankly, I’m getting a little sick of spending flight maneuvers listening to you lament how vivid Molvic’s scales are in the sunlight, how acute his turns are, how wonderfully—”

“My shielding is remarkable,” Thoirt retorts. 

She proves this fact by slamming a shimmering red wall down between us, breaking our link. 

Aaric pushes a flop of hair from his eyes as he takes a step back to survey my stance. He makes another series of corrections: kicking my feet slightly wider, twisting my shoulders, straightening my head. “With the greatest of respect, Sloane, it’ll be a cold day in hell before you present any danger to Visia or me with a sword in your hand, intentional or accidental. Or anyone, actually. If we’re not concerned about the sharp bit, you shouldn’t be, either.”

“Hey, Aaric?” I murmur, tipping my head back and smiling at him sweetly.

He smiles back. “Yeah?” 

“Could you kindly go fuck yourself?”

Aaric chuckles to himself, then retreats a few steps, taking the sword Visia holds out to him by the cross guard. She steps backwards, too, but doesn’t quite leave the mat. “Let me see it again,” he insists, demonstrating the series of stances Bodhi has had him drilling into me for the last hour and a-half. I sigh, attempting them, ignoring the chorus of facetious encouragement coming from Imogen and Quinn as they head toward the door. 

“Shoulder again?” Visia asks sympathetically, arms crossed and frowning thoughtfully as she observes my clunky progression through what should be a series of fluid, graceful movements. 

“Yeah.” I glance at Bodhi, who’s distracted by a very pretty Third Year with hair the color of wheat and a tattoo on her shoulder I can’t quite make out from here. I add, making very little attempt at sounding convincing, “I should probably go to the infirmary or something, now that I think about it.”

Aaric wipes his hand across his face. “Sloane, I’m not—”

Visia steps forward and takes the sword from me, giving him an unreadable look. “You know what? I think she’s done for tonight, Aaric.”

His jaw ticks as he looks at her. 

Slowly, Visia leans toward him, murmuring. “Look, I’m not disputing that Sloane needs to learn how to use a sword. I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve been here every night; I’ll keep being here every night. She also needs to rest her shoulder. If she keeps pushing it, she could do herself some serious damage, and if that happens, it might be weeks before she can see a mender, which means that all of this will have been for nothing.”

I nod enthusiastically, then rub my shoulder for emphasis. “I could,” I say, widening my eyes. “I could do myself real damage, Aaric.”

“Half a training session isn’t going to make Sloane a deadly duelist.” Visia holds up her hand before Aaric can provide his rebuttal. “Before you say something trite about the art of discipline or whatever the fuck you’re about to lecture me on, I ask that you don’t. Besides, I need practice, too. If you’re so desperate to hack away at someone, I’ll be your willing student; I wanted to ask you if you could show me that thing you did in today’s demonstration with Emetterio, anyway.” 

I flash a grateful grin at her, slipping away toward the door before Bodhi can notice me. Outside, I can hear Imogen and Quinn giggling somewhere in the distance, but can’t see them. I hurry across the courtyard, glancing over my shoulder as if I’m being chased, and—

I slam into something. 

Long, calloused fingers close gently around my arm, stopping me as I stumble backwards and pulling me into a warm, firm chest that smells of orange oil, almonds and sword polish (mineral and slightly mephitic, strongly herbal).

“Is it later than I think it is?”

“Oh.” I turn, tip my head back and smile up at Dain, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “Um, what?”

Dain blushes, still holding me in place. With his free hand, he gestures somewhat lamely towards the open doors of the sparring gym. Dim white mage light and the clank of Aaric and Visia’s swords finding each other pour through it into the courtyard. “You’re usually practicing right up until curfew, so I thought…”

“Oh.”

“Wingleaders had a meeting,” he explains, as if to answer a question I didn’t ask. 

“Right.” I hesitate, then clarify, “Is that an admission that you’ve been coming to the gym every night so you can watch Bodhi fail miserably at turning me into a swordmaster?”

Dain shrugs. “I enjoy laughing as much as the next person.”

Without ever really discussing it, we both begin walking through the courtyard towards the first defensive turret, towards the First Year dorms and one of the staircases to the dorms on the upper floors. The night is quiet and cool; I’m covered in a thin layer of sweat and find myself shivering. 

Dain glances at me out of the corner of his eye and frowns. “Cold?”

“I’m fine.” I stop in an alcove in the courtyard wall; Dain stops, too. There’s a hard wooden bench to one side, but we remain standing, facing each other. “So, what do you think?”

He squints. “What do I think about what?”

“What do you think about my prospects as a duelist?” 

“There’s still room to grow,” he says diplomatically, then laughs when I gasp in offense and smack his arm with an open hand. He reaches out, catching my wrist with one hand and tucking away strands of hair that have escaped my braid with the other, then considers me for several heartbeats, his fingers still curled around the tip of my ear. “You need refinement. With extensive practice, I think you could show improvement.” 

“It’s truly remarkable how you’ve said so much by saying nothing at all.”

“I’ll give you my comprehensive notes tomorrow.”

I gasp again, feigning excitement. “I get my own essay, Wingleader Aetos?”

“Whole sheaf of parchment, just for you,” he promises. His eyes are soft, affectionate. His thumb gently traces shapes into the indentation behind my ear. Quietly, he says, “We shouldn’t.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “Shouldn’t what?” 

I know exactly what he’s talking about. 

I let my eyes trace the outlines of his face, then watch the faint wind gently tousle his shock of brown curls, mesmerized. Delicately, I test Thoirt’s shields, satisfied to find that they’re still standing, because if she thought my dream on the night of Threshing was scandalous, she’d be horrified by the tenor of my thoughts in this moment, standing across from Dain in the dark with two points of contact between us. 

I would let him do unspeakable things to me if only he’d ask nicely. In fact, he wouldn’t have to ask nicely; I think I’d love it more if he didn’t ask at all. 

In fact, I think as his fingers trail down the side of my neck to trace the line of my collarbone, then gently massage my clavicle, if I had just an ounce less pride than I do, I would probably already be begging. 

The feelings he draws out in me are completely foreign, but as vivid and fierce as anger. I’m overwhelmed by an intense, all-consuming sense of frustration and the desperate need to do something physically exertive—soon, now, immediately.

“What is it with you and leaving me hanging for three days, then showing up and—?” 

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Leaving you hanging?” He rubs his thumb into a section of muscle right below my collarbone, then presses in with firm pressure at just the right spot. I wince, but it feels divine. “Your shoulder still hurts?” 

I nod. “You wouldn’t happen to know any wingleaders who’d be willing to give one of their cadets a very friendly massage, would you?”

Dain pretends to consider it. “‘Friendly massage’, you said?”

“Mm.”

He scratches the nape of his neck. I watch him work through his answer, fascinated. He licks his lips before saying, “I might, but that cadet would have to agree to keep her shirt on this time if she wants it to remain friendly.”

I could ask, And what if she doesn’t?

I don’t.

“In that cadet’s defense, she only took her shirt off to show her wingleader her relic, which he asked to see.” I smirk at him, but it falls quickly. I hear myself ask, “You promise you haven’t been avoiding me or something?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he confirms. 

I breathe deeply, and it feels like I’ve just released a lungful of stale air I didn’t know I was holding onto. “Okay.”

“Why would you think I was avoiding you?”

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip, thinking about a million nonsensical thoughts consecutively: fields bestrewn with maorsite; Tablet strategies and mancala strategies; all the things I wanted to tell Dain on the ridge above the flight field but didn’t and the strange guilt I felt about it at the time, even though they aren’t my secrets to tell; pirates, always chasing a horizon they’ll never meet; five reasons I should not kiss him and one reason I should. 

If I’m already doomed to reap nothing but misery, what’s the harm in enjoying myself between now and then? 

Slowly, I press one hand against Dain’s chest and rise on my toes to peck a kiss against his cheek. I place another slightly closer to his mouth, then another against the corner of his lip. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. His hand curls almost possessively around the base of my neck, but other than that, he doesn’t move an inch. 

I hover, glancing up at him from beneath my lashes—waiting, shivering. 

He shifts his hands to my arms and rubs once, twice. “You’re a remarkably cruel person, Sloane.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun?” I murmur, lips only a bare fraction away from his. 

He groans quietly, resting his forehead against mine. His expression is pained. “It would be phenomenally fun.” His jaw works like he’s clenching his teeth, and I wonder what he’s imagining and how much it has in common with the dreams I’ve been having since Threshing. Or is he thinking about the things I told him on the ridge, the things I didn’t tell him? “It would be so much fun, right up until the moment that you break my heart into a thousand pieces.”

“My shoulder really does hurt.” I press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “If I promise not to kiss you or disclose all the terribly unfriendly thoughts I’ve had about that massage you gave me, can I please have another one?”

Under his breath, he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like spectacularly cruel, looking at me with an awestruck expression. 

“I’m in agony.”

He disengages slowly, like the act of doing it is tortuous: turning his head slightly; lowering his hands; taking one circumspect half-step backwards while avoiding my gaze. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

-----

Once Imogen realizes that she can delegate communication to and coordination of marked ones to me, there’s no going back. 

“I’m just not a ‘people person’, Sloane,” she states as she hands me a list of things she expects me to do after breakfast on Thursday morning. 

“Oh? And you think I am?” I retort, snatching it from her hands and studying it. Predominantly, it’s a list of people who need to be informed of Saturday’s cancelled meeting, but I’m pleased to see that there’s also a check-in with our mole in the forge on there.

Imogen grins. “Well, whether or not you’re a ‘people person’ is irrelevant to me. My only concern is that I am not and that these”—she taps the list illustratively—“are no longer Imogen problems, but Sloane problems.” She claps me on the shoulder, harder than is necessary; I wince. 

I hold the list up. “So, if I do all of this, then—?”

“Burn that when you’re done, I beg,” she says, walking away before I’ve finished speaking.

It takes me a while to track everyone down between classes, coursework and training sessions with Bodhi; I arrive late to Friday’s Battle Brief amid a brood of marked Second Years I stopped in the hall, who were nowhere near as offended as I am to have their Saturday night schedule cleared. (In fact, the words ‘Chantara’, ‘pub’ and ‘absolute fucking blessing’ are thrown around. Enthusiastically.) 

When I enter the room, I see Dain sprawled in the aisle chair of the back row next to Aura Beinhaven, hunched over one of his textbooks and somehow making notes already. 

Looking at him, I realize both that he’s got his pens lined up on one side of the desk next to a fresh notebook, and that he’s the only Third Year who does. I flick my hand out as I walk past and knock one of the pens to the side, smirking over my shoulder as I watch him slide it back into place. 

When it’s rearranged, Dain glances up, scowling, then immediately softens when he sees me. 

My smile doesn’t fall as I shuffle down the aisle, even when I notice Sorrengail slumped over her desk in the seat directly behind mine, looking one stiff wind away from keeling over. She and Matthias are whispering almost conspiratorially about something, heads bent close; I find this slightly weird until I look to the right and see that Ridoc and Sawyer are testing each other’s reflexes by seeing who can slap the other’s hand the fastest. Aaric watches, grinning boyishly; Baylor, meanwhile, is fully turned around in his seat, providing commentary. 

All of this is occurring at a decibel that is strictly unwarranted, which is, I assume, the reason that Sorrengail and Matthias are currently sharing air.  

Sorrengail notices me looking at her and smiles back tentatively; I nod, turning away. 

“Did she—?” I hear Matthias begin to say. 

Sorrengail shushes her. 

“Is it just me,” Avalynn asks, moving her satchel so I can slide into the seat beside her, “or is Aetos looking good lately?”

“Is he?” I say breezily, taking things from my satchel and arranging them on the desk with a consummate lack of precision. I glance over my shoulder at him again and note three things: one, that he’s still watching me; two, that he does, in fact, look good (but that’s hardly surprising considering that I always think he looks good and always have); three, that he’s got his arm draped across the back of Beinhaven’s fucking chair as he talks to a Cianna, Flame Section’s XO, who’s seated on the other side of her. I shrug as I turn back to the front of the classroom. “Yeah, I guess he looks alright.”

“Alright?” Avalynn laughs. “He’s got a face that could make Loial shed a tear.”

“Who does?” Visia asks, dropping into the seat beside me. 

“Aetos.”

Visia turns, openly assessing him; Dain, perhaps noticing that someone is staring at him, turns his head and blinks back at her, one eyebrow slightly arched. “Ew,” she remarks, rolling her eyes as she turns, tugging an ink pot from her satchel. Dain’s eyes flick to mine before he turns back to his conversation, amused. “Are he and Beinhaven fucking or something?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it.

Are they? 

“I need help with my Tactics assignment.” Avalynn kicks her feet up into my lap as I drop my satchel to the floor with a dull thud. 

“How could you possibly need help with that assignment?” Visia snorts.

“Unlike you, I’m not good at this stupid book crap.” Avalynn gestures expansively at the textbooks, parchment and quills stacked on our desks. Hers is bereft of any such detritus. “Don’t be a scabrous bitch, Visia.”

If I wanted to be a scabrous bitch, I could point out that Visia is also doing surprisingly poorly in most of her classes, considering that this is her second time covering the content. As it stands, scabrous bitch is basically my default setting. I open my mouth, then promptly shut it when I remember that she helped me escape last night’s training session.

Could I learn to be a ‘people person’, after all?

“By ‘stupid book crap’,” I clarify, one corner of my lip twitching, “I assume you mean history, physics, military strategy…?”

“Oh, it’s all-encompassing,” Avalynn confirms. “That Tactics assignment is dumb, by the way. Why would I need to come up with strategies to effectively utilize the infantry when they’re perfectly capable of sorting themselves out? And, while we’re at it, if it were up to me, why would I send infantry into a battle against literal fucking dragons?”

I shrug. “Air power means nothing if the enemy holds ground.” I screw the cap off of my ink pot, glancing at her. “Besides, the infantry have contributed a lot to battle, historically. They can penetrate areas our dragons can’t because of their size, for one thing. They’re less likely to leave collateral damage in their wake, which means they’re better suited to operations in cities where citizens haven’t been evacuated.” I’m basically giving her the answers at this point, but judging by the blank look on her face, that isn’t registering. 

“Navarre can afford to lose them by the thousands,” Visia points out, smirking.

I pinch her arm. “Don’t be mercenary.”

“Av, did I just hear you refer to our studies as ‘stupid book crap’?” Aaric queries, turning in his seat. 

“I said what I said.”

“You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Avalynn kind of has a point.” Visia rubs her hand against the burn mark that disappears below the collar of her shirt. “Why do I need to know physics?” Once again, I could point out that Visia has a mediocre understanding of physics at best, but hold my tongue. “It’s not like I’m in control of any aspect of the actual flying Caraich and I will do. You think I’m going to stop him from executing a turn because I have determined, with my human eyesight and inferior mental processing, that there might not be enough space? Or tell him when, how and where he can launch into the godsdamned sky?”

“I’m just so bored,” Avalynn whines. “I wish I could just skip to the part where I’m at an outpost doing real stuff.”

“Of course,” Aaric drawls, eternally patient. “No one was ever bored in an outpost.”

“It’s not all ‘stupid book crap.’” I begin mending one of my quills, then frown at the ink smeared on the webbing between my thumb and index finger. Wordlessly, Aaric pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. “Last month, a guy came back from the dead. That was pretty fucking interesting.”

We turn as one, glancing less than surreptitiously at a row of Second Years on the other side of the room. Jack Barlowe, a Second Year who’s rumored to have attempted my brother’s murder during last year’s War Games (and allegedly got blasted out of the sky by Sorrengail and buried under half a mountain for his efforts), sits in their midst, pale and haunting as a specter. 

“Maybe that guy should have stayed dead.” Avalynn shudders. “He gives off a fucking ominous energy.”

“There was the thing with the Zolya pamphlet, too,” Aaric points out, sitting back in his chair. He’s addressing us all, but for some reason, he’s staring directly at me. I blink back at him, discomfited. 

“Yeah,” Visia says, frowning. “Did we ever circle back to that?”

I make myself busy flipping to a new page of my notebook. “Nope.”

“Weird, right?”

I hum in answer. 

Baylor roars at whatever Sawyer and Ridoc are doing; Avalynn makes a disgusted noise low in her throat, leaning around Aaric to smack the back of his head. He catches her wrist, smiling at her, and kisses her palm; when she falls back into her seat, I hand her the handkerchief and wink. 

She makes a show of wiping Baylor’s kiss away, grinning like an idiot. 

“Hey, how do we think Aetos fucks?” she whispers as Professor Devera strolls into the room and begins arranging her notes for today’s class on the small desk to one side of the map. “I’m usually pretty good at guessing these things, but with him, I just can’t tell.”

My grip on my quill tightens momentarily. 

“Work on your shields or suffer my wrath.”

I flush. “Why aren’t you shielding? I thought you weren’t interested in listening to my conversations with my friends?”

“I listen to Battle Brief each day,” Thoirt brusquely replies. “I wish to remain conversant with the movement of venin across the Continent, and this is marginally more expedient than relying on the network of dragon communication, though it does require some reading between the lines.” She pauses. “You’re thinking of him again. Stop it.” 

“I can’t exactly control my thoughts, Tor. Can I call you Tor, by the way?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you.”

I bite back a snicker. 

“What are you blabbering about now?” Visia is whispering at Avalynn, bemused. 

“It’s, like, my gift.” Avalynn shrugs. “I look at people and have visions of what they’re like in bed.”

“That’s not a gift, Avalynn; that’s perversion.”

Avalynn smirks at her. “Keep going like that, Visia, and I won’t tell you what I think you’d be like in bed.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“What if I tell you what I think Aaric would be like in bed?” Avalynn’s entire demeanor is lovingly vicious, like a small dog that likes to play-fight by gnashing its teeth at a finger until it draws blood. She leans over me so that only Visia and I can hear her. “Would that interest you, Visia?”

Visia rolls her eyes, then snorts, leaning across me to whisper one last thing to Avalynn as Devera begins presenting today’s selection of state-sanctioned lies. “Your gift is absolute bullshit, Avalynn. Spending your time sexually harassing people in your daydreams doesn’t make you special. I will say this, though, and then I never want to talk about it again: I bet Aetos writes report cards for everyone he fucks.”

My cheeks turn red as Avalynn cackles her agreement.

-----

Later that night, Dain stops to talk to Bodhi as he’s headed across the gym towards the punching bag he usually favors. I’m half-listening to them as they discuss something about a training exercise with Claw Section, then perk up when I hear Dain mention my name. 

“You should try her with a shortsword.” I keep my eyes trained on the sharp blade Aaric’s using to hack away at me, but in my peripheral vision, I see Dain gesture loosely in my direction without so much as looking at me. He’s standing with his back towards me, but I can see his face in the mirror behind them—placid, unintelligible. “She’d do better with something one-handed, wouldn’t she?”

“I guess.” Bodhi grunts. “Kind of defeats the purpose, though. The whole point of this is that I want her at a safer distance from whoever she’s fighting.”

“Swords aren’t exactly ranged weapons, Durran.” Dain turns, glancing at me cursorily as if he didn’t spend this morning’s formation more or less fucking me with his eyes. Or maybe I’m projecting. “She’s got about fifty daggers on her,” he points out. “If you want her to be a ranged fighter, why not teach her how to throw them, like Violet? Or get her a bow?”

Bodhi scoffs, crossing his arms, eyes still fixed on me as I muddle inelegantly through stances. “You wouldn’t be asking that if you’d ever seen her try to aim a throwing knife.”

“Why does she need distance, anyway?”

“I’d prefer it if she didn’t have to fight in close quarters,” Bodhi retorts. “Besides, shortswords are for infantry,” he adds, casting a disparaging glance at one of the sheaths on Dain’s back.

Aaric taps me on the thigh with the broad, flat side of his sword, reminding me to pay attention. 

I flush as I turn towards him, smile apologetically and heft my sword higher, restarting the stance I’d just begun. “I thought I heard them talking about me,” I say by way of explanation. 

Aaric looks over at them, then shrugs. “Yeah.”

“She’s a scrapper, though,” Dain replies dismissively, ignoring Bodhi’s dig about shortswords. “She prefers fighting in close quarters, so why not let her?”

“If you think I let her do anything, then—” 

“So, we’re agreed, then?” Dain calls me over without waiting for Bodhi to finish his response, already taking his shortsword from its hilt. 

I make another apologetic face at Aaric, who seems annoyed, then demonstrate remarkable self-restraint by walking towards Dain instead of running. When I’m standing in front of him, I practically throw the longsword I’ve been struggling with at Bodhi’s feet in my haste to get rid of it. 

“Here.” 

I reach out and take the sword Dain is offering, letting my eyes lock with his for only the barest of moments. He winks; I lower my head, praying to Zihnal (but honestly, I welcome a response from whichever god is listening) that I’m not blushing. Once I’m holding it, I draw it closer to examine it, blade flat against one palm and pommel against the other. 

It’s well-loved: patinated by age, but lovingly polished to a mirror shine; leather grip faintly discolored and slightly smoother where his hands have held it, like a map of where he places his fingers around the wrap. 

I twist it in the mage light, admiring how the light refracts across its surface. 

“Try it, then bring it back to me when you’re done,” Dain says over his shoulder, already walking away. His voice is teasing when he adds, “Try not to break it, please. That was a gift from someone who was dear to me, so you’re on Archives duty for a month at minimum if anything should happen to it.”

Imogen sticks her foot out in front of him as he walks past, nearly tripping him.

I glance at Bodhi, then shrug. “Can’t hurt, right?”

Aaric studies me, brows knit, as I return to my spot on the mat, testing the weight and balance of the blade. Carefully, I line my fingers up to the indents left by Dain’s, then twirl it with a flick of my wrist in that windmilling motion I’ve seen Bodhi do. “I like that it’s lighter.”

I like that it’s Dain’s, but I know better than to say that out loud. 

“If I had known—”

“If you had known I would be this pathetic, you wouldn’t have bonded me?” I guess.

Thoirt makes a drumming noise that sound like it’s coming from somewhere in the depths of her chest, which I already recognize as the sound she makes right before she releases puffs of noisome steam to express her displeasure (as opposed to the unscented steam she releases when she’s teasing me). “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What were you going to say, then?”

“If I had known a sword was all it took to curry your favor, I would have spent my time looking for an armory in which to form our bond.” She huffs more steam. “Perhaps if I had, you would have come when called.”

“You might be a bit big for the armory, Tor.”

“Call me that again. See what happens in tomorrow’s flight lesson once you do, my brave little warrior.”

Aaric lifts one brow. “Should we try parrying again?”

By our third practice round, it’s abundantly clear that I’m already better with a shortsword than I was ever going to be with a longsword. When Aaric swings at me after a flurry of punishing blows, I manage to twirl under his blade and get inside his guard. With my spine pressed to his chest, I feign pulling my dagger from my thigh garter and sinking it backwards into his side, something I’ve seen Emetterio do in demonstrations, with a triumphant grin spreading across my face. Breath saws through my chest. “I wonder if Malek just felt the temperature drop?” I drawl, tipping my head back to blink innocently up at him. 

Aaric laughs as he disarms me, then kicks my feet out, sending me to the mat on my knees. “A fight isn’t over ‘til someone goes down, Mairi.”

“You’d already be down if I’d stabbed you in the kidney,” I huff, rolling onto my feet. 

“That might be true,” he retorts, grinning wide, “but that wasn’t my kidney.”

“It wasn’t?”

-----

The days are slipping through my fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass—swift, slick and unrelenting. On Saturday morning, after staying up late the night before to catch up on coursework in the Commons with Aaric, I decide to skip breakfast and sleep in, instead. I come to a little later to Avalynn and Visia squabbling in the hallway, roll my eyes, then roll over before I can wake fully. 

Seconds later, I’m already dozing again when I hear giggling, shushing and what sounds a lot like my door creaking open, precipitously followed by—

Oh, gods.

By the time I’m facing the door again, it’s flung wide open. Meanwhile, Avalynn and Visia have been flung across the hallway like Dain was, landing heavily against the flagstone—Avalynn with a high-pitched squeal, Visia with an alley cat’s murderous yowl. They’re laying on the floor in a messy jumble of limbs, flying leathers and baked goods, absolutely bewildered. “What the fuck just happened?” Visia snarls, propping herself up on her elbows.

I grimace as I throw the sheets back and swing myself out of the bed. “An invasion of my privacy?” I suggest.

Why the fuck did Bodhi have to make my wards so godsdamned strong?

“They let us go early from kitchen duty,” Avalynn bleats defensively, nearly throwing Visia off-balance as she uses her shoulder to tug herself upright. “We stole a bunch of the good muffins when we were leaving; we wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed like we used to in the barracks.” 

“Oh, shit. Those are the good muffins?” I glance at the floor. “How often do we think they sweep these floors?”

“From where I’m sitting, I feel confident saying they’ve never swept these floors,” Visia grumbles, detangling her legs from Avalynn’s before unceremoniously shoving her hand away. “Seriously, Sloane, what the fuck was that?”

The door to the right of mine opens. Aaric pops his head around it, squinting into the hallway. With languid movements, he looks from me to the floor, then back again, his face its usual picture of perfect indifference. He’s sleep-mussed and shirtless, pillow creases marking one cheek. Implausibly, he is somehow better looking disheveled than in his usual state of impeccability, and apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. Visia’s jaw has unhinged itself; Brioni Barassac stares unapologetically as she shuffles back from the bathing chamber with caddy in hand, dripping on Visia and Avalynn as she steps over them and the baker’s dozen of ruined muffins. 

“Ward?” Aaric asks, emerald eyes glittering even in the dim light of the hallway.

I tilt my head at him. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen a ward before, Sloane.”

I’m about to ask him where in Calldyr he could have possibly encountered a ward like the one on my door, given they’re all but banned in Navarre. Before I can, Avalynn sits up, cross-legged, and proffers a muffin. “Want one?” she asks him as she blows dust from the top of it. “They’re the good muffins, the ones that always run out first.” She surveys them sadly. “We stole, like, all of them.”

Aaric gives her a withering look. “I’ll pass.”

“I’ll take it,” I tell her, holding out my hand. She tosses it to me; I catch it, flick a piece of debris from it and peel off a chunk, laughing at Aaric’s horrified expression. As I kick the door shut, I toss over my shoulder through a mouthful of butter-flavored cake, “Next time, try knocking.” 

-----

Partway through the afternoon, I pass Sorrengail in the hallway and find myself smiling at her in acknowledgement, thinking about a line from one of Liam’s letters. She smiles back instinctively, then promptly frowns. 

Later, in flight maneuvers, I’m bending over to check Thoirt’s claw folds for signs of inflammation when I hear a gasp behind me. I nearly topple over as Avalynn reaches across, yanking at the hem of my shirt. “Your relic,” she squeals, moving closer and pawing at it. “Sloane, why didn’t you tell me Thoirt gave you a tramp stamp?”

I glance up at Thoirt, whose serpentine face is arranged in an expression that looks remarkably smug. “It’s not—”

“Tell Thoirt she’s a visionary,” Avalynn says, dropping my shirt before dropping into a curtsy. She salutes up at Thoirt for good measure, even with her eyes trained on the ground. “Gods, I wish I’d known that was an option. Lasadah, why didn’t you tell me that was an option? I totally would have gone with the tramp stamp!”

I grimace as I mount Thoirt’s leg. “Don’t say a single fucking word, Thoirt.”

“Technically speaking, I have never said a single word in my life. I have, however, thought a great number of them.”

“Well, then don’t think a single word, either.”

Predictably, she ignores me. “So far, one-hundred percent of people who have seen your relic have admired its placement.”

“One million people could admire its placement, but that still wouldn’t change the fact that you knew damn well, when I said, ‘Put it on my back’, that I meant between my shoulder blades.”

“If you cannot clearly communicate what you want, then that is your burden to bear.”

I’ve just settled in the saddle and am wondering whether Kaori would call it imprudent for a rider to give their dragon the finger when Bodhi strides onto the flight field. I wave, but he glances only briefly in my direction, smiling tightly as he makes his way to Kaori. My face falls into something expressionless, then turns into an outright frown when Kaori demands that Aaric dismount immediately and go with his section leader. 

Visia and I exchange glances; Aaric, on the other hand, is typically implacable as he smoothly dismounts Molvic, then follows Bodhi across the field and down the stairs without so much as a glance over his shoulder. 

I’m half-expecting Molvic to take flight once Aaric is gone, but he remains, disdainful as ever.

Thoirt makes a rumbling noise. “Lasadah relates a message on behalf of Avalynn,” she tells me, irascible. “She says, and I quote, ‘What the fucking fuck was that about?’” Smoke curls from her nostrils. “One of these days, we need to have a serious conversation about your penchant for foul language, little warrior. It is unbecoming of a lady.”

“Well, I’m not a lady, nor am I accountable for Avalynn’s foul fucking language.” I lean lower in the saddle, elbows propped either side of her pommel, pretending to listen to Kaori intently. “Can you tell Lasadah that I said—”

“No.” She hesitates, then irritably adds, “Sit up straight, now.”

I roll my eyes fondly as I rearrange myself. “I thought you said you’d always planned to be whatever I needed, Tor? Weapon, co-conspirator, protector; right? Well, what if I need a comfortable seat that doesn’t have opinions on my love life or my penchant for profanities?”

“What you need, if you ask me,” Thoirt posits, spreading her wings and preparing to launch skyward, “is to be silent for the rest of this lesson.”

I curl into her as we spear upwards, savoring the air rushing past me. Unbidden, a memory comes to me of my mother’s arms wrapped around me and Oranmor rising into the air steadily. Benserac is outspread below us: fields where things, mostly barley, grow in the warmer months, but where nothing now grows through the thick carpet of dingy snow; forests of proud, tall pines and smaller copses of blood-red flame trees; thick plumes of black snow rising from chimneys in the city and villages that surround it; the dirty black smear of the mines and quarries populating the basin; trolleys that roll from the mouth of the mines straight to the angry sea, to the deepwater port and the croaking elevators of naval brass that carry coal and maorsite up and down the cliffs ceaselessly. My father hates those elevators because they constantly need servicing. 

It’s an ugly place, Benserac. 

It’s an ugly place, but it’s ours.

“Look at the sunflowers,” my mother says, pointing down at the fields. I do; they’re brown and wilted, and look like lines of sun-bronzed soldiers standing at attention, waiting nobly for defeat. I tell her as much; she laughs. “You’re so much like your father,” she says, pressing a kiss to my wind-bitten cheek. Her nose is pink. Her hair is long and braided, like always. 

It’s my birthday.

Today, I am six. 

“Later, I have a present for you. I think you’ll love it.” 

In my memory, I smile as I lean forward a little, hoping it’s a pony. One of the girls in my class just got a pony, and I want one of my own.

Ideally, I want one that’s better than hers. 

I come to consciousness in a daze and realize that I’m not even holding onto the pommel; I’m sitting astride Thoirt casually, as if I’m still on the ground. I smile quietly to myself as I position my limbs, thinking about how I didn’t get a pony. For my sixth birthday, I got a sword and a lifetime supply of disagreements with my mother over my lack of effort at mastering said sword; I hated it. “Hey, Thoirt? You know how you want me to be silent?” 

“Do I remember the request I made five minutes—?”

I grin as I cut her off, throwing a shield up between us. It lasts for most of the flight lesson; when we land, when I’ve dismounted, she smacks my lower back with her snout and snaps her teeth at me until I let it drop. 

“Well done,” she says once it’s gone, then adds, “but if you ever again shield me out mid-sentence, I shall—”

I run away across the flight field as I cut her off again, nearly screaming with childlike laughter. She trundles after me, rattling the earth.

-----

By dinner, my good mood has swiftly evaporated. The list of people who are inexplicably missing is a mile long: Aaric hasn’t made a reappearance; Imogen, Bodhi and all of the Second Years in our squad are missing; Quinn is nowhere to be found, either; and Xaden, who usually makes an appearance at dinner on his fortnightly Saturdays at Basgiath as if desperate to remind the student population that he exists, is conspicuously absent. 

Even Baylor and Avalynn are missing, although I suspect them of being absent for a very different reason than the others, one that I’m markedly less interested in knowing the finer details of. 

Visia, Lynx and I exchange several minutes of dignified conversation, then fall into an awkward silence. 

“I kind of miss those assholes,” Visia observes, picking at her food dejectedly. 

“Yeah,” I sigh, sitting back and crossing my arms. 

“We’re all in agreement that Avalynn is going to break Baylor’s heart, right?” Lynx asks, glancing up at us from his History homework. 

Visia snorts. “Undoubtedly.”

After dinner, the three of us decamp to the Archives so that Visia and Lynx can work on an assignment I’ve already finished. I pull several of Liam’s letters from my satchel instead and read them in quick succession, then spend the next hour folding strips of parchment into Tyrrish knots. 

Lynx watches intently, then smiles as I hand him one. “Does it mean something?” he asks. 

“Yes.” I smile back shyly. “‘Friendship.’”

He flushes. “Oh, I wasn’t assuming…”

My brow furrows as I stare at him; then I balk. “It’s the Tyrrish knot that represents friendship,” I clarify. 

Visia cackles, drawing the ire of several nearby tables, including one composed of cream-robed scribes. Visia pointed them out when we sat down, then leaned over to declare in a stage whisper that it was a shame Avalynn wasn’t there, because she’d love to know how the one with red hair fucked; in response, I mumbled something about how I had it on good authority that all scribes fuck. (He, in response, blushed as red as his hair and has been sneaking longing looks at our table ever since.) 

I glance in their direction in time to notice their glaring; his steady fixation; and Jesinia emerging from the stacks behind them, looking drawn and slightly panicked. I wave as we catch each other’s eye. 

Her eyes flick towards the door as she signs a laconic greeting, making a face that isn’t quite a pained smile but suggests something vaguely akin to one.

“Huh.” Visia rubs her nostril tentatively, fiddling with the new piercing Avalynn gave her yesterday. “That’s the first time I haven’t seen her fawn all over you the second she sees you,” she observes as Jesinia races past. 

“She doesn’t fawn.”

Visia has one elbow propped on the table, head resting on her fist. “No?”

“She doesn’t.”

Carefully, Visia marks her page, then sits upright. There’s a red blotch on the side of her face where her knuckles were. “‘Your hair is so pretty, Sloane. Your hypothesis is brilliant, Sloane.’” The corner of her mouth lifts in a derisive smirk. “‘Do you think you’ll apply to be squadleader next year, Sloane? You should! You’d be so good at it! You’re a natural leader, just like your brother.’”

“Are you saying you think my hair isn’t pretty?”

Visia turns back to her book. “I’m saying it’s weird how she’s always crawling up your ass.”

“Sloane would be a good squadleader,” Lynx says reflectively, tapping his quill against the page of the book he’s reading. He jumps when a passing scribe stops to berate him for leaving ink dots on the page.

“Squadleader Sloane would be a fucking bitch,” Visia replies.

“Squadleader Mairi,” I correct her, haughty. “And you’re only saying that because I’d give you kitchen duty every time you pissed me off, Cadet Hawelynn. Which is often, by the way. Your hands would be permanently pruned. Your hair would constantly smell of things fried in lard.”

Visia scrunches up a ball of parchment and tosses it at my head. “Look at her,” she says to Lynx, rolling her eyes. “She’s already drunk on power she doesn’t even have.”

We stay for another hour, by which time I have amassed a small mound of Tyrrish knots in the middle of the table, grown bored and moved onto my latest embroidery project, and Visia and Lynx are all but finished with their essays. I slide my collection of knots and sewing equipment into my open satchel as Visia stands, stretching decadently, showing off acres of taut, creamy skin and the dainty piercing she let Avalynn shove through her bellybutton for reasons unknown.

“I’m keeping my options open.” She winks at me. “I mean, at this rate, I’ll be dead before Aaric notices me.”

Lynx raises a brow. “You and Greycastle, huh?”

“Yes, but only in my dreams, because he’s a notorious prude.”

“Around women, maybe.” Lynx snickers to himself as he gathers up the rest of his things. Visia and I exchange a look as we begin wending our way through the mostly empty tables. “Based on some of the things he’s told me, I’d say he’s far from celibate.”

“Go on,” Visia insists.

Lynx glances up at us, suddenly bashful. “Oh, I wasn’t—”

“Burn pit?” Visia suggests as we pass a scribe sleeping by the entrance to the Archives. “You’re coming, too,” she says, throwing her arm around Lynx’s shoulders. “I want to hear every minute detail about Aaric’s sexual proclivities, Vespara. I want you to recount everything you know in explicit detail.” 

I nod absentmindedly. “I brought it with me, so we can go straight there.”

She sighs contentedly, throwing her arm around me, too, as we emerge into the Healers Quadrant. The bells that wake us and signal curfew each evening ring out six times, signaling that only sixty minutes remain before we’re expected to be in bed.

“I love how forward-thinking you are, Sloane.”

“Excellent quality in a squadleader, wouldn’t you say?”

Lynx and Visia begin negotiating something, likely how much of his knowledge about Aaric’s sex life Lynx is willing to disclose, but I’m heedless of what they’re saying because there’s an unusually large group—a litany? a compendium or anthology, perhaps?—of seven scribes approaching the Archives from the direction of the infirmary, heads bowed. 

Except, neither collective name is really appropriate, I realize, because they’re not fucking scribes. 

My step falters slightly as I spot the riders’ boots revealed by the fluttering hems of their robes, the relics visible on two of their left hands. Even from a distance, I can hear the subtle creak of leather in the still night air. I would recognize them as riders by their gaits alone even if Xaden fucking Riorson weren’t trailing behind them, but he is. 

Egotistical prick that he is, he hasn’t even bothered to disguise himself.

That one’s Imogen, I think, singling one of the shapeless forms out. I don’t know what, specifically, tells me that it’s her. Maybe it’s her nefarious energy. Maybe it’s just because I spent so much time studying her as a child, trying to emulate her, that I could recognize her from another room just by the tread of her feet in the hallway. That’s Quinn on her left, then Bodhi on her right. In the middle are Ridoc, Sawyer and Matthias. No prizes for guessing who the little one is, but who’s the tall guy beside her?

Where are they going?

I did the whole fucking list, including dealing with the pervert at the forge. Doesn’t that entitle me to come along on one little secret mission? 

I let Visia lead me across the grass quad, through the long shadows of the buildings that surround us, watching them hasten along the paved path of the portico that borders it on all four sides. This is fine, I rationalize, trying to quash the sparks of anger I feel conflagrating in my veins. So what? So Sorrengail is with them, even though she’s known about the venin threat for a cumulative five minutes and you’ve known about it your whole life. So what? So you’ve known these people since before you could speak or walk, and did the whole fucking list, and did the sword stuff even though you really didn’t want to. That doesn’t necessarily entitle you to come along with them and do… whatever this is. 

So you’re not invited, even though Bodhi heavily implied— 

My feet nearly grind to a halt as I finally recognize the remarkable breadth and proud, lordly posture of the person to the right of Sorrengail. I stumble over my own feet, then half-hear Visia say something about divots in the grass and nod numbly.

Why the fuck is Aaric with them? I think, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

And with that, something breathtakingly familiar and completely irrational explodes inside of me. It’s such a hellacious, feral burst of emotion that it makes my teeth begin to chatter, and I have to clench them tight.  

Why him?

Is it because he’s better than me? Stronger?

What, to quote Avalynn, the fucking fuck is that about?

Xaden’s head snaps towards us, and for a brief moment, we lock eyes. Something swims behind his when he notices me standing in the shadows, but I can’t read it from a distance. Hell, I probably wouldn’t be able to read it even if I was standing in front of him. Excepting a few brief flashes of humanity, Xaden has been an unknowable entity since his tenth birthday. 

He subtly shakes his head, then nods towards the bridge that will lead us back towards the Riders Quadrant.

Fuck. You, I think in his direction, and I fucking pray he’s secretly inntinnsic or something. Failing that, I hope he can see every ounce of the hurt I feel written on my face. I will never fucking forgive you for this. I will never fucking forgive you for cutting me out of what was supposed to be my family. 

From the way his brows knit together, I suspect he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but he simply turns away, as inscrutable as ever.

-----

I’m still lying awake, still reeling with anger despite the stick of churam I shared with Visia and Lynx, when I hear a knock at the door about an hour or so later. 

“Fuck off,” I call out, assuming that it’s Xaden, or Bodhi, or both.

There’s a brief pause, then another series of gentle knocks. 

I sigh, dragging myself to my feet. If nothing else, I suppose, padding towards the door, I can flick the lock, render the room soundproof and spend an hour or so screaming at whoever is on the other side. That’s probably a better use of my time than the haze of self-flagellation, rage and despair I’ve been indulging in. 

I fling the door open, an admonishment already primed on my lips, then clamp my mouth shut. 

“Hi,” Ridoc Gamlyn says, leaning around Aaric’s wide frame to wave at me. 

I blink, confused. “Hi.”

Aaric gives me a rueful look, arms held awkwardly at his sides. Immediately, I notice several weeping blisters and several corresponding drops of blood patting onto the floor. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but would it be a terrible imposition if we were to borrow your ward?” 

I’m too surprised to formulate a response. 

Numbly, I pull them into the room. It feels immediately, significantly smaller with Aaric standing by the desk and Ridoc poised by the door. I, meanwhile, move to stand by the armoire, wiping Aaric’s blood onto my sleeping pants before crossing my arms, looking between them expectantly.

“Soundproofed?” Ridoc mouths, pointing to the door. 

I shrug. “Yes. Nothing in or out, but only when it’s locked.”

“Interesting. I recently learned Violet’s is soundproofed from the inside whenever the door is shut, but the lock thing is a nice touch. Sometimes you want people to hear what you’re up to, you know? Well, I do, anyway.” He flicks his wrist; the lock clicks in response. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says with a valiant smile. “I’m Ridoc Gamlyn, and—”

“I’m well aware of who you are,” I say, watching Aaric shuffle across the room and sink onto the bed like he’s at the tail end of what’s turning out to be the longest fucking day of his fucking miserable life.

Which is a feeling not wholly unfamiliar to me, actually.  

Ridoc beams flirtatiously, pressing his hand to his heart. “Does my reputation precede me?”

“Your voice precedes you, because you never shut the fuck up,” I retort, glaring at each of them in turn. “Would anyone care to explain why the two of you have shown up at my door uninvited after what I can only assume was a shambolic, slapdash jaunt through the Archives that’s left Aaric covered in rebound burns?”

Aaric sighs. “How do you know?”

“How do I know that they’re rebound burns?” 

He looks up at me, elbows against his knees, arms extended almost protectively in front of him. I can’t help staring at the boils scattered across his palms, fingers and forearms: raised, red, wet. If treated, they’ll heal quickly. If untreated, they’ll keep getting worse. Depending on the ward and whether or not its weaver was fucking around, that could lead to loss of limb. 

Luckily for Aaric, the treatment for a rebound burn is fairly simple, but before I help him, I want some answers. 

Apparently, he does, too. 

“How did you know we were at the Archives tonight?” he asks patiently. 

My brow twitches. “Well, I fucking saw you, for a start.” 

“We were disguised, though,” Ridoc protests. 

I turn to look at him, skeptical. “Surely you’re not serious?” 

“They were great disguises!”

“Oh?” I lift one brow, staring at him. “How many scribes have you met who are well over six feet tall and built like him?” I ask, gesturing at Aaric. “For that matter, how many scribes have you met who are built like you, or Bodhi, or Imogen? For that matter, how many scribes have you met who have Xaden Riorson skulking around behind them like a bad fucking omen?” I roll my eyes. “Yeah, they were fantastic disguises, Gamlyn. Stellar disguises. Flawless, really.”

He grins. “What I’m choosing to take from that is that you think I have a noteworthy physique, which is—”

I hold up my hand, silencing him, and turn back to Aaric. “Here’s what I’ve discerned so far,” I say, beginning to tick each item off on my fingers. “You, for reasons unbeknownst to me, have been co-opted into some sort of clandestine scheme that I, for reasons equally unbeknownst to me, am not privy to, despite having known its perpetrators for my entire life.” 

“I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t assume, based off of the fact that I wasn’t there?” I scoff, beginning to pace. “Stop interrupting, by the way. That scheme”—I press the index of one hand against the ring finger of the other—“appears to have led you into the Archives tonight. And I’m going to hazard a guess and say that Jesinia was the person who snuck you into whatever part of the Archives you found the ward that gave you those in.” I point to his hands. Aaric stares at the floor instead of meeting my gaze, so I turn to Ridoc instead. “How am I doing so far, Gamlyn?” 

Ridoc whistles. 

Aaric still can’t meet my eye as I continue. “I know you’ve encountered wards like the one on my door before, in Calldyr, which is so implausible that it makes my head spin.” I pause, then let myself slip into Tyrrish, my tone clipped. “I suspect that you speak, or at least understand, a language that you have no business knowing.”

Aaric stares at the floor; I watch a muscle in his jaw tick, then watch him take three deep breaths. “I understand it better than I speak it,” he admits after a protracted, heady pause.

His pronunciation and syntax are, I realize, fucking perfect. Good enough to rival mine, almost. 

I stare at him. 

I stare and stare as I rub blisters into my tongue, willing him to look at me. 

The silence between us grows dense.

I glance at Gamlyn out of the corner of my eye, then make a fairly educated guess. “Why don’t you two tell me how long you’ve known what’s happening in Poromiel?” I ask, voice trembling.

Aaric sighs, burying his face in the crooks of his elbows. “I… found out a few weeks before I came to the quadrant.”

I nod slowly, then turn to Ridoc. “You?”

“Violet told us this week,” he admits. I press my hand to a face, heaving a deep breath; I can feel hysterical laughter bubbling up inside of me. “‘What’s happening in Poromiel’ is pretty loose terminology,” he adds after a pause, clearing his throat. “I’m talking about the situation with the, um, venin and the wabern. That’s what you’re talking about; right?” 

“Wyvern,” I hiss, tipping my head back to bash it against the door of the armoire with a dull thud. Twice. Darkly, I murmur, “Of course Sorrengail told you. Why wouldn’t she? Why wouldn’t she tell all her friends within twenty minutes of finding out herself?” 

“Sloane, calm down.”

Calm down? I think the fuck not.

I gesture angrily at Aaric, willfully ignoring his advice. “Did you find out through Sorrengail, too?”

“No.”

“How, then?”

“My father is… well-connected.” Aaric sighs, lifting his head to glance at Ridoc, who’s watching us with an amused expression on his face. “I sought Violet out when I got here, because I suspected she knew, too.” He sighs again at whatever he sees in my face. “Gamlyn, could you go find Matthias and tell her to bring the healer here instead of your room, please?”

“They can meet you in your room,” I tell him coldly. 

“Go find Matthias,” he repeats, staring at Ridoc. 

“Yes, my liege,” Ridoc says, rolling his eyes as he turns towards the door. “I’ll just tell them to stand in the hallway and yell until someone gives them directions to the covert meeting place, I guess.” He hesitates before flipping the lock, then turns to face us again, smiling solicitously. “Mairi, if anyone asks, could you please tell them that we were having a threesome tonight and that I have an—” 

“Out,” I snarl, pointing at the door.

When the latch clicks shut behind him, Aaric and I stare at each other some more. I know every line of his face, every facet of his emerald eyes, every twitch of his brow. Staring at him now, I feel like I hardly know him at all. 

“So?” 

He turns to glare defiantly, stubbornly, at the wall. “Did you intend to tell me any of your secrets back when you thought I didn’t know them?”

“No,” I admit. It had never occurred to me that I should feel guilty about that, but judging by the disappointment and hurt written all over his face, I start to wonder if maybe it should have. “Not any time soon, anyway. Not because I don’t trust you, but because… well, it had always been agreed amongst us that we wouldn’t tell anyone, that it was too dangerous.” Bitterly, I add, “I guess that changed when Sorrengail came along, but no one thought to give me that memo.”

In my head, a voice whispers that I almost told Dain. 

I bury it. 

“Well, then,” Aaric says coolly, flopping backwards on the bed. “I think we’re both entitled to our secrets. Don’t you?”

“You told me I could ask you anything. You said you’d answer.” I couldn’t begin to name all of the emotions racing through me. The ones I can name are my frequent companions: jealousy, anger, betrayal. There are smaller ones, too. Unfamiliar. Indeterminable. “I’m asking, Aaric. Why were you there tonight? What happened?”

He looks at me pityingly. “We were looking for a book.”

“No shit.” I bark out a humorless laugh. “You were looking for a book in the Archives? Well, color me surprised.”

He sighs, staring at the ceiling. There’s a protracted silence as he thinks something over, jaw working determinedly as he considers his options. “I don’t think all of this anger is meant for me,” he says eventually, sounding reticent and resigned. Like he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s about to say, but he feels as if he has no other choice. “If you’re jealous that they chose me to join them tonight and not you, then I can’t answer for that, Sloane.”

I feel hot, instantaneous tears prick at my eyes and blink them away. There’s another soft knock at the door, and I turn towards it, simultaneously relieved and disappointed. 

Aaric’s words hurt for two reasons, I think as I pull Matthias and the wide-eyed healer into the room.

One: He’s right.  

Two: Some part of me senses that from this moment on, our friendship will never be the same again.

----- 

On Sunday, I wake to fists pounding against the door. I’m groggy, nearly shaking from lack of sleep; I spent half the night superintending the healer that Matthias brought to my room (who was, to no one’s surprise, a practically useless idiot that managed to do very little other than get in my way, because why would a Navarrian healer be trained in treating ward-related injuries?). The rest of it was spent pointedly avoiding Aaric’s imploring looks.  

I glance at the lock as I roll over. “We didn’t sleep in,” I mutter hoarsely, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “The door isn’t locked, so we would have heard the bells.”

Aaric groans, leaning back in my desk chair. He spent the night slumped over the desk, still dressed in his flight leathers from yesterday. I hear several vertebrae crack as he lifts his arms over his head and bends backwards, yawning. 

He glances around the room sluggishly, like he didn’t have time to look at it last night.

Whoever is at the door knocks again. 

I move from the bed, stumble in that direction. Halfway there, I stop and grab his wrists roughly, discompassionately examining his hands. The poultice I left on his hands overnight has soaked into the skin and performed its duties beautifully, so I’m satisfied by what I see: where there were previously blisters that hadn’t yet popped, his skin is unblemished; fresh, pink skin blooms like tree fungus where there were once blisters that did. 

In another day or two, it’ll be as if nothing ever happened. 

“Coming,” I announce, dropping them.

“Wait,” Aaric says, blinking rapidly. “Sloane, I need to tell you—”

“Let me answer the door first, before whoever it is wakes up the whole fucking citadel,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. The tension between us grew thicker with every passing minute last night; now it looms large in the room, taking up all the air. Part of me is tempted to flee into the hallway rather than hear another word from Aaric’s mouth. “I’m sure whatever you need to tell me can wait until after that. Can’t it?” 

“Sloane, I—”

Harder knocks, insistent.

I swing the door open and smile weakly when I see Visia and Avalynn standing on the other side of it; Avalynn is holding a tray of muffins aloft proudly and pretentiously, like an overeager member of some palace’s wait staff. 

Coffee sloshes over the sides of the mugs Visia holds in both hands as I tug them both over the threshold. As I slam the door shut behind me, they smile at Aaric, then look between us, then grow visibly uncomfortable as they register the chill in the air and the shroud of portentous silence. 

“Proud of us for knocking this time?” Avalynn asks, apprehensive, as I take one of the mugs of coffee from Visia and return to the bed, leaving a trail of drips on the stone floor. I notice, as I glance down to watch them land with soft pats, that I missed a few drops of Aaric’s blood when I was cleaning up last night. 

“They’re, um, calling an emergency formation soon,” Visia tells us.

“I should go before they ring the bell.” Aaric stands, looking around the room again. 

Visia glances down at the mug of coffee in her hands, then offers it to him in a melancholy way that seems to imply she doesn’t really want to part with it, but will. He shakes his head, attempting an appreciative smile. 

It comes out like a grimace. 

“You okay?” Visia asks when he’s gone. 

I blow on my coffee and shrug. 

Avalynn moves towards the desk, shoving aside a clean roll of bandages to make room for her platter, then takes a muffin and comes to sit on the end of the bed. She holds it out to me, her doe eyes soft and trusting. “You sure?” She waves the muffin in front of me teasingly. “You know you can tell us anything, right?”

I nod.

I open my mouth; nothing comes out. 

Avalynn’s face creases with worry. “Sloane, why are you crying?”

I shake my head and look at Visia, who’s staring at the bandages on the table; the bowl from the poultice; the drops of blood on the floor; more of Aaric’s blood which I must have thoughtlessly wiped onto my sleeping clothes. She turns to look at the door, then me. “Sloane, is there… something you’re not telling us?”

I put my coffee down and bury my face in my hands. 

“Nice going, Hawelynn,” Avalynn hisses, moving closer to rub my back. 

-----

There hasn’t been a day since Parapet where I haven’t stood in formation at Aaric’s side. Now, Avalynn has ensured that the entire squad stands between us, and the distance of four people might as well be a gulf. Back in my room, I could barely bring myself to vocalize anything other than wretched sounds, so I’m not sure what, exactly, Avalynn thinks Aaric has done, but I’m relieved, at least, to have some distance from him. 

Ideally, I’d like distance from all of them.

As the sun rises over the ridgeline, the courtyard walls cast cold, distorted shadows. Cadets trickle over the stones, slowly arranging themselves into the now familiar wings, sections and squads that shape the quadrant. And I stand at the back, tall and rigid as one of the walls, casting my own strange shadow.

It’s irrational, I know; it’s excessive, this vitriolic fury I feel. 

It’s better, though.

It’s better than the alternative.

I’d rather indulge this absurd sense of rage than the shame that threatens to subsume me; I’d rather feel this than self-doubt. I could have lived with being left out, but being left out in favor of my best friend stings. Realizing how little they must think of me to exclude me in favor of Aaric, how insignificant and powerless and inconsequential they must think me, stings.

Expendable.

Unworthy.

Weak.

Wondering if Aaric might see me that way, too, stings.

It aches, in fact. It’s burning and itching through my veins like a molten lather, like spumes of white-hot rage. I think, as I so often do, about the wyvern that lives hidden inside of me, the thing with teeth that want to taste blood, as I shift my weight from the ball of one foot to the other, staring blindly at the dais. 

Baylor yawns, placing his elbow on my shoulder and using me as an armrest; I remain immutable, propping him up. Avalynn is half-asleep at his side, swaying on her feet. “Wonder why they called formation on a Sunday?”

I grunt in acknowledgement as Imogen filters into the courtyard, clutching her head in a noble impersonation of someone who drank one too many pints of mead last night. Bodhi follows, then Quinn. They make their way toward our section, faking indifference, but I know them well enough to see that they’re disconcerted. As Bodhi passes on his way to check in with his XO, he reaches out to touch my shoulder.

I flinch away from him, eyes averted.

His hand hangs limply in the air. “Sloane?” 

I keep my eyes trained ahead. 

Sorrengail is still missing when a tall woman I haven’t seen before begins moving down the lines of cadets, stopping at each one. She’s young, but most riders are young. Unlike most riders, though, she’s plain. Dismissible. I would never look twice at her if it weren’t for her eyes, which are cold and grey; cruel and deific; notable even from a distance. Loaded with the same omniscient expression I’ve seen watching me from across the table in rooms across the Continent, first interrogation chambers in Calldyr and then semi-regularly in my foster mom’s parlour. Studying everything like she could see mistruths hanging in the air.

I can easily guess her signet. I recognize it in some deep part of myself just by looking at those eyes.

Truth-Saying.

When she finally draws closer to our line, I’m anxious but also impatient to be done with it. She started with First Wing by the southwest wall, meaning that, as per usual, we’ll be the last line to be dealt with and excused, so the morning has drawn painfully long. I feel relieved as I watch her draw closer, because I can’t wait to get back to my room, lock the door, lie down and—

More cadets leave, like waves drawing back the sea to reveal the sand and all its treasures underneath. With their absence, I notice what she’s doing, looking between the heads and shoulders of the cadets in front of us, and nearly choke. 

This woman, who I suspect could pluck a lie from the air, is checking everyone’s hands; Aaric, who stands just five bodies away from me, has pink spots over his. 

If she asks him where he got them, then—

“I’m coming,” Thoirt announces, battering through shields I hadn’t realized I’d erected. How had I done that? How long have they been up? “Molvic, too. We will be there in five minutes. We’ll depart for Tyrrendor, where you and Molvic’s rider can discuss—”

“Thoirt, I can’t leave!”

In any other situation I would laugh as Thoirt says, almost petulantly, “Why not?”

“We’d bring a war to Tyrrendor that it isn’t ready to fight.”

“Let us figure that out when we get there.”

I watch the woman drawing closer, and as I say the words, I know them to be true: “You won’t get here in time, anyway.”

“Three minutes.” Wind whistles as she cuts through it like an arrow, wings beating furiously. I can feel the strain of it, of how hard she’s flying to get here in time. “In three minutes, you can—” I rip up my shields as the woman stops in front of me, but they waver immediately. “Do not let them touch you.”

The woman purses her lips as she looks at my hands, then at me, narrowing those cold eyes. I imagine my brain unfurling for her, all its wrinkles made smooth as glass. “You must be the Mairi girl.”

I nod, still holding out my hands between us.

“Flip,” she requests. 

There are flecks of dried poultice still in the creases of my thumbs, I realize, and staining the cuticles. I nearly gawk at them, dread racing through my body and washing away the last vestiges of anger. 

“What’s this?” she asks as she examines it. 

“I made a burn poultice recently,” I admit, trying to keep my voice steady. Words explode from me in a rush of nervous energy. “I got rope burn on the Gauntlet. I’ve washed my hands, like, so many times since then; this is one of those poultices that’s hard to wash away. It’s worth it, though. Very effective, actually. I had to treat the burns myself because seeing a mender wasn’t an option. Nolon has been very busy this year.”

That last one is a risky half-truth, and I bite my lip.

She considers my hands for another few seconds, then tuts, satisfied. 

“Two minutes,” Thoirt says, breaths wheezy with exertion, as the woman shuffles to Baylor.

“Too long,” I tell her mournfully, watching the woman spend less than half the time considering Baylor’s hands as she did mine. She barely glances at Avalynn’s, but spends almost twenty seconds in front of Visia, perhaps because of the way Visia is glaring at her. 

Lynx next. 

“These?” he asks, bemused, as she tips his hand back to examine the blisters on his fingertips. His confusion only grows as she rips back his sleeves like she’s expecting to find more of them—red, raised, weeping. “I play the lute.”

“You got these from playing the lute?” she clarifies, trying to trap him in a lie. 

I lean around Baylor and see that Aaric is looking at me, his face one of tolerant acceptance.   

Lynx blinks at the woman. “Yes, I got these blisters from playing the lute. Like I said.” 

She gives them one last look before turning to Aaric, who raises his hands slowly and—

“First Lieutenant?” Dain says, approaching her. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve noticed that there’s a cadet missing from this squad.” He clears his throat, then makes a face, chastened and abashed. Sighing, he says, with a sheepish look in our direction, “I’m not sure who or what you’re looking for, but Cadet Sorrengail is missing. Is it possible she might…?”

She makes a painfully tight expression. “I appreciate you letting me know.”

“I suspect Cadet Sorrengail is involved in whatever transpired last night,” he adds, glancing at our squad again.

Behind me, I can feel waves of fury rolling off of Sorrengail’s friends, and I, in return, feel a nearly uncontrollable desire to turn to them all, wild-eyed, and tell them that they don’t understand.

I barely understand it myself, actually.

Dain isn’t just looking at our squad, but specifically, at the spot where I know Imogen and Quinn are standing.

The woman studies Dain quizzically. “Your suspicions are noted.”

Dain seems to consider saying something else, then turns and begins to walk away. His boot scuffs as he comes to a stop with his back to us, as the woman turns her attention back to Aaric’s hands. She’s so fixated on his hands, she hasn’t even looked up at his face.

It occurs to me that she’s hardly looked at anyone’s face, that she’s ignored most of the quadrant but for those of us with relics on their arms. 

“It, um, looks like First Lieutenant Dundas is trying to get your attention,” Dain says, still facing towards the rotunda. 

I turn to look. In the distance, it looks like someone is standing in the rotunda, waving the woman over. It’s a man I haven’t seen before, though his face is bland enough, too, that I probably wouldn’t recognize it even if I had. Satisfied that the woman has spotted him, the man turns and walks away.

“Keep an eye on them,” she barks at Dain before darting off.

“Go,” Imogen hisses, shoving my shoulder with one hand. “Move, you fucking idiots.” I turn to gawk at her over my shoulder and discover that Quinn is glassy-eyed, that Imogen is holding her upright. 

Several things click into place very quickly. 

Quinn’s signet is astral projection; she’s been working on projecting herself with an altered appearance. The man in the rotunda is illusory, which means our time is limited. Very limited.

 

“Go,” Dain reiterates, bundling up everyone who’s been examined already and pushing them in the direction of the dorms.

“Not you,” I tell Baylor, stopping him. Avalynn hesitates, but Visia shoves her insistently away. “She knows she has one more First Year to examine, but she didn’t look at him. You’re almost the same height, same build. Stay here. Hold your hands out in front of her, but say nothing. If she asks any questions, then just… I don’t know, pretend you’re fucking deaf or something.” 

I grab Aaric as I move past, tugging him behind me. 

As I hear the click of boots approaching, I glance at Quinn and see that she seems to be coming back to herself. 

“Crisis narrowly averted,” I think at Thoirt as I pull Aaric into the alcove where Dain and I stood earlier in the week, where we almost kissed but didn’t. We press ourselves flat to the wall, trying to temper our breathing, as she approaches. “Can you redirect to the Vale?”

Aaric’s eyes are turned to the clouds, too. 

“That time has come and gone, little warrior.” We both bite back sighs of relief as we see two dragons soar overhead, one red and one blue, flying fast but looking for all the world like they’re playfully racing each other. Thoirt spirals upwards elegantly, then surges towards the Vale; Molvic executes a maneuver, banking hard. 

“I told the others to go,” Dain says dismissively as the woman stops in front of him. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “You must remember what First Years are like.”

“This is the one I hadn’t examined yet?” 

“You hadn’t looked at him,” Dain confirms.   

Baylor holds out his hands, smiling and convivial. 

She examines them quickly, then flicks her hand as if to shoo him away, eyes turning nearly ravenous as she sees the relic on Imogen’s arm. “Cardulo.” 

Imogen looks at this woman like she’d like to tear the meat from her bones. “Nora.”

Within seconds, the examination is over.

When the courtyard is empty, Aaric and I turn to each other, the backs of our heads still pressed against the crinkly, moss-covered stone wall. I smile nervously, and so does he. “Sloane,” he begins, “I need to tell you—”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, practically spitting the words at him. “I’ve got no reason to be mad at you, Aaric. What a desolate little hypocrite I am, right? To crave other people’s secrets while fastidiously hoarding my own?” I smile self-consciously. “You were right that I’m jealous, but that’s on me.”

Aaric hesitates for a long time before putting his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, too,” he says simply. 

“Should we tell the others?”

He considers it, then shakes his head. “Not yet,” he sighs, regretful. “You were right to think these secrets were dangerous; they are. Let’s not put them at risk until things are a little more… settled.”

-----

On Monday, Violet misses class.

-----

On Tuesday, Ridoc plants himself in the chair beside mine at breakfast. I turn, a plea to fuck off on the tip of my tongue, then notice Sawyer settling in the chair on his other side; Matthias settling into the chair next to Aaric’s; Quinn, Bodhi and Imogen taking other free seats. For the first time, our entire squad (or, at least, all of its members who are presently accounted for) is eating breakfast together. 

Bodhi leans over, speaking at me in alacritous Tyrrish. “Violet is still missing, and—”

I glance up at him. “I have eyes.”

“What?”

“I have eyes,” I say again, gesturing with my fork. “I noticed; I’m aware.” I turn back to my meal, then add, “What I don’t know is why, because apparently, I can’t be trusted with that information, even though, evidently, I’m way better at keeping secrets than either of you are.”

Bodhi takes a deep breath, exchanging a look with Imogen, one I know so well. It’s the look they used to exchange when I would complain about being left out as a child. “Garrick dropped by this morning to let me know that they’re deserting.”

My grip tightens on my fork. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

“For the love of Loial, use Tyrrish if you’re going to—”

I roll my eyes at him, then glance at the other occupants of the table. Avalynn, Baylor and Lynx are making conversation with the older squad members, but Visia is sitting next to me with her arms crossed, looking between me, Bodhi and Imogen like if she keeps staring at us for long enough, Tyrrish will eventually start making sense. Aaric, who sits across the table, is thoroughly preoccupied by his food; I wonder if the others know that he can understand us. 

Imogen clears her throat. “Sloane, if Garrick and Xaden desert, then—”

“I think I’m having auditory hallucinations or something,” I calmly interrupt, holding up my hand. “You see, I must have imagined you saying that Xaden and Garrick are deserting their posts. I must have imagined that, because it can’t possibly be correct, because an entire fucking province, to say nothing of our lives, depends on Xaden Riorson remaining at his post and appearing to do as he’s fucking told.”

“I’m informed that he has a plan, but Garrick didn’t have time to relate its finer points.” Bodhi’s jaw clenches. “He just wanted to warn us that things could get messy—”

“‘Could’ or ‘will?’”

“—and that we should be ready to go if, but more likely when, they do.” 

Imogen nods. “You should pack a bag tonight so that if—”

“You mean I’m actually invited to come along this time?” 

“Don’t act like a child, Sloane,” Imogen tuts.

“Look, I know we’ve mishandled some things lately, and that’s on me.” Bodhi sighs, scratching his brow, then rubbing the palm of his hand across the bridge of his nose and his fingertips against his eyes. “I set you up for disappointment, and I’m happy to explore that when things are less dire, but that’s not our biggest problem right now.”

“Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know how we’re triaging our problems right now, because I only have half the information.”

Imogen lets out a dry, acerbic laugh.

Bodhi stares at the ceiling like he’s begging the gods for help. “Obviously, this is less than ideal, but—”

“This ‘isn’t ideal’?” I manage to get a hold of myself enough to switch back into Tyrrish, but I’m so angry that my usually refined accent comes out in a drunken slur. “Tax hikes are less than ideal, Bodhi. Contracting a venereal disease or breaking a family heirloom is less than ideal, Bodhi. This, on the other hand? This is a fucking disaster.” I throw my cutlery down on my plate with a clatter; Aaric winces. “If he deserts, then comes here, he’s risking everything.”

“I guess he feels it’s worth the risk.”

I’m on my feet before I’ve consciously directed my limbs to move. I stare down at him, palms pressed flat on the table. Something wet lands on the back of one. Visia gapes at me; Avalynn, I realize, is no longer engaged in her conversation but has leaned back in her chair and is tugging at the hem of my shirt, trying to get me to sit. To my horror, I discover that I’m crying when I swipe the back of my palm across my cheek. “They locked me in a fucking cellar, Bodhi,” I rasp. “They kept me from my brother, from all of you. They fucking tortured me for years. No one came to rescue me, and I made peace with that, because I understood that the picture was so much bigger than one person, so much bigger than me. They’ve had Sorrengail for, what, three days?” I glance between him and Imogen. When I speak, my voice cracks. “You understand, right? You understand that none of you came for me, but now you’re all jumping through hoops for her?”

Aaric has gone stiff. Slowly, he lowers his fork, eyes nearly black as he stares at Bodhi.

Bodhi flounders for several long seconds. Weakly, he says, “Sloane, this is different.”

I blink at him. “Is it, Bodhi?”

“You can’t imagine what they’re doing to her, Sloane.”

“No?” I tilt my head.

Imogen shuffles guiltily in her chair. She says something I know she believes to be true, but she says it like it’s a question: “They didn’t hurt you. Physically.”

“You cannot possibly be that naive.” I stare at both of them for several more seconds of long, thick silence and watch them wilt and wither like sunflowers in the snow. I wonder whether it was hard for them to convince themselves that I was fine, or would be fine eventually. I wonder if they even needed to convince themselves that I was, or would be, fine.

Locked in the cellar, I thought of nothing but them. 

Did they even think of me at all? 

“If she dies, Xaden dies,” Bodhi says, entreating me to understand. “Sloane, we were children then. There wasn’t anything we could do, and by the time we could, it was almost over, anyway.” This is exactly the wrong thing to say, and I see the moment that fact occurs to him. I wipe more tears from my face, boiling from the inside with anger. “Look, when you love someone like he loves Violet, you’ll—”

“I know what love is, Bodhi.” I shake my head, thoroughly disappointed and utterly exhausted. I want nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep until things don’t suck. “I’m not a child anymore, either. I love you—not with a child’s love, but through the eyes of an adult. I love you all even though you have all lied to me and mistreated me. I loved my brother beyond anything words could possibly describe, then had to let him go. And when he was still here, I would have done almost anything for him, just like I would do almost anything for everyone at this table. Including living through what I had to live through while the rest of you fucked around, enjoying yourselves without me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

I bend, snatching up my satchel. “I said ‘almost anything’ because there isn’t a question in my mind that I would let every last one of you die for Tyrrendor. Not one of you is worth more to me than a province full of people or the future of this fucking continent, no matter how much I love you. And I thought Xaden understood that, too, seeing as he was the one who told me how important that was, but I guess I was fucking wrong.”

-----

On Wednesday, Ridoc, Sawyer and Matthias go missing after lunch. It isn’t particularly hard to guess why.

Later, I skip sword training like I’ve been doing all week and make my way to Dain’s room once the bell for curfew has rung. He frowns at me when he opens the door, then gently pulls me into the room and into his arms.

“I know you don’t like hugs,” he says into my hair as he twists us, resting his back against the door, “but you look like you need one.”

I breathe him in, pressing my nose into his chest. “I do like hugs.”

“Not hugs from me, though?”

I don’t answer, because I can’t.

“I have something for you,” I tell him, stepping out of the loop of his arms and moving further into the room. I seat myself on the bed and watch him consider his options, then take a seat in the chair, facing me. We’re sitting exactly as we did the first time I came to his room, when I came by accident; I think there’s a neat sense of irony in that. 

Like always, the room is clinically neat but for the explosion of papers on the table by the window, but I’ve been here enough now to notice the small points of difference. 

His drawer of knives is closed, for example.

There’s a Tyrrish language dictionary laying open on the bedside table.  

Xaden and Garrick may have already abandoned their posts. It’s entirely possible that this is the last time I’ll be able to talk to Dain, if not in years, then perhaps forever. There’s about a thousand things I want to say and do, but instead, I reach into the pocket of my flight jacket and pull out a linen napkin that I took when we sat on the ridgeline, now clean and embroidered. 

It’s probably not even his, but somehow, that feels even more fitting; I’m highly titillated by the idea of giving my Codex-loving wingleader a piece of defaced school property. 

“Here,” I tell him, bouncing it through the air between us. 

Dain makes a face I try to burn into my memory as he stands, then takes it. I try to memorize the face he makes as he looks at it, too. Embroidered in red thread, on the bottom righthand corner, is the outline of a ship sailing towards a setting sun; next to it, a simple rune. 

“Sloane,” he says, worried, “what’s happening?”

“I’m not involved.”

“You don’t know anything?” 

I shake my head, then lean back to look up at him. He’s so painfully beautiful, even with the dark circles under his eyes. I put my hands on his shoulders again and lift myself onto my toes, but this time, when I kiss him, I don’t press playful kisses against his cheek or the corner of his mouth. 

Nor do I kiss him gently.

At first, Dain lets me use him in the same way he once let me wage one-sided arguments against him, the way he let me hit him on the mat. His body is coiled, restrained and tense, even though his lips are soft and pliant. I lave explorative kisses against his mouth, and between them stretch long, brutal seconds where we stare into each other’s eyes. But it feels inevitable that slowly, I become more fervent, more demanding; I am, after all, a thing with teeth, constructed of tempers and strong feelings and impulses that cannot be checked. 

I don’t realize that I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck at first, and in fact, I come to a sudden awareness of it after what must have been several minutes, when I notice that my fingers are tangled in his hair. 

“Kiss me,” I demand, scratching my nails across his scalp and the nape of his neck. 

Dain laughs breathlessly. “I am.”

His voice is raw, eyes glazed; I breathe in the air he exhales before I tug his head to mine and clamp my mouth over his again. 

I want to kiss him, and that’s the be-all and end-all of everything. If it leads to disaster, then it wouldn’t be the first disaster I’ve weathered in my life.

Besides, I’m pretty sure I’ll be long gone before things can turn to shit. 

In light of all that, my mind is blissfully resolved as I suck his bottom lip into my mouth. He keens quietly as I bite at it, hips canting instinctively towards mine. My breasts graze the hard breadth of his chest as he leans lower, breaking the kiss so that he can trail his lips across my neck, down toward my collarbone. He hesitates for a breathtakingly drawn out moment before sucking a bruise into me, groaning gently as he does. 

It’s a sound of such pure satisfaction that it makes my toes curl. 

“We should stop,” he says, lips still against my flushed skin. 

“I don’t want to.”

Dain tears his face away, panting as he turns his head to speak some kind of nonsense my brain cannot currently process; the only thing left in it is the imperative need to kiss him until I’m satisfied (although I probably won’t ever be satisfied, because that’s who I am as a person). I’m single-minded, focused only on that need, as I grip his neck and nip his jaw hard enough to hurt, right at the spot where his soft scruff of beard hides a scar. His breathing hitches again and again as I nip and suckle at the apple of his neck; his collarbone; the base of his throat; his ear; the spot right behind it that makes him mutter a filthy word. 

I suck a bruise into the side of his neck, too, to match the one he gave me.

“You can touch me,” I swear. 

“If I touch you, I might—”

Without waiting for him to finish speaking, I grab Dain’s fisted hands and pry them apart, then place them either side of my neck.

He sighs almost in relief, grip punishing as he angles me to finally kiss me the way that I want him to. I melt against him, hands touching every part of him they can before coming to rest at his hips. When he grips my throat, thumb against one ear and the tip of his index finger against the other, I sigh contentedly. He, in turn, groans appreciatively as he sucks my tongue into his mouth.

I can feel his hard length pressed against my belly through the layers of our clothes, and an irrational sense of pride radiates through me. 

Then, it’s over. I blink, cold and untethered as he takes a half-step back, then another. He looks at me with a horrified expression that douses all the heat, all the want, all the power thrumming in my veins. His curls are in disarray from where I’ve tangled my fingers into them. His pupils are blown wide as he backs away. His lips are swollen; he licks them, staring at me. 

Immediately, he licks them a second time, like he’s savoring the taste of me or maybe trying to lick it away. 

“We can’t.”

Undone by me, he is the most exquisite, magnificent thing I have ever seen. “We already are,” I point out.

“Sloane, I…” I feel a stab of guilt that douses all the heat when I realize that I can see hurt behind his eyes, that they’re cold and unsure. “Why does this feel like you’re saying goodbye?” 

I shrug. “We’re riders.” How much of my life have I spent lying, that this one rolls so easily off my tongue? “Statistically speaking, we should all be saying goodbye to each other every day, just in case. Hourly, in fact. I, for one, wouldn’t mind at all if they were all goodbyes like that one.”

He looks down at the napkin still in his hands. “This is the rune for freedom,” he says, tracing his thumb over its shape. “You showed me this rune when you were telling me about your door, and I recognize it.”

I nod. “Usually I do people’s family crests, but—”

“My family tree is full of assholes?” he suggests wryly.  

“I thought this was better,” I say, feeling sad as I look down at it. I have such a small selection of thread; if I had my sewing box, full of all the colors of the rainbow, I could have made him a masterpiece. “It’s symbolic of the journey you’re embarking on, right? Becoming your own person. Questioning what you’ve been told.”

He stares at it, still tracing his thumb over it. He says to himself, as much as to me, “You’re going.”

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

He nods.

It’s obvious that the moment has passed, so I smile at him weakly as I move towards the door. His hand brushes against mine as I go, fingers splayed as if he’s tempted to wrap them around my arm and stop me from leaving; he doesn’t, though.

He lets me go, standing in the middle of his room with his back to the door as if he can’t bear to watch it close.  

When I return to my dorm, I pack what’s left of my life into a bag. If it comes to it, I’ll leave quickly, and when I go, I’ll be leaving behind no trace that I was here but the flash card of Thoirt suspended on the wall by Bodhi’s lesser magic; the runes burned into the door, one of which is the symbol for freedom; and the bruise in Dain’s neck, right above his collarbone, which will eventually fade.

-----

On Thursday, Dain is called out of Battle Brief before it even begins. When he stands, I turn to look at him, but he won’t meet my eye. Not long after that, men come to call each and every marked one out of class by name in alphabetical order. Devera watches us stand and file stoically from the room, one by one, with an implacable expression on her face.

When my name is called, I rise.

I taste bile, and my heart is thundering. 

Like the others, I try to make sure my face betrays nothing, but I’m momentarily shocked out of my stoicism when my squad rises with me as one: Visia, Aaric, Avalynn, Baylor and Lynx, all getting determinedly to their feet. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; Quinn tried to walk into the hall with Imogen and had to be physically restrained and frogmarched back into the room. She’s slumped in her chair now, foot bouncing erratically beneath the desk.

Still, I’m flattered.   

“Sit down,” I implore them, smiling as warmly as I can in the circumstances. 

They do, troubled and ill at ease. Satisfied that none of them will try to follow me, I turn to leave, but Aaric’s hand catches mine before I take a step. I look down at it for a moment, admiring how well the marks from the rebound burn have healed; it really is like nothing happened. 

Aaric squeezes tightly, and I lean down and press a kiss to the back of his hand like we’re about to dance a quadrille, like I am not facing the prospect of my imminent death. 

I kiss his hand the way he kissed mine at Parapet, then lie. “It’ll be okay.”

“No thoughts, just stabbing,” he whispers, eyes glinting not just with the concern I expect, but with a malice I’ve never seen in him before. 

Outside, I’m pushed against the wall so that my hands can be tied. With my cheek pressed against the cold stones, I catch Imogen’s eyes and see malice not unlike what I saw in Aaric. Imogen, however, is intense in a way that Aaric just isn’t, and so is her anger. 

Once they’re comfortable with our bindings, the two men who’ve been tying our hands together lead Imogen and me to the front of the queue. There’s something very conspicuous about the order in which we’re arranged: Bodhi at its head, with guards both in front and behind; me, with guards both in front and behind; then Imogen, guarded only by the man at my rear flank. Behind her go the rest, with two more guards at the back.  

“Should we take their weapons?” someone asks.  

The man who seems to be their leader defers. “I don’t want anyone intervening,” he says, gesturing down the length of the hallway. “We’ll strip them once we’re in the brig.” 

Apparently, he’s not terribly concerned about what could happen between here and the brig.

I suppose it’s not illogical.

Our hands are tied, after all. 

This is a high-traffic area, after all.

They begin to walk us in the direction of the bridge to the citadel, and we go quietly. In Tyrrendor, there’s a saying: In the hands of your enemies, your ego is a formidable weapon. It seems like there’s a tacit, unspoken agreement between us that we’ll massage their egos by playing up our fear until the stink of it is thick in the hallways, and all the while, our fingers will be deftly untying their knots.

How could they know that half of us have been tying and untying knots far more complex than these for most of our lives?

Nobody in Navarre gives a flying fuck about Tyrrish customs.

Well, nobody except Dain Aetos, I guess.

I bend my head as I shuffle along, concentrating on working through my knot. My head remains bent until about two minutes later, when we’re passing the bathrooms. I hear someone wander into the hallway ahead of us and stop to watch our motley procession, right as I release the overhand knots that secure both ends of the handcuff knot restraining me. 

Then I hear a voice I recognize, but can’t quite place, say, “Where the fuck do you think you’re taking them?”

How do I—?

I raise my eyes.

Standing in front of us with her hands on her hips, staring at the men who are marching us towards the Infantry Quadrant like she’s the Commanding General of Basgiath herself (and therefore entitled to an answer to any question she may deign to ask), is perhaps the absolute last person I ever would have expected to see intervening in the gallows march of thirty-one marked ones:

Dasha fucking Fabrren. 

Notes:

Thank you so much to everyone who has been waiting patiently for this chapter, because I realise we're off our (unofficial) schedule! I've been having an absolutely crap week at work and just couldn't (a) find the time or (b) get in the mindset. I'm also thinking of all of my beautiful readers who are in the US this week, because (respectfully) what the actual fuck.

Barring the advent of a complete geopolitical meltdown, we'll be back on our schedule and updating again this weekend!

I'm not good at social media at the best of times, but in order to facilitate better comms (especially if I'm going to be held up on a chapter again!), I've made a Tumblr: avatatewrites (dot) tumblr (dot) com. I've also left my Asks open, too, so if you're not on the Riders Quadrant discord and have any questions you don't want to leave in a comment (e.g., 'What kind of music would your Sloane listen to?' or, 'Who's your fancast for Sloane?' or, 'Why are Visia and Avalynn always bickering, why won't they just stfu?'), please feel welcome to redirect them there!

Lastly, I'd like to, once again, thank Rachel for reading the absolute blob that this chapter started as and making it into something (which I hope sucks marginally less?) with her incredible feedback and encouragement. I'm a very lucky girl! <3

Chapter 15: The Interrogation Room

It is noted that, when using his signet, Cadet Aetos gravitates toward memories centered around interpersonal connections (particularly those romantic or familial in nature) with a degree of automaticity. While these memories can, on occasion, provide beneficial intelligence, it is important that he continue to work on curtailing this inherent tendency, particularly given operational protocols currently preclude such extractions of personal information where clear cause cannot be demonstrated. 

The training program I have designed is twofold: first, to help him recognize and control the unconscious drive toward relational memories; second, to redirect his focus to more mission-critical memories or contextually relevant information. The program will utilize a combination of cognitive-behavioral techniques and mental conditioning exercises, operant conditioning, and real-time field exercises involving memory retrieval from live subjects in high-stress environments. 

Continuous monitoring should prevent recidivism.

Psychologically, I note that Cadet Aetos is well-motivated, although he has, on occasion, expressed distress at inadvertent exposure to the sensitive personal information of his fellow cadets. You are to be commended on his finely-honed sense of duty, however.

I have no concerns about his prospects and will go as far as stating that I harbor high hopes for him. In fact, should he complete this program successfully, I have every expectation that Cadet Aetos will be positioned as a highly effective, prized military asset. In light of this belief, and following on from our last discussion, I have taken the liberty of reaching out to Major Burton Varrish to nominate Cadet Aetos for his counter-intelligence unit post-graduation, and will advise you of his response once received.

 -MEMORANDUM FROM PROFESSOR HAMMOND CARR TO COLONEL ALASTOR AETOS

 

 

 

-DAIN-

Early October

 

The soldier leading me to the brig could nearly pass for some kind of mustelid. Beneath his neatly pressed blue uniform, his arms and long, wiry torso are covered in protrusions of thick down. He struggles to keep his lead, disproportionately short legs pumping hard to match the pace of my long strides. The patches sewn into his uniform indicate that his name is Appa, that he’s a captain. Colored patches I can’t decipher reveal his division, battalion and brigade.

“It’s Varrish that wants you,” Captain Appa grunts, looking at me over his shoulder, past the pommel of his standard issue shortsword. His teeth are unusually pointed, which only adds to my impression of him as some small, carnivorous mammal. 

I stare at him blankly. 

“Thought you might be wondering.” 

Our walk has been mostly silent so far, but now that he's talking, I can detect subtle pharyngealization in his thick Esbens accent—voiceless, harsh ‘h’s and fricative, hoarse ‘a’s. It’s the kind of articulation Krovlish speakers develop when they’re learning the common language. 

Perhaps he learned to speak from a Krovlish parent, a mother or father who fled over the border and into the mountains. 

Perhaps he’s just from one of the border villages, where the accent gets muddled. 

“I wasn’t,” I tell Appa, then clarify, “I wasn’t wondering.” 

“No, I s’pose you probably weren’t. You riders are all cool as anything, aren’t you?” He sneers, then turns away, muttering under his breath. I hear him anyway. “You never worry about a thing, I reckon—riders.”

He says ‘riders’ like it’s some kind of denigration; among the infantry, it probably is. 

Riders may be respected by the rest of Navarre’s military, feared even, but we’re not exactly liked. 

I could explain that his impression of me as unbothered, or stupid, or egotistical is wrong (at least, in this particular instance). I could explain that I don’t need to wonder who has summoned me or why I’m being summoned. Violet has been missing for the better part of a week. Yesterday, I was advised that several of her squadmates, her closest friends, would be absent until further notice. Security around the Riders Quadrant and Archives have been tightened enough to chafe, and on Sunday, the entire quadrant was called to an emergency formation so that Nora could check their fucking hands. 

Sloane is leaving. 

Sloane expects to flee the quadrant any second now, and I can’t do a damn thing to stop that from happening. 

I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it all day. 

I don’t want to think about those perfect, brief moments where all of her body was aligned with all of mine. 

I don’t want to think about what it might have meant that she spent hours hand-making the single most meaningful gift I’ve ever been given, which I stared at for the better part of an hour this morning before shoving it into the inner pocket of my flight jacket. Already, it’s something precious to me, as precious as my sword; I couldn’t bear to leave it behind when I left the room, as if it might dematerialize if I weren’t looking at it.  

I don’t want to think about what might have happened last night if I hadn’t realized she was there to say goodbye.

The echo of our steps pounds in my ears, each one drawing me closer to a cataclysm. I let the steady rhythm lull me into a near-meditative state, then cautiously lower my shields. As I do, I feel that Cath is already tense, as if he’s preempted that something’s afoot. 

I should be surprised, since I’ve been keeping him carefully locked out from the second I recognized Sloane’s knock at my door last night, but… well, dragons tend to gossip amongst themselves. He’s probably already heard that I was pulled out of Battle Brief. 

“They’re taking me to Violet,” I tell him as we round another corner. 

I feel a frisson of alarm down the bond we share. “Now?”

I nearly roll my eyes. “No,” I think, unnecessarily abrasive. “They’ve asked me to pencil them in for a month from now.” I add, for the sake of clarity, “Yes, Cath. They’re taking me to Violet now.”

There’s a moment of silence as Cath seems to consider this. 

“You have said no once before,” he points out, not even bothering to acknowledge my sardonic efforts. “Perhaps you should simply decline?”

I nearly shake my head. “I don’t think there’s any getting out of this one, bud.”

“Try,” he insists. 

I blink. If not even a ‘bud’ warrants acknowledgement, then Cath must be seriously worried about something. “Is everything—?”

“If you decline, then—”

“They’ll kill me, Cath.”

“They could certainly try, but I would burn the citadel to the ground before they succeeded.” I hear the sounds of movement: wings unfurling in a snap, wind streaming past as he rises. “I am on my way, and once I am there, I shall—” He stops himself with a snarl, and I count eighteen steps before he continues. “Meet me in the courtyard. Now.”

“I’m already halfway to the brig.”

“Turn around,” he insists, sounding slightly frenzied. “Meet me in the courtyard, wingleader.”

My brow knits. “What’s going on?”

I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until Appa turns back to me with a sneer. “I told ya, didn’t I? Varrish wants you.” He turns, speaking into the empty hallway, tone dismissive. “Mind you, I’m not sure what he thinks you might usefully do. If him and his Truth-Sayer can’t get what they need from that girl, I s’pose no one could.” He pauses, examining me over his shoulder again. “What’s your magic power, then?”

“Signet.” Appa twitches with annoyance at the fact that I’m correcting him, then again when I answer. “And my signet is well above your pay grade, Captain.”

Appa scoffs, turning around. 

“I don’t think there's any getting out of this, Cath. Realistically, I don’t think I’d make it to the courtyard if I tried to run.” I glance at the stoat of a man who’s leading me towards the brig. I could probably outpace him, but I’d have to make it across the bridge and through the many sets of guards stationed around the Riders Quadrant. 

I feel a pulse of reluctant acceptance flow down the bond between us. “Wingleader, you should know…”

Silence.

“I should know what, Cath?” I prompt.

We come to the narrow, curving stairwell that leads to a network of underground tunnels. Its steps are worn precariously smooth by centuries of foot traffic, and I watch with a mild thrill of satisfaction as Appa’s boots slide out from underneath him. One of the guards stationed on the steps—tall, with red hair and eyes as blue as his uniform—catches him by the wrist, but instead of expressing gratitude, Appa practically pushes him away. He brushes his hands over the front of his uniform while righting himself like he could brush away his embarrassment.

I lock eyes with the younger soldier and shrug. To my surprise, he winks as he moves back against the wall, making room for me to pass.

“Whatever happens, you will endure it.”

It’s not like Cath to be sentimental. In fact, it’s wildly out of character. Baffled, I think, “Well, I’ll try.”

“You will not try,” he insists. “You will succeed.”

I’ve just finished fortifying my shields when we emerge into the antechamber of the brig. It’s a squat, round room carved into the bedrock beneath the citadel. The stone ceilings are heavy and oppressive, claustrophobia-inspiring. Frequently, I’ve imagined them toppling down on me, crushing me under their weight. In the flickering torchlight, I notice half a-dozen guards standing around the room; I let my eyes travel over them lazily, tabulating weapons. 

Varrish and Nora are in quiet conversation, standing by one of three reinforced doors; Appa leads me to them. 

Varrish’s mouth twitches with the effort of imitating warmth when he smiles at us approaching. Tentatively, I smile back, trying to look unconcerned or, failing that, mildly stupid. “You asked to see me, sir? Down here?” I gesture towards the stairwell, pivoting slightly at the hips so I can check the corner of the room I’m currently giving my back to. Happily, there’s nothing behind me except shadows and a cold stone bench. “There have to be a dozen guards in the stairwell.” 

“I did.” Varrish waves me closer, exuding fatherly enthusiasm. I fucking hate that he’s always doing this paternal act; that at some stage, he must have identified the tenuous relationship I have with my father and any resulting neuroses as a thing to be exploited, either because of his signet or because I have a face that screams ‘daddy issues’. “I need your help.” Solemnly, he adds, as if telling me something of great import, as if trying to let me know that this is a pivotal moment in history, “Navarre needs your help.”

I nod gravely. “What can I do?”

“We had a breach of security this week, and classified documents were stolen. We caught the perpetrator and prevented the loss of intelligence, but the prisoner…” He pauses, gesticulating. Next, he casts his eyes around the room, then sighs dramatically. This man is the worst actor I’ve ever seen, I think, watching him pontificate. How has he possibly made it this far as an intelligence operative, even with his fucking cursed signet? “It’s blatantly obvious by connection that this rider is working with what we suspect to be a second rebellion intent on destroying Navarre. For the safety of every civilian within our wards, I need this prisoner’s memories, wingleader. You must extract the truth, or our very way of life will be compromised.”

I can’t help but note his careful choice of wording: “every civilian within our wards.”

“I’m going to warn you,” he says as he leads me towards the riveted door on the right, “the prisoner’s identity may come as a shock.”

I’m irritable and anxious enough that as he opens the door wider and leads me into the room, I’m tempted to ask him how, exactly, he thinks I could have overlooked the absence of one of my own cadets for five days, let alone the fact that the missing cadet is Violet fucking Sorrengail. Exactly how shit does he think I am at my job, that I—?

Thoughts eddy out of my head as I hover in the doorway, staring.  

The prisoner’s identity might not come as a shock to me, but the prisoner’s condition sure fucking does. 

It’s bad. 

It’s so much worse than it was last time. 

I sweep my eyes over her, measuring and assessing injuries as best I can on a purely visual examination. Her hands are swollen and purple. Judging by her posture, I’d confidently say that two or more of her ribs are cracked; her arm is broken. It’s likely that her hip is subluxated, too. Her painfully swollen face is the hardest thing to look at, though perhaps the least of her impairments. Great big splotches of yellow, purple, red and black bleeding into each other at the edges to form grotesque, amorphous shapes, not unlike the petals of a pansy. 

Whatever of her skin is uncovered boasts similar bruising, telling a story about the last five days that curdles my blood. 

I take a single step into the room, arms heavy at my sides. “Violet?” 

“Please help me,” she begs, her voice a mere croak.

I feel compelled to look away, but I can’t. Instead, I move further into the room, nose wrinkling at the sour, microbial scent of the room: the scent of sweat, decay and despair. The air feels wet, moist, and there’s a draught that I shouldn’t be able to feel this deep inside the bowels of the college, inside a room with no windows. 

Bloodstains are left on the wall like works of art, displayed with pride. 

Nora moves to stand by a table in the corner. Violet’s daggers have been plucked from her chest harness and arranged neatly across its surface, and Nora caresses the hilt of one with her finger in a way that seems almost covetous. 

“You’ve been torturing her for five days.” I look at Varrish, frowning. I’m about to remind him that the regulations state interrogation assessments can’t exceed three days without express written sanction from the Commanding General of Basgiath, which I sincerely doubt he’s obtained. Or perhaps I’m about to bring up any of the twenty other violations of the regulations governing interrogation assessments that I’ve already counted. 

I promptly shut my mouth, though, because it occurs to me that this isn’t an interrogation assessment at all.

Violet is Varrish’s prisoner, and there are less than a handful of regulations which prescribe rules for the interrogation of Navarrian prisoners. There are even fewer regulations that prescribe their humane treatment.

Varrish could do almost anything with impunity. 

“Since she stole Lyra’s journal from the king’s private library?” His very presence seems to absorb what little light there is in the room. “Absolutely. She might have been a childhood friend, Aetos, but we both know where her loyalties now lie: with Riorson and the war he’s planning against us. She wants to bring down the wards.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice is small; I can easily surmise that she’s dehydrated and hoarse from screaming. “I would never hurt civilians. Dain, you know—”

“I don’t know shit about you anymore.” 

It’s the truth. And if the hurt and anger I feel about that fact show on my face, then so be it. I can think of exactly one scenario in which Violet and I make it out of this room alive, though I have no idea how I’m going to engineer the exact set of circumstances needed to make that happen with Violet practically at Malek’s doorstep and a Truth-Sayer standing vigil in the corner. 

Lulling Varrish into a false sense of security seems like a good place to start, though. 

I don’t allow myself to think any further than that—not yet. If I can somehow engineer the right circumstances to do what needs to be done, I have no idea how I’m going to find it in myself to actually do it. 

Could I really—?

“There’s a war out there,” Violet says frantically, imploringly. She glances at Nora out of the corner of her eye, then adds, “Poromish civilians are dying, and we’re not doing anything to help. We’re just watching it happen, Dain.”

I don’t need to look at Nora to know it’s the truth.

Sloane said the exact same thing, and I knew it to be true then; I could see it in her face, hear it in her voice. 

I see it in Violet’s face, too.  

“You think we should involve ourselves in their civil war?” I prod, buying time, trying not to let my eyes fly around the room as I attempt to formulate a plausible escape plan. They didn’t take my sword; that’s good. There are eleven of Violet’s daggers arranged on the table, which means one is missing. Varrish or Nora must have it, but they’re otherwise unarmed; that’s good, too.  

Violet’s shoulders sag. “I think you’ve been lied to for so long that you won’t recognize the truth even when it hits you in the face.”

Swiftly, my mind filters through carefully constructed half-truths.

“I could say the same for you.” I glance at Varrish. “You’re sure she was trying to take down the wards?”

“I’ve had the journal sent back to the Archives for safekeeping, but…” He shrugs. “Yes. The book she stole gave detailed instructions on how the wards were built and could be used as a map to unravel them.” He walks towards me and clasps my shoulder, radiating disingenuous sympathy. Bile rises in my throat, which I swallow down. “I know this is hard to hear, but people aren’t always who we want them to be. Try not to be angry with her.” He looks at me pityingly. “We can’t always help who we fall in love with, can we?”

I stiffen instinctively, wondering for a moment if—

No, my shields are still solid. When I check them, they feel as impregnable as they did in the antechamber, anchored deep into the roots of my subconscious, each one shaped with precision.  

Violet. 

He’s talking about Violet. 

“Riorson pulled her into something she couldn’t possibly understand. You know that; you saw it happen last year.” He examines me critically, then seems to decide that I’m not quite where he wants me yet. “I didn’t want to have to show you this, but”—he takes a dagger from one of his sheaths and holds it out towards me—“she was carrying this, too. That metal you see is what powers the wards. We think they’ve been smuggling them out to wherever they’re planning to stage this war from, weakening our wards little by little.”

I look at the knife. 

It’s not a beautiful knife. It’s sleek, tactical, purposeful; ergonomically designed, with a ribbed grip intended to prevent slippage and subtle ridges on the sides that enhance its balance. The blade itself is alloyed steel, slender and aerodynamic in shape, and sharpened to a fine edge. The only hint of adornment are the Tyrrish knots engraved in the hilt. 

I know one of the interlocked knots translates to ‘need’, but I don’t recognize the others.

No, not knots, I think, examining them more carefully. Runes, I correct myself, remembering the subtle smirk on Sloane’s face when I described the markings of Durran’s ward as knots, when she patiently corrected me and then began to translate them. 

The dagger thrums with an energy so faint that it’s almost indiscernible. 

These are runes, not knots. 

There’s a difference.

I study the blade a little longer, even though I’m familiar with it. Violet has had this knife, all twelve matching daggers, for a long time. Since we were at Montserrat, at least. 

I’ve seen nearly identical knives in Sloane’s chest harness, Durran’s bandolier, Imogen’s thigh garter.

I’ve seen one on my father’s desk.

I’ve seen one on Lilith’s desk, too. 

I don’t even need to explore the logical fallacies to know I’m being fed bullshit, but seeing as Varrish still has the dagger thrust out in front of me, I do, anyway.

I feel confident in assuming magic powers wards, not metal. Even if I knew nothing about the strange magic Tyrs have secreted away for themselves, I’d still be more inclined to believe that the wards were powered by magic than metal. I do know about Tyrrish runes, though. Or of them, at least. Somehow, Durran’s magic powers the wards on Sloane’s door, because he wove it into a ward; it occurs to me that that ward is like a microcosm of the one protecting Basgiath and the Vale. And I may not know whose magic powers that ward or whose magic is imbued into the metal of this dagger, but I sincerely doubt the two are somehow incompatible.

Ignoring all of that, Varrish specifically said the rebellion were ‘smuggling them out’, implying that these daggers are being made here, at Basgiath. Presumably, they’re being made using Basgiath’s forge. Why, if these weapons could destroy the wards?

I choose to believe that that phrasing, alone, would have been enough to arouse my suspicions, even if I knew nothing about the ward over Sloane’s door, even if I’d never seen one of these daggers on the desks of the two most senior officers in Basgiath.

I might be lying to myself.

What do they do, these daggers? I squint at the blade as if staring at it might give me the answers I’m looking for. If I’m right, why is Basgiath making them? I fixate on the runes on the dagger, trying to translate them using what little Tyrrish I’ve managed to learn so I can identify what it does. Do they all have the same runes, or do they differ? Why have I never taken more interest in these fucking knives before? I find myself thinking, annoyed. Could whatever magic is imbued in Violet’s daggers somehow help us get—?

Varrish tucks the knife back into an empty sheath on his jacket and pats it compulsively. 

Mind whirring, I glance at Violet and ask, “Is that true?”

Violet looks towards Nora again, who’s moved so that she’s leaning against the door, arms crossed and mouth twitching like she’s watching something staged for her entertainment. Violet’s small body trembles. “I can explain. It’s not how he’s portraying it.”

“I don’t need you to explain.” 

Paradoxically, this is both a lie and the truth. In one sense, I really do need Violet to explain. Since the night of Threshing, I’ve been rummaging through my mind and reading incessantly, trying to piece together a plausible hypothesis about what’s happening beyond the wards that I could put to Sloane in hopes that she might confirm or deny it. So far, I’ve come up with nothing sensible. 

On the other hand, I don’t need Violet to explain, because they’ve brought me here to rummage through her mind; I’ll know soon enough whether she decides to explain it all to me or not. 

Some part of me feels almost giddy at that; I suppress it, disgusted. 

I watch Varrish from the corner of my eye as I add, for his benefit, hoping she’ll read between the lines, “I’ve been asking you to talk to me for months, and now I see why you won’t, why you’re adamant I never touch you. You’re scared I’ll see what you’ve been hiding.” I step forward, nearly undoing all my efforts as I see her flinch, spine pressing harder into the chair, and flinch myself in response. 

Guess she isn’t reading between the lines, then. I nearly sigh, but clench my teeth around it at the last second, instead. It pains me, though, that she truly believes I would—

“Remember your ethics, Cadet.” Varrish nearly smirks; Nora does. I’m not even looking at her, but I can feel the presence of it in the room, taste it in the dank air. “Especially given your attachment to Cadet Sorrengail. Search like you’ve been practicing, but focus on the word ‘ward’.”

“Lieutenant Nora,” someone says from the antechamber, “all leadership is being ordered to assemble. There have been”—a meaningful pause, no doubt accompanied by an equally as meaningful glance at my back—“incidents at the border.”

“By whose order?” Nora barks. 

“General Sorrengail’s.”

I nearly collapse with relief at the words, at the realization that this might not have to end the way I thought it would a minute ago. With extreme delicacy, I open a crack in the barrier between my mind and Cath’s, trying to ensure that the rest of my shields stay sturdy. “I need you to tell Aimsir where Violet is and what’s happening.”

“Aimsir?” Cath is flying at pace; then I hear his wings flare as he comes to a sudden, jolting stop. What the fuck is he doing? “Aimsir is in Calldyr—”

“Lilith Sorrengail just issued an order for leadership to assemble, which means she must be close,” I insist. “Tell Aimsir that she needs to get down here fast. Violet is inches from meeting Malek.”

“Wingleader, do not—”

“We might already be too late.” Varrish shakes his head at me, expression staid. “Riorson deserted days ago, according to the reports we received this morning. We’re gathering the marked ones now.”

Violet’s breath hitches. 

I feel my hands curling into fists at my side and gently unravel them. “Cath, does Thoirt know—?”

“Yes.”

“Is she—?”

“I do not have time for this!” Cath scolds. “I will notify Aimsir. You will survive until the general arrives.” He growls as he adds, “If you had simply met me in the courtyard as instructed, I would not—” 

I hear another feral snarl as he shuts me out. 

“What have you done, Violet?” Varrish purrs at her, stepping forward as I narrowly stop myself from reeling with shock at Cath’s strange dismissal. “Orchestrated another attack on an outpost?” His expression is malicious as he turns to me and demands, “Find out what you can, Aetos. The safety of our kingdom depends on it; time is of the essence.”

Resigned, I lift my hands towards Violet’s face, noticing as I do that her hairline is crusted with blood from some unseen wound. It feels wrong to violate her like this, but I need to stall long enough for her mother to get here from the flight field, and I can’t think of a better way to do it. 

Plus, it would be nice to have some answers about—

No.

No, I shouldn’t—

Panicked, Violet seems to blurt out the first thing that comes to her mind: “You killed Liam.”

I’m already hesitating, but now I’m momentarily struck by the temptation to tell her the truth: that I’ve regretted it every day since; that I would give anything to trade my soul for Liam’s; that sometimes, when I look at her or at Sloane, I feel like my guilt could wither me from the inside out and leave behind nothing but a husk.

I can’t say anything true about what I feel, though. 

If I tell her the truth now, we could both wind up dead. 

So instead, I take a calculated risk. I angle myself so that Nora, still standing at the door, will be able to see the side of my face; then I lie through my fucking teeth. “So you keep saying.” I form my features into a sulky sneer, something that’s both guilty and obstinate. I barely recognize my own voice as I protest, “I only searched your memory to prove my father wrong, Violet, and all you did was prove him right.” 

Nora’s head tilts like she’s heard something the rest of us can’t, but I pray to Zihnal, Amari and the rest of the fucking pantheon that she assumes I’m lying to preserve my ego. 

It doesn’t seem implausible, I think to myself. 

If I’m the person Varrish thinks I am, then it would be natural to try rewriting history, to make myself seem like a nobler figure, more worthy of his approval. 

Nora’s eyes find Varrish’s and hold them for what feels like an eternity, but she says nothing. Satisfied that I’m not about to be called out, I continue, cautiously selecting another true statement I know to be irrelevant. “If the marked ones died betraying our kingdom, then they deserved what they got.”

“I hate you,” Violet whispers, eyes welling with tears. 

“She’s stalling.” Varrish touches my shoulder again. Despite the intensity of the moment, the irony of him accusing her of being the one who’s stalling isn’t lost on me. “Do it now.” After a moment’s thought, he adds, as an insurance policy against whatever I’m about to witness, “And if you see something you don’t understand, I’ll explain it once we know where their army is hiding. Just trust me that we’re acting in the best interest of every citizen of Navarre. Our only goal is keeping them safe.”

Not the best interests of the Continent, I note. 

Not the best interests of all.

Such carefully selected words, really.  

I think of Sloane, glorious and silver in the moonlight, pacing barefoot over the grass as she asks me whether a line can be drawn across the map to dictate who deserves safety and who doesn’t. 

I think of Sloane, and I allow myself a second to pray that she’s alright. 

I refuse to think about the fact that I’m making that prayer out to Loial, because it’s not really important right now. 

“She’s bruised everywhere.” Something drips quietly down from the ceiling in three-second intervals, clipping against the mildew-slicked floor. I count far too many of those drips as I try desperately to reach Cath. Just as I’m about to give up, a portion of the wall crumbles away. 

“Aimsir has been notified, and the general is on her way,” he confirms, sounding inexplicably winded.

“What about—?”

“Have you—?”

Varrish leans in closer to my side, and I start. His breath is slightly sour, as always. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about Violet when he says, “She’s nothing more than a traitor.”

I blink at him. 

Could I have dropped my shields? 

No, I couldn’t. 

Unless, in the shock of seeing Violet…

I’m almost certain I didn’t, haven’t, until his stern, grey gaze lowers to the breast of my flight jacket, right where the napkin Sloane embroidered for me hides, as if in confirmation that I did. 

Fuck. I swallow dryly. 

It could just be a coincidence. He is, after all, looking directly at my heart. But it occurs to me now that if he somehow hasn’t detected changes in me already, he might soon, anyway. I’ll have to drop my shields to see inside Violet’s mind, and when I do, there’s every chance he’ll discover that my biggest weakness is no longer Violet, or my ego, or my yearning for the acceptance and approval of a father figure. 

Well, assuming one of those was my greatest weakness.

I can’t know for certain, of course. Who really knows himself well enough to know his own weaknesses with that level of certainty?

It could be any one of those things, or all of them. 

And now…

And now, there’s a chance, however slim, that when I drop my shields, Varrish will see (assuming I haven’t already dropped them without realizing, assuming that he hasn’t already seen) that my biggest weakness is five feet, seven inches of pure malice hidden behind a pair of enigmatic blue eyes. 

There’s really no way to guess.

“Right.” 

I take a deep breath, lowering my shields slowly as if that might somehow delay the inevitable. I force myself not to look at Varrish, to check if any sign of recognition or discontent flits across his face. Nodding, I lift my hands to Violet’s temples and place them against her skin with featherlight pressure; she winces as if I’ve just hit her. 

We stare at each other as I wait at the edge of her mind, on a precipice, wondering what, exactly, I should be looking for. 

Poromiel?

Athebyne?

I guess I could look for wards, but I—

I nearly jump out of my fucking skin as I feel something inside of Violet’s mind wrap around me, dragging me deeper into her subconscious. I hear air huff out of me in surprise, but I can’t control my body any more than I could control my movements through Violet’s mind. 

On the chair, Violet tips her chin back defiantly, staring into my eyes.  

This is not how my signet works. 

This is not—

Images flash behind my eyelids.

I land inside of a memory, inside of Violet’s body. I’m standing atop an outpost, I think, looking out over a nearby village which I recognize from drawings in history books: Resson. The worst sound I’ve ever heard—worse, even, than the sound I heard when I thought Violet was dead—rends through the air as an enormous, two-legged dragon the color of ash bursts across the Poromish border towards the trading post. 

Liam Mairi stands proud and tall at my side, a crease of concern slashing across his forehead. I’m shocked, for a moment, by how well I remember his face, by how familiar it is, as if I could close my eyes and still see it in perfect detail; then I realize I know it so well because it’s Sloane’s face, too. I knew they looked similar, but I never realized that their similarity went deeper than that. Watching him in motion now, I realize that the slight, unconscious movements of his features are uncannily like Sloane’s, or that hers are eerily like his, as if they both move to a rhythm only they can hear. 

“Do we have a riot nearby?” he asks, mouth pursing in discontent in a way that’s sickeningly familiar.

The dragon screams again as it belches fire onto the mountainside. 

Blue fire.

“Wyvern.” My mouth; Violet’s voice. Except, it’s not my mouth. It’s her mouth, because this is her memory. It’s so vivid, so visceral, that I almost forgot I was merely observing. I feel Violet’s fear roiling through me, pulsating and trembling as she stares at something straight out of my childhood nightmares, an image torn from the pages of a book Asher used to read to us as children. “Xaden, it has two legs, not four. It’s not a dragon; it’s a wyvern.”

I become something spinning on its axis, moments passing by that are disconcertingly out of focus—first too fast, then too slow. 

I fall into Violet’s body again, into another memory. I’m staring at something terrifyingly beautiful in its grotesquerie, something incomprehensible: a pale-faced, red-eyed woman in purple robes, distended red veins spidering from her eyes and down her neck. She places her hands to the ground, sucks the color from the land around her; Soleil Telery and her dragon Fuil stumble onto that lifeless land, making time for a crush of townspeople to escape into the darkened mouth of a mine. 

As their feet touch the drained earth, they shrivel and desiccate. 

Venin.

Is that thought mine or Violet’s? I try to shake my head, but I’m still paralyzed, my mind and body seized by this thing that won’t let go of me. 

Venin, like the stories Asher used to tell.

I can hear the steady drip in the interrogation room even as my mind fills with more sharp spasms of memories that I cannot isolate, that I’m not sure I’d want to isolate. What I can see is bad enough.

These are visions of unmitigated carnage. 

They’ve kept us in the dark, erased our very history to avoid conflict, to keep us safe while innocent people die, Violet seems to tell me. Her voice resonates somewhere deep in my hindbrain, somewhere deeper than conscious thought. I feel sharp talons curling tighter around my mind, piercing me so that I cannot move, and then—

Then Liam. 

Everything slows to a dizzying crawl as Liam lays dying in my arms—Violet’s arms, but mine, to my mind. His face, so like Sloane’s, contorts into an expression of unimaginable pain. I’m holding onto him, but I’m weaker than I think I’ve ever been, barely able to hold him on Tairn’s back as he writhes listlessly. I’m momentarily shocked by my own lack of strength until I remember that I’m not me; I’m Violet. 

A scream of pure grief rips from his throat seconds before Tairn skids across the ground, clouds of dust billowing around him. Once freed from the bands that kept him anchored to Tairn’s back, he stumbles towards his dragon, Deigh, but only makes it a few steps before he begins to fall. 

When I rush forward to catch him, I crumple under his weight. 

“At Parapet,” he begs, “you have to take care of my sister.”

Violet says something I don’t fully register in my shock.

“We both know I won’t. Just promise me you’ll take care of Sloane.” He searches Violet’s eyes, breath as ragged and rattling as wind dragging itself across a sheer cliff face. It feels like his eyes are searching mine; it feels like he’s asking me to look after Sloane, and I feel violently ill. “Promise.”

I feel a sense of desperation, desolation. I can’t even tell how much of it is mine and how much of it is Violet’s. 

Beneath my hands, I feel Liam’s pulse begin to crawl. “I promise.”

“Good. That’s good.” 

He smiles, and I see that one of his dimples is more prominent than the other. Sloane has a dimple that’s more prominent, too, but hers is on the other side of her face. I notice this with a stab of pain, then notice that his nose is bent slightly to the right; hers tilts marginally left. You wouldn’t notice it unless you’d been staring at her. 

It’s almost as if Sloane and her brother were mirror images of each other, two inverted halves of a whole. And that whole is forever divided now because of my actions, because I—

I spin away through pockets of time, grateful to be leaving that moment behind.

Wyvern circle above the burning market as I take to the skies on Tairn’s back. In the air, I let loose a primal scream as I lift my hands and allow more power than I’ve ever felt, more power than I could imagine living inside any one person, to rip from my body. 

I’ve never truly understood how a rider could burn out until now, nestled within this memory. Cath channels so much power, more than I need, more than I could ever use. Tairn channels so much more than that, but Violet… 

Violet uses all of it.  

A surge of raw energy erupts from my fingers, breaks inside my bones. Lightning leaves my fingertips, and I feel the air rippling with the force of it as if to tremble in the face of it. Below, what’s still standing of the battlements that surround the trading post rattles. The silence after the strike of lightning is untenably loud, wrong; I’m lifting my hands to fill it with another bolt when I feel a roar of pain and turn to see a dark-robed venin standing on Tairn’s back, sword buried to the hilt between his scales.

Everything is orange, like we’re inside the heart of a fire, as I move towards her. Bones break as I block blows from her green-tipped daggers. She’s a seasoned fighter, adapting quickly to my movements as if she could anticipate them, lunging—

The pain of the knife in my side is sudden, but bearable; it’s the burn that makes my breath catch, my heart pound.

It’s the burn that tells me I’m dying.

“Such untapped power,” the venin tells me, tutting as she advances. “No wonder we were called here. You could command the sky to surrender all its power, and I bet—”

Sound. 

Some ancient, foreboding sound, heavy with the weight of things that were never meant to be heard, carves through the annals of my mind. It’s as wrong as the wyvern’s scream, as wrong as the sound I heard when I thought Violet was dead. It’s a chorus of suffering. 

I feel it—in my eyes, in my skull, in my teeth. 

Whatever force has been holding me captive in Violet’s mind shoves me backwards, and I nearly buckle under the pain and pressure that radiate through me at its touch. My head suddenly feels too small for all the things that are being shoved into it. Every nerve in my body screams. 

I choke, drawing backwards. 

Free from its hold on me, I can think. Violet’s memories echo through me like thunder, and I try to process them. 

I can think again, and—

Where is that fucking draught coming from? It’s so fucking cold.

I can think again, and—

I don’t think my body is big enough for all of the things inside it, irrevocable things that I can’t ever unknow, no matter how much I want to. 

The pressure hasn’t left me now that I’m out of Violet’s mind. It’s settled behind my eyes, in my throat, in my fists. It lives inside of me now, and I’ll have to live around it, around the pain that accompanies it, like I’ve learned to live around all the other horrible things that have come before. 

I’ll have to live around the knowledge that my entire life has been a lie, that everything and everyone I’ve ever trusted—

“Cath?” I plead, scrabbling against the wall between our minds. “Cath, are you there?”

Violet opens her eyes slowly, tears leaving glistening wet trails over patchwork bruising as they slide down her face. “Did you get what you wanted?” 

“Cath?”

I sense Varrish moving somewhere to my right.

I need to formulate a strategy, but I can hardly remember my own name in the face of the deep, hollowing sense of betrayal wedged between my ribs. I can hardly think of anything except the venin; Resson; Liam, small in death, asking only that someone look after the sister he’d leave behind, the sister who might already be in Varrish’s custody.

My instinct is to claw through my own memories, looking for clues I missed, trying to discern who knew what and for how long.

My instinct is to grieve for the versions of myself that will never be.

I need to get Violet out of here, though. 

I need to find the marked ones and make sure Sloane is safe. 

Violet is heavily injured; there’s a Truth-Sayer in the room. 

I take deep breaths, reconfiguring my mind. I blink away images of Soleil and Fuil, efflorescent. Liam flickers, but I doubt the memory of his death will ever truly fade.

“You’re smuggling weapons,” I say slowly, searching her eyes, assembling another half-truth that won’t arouse suspicion. I slam against the wall in my mind in desperation, again and again; there’s no answer. “Stealing weapons to aid another kingdom?”

Violet looks defeated as she turns toward a spot in the room, something at her side. A hallucination, I’d guess, judging by the way her weeping eyes fix on it. I read once that the worst scars left by prolonged torture are those we can’t see. Days of interrogation, sleep deprivation and solitary confinement have profound psychological consequences, and conjuring figures of comfort as a coping strategy is a common phenomena. I wonder who Violet is seeing. Asher or Brennan, perhaps? Mira? “I’m so sorry I failed you,” she tells them. 

“As you should be,” Varrish scoffs. 

“They want us now!” someone screams from the antechamber. Nora says something in response.  

Lilith is on her way. I cling to that thought, wrapping it around me like armor. Lilith is on her way, which means that I just need to hold out a little longer. If I can just hold out a little longer, then—

“What did you find?” Varrish’s beady eyes rake over me, taking in my curled fists and shallow breathing. I’m probably pale and visibly disconcerted, despite my best efforts to rein myself in. I become instantly certain that he’ll kill me as soon as I tell him what he wants to know, what he thinks I’ve discovered in Violet’s memories. “Where are they staging from?”

“Cath!” 

Nothing. 

“Give me that knife.” I hold out my hand expectantly. Is Cath busy, or is he ignoring me? “I want to compare it to the one I saw in the memory, the ones they’re stealing from us.”

Nora is turned towards the door. Her fingers flex, but if she registers the dishonesty in my use of the word ‘us’, she doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Varrish sighs impatiently as he hands me the blade. “Just don’t kill her.” He gestures dismissively, lip curling. “We need to find and question Riorson first, use her as leverage.”

I look at the weapon, then nod. Nora is no longer distracted by what’s happening in the antechamber, so once again, I choose my words carefully. “This is the one. They’re taking them out by the dozen, arming the enemy. I saw everything.” I look at Violet, begging her to understand. She didn’t show me a single dagger in her memories. I try to remember what was happening in the background of her memories, what I saw in the skies as she waged battle against the venin; I have to give Varrish something true, after all. “There’s at least one drift involved.”

Violet slumps in her chair, defeated, and I try to repress my frustration. 

She’s sleep-deprived, probably starving, and delirious enough to be hallucinating. It’s probably not fair to expect her to pick up on subtle hints in her condition. 

“Good.” Varrish nods impatiently; I wonder if Solas has let him know that Aimsir has returned to the Vale, that Violet’s mother is on her way here and probably has a thirst for his blood. It occurs to me that Tairn is probably hunting Solas as we speak, which is a source of comfort. Maybe he doesn’t already know Lilith is on her way. “Good. Now tell me where they are.”

“How long, Cath?”

I nearly let out a cry of relief when I feel the wall between Cath and me slip, but my relief is short-lived. “I cannot reach Aimsir.”

Well, I guess we’re back to Plan A, I think, reconciling myself.

I’m not so much worried about killing Varrish. He won’t be my first kill; no one makes it out of Basgiath with clean hands. We all kill eventually, whether it’s in self-defense or cold blood. 

Varrish, at least, deserves it.

I don’t know what comes after that, though. 

Nora, I guess; then the riders and infantrymen in the antechamber.

Appa. 

After that, we’ll need to get up the stairs somehow, which will be difficult with Violet in her condition. They steps are narrow and uneven, slick. I’ll have to carry her up without slipping, which will be a feat in and of itself. Managing that while fighting would be a fucking miracle, although I suppose one advantage of the situation is that they’ll have to come at us one-at-a-time. 

Maybe I could put her down, then use my body as a shield while I strike them at their knees?

Before I deal with that problem, though…  

I maneuver myself into a better position, adjusting the blade of Violet’s dagger so that it lies flat against my forearm; Violet stares into my eyes as I move closer to her, totally still, defiant to the last. Challenging me to kill her, I realize with a grim sense of dismay. If we both make it out of this, she and I are going to have a very serious discussion about the fact that I have done nothing in my life to deserve her phlegmatic, bull-headed lack of faith in me.

I’ve no sooner thought that than I think of Liam and Soleil, and— 

“You should have trusted me, Violet,” I tell her, pained. “None of this would have happened if you’d just trusted me, and now it’s too late.”

It’s the most honest truth I’ve spoken since I stepped into this interrogation room, but it hardly matters now, because Nora doesn’t hear it. There’s the sounds of a scuffle in the antechamber, Nora yelling. Varrish angles his head toward the noise, giving me an opening I’m not sure I’m ready for. 

Unfortunately, openings rarely come at the opportune time. They arrive unprompted, then vanish without warning if not promptly seized. 

I take one last breath, letting my mind narrow until I can think of nothing but the pressure behind my eyes; then I slash backwards with an unsparing, brisk motion, burying Violet’s dagger in Varrish’s side. 

Varrish stumbles, groaning and wide-eyed and disbelieving. I’m already moving to cut Violet’s hands free with the blade I ripped from his kidney. She, likewise, squints feverishly down at me, face twisted in an expression of incertitude and skepticism that, while probably somewhat deserved, is no less painful for that fact. 

“I don’t know if we can fight our way out of here,” I admit, crouching to slash at the bindings around her ankles. Varrish gurgles something as he falls back against the wall and slides down it, leaving fresh streaks of blood on the wet-stained stones. I pay him no mind. “Can you move?”

Violet’s mouth shapes soundless words. 

“Violet,” I insist, shoving the blood-wetted dagger into her hand as I draw my sword from its sheath, “you have to move or we’re dead.”

I turn just as Nora is lunging towards us and almost catch her throat with the tip of my sword. She takes a half-step back, retreating into the shadows that loom large in the antechamber. The flickering sconces must have been extinguished; the room is in near darkness. “Let us pass, and you’ll live,” I tell her as I reach behind me to help Violet onto her feet. 

If Nora escorts us, then—

In the antechamber, I hear a crisp, disembodied voice declare, “I make no such promises.” 

Not even a full second later, a relic-marked hand reaches out from the shadows threatening to engulf Nora whole and gracefully slashes a dagger across her throat, leaving a thin striation from which an unfathomable amount of blood spurts.

-----

I stand awkwardly to one side as Violet and Riorson profess their undying love to one another, wishing I could slip out of the room without being murdered and knowing damn well that Riorson isn’t letting me out of his sight. 

No good deed goes unpunished, I guess. 

“Cath?”

I’m not expecting him to answer; I haven’t heard from him since he told me he couldn’t reach Aimsir. To my surprise, though, he responds, even if it is just a soft snort.  

“Sloane?” I ask tentatively. “How are Sloane and the other marked ones? Are they safe?” 

Cath makes a reluctant noise. “Your idiot is alive,” he coolly informs me. “I believe they all are, for now, and so Thoirt and I shall ensure they remain.” He hesitates, then says, “Wingleader, you should know—”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Cath.” 

“You do,” he demurs. “I did not want you to find out like this.”

“Yeah, well, I did.”

“I did not tell you because it is my duty to protect you.” His voice is low and mournful. “Knowledge is weight, and not all shoulders are built to bear it. Before I shared this weight with you, I needed to know you could withstand it. I needed you to grow, to think, to see and understand. I need you to discover this truth for yourself, because that was the only way you would be strong enough to bear it.” He pauses. “You are angry, I know. You feel I have betrayed you, manipulated you.”

There’s no point in lying, so I say nothing.

“The truth is heavy, wingleader, and now we know you are strong enough to wear it. Can you say it was always so?” 

“Godsdamn.” Garrick Tavis all but bounds into the room. While Riorson is soaked in blood, Tavis is spotless. “You took off running and then couldn’t save a single one for me? Took me forever to clear the barricade of bodies in the staircase.”

I turn, sighing. 

I guess it was too much to hope for a quiet exit. 

“It’s chaos up there,” Garrick says after exchanging pleasantries with Violet like we have nothing but time. I don’t miss the way he glances at me as if I’m something completely unexpected and thoroughly unpleasant. A dead rat in a water barrel during a siege, perhaps. The first signs of blight in crops that were ready to harvest. “Leadership is launching all over the place to get to the border.”

“Then it worked.”

Varrish groans; I turn to look at him as he stumbles to his feet, clutching the wound in his side. His cold grey eyes are fixed on me, studying me like I’m something unfamiliar and confusing. I watch his nostrils flare, his pupils thin. He looks almost pained at being deceived; then I realize that his pride is wounded. His usual, smug smirk is brittle and human. “You’re turning traitor?”

Tavis studies me, surprised. “Oh, is that what’s happening?”

For a moment, I wonder what Varrish’s weakness is (or was, I guess). If I had his signet and saw him without his shields, what would I see?  

“Your father will be so disappointed,” Varrish hisses, coughing up blood. 

I very nearly laugh, because I cannot think of a single moment of my life that hasn’t inspired my father’s wholesome disappointment. Part of me wonders if I somehow didn’t drop my shields while I was being bandied around Violet’s head, if Varrish somehow labors under the misapprehension that my father’s approval is something that matters to me. I don’t laugh, because there’s nothing funny about watching a man die. “If he already knows what Violet showed me, then I’m the one who’s disappointed in him,” I retort, raising my sword again. He may not be a decent person, but if I can give him a quicker end— 

“No,” Riorson snarls. “Not you.” Shadows tangle around Varrish, shifting him across the floor and dumping him unceremoniously into the chair still covered in Violet’s blood. They wrap around his wrists and ankles like black cord. “That honor belongs to Violet, if she wants it.”

“She does.”

I step back, lowering my sword, and try to ignore the distrusting looks Tavis is giving me. Together, Violet and Riorson slide her dagger into Varrish’s heart; Violet stares gleefully at Varrish’s face for a long time, well after he’s dead. 

Is this really the girl I used to climb trees with? I find myself thinking.

“Give us a second, and keep Aetos breathing for now,” Riorson commands. 

“How wonderfully reassuring,” I mutter under my breath as Tavis leads me into the antechamber. 

Tavis chuckles solemnly. 

In the gruesome havoc of the antechamber, we eye each other awkwardly over a pile of dead bodies. One of them, I note, is Appa. His black beady eyes are open, staring up at the vaulted stone ceiling. 

“Varrish said—” 

I snap my mouth shut, then begin again. The smell of blood—thick, coppery and brutal—is nearly overwhelming. Wrong. Beneath it, there’s a sour note of fear and the strong smell of decay. I’ve seen my fair share of death before, but this is obscene; I feel like I’m breathing in my own ruin, like mortality is something contagious that could enter my body through my lungs. 

I attempt to speak again. “Varrish said they were rounding up anyone with a relic on their arm.”

Tavis rolls his neck, tense. “I’ll bet.”

He eyes me in an accusatory way, like it’s somehow my fault that this is happening. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to leave this room, this conversation, and my entire life far behind me. Nevertheless, I persevere. “Cath seems to think they’re okay.” 

Tavis raises one brow, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh?”

“He and Thoirt—”

“Thoirt?”

“Sloane’s dragon.”

Tavis chuckles under his breath—a soft, proud sound. “Sloane’s dragon,” he repeats dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting. The glimmer of happiness in his eye feels almost offensive when we’re surrounded by this much viscera. “I remember when that kid was too small to climb into the chairs at Riorson House, and now she’s a rider.” He taps his index finger against one of his bulging biceps thoughtfully. “Is she any good?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Yeah, she’s a natural.”

“Like her brother?”

I nod, wincing as I remember Liam’s plea that—

“Fucking Mairis.” Tavis shakes his head lovingly. “Offensively perfect, really. You’d hate ‘em if they weren’t so lovable.”

We fall into an uncomfortable silence, in which we both seem to be doing our best not to listen to Riorson’s profuse, prolonged and intensely private declarations of love, until finally Tavis glances at the clock on the wall and curses quietly.

“We have to move,” he yells in the direction of the interrogation room that Riorson and Violet are still occupying. 

“Clear the staircase,” Riorson barks from inside the chamber, “and tell Bodhi to track down whatever antidote she and the rest of her squad need.”

“On it,” Tavis says dutifully, turning away. 

I feel safe in presuming that neither of those instructions were for me, so I move to the locker where healing supplies are stored instead and begin rifling through it, taking a few things for myself and things I think Violet might need. From the corner of my eye, I watch through the open door as Riorson and Violet continue to talk quietly, heads bent close. Carefully, he slides all but one of her daggers back into their sheaths, then helps her shuffle into the antechamber. Once he has her propped against the pocked oak table in the center of the room, I begin handing him supplies I’ve gathered so that he can splint Violet’s arm and wrap her ribs. 

He works hastily and isn’t very good; Violet, to her credit, manages to stop herself from crying out.

“Xaden,” Tavis yells from the stairwell, “we have a problem!”

“Fuck.” Riorson looks at his swords, then Violet. 

“I can carry her,” I offer, moving forward. 

Riorson glares at me, narrowed eyes conveying disdain, hatred, disgust, and about a million other layers of emotions that I couldn’t possibly put my finger on. Underneath it all, there’s a thin sliver of what could be gratitude, but I decide that’s probably wishful thinking when he declares, “I haven’t decided whether or not to let you live yet. You can bet your ass I’m not trusting you with her.”

“I can walk, I think,” Violet says, then promptly demonstrates that she cannot, in fact, walk. 

Riorson says something to her as he sheaths his own swords. 

“Thank you,” Violet murmurs, looking between us as Riorson picks her up. 

“Follow me or die,” he murmurs as shadows rise up from the cool stone floor and form into a coterie of blades that circle around him. He spares me one last scathing, offhand look as he adds, “It’s your choice, but make it now.” He doesn’t wait for my answer before turning to the staircase and calling out, “What kind of problem, Garrick?”

“A general-sized one.” Garrick answers, standing at the business end of Lilith Sorrengail’s sword.

-----

We leave Violet and her mother behind and make our way up the stairwell. As I climb, carefully navigating the already slick stairs, now slicker thanks to the rivulets of blood that wash down them, I step over the body of the redheaded guard who winked at me earlier. 

His spine, I note, has been brutally severed. 

I’ve never been more glad of anything than I am to emerge into the subterranean tunnel by the Archives. The air is hardly fresh, thick and dusty, but at least it doesn’t smell like blood; I breathe it in like it’s a cool mountain breeze. 

The dim, amber light of a torch paints shadows on the rough stone walls and sends them slithering across the patches of moisture and moss on the ground. As Riorson turns to nod at Tavis, it illuminates a spattering of blood on one of his cheekbones, and I find myself wondering which of his victims it belongs to. Tavis steps away towards the inky gloom further down the passage, where the darkness seems to become a living thing, leaving Riorson and I alone, facing each other.

My heart is racing; when I slide my sword back into its sheath, I notice that my hands are trembling. I have the strangest urge to press my back against the wall, but force myself to stand tall and straight across from him, meeting his eyes. 

For several long seconds, he doesn’t speak, staring at me with his arms crossed.

“I… saw what you’re doing.”

Riorson regards me carefully. Everything about the way he’s coolly surveying me is an unspoken warning. “You saw what we’re doing because you put your hands to Violet’s head and took—”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did.” His voice is deceptively calm. 

I nod patiently. “You’re right.”

“I am.” Riorson’s brow twitches.

“Yes, I had a choice.” The words are sticky in my mouth. “I could have simply assumed that everyone else in my life, everyone I’ve ever loved or trusted, was burying some unfathomable truth I didn’t yet know and had no chance of guessing. I could have done that based on nothing more than the fact that Violet, who is famously trusting of people who end up hurting her and disappointing her—I’m including myself in that list, by the way—chose to trust you. I could have simply assumed that everything I’d ever been told was a lie without making any effort to understand what the actual truth was. I could have given Violet the blind trust she never gave me.” I shrug. “Is that what you would have done? Is that the choice you would have made, in my shoes?”

Hesitantly, Riorson admits, “No.”

After a moment, I add, “For the record, I think this was less a matter of me ‘taking’ things from Violet and more a matter of her ‘showing’ me things, which…” I blow out a lungful of air and make a strange, awkward gesture with my hand. “I can’t explain that, because that isn’t how my signet usually works.”

Riorson shrugs, as if this is the least surprising news ever. “Well, she’s brilliant.”

“I should have been clearer before.” I swallow. “I saw what you’re doing, and I… I think it’s the right thing.”

Riorson leans forward, and the torchlight catches the scar that bisects one eyebrow and the top of his blood-speckled cheekbone. Tilting his head, he examines me carefully. I am weighed, measured, and apparently found only tolerably wanting by his dark, inscrutable eyes. “You get one chance,” he tells me, voice low and ominous. “You get one chance, Aetos. If you make a single mistake, I’ll kill you. If you jeopardize Violet’s safety and comfort in any way, or start to look like a flight risk, I’ll kill you. If you hurt anyone that I care about, I will fucking kill you. Slowly, so that I can remember the joy of the experience for the remainder of my days, however short and perilous they may be.” He hesitates, then adds, “It isn’t solely my decision, either. Once we get to Tyrrendor, there’s a whole fucking council of people you’ll need to appeal to.”

“I—what?”

Lilith emerges into view, practically carrying Violet up the staircase, and Riorson quickly steps away. 

In Violet’s presence, it seems, nothing else matters to him, least of all me. 

“I trust you’ll use the chaos to get her out?” Lilith asks 

“Planning on it,” Riorson says, propping Violet up. 

“Good. Don’t tell me where.” Tavis and I both snort quietly at the improbability of Riorson giving the Commanding General of Basgiath his forwarding address, then shuffle, exchanging uneasy glances. When I turn back to Lilith, I realize that she’s staring at me; she looks sad, worried. “Have you made your choice, now that you know?”

“I have.” 

There are a million more things I could say, but in truth, it doesn’t feel like a single one of them would do credit to what I feel and I’m pretty sure no one in this tunnel would care to hear them, anyway.

Scribes sprint past, panicked. 

Lilith, whose blood runs at a cool thirty degrees, hums and turns away so that she can study Riorson. “And so the war of the father becomes that of the son. It is you; right? Stealing the weaponry? Arming the very enemy trying to rip us apart?”

“Regret letting me into the quadrant yet?” 

Shadows begin to rise along the walls. Tavis smirks, patting me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble forward a step as he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “You get used to it.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” I murmur, edging away from a disturbingly sharp-tipped shadow aimed for Lilith’s jugular.

Lilith is gently caressing Violet’s face when I turn back to face them, unconcerned by the threat. “Stay alive,” she implores her, “or this all will have been for nothing.” Dolefully, she runs her thumb across Violet’s purple cheek. “I’d tell you to take arnica and see a healer, but you already know that. Your father made sure you’d know everything you needed or where to find it. You’re all that’s left of him, you know.”

I blink in surprise. 

That shouldn’t sting.

That shouldn’t sting so much, but…

I’m something that’s left of him, too.

Lilith smiles for the barest fraction of a second, then turns away. “Oh, and Violet?” She glances over her shoulder, staring meaningfully at the arm Riorson has propped under Violet’s arm. “Sorrengails walk or fly off the battlefield, but they’re never carried.” 

“No wonder you’re so warm and fuzzy, Violet,” Tavis murmurs as she struts away.

You have no fucking idea, I think, relieved to watch the shadows settle back against the walls. 

“We’re leaving,” Riorson declares as soon as Lilith is out of earshot, turning to Tavis and then, to my surprise, me. I harbor every intention of sprinting out of this hallway the second I can be sure Riorson won’t kill me for daring to breathe too loudly, making my way to the courtyard and checking none of the marked ones need medical assistance, but apparently, I’m being put to work instead. Riorson considers me for a long second, then nods, brow furrowed. “Gather the marked ones and meet us at the flight field.”

Huh. 

Well, that worked out— 

Before Tavis or I can take a single step, Violet shakes her head and says something under her breath. 

Riorson turns to look at her, lovingly exasperated. “We just talked about this,” he says, gesturing at Tavis with a slight flick of his finger. Tavis reaches out and clutches my shoulder, tugging me to a stop. “We can’t stay here, and I won’t leave you.”

“Not just the marked ones,” Violet insists. “If Markham is gone and most of the leadership is flying for the border, then it’s our only chance.”

“To leave?” Riorson nods patiently. “Good. Then we’re in agreement.”

“To give everyone a choice.” She looks at something, and I wonder if she’s hallucinating again. “They’re going to lock this place down once the cadre returns, once they know they can’t stop the spread of information, and our friends…” She shakes her head insistently. “We have to give them a choice, Xaden, or we’re no better than leadership.”

Riorson stares at her as they exchange a few more terse words, then seems to relent. 

“It won’t be safe here for you,” Violet says, turning to me. Over her shoulder, I notice that Riorson’s jaw is clenched tightly shut, that he’s visibly annoyed that she’s even addressing me. “Not after what you just did.” 

She lifts her brows as if daring me to deny it. 

“Not that it’ll be safe for him where we’re going,” Tavis points out. He smirks as he looks from me to Riorson, who seems miserable but increasingly stoic; slowly, Tavis’ smirk falls. He looks between Riorson and I again. “You can’t be serious. We’re going to trust this guy?”

A brief, silent exchange seems to occur, and at the end of it, Tavis shrugs evasively. 

“If he wants our trust, he’ll earn it,” Riorson declares. 

I clench my teeth. At no point did I say that I would be joining them in Tyrrendor, but at no point was I given an option, either. And, I mean, it’s not like I would have made any other choice, but the illusion of choice would have been nice. Nevertheless, I try not to sound sullen as I proclaim, “Guess my last official act as wingleader will be to call a formation.”

Chapter 16: Smaller and Smaller Circles

Notes:

tw: suicide
Please note, this chapter contains the only depiction of suicide which will occur in this story and may bring up distressing feelings for some readers. If you do not want to read this content, please skip to the end notes, where I will explain where within the chapter it occurs (in order to avoid spoilers for others) and provide a brief summary of the scene (so you can still pick up the story after). To be taken directly there, search for next occurrence of the phrase "tw:".

If you need support, free, 24/7 mental health and crisis support lines are available in many countries.

You remind me so much of Mom, Sloane. You remind me of her more and more, each and every day. You inherited all of her fire, and sometimes I see it burning inside of you: her stubbornness, her ferocity, her determination. Each time I see you, I see it burning brighter, and it scares me half to death.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad that you were forged in her fire; I’m glad that it made you strong enough to withstand the things you had to withstand. But I hope you don’t forget that there were downsides to her tenacity, too. She never knew when to stop or when to ask for help. She carried the weight of everything on her shoulders, even when it shouldn’t have been hers to bear alone.

I know you want to be strong, Sloane, but don’t lose yourself trying to be everything for everyone like she did. You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to live up to anyone’s legacy. You’re enough, more than enough, exactly as you are. 

You have her fire in you, but you don’t have to let it burn you alive.

-RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF CADET LIAM MAIRI TO SLOANE MAIRI

 

 

 

-SLOANE-

Early October

 

For seconds after Dasha speaks, silence rings out like a death knell in the corridor—resonant, unhurried. They don’t quite echo, but I can almost hear her words still pulsing in the air. 

I feel the pressure that the air exerts on me doubling, trebling.

“I’m close.” Thoirt must be flying at pace; each rhythmic inhale of her breath sounds wet and strained and sticky. “I’ll be in position over the bridge soon, little warrior. Once you’re in the open, get as much space as you can from the guards and I will—”

Chaos explodes around me, too fast for me to discern who attacked first, drowning out the sound of her voice. I’m shoved from behind with little delicacy, uncertain whether it’s the guard or Imogen who’s pushed me; my poor, mistreated shoulder hits the wall with enough force to punch a cry out of my throat. I swallow down what I can, eyes flying blindly over the bodies surging through the cramped space, trying to parse what I can see of the skirmish. 

Weapons rip from scabbards and tear through flesh. 

Nearby, Imogen is crouched on the chest of the guard who was standing behind me, fingers pressed to his temples. He blinks confusedly, and those few precious seconds of disorientation buy Imogen enough time to slam his skull into the ground with a sickening crack—once, twice. Seconds later, a pool of blood—so much blood, more blood than I think I realized a human head contained—edges towards the toes of my boots, some of it sinking into the cracks between the stones as it spreads. 

Instinctively, I step away from it, horrified to find that it follows me. 

One of the guards from the back of the formation, a man with the same taupe eyes and triangular brows as my father, is kicked into the same wall I’m pressed against, causing thin, shallow cracks to inch along the wall towards me like outstretched fingers. The tremor of his landing draws my attention; my head turns just in time to watch a strapping First Year kick him a second time, shattering his sternum. 

The guard falls to the floor. 

He blinks up at me, taupe-eyed, almost pleading. I blink down at him, standing in a pool of his colleague’s blood, thinking with quiet confidence that a broken sternum, as much as it might suck, is probably not enough to kill a man as virile as him. 

Which is weird, because I shouldn’t care.

I’m quite poignantly reminded of this when, seconds later, the First Year draws his sword and thrusts it through the guard’s neck. 

It’s all so quick. With brutal efficiency, the six guards are dispatched, and then it’s just us in the corridor: thirty-one marked ones and Dasha Fabrren, whose hands have fallen from her hips as she moves coltishly, visibly preparing to flee; Dasha Fabrren, whose earlier mettle has not withstood this show of our vicious might. 

I turn to her. 

Our eyes meet; she opens her mouth, then closes it, gaze ghosting over the bodies, the blood, the still-drawn weapons.

“Dasha, I’m—”

I don’t get to say any more than that, because as Dasha takes a single step backwards, one of the Second Years, someone Liam might have known but I don’t, a marked one who happens to be standing close to her, takes a step forward and says her name sharply, its syllables cutting through the air like the slash of a blade. Dasha’s eyes fly to him, her berry-red lower lip trembling. Abruptly, she takes another step, and I look to Bodhi, expecting him to diffuse the situation because that’s what Bodhi does. 

Bodhi, however, is otherwise occupied, still in the act of tugging his sword free from the chest of the guard who was leading us. 

I open my mouth. My throat is raw, and I begin to choke out something. 

A ‘don’t’.

A ‘wait’.

I can’t even utter the word ‘no’.

It can’t have been more than a handful of seconds since Dasha took her first step. She pivots on her ankle, turning to flee towards the bridge. The Second Year lunges forward, catching her in something that looks almost like a hug, growling what must be threats into her hair as he tries to restrain her arms. 

“Fuck you,” she spits, wriggling out of his grasp and drawing a dagger. She stabs backwards at him, slashing at his arm and leaving a long streak of beaded blood across his skin, before staggering towards the bridge and the citadel beyond. 

His dagger is still in his hand, and—

I remain rooted in place as I watch him catch her again on the bridge; watch her turn and slash wildly at him; watch them struggle; watch him plunge his blood-wetted dagger into her side, into one of the three spots I briefly regretted not stabbing into at Threshing, when I thought I would die at the end of one of her knives.

He’s wrenching the dagger free by the time I find it in myself to move.

At first, I think the sound in my head as I race over the dead bodies towards them, boots kicking up droplets of blood, is the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears. With a jolt of surprise, the Second Year seems to come to consciousness around the time I reach them. He drops both Dasha and the knife and takes two steps back as she falls to the ground, but I don’t hear the clatter of the knife against the stones or the rasp in the words he says; I only hear the roar. 

It’s not until I come to a skidding stop at Dasha’s side and fall to my knees on the hard stone that I realize it’s Thoirt’s wingbeats, in my head and overhead. She’s not speaking, but the connection between our minds is blown wide open, amplifying the sound to a near-crippling intensity. 

The sun is bright, but bitter wind blows across the bridge, bringing with it the cool, mineral tang and scent of sun-warmed reeds that rolls off of the Iakobos on pleasant days. Maybe that’s why Dasha shivers as I gently move her so that her head is resting on my knees. I don’t inch away from her blood as it spills from the wound beneath her ribs, hot and fast, soaking both of our leathers. Insensibly, I press my hands to her wound, staining my fingers and the rope that’s still twined around them. 

Dasha doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she stares up at the sky. The crimson mass of Thoirt’s underbelly must take up her entire vision as she passes over the bridge, flying laps around the citadel; then, seconds later, a perfect, cloudless blue hangs above us like a sheet. 

“Well, this is fucking ironic." Her voice is quiet, but it pierces through everything else: through the roar of Thoirt’s wingbeats; through the rumble of Bodhi’s voice as he pulls the Second Year back, hisses something at him; through whatever the Second Year mutters in response. 

“Imogen!” I lift my head and stare at the back of her skull until she turns to look at me. “Imogen, we need to get her to the Healers Quadrant! Now!”

Imogen looks at Bodhi, who’s still dealing with the Second Year. There are three others involved in their argument now, crowding around the two tall men, although maybe ‘argument’ is the wrong word; nobody has raised their voice above a whisper. Imogen sighs and barks terse directions at the Parry siblings before coming towards the bridge, making a point to shove Bodhi with her shoulder as she passes. 

“We need to get her to the Healers Quadrant so that—”

Imogen frowns at me, then drops to one knee beside Dasha’s head, sparing her only the most cursory of glances. She takes an alloy dagger from her thigh garter and begins shearing away at the rope between my wrists until it snaps. “There isn’t enough time,” she says simply, avoiding my beseeching looks.

I’ve always known Imogen to be heartless, but I didn’t realize that she was this heartless. 

“I know she’s not one of us, Imogen, but she was trying to intervene on our behalf before that fucking idiot”—blood speckles Imogen’s cheeks as I fling my hand in the direction of Bodhi and the Second Year—“stabbed her.”

Dasha chuckles through wet, jagged breaths. “She means I don’t have time, Mairi. I won’t make it to the Healers Quadrant.” 

Ruefully, she blows out a pink bubble of air.

I don’t look at Dasha, although I know I probably should. I can’t bring myself to, though. “If we can get her to a mender, then—”

“That’s not going to happen, Sloane.” Imogen’s as sympathetic as I’ve ever seen her, which would still be considered inimical by most people’s standards, and resolute. “If we manage to get all thirty-one marked ones out of this fucking place alive, it’ll be by the grace of the gods alone, but I’m willing to take those odds for the payout. Zihnal himself couldn’t get your erstwhile attempted murderer in front of a mender before she bleeds out, and even Bodhi wouldn’t touch those odds.” She grimaces down at Dasha, who is nearly white and has begun to shake violently. “No offense, Fabrren.”

Dasha’s mouth forms a grim line, as if she has already considered all of this and accepted it. 

I lack her forbearance. “Imogen,” I protest, gaping at her, “we can’t do nothing.”

I feel something stronger than a tug on the bond between Thoirt and I, fleeting slices of emotions too complex to name. Amongst them, however, is enough pity to make my eyes prick with tears of anger.

Imogen’s eyes are piercing as she studies me. “It’s easier said than done; right?”

“What?”

She leans forward. I think she’s trying to press a motherly kiss into my temple until I hear her murmur, in her unbearably ugly Tyrrish, “It’s easy to say no one person is worth more than a province until you know what it’s like to hold a dying person in your arms.” 

Slowly, she stands, wiping blood onto the ruined leather at her thighs.

I adjust Dasha’s weight slightly as I watch Imogen walk away. The Second Year who stabbed Dasha watches us with a drawn expression, and I avert my eyes. 

“Are you cold?” I ask Dasha, finally looking at her and immediately wishing I hadn’t.

Dasha’s eyes flicker with indomitable will. She scoffs. “Would you drape your flight jacket over me if I were, Mairi?”

I shake my head, then jerk my chin in the direction of the guy who stabbed her. “His.”

Dasha grunts, looking over at him with a sad expression on her face. “You’re sick. I’d get my blood all over it, and then he’d have to think about how he killed me every time he put it on.”

“That was the intention.”

“I don’t think he meant it.” Her gaze lingers on him, surprisingly nonjudgmental. 

“You don’t?”

“People do crazy things when they’re scared.”

“I guess so.”

One of Dasha’s perfectly manicured eyebrows raises ever so slightly. “Who amongst us hasn’t tried to murder one of their classmates out of an irrational, potentially misplaced sense of fear?”

I open my mouth to protest, then promptly shut it. 

Dasha laughs wryly. “Well, at least you’re not a hypocrite.”

“Yeah.” I sigh, trying not to think about the fact that my thigh is going numb beneath her head. “If there’s nothing else that could be said for me, at least there’s that.”

“Do me a favor, Mairi.” She raises her voice slightly. “Don’t mourn me as anything more than an acquaintance. Don’t tell yourself we might have become friends someday.” Dasha’s looking in the direction of the quadrant. We’re as far away from the Battle Brief classroom as we can get, which means there will be no other witnesses to her death. I wonder how her friends will process this, if she has any. I wonder how you begin to process the fact that your friend stepped out of class to go to the bathroom and never returned. “I didn’t intervene because I cared. I intervened because I’m a fucking idiot who thought…”

I raise one eyebrow at her.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Dasha concludes lamely, wincing as I push harder into her side. 

“Yeah.”

“Six guards.”

I nod.

Her expression is almost wistful now, still focused on Bodhi, Imogen and the unnamed Second Year, her killer. “There were six guards, and thirty-one of you bloodthirsty, fucking traitorous assholes. Why didn’t I just stay in the bathroom or go back to Battle Brief? Why did I feel compelled to get involved with something that was none of my fucking business and didn’t need my input, anyway?”

There’s nothing else I can say except a half-apologetic, “Yeah.”

Dasha sighs. 

We’re uncomfortably silent for what feels like an eon, until—

“You ever think about how life moves in weird concentric circles?” Dasha lifts her finger, tracing lopsided radii into the air above us. It’s as if she feels compelled to say these words, as if she cannot let herself die with them trapped inside her throat. A little frantically, she clarifies, “Your mom killed my mom, because my mom was trying to kill your mom; then I tried to kill you. Twice. Now I’m lying on a bridge, bleeding out, because I saw a bunch of people with rebellion relics walking down the hall hogtied, and all I could think was, ‘Maybe life doesn’t have to be smaller and smaller circles. Maybe we can make the circles bigger, instead.’” 

I’m not really following her, but I doubt it matters or that the words she’s saying even make sense to her, at this point. “I’m really sorry that it happened this way, Dasha.”

She shrugs weakly. 

“Do you—?” I choke off the words, then clear my throat and try again. “Do you want to know why—?”

Immediately, Dasha shakes her head. “I’d rather die in ignorant bliss, to be honest.” Her hand is small, nearly weightless atop mine as I press vainly into the wound in her side. She gives me a small smile. “I’d rather die believing that my mom was a good person than die thinking—”

“She was.” I remove one hand from the wound and squeeze her limp fingers between mine. It’s not doing much to stanch the flow of blood, anyway. “What I said at Threshing—”

“I don’t care.” Dasha takes a breath, deeper than any I’ve heard her take in a while. “I don’t care,” she repeats with a sense of determination. Then, slightly softer, tentatively, she asks, “When I’m gone, could you push my body into the Iakobos? Sian is going to fish me out and give me a cremation. That’s what my mom’s dragon did, and… I think I’d rather float away and find her on the wind somewhere than rot in the ground, you know?” 

I nod. “Sure.”

She eyes me critically. “And if you’re feeling particularly guilty and want to atone or something, there’s a letter for my dad on my desk. If you somehow do make it out of here, would you mind sending it to him? The key to my room is in the front pocket of my flight jacket.” She hesitates, then adds, with a self-effacing smile and another glance back towards the corridor, “Hey, isn’t it funny how Second Years still lock their doors? Unlocking doors is, like, the first thing most riders learn how to do with lesser magic. So it’s basically completely superfluous, but most of them lock their doors anyway, knowing that any one of their classmates could come along and undo it with a flick of their wrist. It’s like a compulsion, really.” 

In spite of myself, I snort. “Habits are hard to break. I don’t care for the gods, but I still catch myself talking to them all the time.” 

The smile falls from her face. “Me, too.”

“I’ll make sure your dad gets your letter,” I promise her.

She nods, as if content that everything is as resolved as it’s going to get. 

We sit in silence for the few remaining minutes of Dasha’s life, which stretch long, sluggish, as if Malek isn’t quite ready for her yet. Head in my lap, she stares up at the sky, her lips occasionally moving wordlessly as if she’s talking to someone. Each of her breaths is weaker than the last, and I begin to think of them like the concentric circles she drew into the air with the tip of one blood-stained finger, each one smaller than the last. 

Finally, she draws what I think we both know is the last breath and lets her head loll to the side, staring her murderer right in his eyes. 

The moment she passes is painfully immaterial: One breath, then none. Dasha’s dark eyes stay open, mouth slightly parted as if there was one last thing she had meant to say. In the distance, I hear the keening wail of a dragon mourning its rider. 

Whispering, I commend her soul to Malek. 

I expect to feel grief, but what I feel is more like a vague, detached sense of discomfort and that strange consciousness of my own body’s machinations that I first felt after I watched Trysten fall from the Gauntlet. If what I’m feeling is sorrow, it’s a version of it that’s wildly abstracted. 

It’s just so wasteful, I find myself thinking as I move her head to the side and pillow it, as tenderly as I can, on her cloud of dark curls. Since I came to Basgiath, that’s all I’ve seen—wasteful, senseless deaths. 

Trysten: dead because he never got around to fixing his glasses.

Dasha: killed by someone she’d been meaning to help.

I wish neither of them were dead, but they are. 

“She wants to be pushed into the Iakobos so her dragon can collect her body and burn it,” I announce as I walk back towards the corridor.

The Second Year who killed Dasha flinches. I get the feeling, looking at his pallid face and shaking hands, that he would have preferred not to watch the consequences of his actions play out, but Bodhi is standing behind him, holding him by the scruff of his flight jacket, making him watch. He swallows thickly before offering, “I’ll do it.”

I stare at him contemptuously. He has a strong jaw, heavyset brow and the thick arms and barrel chest of someone who’s been hefting sacks of barley since childhood, but there’s something innately meager about him. “We’ll do it together.” 

Thoirt makes another pass high above the bridge, looping steadily above. 

The Second Year nods once, then shuffles towards her, somber. In death, I think, people are often described as small, but Dasha seems somehow larger, or at least unavoidable. On the bleak grey bridge, she draws the eye: skin pale as the finest muslin; hair fanned out beneath her, matted with blood; fathomless black eyes staring unblinkingly at the sun. When he’s standing in the stain her blood left on the rocks, Dasha’s murderer stares at her for a long second, jaw clenched, before waving me back so he can lift her in his arms, carrying her like a husband carries his bride. 

With surprise, I notice a single tear falling from the corner of his eye and landing on Dasha’s cheek. 

“If it’s any consolation, I almost killed her at Threshing,” I tell him hoarsely, gesturing at the small, subtle protrusion that rises from her leathers at the top of her left thigh, betraying the bandages hidden beneath. I don’t know why I say it. I don’t know why I feel like he needs comforting at this moment or why I feel impelled to be the one offering him comfort, but I do. “Thoirt, my dragon, said it was because she forgot to shield me from her anger, but part of me thinks that maybe it was just me.” 

“It was not.” 

“Yeah.” He can’t wipe his eyes, so more tears fall unimpeded. “Yeah, I heard about that.”

“I’m just trying to say that I get it.”

“You didn’t, though.” He seems to be horrifically transfixed by Dasha’s face, because he can’t bring himself to look away, even as he starts walking. “You didn’t kill her, though, did you? I did.” 

With sickening clarity, I realize that he’s not looking at her like she’s a stranger. He’s looking at her like she’s someone that he knew, maybe even someone that he cared about. 

As I stand numbly to the side, trying to process this thought, reviewing the past ten minutes and trying to reevaluate them with a wider perspective, the Second Year starts taking stumbling steps towards the edge of the bridge. When he reaches the grey stone railing coated with ruffles of mustard-colored lichen, he sits and reverently tucks a strand of Dasha’s hair behind her ear. 

It isn’t until our eyes meet that I understand his intentions; by then, it’s too late. 

“Don’t commend my soul to Malek.”

I move listlessly towards him as his eyes flutter closed, but he’s already pushed himself backwards.

“Why would he—?” I say the words without meaning to, then quickly shut my mouth. 

Bodhi’s voice is hoarse. “They were squadmates.”

“Seems like they were more than that,” Imogen says, turning away in disgust.

Their bodies tumble through the air and make a single splash as they land in the Iakobos, where they’re carried away by the unrelenting current.

-----

We make our way across the college cautiously, but, by some miracle, don’t come across any more guards. I’m grateful that there’s no need to sneak around, because the girl behind me, a girl who sleeps three doors down from me in the First Year dorms, is sobbing uncontrollably. When Imogen catches me glancing at her over my shoulder, she punches my arm. “That’s Nesrine Young, Sloane.”

I stare at her blankly. 

“As in, Argall Young?” When it becomes evident that this means less than nothing to me, Imogen huffs. “You just watched her cousin die?”

“Oh.” My eyes flicker toward her guiltily. “I didn’t realize.”

In the courtyard, we find Sgaeyl, who looks somewhere between irritated and arsonous, and a strangely familiar-looking Brown Scorpiontail that I surmise belongs to Garrick. 

Beyond the courtyard walls, bodies race up and down the stairs to the flight field. Havoc and splendor reign above as a disorderly procession of dragons launch into the azure sky and split off in about a dozen different directions. 

“It’s fucking pandemonium.” Imogen says breathlessly, pushing me along. The tread of our boots scuff loud enough against the flagstones to make me cringe, and instinctively, I look towards the stone wall to the west, the only thing separating us from the rest of the quadrant. “Garrick and Xaden dropped wyvern at every outpost along the Navarrian border. Leadership is being scrambled to clean up the mess.”

My blood runs cold. “They did what?”

Imogen chuckles, scratching her nails into my nape in an uncommon show of affection as she steps away. “Riorsons, right? They can’t ever just do something. They have to make a fucking show of themselves while they do it, or else, what’s the point? ‘Should we help the people of Poromiel with their venin problem, Fen? Yeah, of course we should! It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Before we do, though, we’d better launch a civil war so that I can be crowned a king; then we can help the Poromish.’”

I press my fingers to my forehead miserably. “I cannot believe he could be so fucking stupid.” 

“In his defense, it’s obviously an effective distraction.”

“Throwing shit at someone could be an effective distraction in the right circumstances, Imogen, but I’d still think twice before doing it.” 

Bodhi steps closer, fisting his hand into his hair. Scraps of rope still hang loosely from the wrist of his left hand. He looks slightly bewildered as he takes in the courtyard and its occupants, like he hadn’t thought this far ahead, like he was bargaining on Xaden beating us here. “Do we wait for them, or…?”

Imogen shrugs. “I’m not a strategist, Bodhi. I do what I’m told when I’m told to do it.”

“That’s news to me.” 

“Never said I do it without complaint.” 

Bodhi looks toward the Vale, unstirring as the two dragons perched on the wall launch skyward and head northwest along the ridge, soon lost amongst the pandemonium. Nor does he acknowledge Thoirt supplanting them almost immediately, peeling away chunks of stone with her talons. 

“Where are they going?” I ask her, pointing to the retreating silhouettes of Xaden and Garrick’s dragons. 

Thoirt is clearly agitated, squinting around the courtyard like she half-expects an entire battalion of foot soldiers to jump out from behind the dais. She snaps her teeth at me in a distracted, half-heartedly affectionate gesture, though, as if making a concerted effort to lighten the mood. “Hunting.” 

“Now?”

“It’s a particularly good season for Orange Daggertail, I’m told.” Her golden eyes focus on my wrists and narrow in dissatisfaction. When I look down, I realize that what’s left of my restraints is still wrapped around each of them—once beige, stained burgundy. I shed it with disgust, tearing it over my clawed hands and tossing it onto the stones between us, then take three pronounced steps backwards as if to put distance between myself and whatever happened on the bridge. Thoirt eviscerates the frayed circles of rope with a small, controlled stream of flame. “I was nearly in position to burn the guards on the bridge when the fighting broke out. It would have been cleaner, left no bodies. I told Sian as much, but her rider made the choice to intervene, anyway.” She licks her lips, then snarls, “Two pointless deaths, her own included, could have been spared if she had simply listened to her dragon.”

I feel—

I don’t think words exist to describe what I feel.

I rub at my chest, which is painfully constricted, fingers tracing the outline of the bones beneath like something in me needs to account for each one. I vividly imagine them cracking beneath a boot and shudder. The hem of my shirt clings to my legs, heavy and sticky and wet. “Maybe Dasha lacked faith that you could torch them without torching us, too?”

I remember the splash of Dasha and Argall’s bodies landing in the river and shudder again. 

Maybe people do stupid, irrational things when—

Thoirt releases another thin ribbon of fire into the scant space between us. Despite her caginess and the odd sense of melancholy that’s permeating our bond from both ends, it seems she can’t resist an opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. 

I feel tendrils of sweat forming in my hairline at the sudden, blistering heat; then she flaps her wings once, gusting cool air over me. “You have nothing to prove to me, Tor.”

“You have nothing to prove to me, either, little warrior.” 

I feel the weight of her eyes on me as I cross the space between us, stepping around the scorch marks left in the stone.

“Don’t I? I’m not sure I deserve that nickname.” Until now, I’ve been too preoccupied to think about the fact that a fight broke out and I just stood there, watching; now, it’s all I can think about. I close my eyes as I lean against the solid mass of ancient stone, perched beneath the razor-sharp tip of one of her claws. “When everybody started fighting, I panicked. Not exactly the makings of a warrior, is it?”

“You were unprepared.” Thoirt checks over her shoulder, paranoid. The wall behind me groans, protesting that it’s being squeezed too tightly between her talons. “You have a mind that seeks order, and rules, and sense. Unfortunately, you cannot make sense of battle; you must simply keep moving through the madness.”

“Are you saying I won’t get better with practice?” 

I listen to Thoirt adjusting her wings, tucking them in close to her sides. Stoically, she says, “I cannot promise you that you will, little warrior; I cannot say that you won’t, either.”

Biting back the nausea clawing at my stomach and throat, feeling uncomfortably adrift, I let my mind wander to a halcyon night four years ago, when the Duke of Conway’s son took me for a turn around the garden during a ball, my hand in the crook of his elbow. He had cleared his throat an inordinate number of times before declaring me to be a good dancer, and in answer, I had merely blinked at him. 

He was pretty and rich and titled. In another life, one where I wasn’t the scion of rebels and he wasn’t the pampered son of a spineless, yellow-bellied traitor (and a poor excuse for a Tyr), we might have been considered a well-suited pair. 

I simply said, “Thank you.” 

“Do you like dancing?”

Somehow, I had managed to bite back a retort. “Yes.”

“What do you like about it?”

There were several things I could have said in answer to this question. Some of them would, I suspected, be too true and too revealing. Others would have landed me in the cellar for days if my foster mom overheard me. I like the weight of someone’s hand in mine; the sense of human connection, however fleeting it might be. I like how powerful I feel when I’m dancing, and free. I like that, when I’m dancing, I’m spared from trivial conversations with people like you, who are about as dense as talladium.

I like social mores. 

I like choreographed steps, the comfort of executing them exactly as I should and knowing, for however long the dance lasts, that I am unquestionably doing the right thing. 

Instead, I shrugged and said that I liked everything about dancing, which was an answer as insipid as the question, itself. At the end of the walk, the Duke of Conway’s son and I had parted ways with an amiable bow, a prim curtsey and the unspoken, tacit agreement that we would never speak again.

I use the memory to ground myself, then put up a wall between Thoirt’s mind and mine. As soon as I’ve done it, I wonder why I did. 

I don’t take the wall down, though.  

Bodhi and Imogen bicker for a short window of time, then fall as silent as the other twenty-seven marked ones now sitting and standing in clumps at intervals, waiting for someone to give them their orders. Soldiers, through and through. Someone should tell them all to go get their shit and bring it here, I think, watching Bodhi pace the courtyard and Imogen wipe blood from her sword onto the handkerchief I lovingly embroidered with her family’s crest. 

Maybe they already did. They told me to pack my shit, after all. 

Still, Imogen’s been delegating all of her managerial duties to me for days now, so if anyone would have told them…

When we hear wings approaching from the northwest, Bodhi turns toward the sound with an expression of such unmitigated hope on his face that I almost cackle. 

Somehow, I know, without looking, that the dragon flying towards us is Cath. Even if I couldn’t recognize the sound of his wingbeats, I would know it’s him because Thoirt lets out a low, rumbling growl as she turns her head in that direction. Seconds later, when Cath lands two wingspans to her right, I watch their shadows play on the ground: his, gargantuan and imperious, completely unconcerned; hers, restless and tense, tail slashing dangerously close to his face. 

Minutes pass.

More minutes pass.

How much longer until Battle Brief is over? How much longer until the bodies we left in the corridor are found? Is the entirety of leadership being called to the border? Staff, too? If so, what are the odds that some of them will stumble upon us on their way to the flight field from the citadel? Or are there more secret passageways hidden throughout the college? 

If so, then surely there would be one that leads directly from the citadel to the flight field?

Still, we’re needlessly exposed here. Bodhi should stop waiting for Xaden to show up and tell him what—

From behind, I feel the taloned tip of a leathery wing delicately wedging itself between me and the wall; then I’m uncivilly shoved toward the center of the courtyard, toward Bodhi. Sighing, I take the hint and step forward to tell him, “I think we should move.”

He turns to me, frowning.

“We’re a prime target in this courtyard,” I expound. I draw closer to him, lowering my voice as I add, “We can’t just sit around out here, covered in blood, twiddling our thumbs and waiting for Malek to come fetch us, Bodhi. Now, I don’t know if you were expecting Xaden today or not, seeing as you don’t tell me fucking anything anymore, but if you were, and if you were expecting him to be here waiting for us, things obviously aren’t going to plan.”

Bodhi seems to chew on that thought for a second. “What are you suggesting?”

What am I suggesting? 

“I don’t know, Bodhi. Improvise.” I consider our options. “Send us to go get our shit in groups of four. We can still keep an eye on each other, but we’re less likely to be discovered as smaller groups moving around the quadrant than we are sitting in full view of the stairs to the flight field, which”—I point to them demonstratively—“every member of leadership is currently traversing.”

“That’s… not a bad plan, actually.” Bodhi nods at the ground while he mulls it over, then turns to smile at me sadly. “When did you get so smart?”

I open my mouth to politely inform him that I have always been smarter than him by a fucking long shot (and that he can fuck right off for implying otherwise), but am rudely interrupted.

“What the fuck am I looking at here?” Over Bodhi’s shoulder, I watch Xaden emerge from the shadowy tunnel at the northern corner of the courtyard and glance around, incredulous. Sorrengail limps along at his side, looking like someone who has no business being this side of hell. “It looks like thirty-one marked ones gathered up, waiting to be fucking slaughtered and…” He trails off as he glances at Bodhi, conducting a quick visual check for injuries. When he identifies nothing life-threatening, Bodhi is on the receiving end of a disappointed moue that makes Xaden look eerily like Uncle Fen. “I know my perception of this situation can’t be right, so I’ll ask again. What the fuck am I looking at here, Bodhi?”

I nudge Bodhi with my shoulder in a show of commiseration—well, ninety percent commiseration, but I can admit that ten percent of what it conveys is, ‘I told you so’—before slinking back towards my spot on the wall. 

Steam billows from Thoirt’s nostrils as I approach. “You blocked me out.”

“I did; I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands in a supplicating gesture.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because you wanted privacy?” She says ‘privacy’ like it’s a dirty word. 

I sigh as I lean against the wall again, crossing my legs at the ankle. “Is that truly such an abstract concept to you, Tor?”

I watch Xaden approach the dais and lower Sorrengail onto it with mild intrigue. Once she’s seated, she closes her eyes slightly and slumps to one side, breathing raggedly, perspiring heavily. My eyes strafe over her injuries, examining them in closer detail now that she’s near. 

If it weren’t for her silver-tipped hair, she’d be barely recognizable. 

“Is she okay?” I hear myself saying. 

“Yeah. Well, no,” Xaden admits as he gestures for one of the other marked ones to bring him their water skin, wipes the mouth of it and hands it to Sorrengail, “but she’s a lot tougher than she looks.” He plants his ass on the dais beside her and looks up at me, eyes slightly alarmed as they finally register the blood covering me from neck to knee. 

“I’m uninjured,” I assure him.

Imogen kneels at Sorrengail’s side, grimacing as she takes in her grotesquely swollen face and limbs. “You still alive, Sorrengail?” 

Violet, unmoving, manages to moan a confirmation before losing consciousness.

“Is that—?”

Xaden is menacingly tense, his body rigid as he wraps his arm around Sorrengail’s frail frame. “She’s sleep-deprived.” 

“Oh.”

“I see a resounding lack of baggage,” Xaden points out.

Imogen pats him convivially on the shoulder. “We decided you’ve got more than enough to go around.”

“Hilarious.” Xaden’s eyes narrow to thin slits, but he seems determined not to wake Sorrengail by moving or raising his voice. “I’m glad you picked up on the fact that I’m in the mood for fucking jokes, Imogen.”

Garrick and Dain exit the tunnel at the other end of the courtyard. Immediately, Dain notices a First Year trying to bandage a cut with a strip of fabric torn from the bottom of her tunic and stops to help her. I watch him work for a moment, carefully cleaning and bandaging the wound with supplies he must have picked up on his way here. There’s something heavy and resigned about his posture, the weight of his shoulders, the way his head is bent; I’m afraid of what I would see in his face if he were to turn and look at me.

Lucky for me, I guess, that he doesn’t. 

Garrick, characteristically unconcerned by the suffering of anyone he passes, is still lumbering across the courtyard towards us. At first, I assume that he’s making a beeline for Xaden, as per usual, but then:

“Mini Mairi!” In less than a handful of seconds, he’s standing in front of me and, without hesitation or reserve, picking me up so he can swing me around, my arms pinned to my sides. Before he places me on my feet, he jostles me good-naturedly a few times, shaking me up and down like a baby shakes a rattle. “Look at you, Mini Mairi! Well, not so mini anymore, I guess. You must have sprouted up, what, seven inches?” I’m placed on my feet, then rudely tugged against his chest so he can measure my height against his by crushing my face into his sweaty chest. 

I know for a godsdamned fact that I haven’t grown since the last time I saw him. “Garrick, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh?” Quicker than a snap, he reaches out towards my head, smacking away the hand I raise to defend myself, and rubs a knot into my hair. I, in spite of my haughty denunciation of his behavior, react on instinct by slapping his arm away, letting out a whiny mewl, and then shoving him for good measure. 

I might as well be trying to shove at one of the courtyard walls. 

“Whose blood is that?” 

“Not mine.”

“You killed someone?” I shake my head, which seems to bring him some sense of relief. 

“Not yet,” I tell him. 

He pulls me in for another hug. “Well, there’s still plenty of time.”

“Is…?” It feels ridiculous that I’m even asking, that I’m even hoping, because there’s no possible way that Dain’s presence here means what I think it does. I clear my throat and start again. “Is he coming with us?” I mumble into Garrick’s flight jacket. 

I don’t bother to clarify who I’m referring to, because it’s immediately obvious. 

“Apparently.” Conspiratorially, he adds, “Don’t worry, Sloane, I’ll keep one eye on Aetos for you.”

Bodhi snorts as he pats Garrick’s shoulder, then lowers himself onto the step below Xaden. “If anything, you should be keeping an eye on Sloane for him. Did Xaden tell you how his first and only attempt at training her on the mat went?”

Garrick chuckles. “Xaden told the entire Samaran outpost. Twice.”

When Garrick lets me go, I temper the instinct to look over at Dain and study the faces around me instead. When I turn to Xaden, I discover that he’s pulled Sorrengail halfway into his lap and is combing his fingers through her felted hair, watching us in his usual way—warm, but distant.

We lock eyes, and he smiles sadly. 

-----

When we gather around the dais so that Xaden and Garrick can be briefed, I stand to one side of a smaller huddle that’s formed within the assembly, half-listening, included but not contributing. Dain stands almost directly across from me, but I still can’t bring myself to meet his eye (or, worse, attempt to meet his eye and ascertain, in the process, that he has no interest in looking at me). Instead, I fixate on his long fingers as they methodically unspool and re-roll a piece of off-cut from a bandage, oddly mesmerized by the flexing of his knuckles. 

Bodhi reaches into the pocket of his flight jacket and pulls out a vial of colorless liquid, which he hands to Xaden. “I started keeping some on hand, just in case.”

Xaden takes it, mutters something to Garrick, then asks Dain a question. 

“Already done,” Dain replies.

Sighing, Xaden faces the gathered marked ones, noticeably tense. “Aetos has called a formation.” I frown, confused. Why would—? “We’re going to give the entire quadrant all the information and let them decide which side of this war they choose to fight on.” He pauses, glowering anyone who might be inclined to dissent into submission before continuing. “Violet has very rightly pointed out that we should give the other riders a choice, and—” My eyes narrow as I watch the gauze of the bandage slide between Dain’s fingers, slivers of annoyance unfurling in my stomach. Xaden cuts off suddenly and turns toward me. “What, Sloane?”

I drag my eyes away from Dain’s hands to find Xaden staring at me icily and Bodhi looking between us, discomfited. 

“What?” I protest, offended. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can feel you thinking it,” he whispers, and for a second, I almost laugh at how petulant he sounds. It’s the same tone he used to use when I was six and he was nine, and Liam was standing somewhere off to the side, begging us not to fight over him because we could all play nicely together, instead.

Except now it’s not my brother’s attention we’re fighting for, but the fate of an entire province. 

“Oh? What am I thinking, Xaden?” Garrick and Imogen exchange an amused glance that plainly says, Here we go again. “You’ll have to forgive me for not policing my thoughts better; I didn’t realize you were a fucking mind reader.” Xaden continues to glare at me, and I glare back at him, as uncowed by him as I’ve ever been. “Although, seeing as you’ve deigned to ask for someone else’s opinion for once in your life, I suppose I shouldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.”

Xaden’s eyes are dangerously black. “By all means, enlighten us.”

“I think we should vote on it.”

Xaden’s mouth snaps shut with a frustrated huff of air that’s imminently satisfactory.

“I don’t think it’s for one person, whether that be you or Sorrengail, to make this kind of decision.”

Bodhi licks his lips nervously. “Sloane, I don’t think—”

I speak over him without remorse. “Our parents started all of this with a unanimous vote. We made the choice to leave Riorson House and spare what was left of Aretia from burning together. Unanimously.” I could slip in a petty dig about the fact that Xaden wasn’t there when Aretia burned if I wanted to, but that isn’t the point. Besides, as I turn to face him, I can see that he’s already thinking it and that it galls him, and that’s good enough for me. “When you fought at Resson, I’m told that you maintained that precedent by voting.”

“Not just voting, but voting unanimously?” someone says from the outer circle. 

I nod. “I think it has to be unanimous. I think if one or more of us chooses to abstain or vote ‘no,’ then that should be the end of the discussion.”

In the outer circle, one of the Parrys clears her throat. “For what it’s worth, I think Sloane has a point.”

I smile at her gratefully.

Despite the fact that he’s covered in a truly incomprehensible amount of blood, none of which appears to be his, Xaden takes a deep breath that seems to signal this is the single greatest inconvenience he’s encountered today. 

Perhaps it is.

“Should we vote on whether we vote on it?” Garrick is seated at Imogen’s side, so close that their flanks are touching, though both of them are pretending they haven’t noticed. “Of course, it might be fairer to vote on whether we vote about taking a vote about it, first. I just wouldn’t want anyone to feel like their vote wasn’t being counted, you know?”

My arms are crossed; I lift one hand just enough to give him the finger, smiling sweetly as I do. “How about you shut the fuck up, Garrick?”

“Make me, Mairi.”

“Everyone in favor of calling a formation, raise your hand,” Xaden requests through clenched teeth. 

“I didn’t hear a ‘please.’”

Xaden looks at me like I’m a disobedient child. “Don’t push it, Sloane.”

Imogen is the first to raise her hand (or, more accurately, very slightly lift one hand and twiddle her fingers through the air). “In the spirit of full disclosure, Sorrengail and I might have told some people already, which has probably influenced my vote. Can I say this, though: it feels fucking great that I don’t need to lie to my best friend any more.”

Garrick and Bodhi raise their fingers slightly, too. Bodhi, at least, has the decency to shoot me a slightly sheepish look as he does it. 

More hands are lifted, until the only remaining vote to be tallied is mine. 

Xaden frowns as I lift my hand to shoulder height. “You want to tell the entire quadrant?” When a thought occurs to him a heartbeat later, he smiles and adds, “Or have you just changed your mind because you hate the idea of losing so much, Sloane?”

I cross my arms over my chest again, balance my weight across my hips and stare him down. “In spite of your best efforts to keep me in the dark about this entire operation, Xaden, I know enough to understand you’re in desperate need of riders. Well, this”—I make an all-encompassing gesture toward the dais and the courtyard—“is your best chance to recruit new riders to our cause. I’m not sure how you’ll arm them or feed them, but I guess those aren’t my problems.”

“You’re right,” he says calmly. “Those aren’t your problems.” 

I prod. “You’ll lose access to Basgiath’s forge, which is problematic to say the least, but I have to assume that you wouldn’t pitch this unless you had a viable solution to that quandary; right?” 

Xaden doesn’t answer.

“You have a solution, right?” 

Through gritted teeth, he answers, “Nothing that’s ready to be put to a vote.”

“So, are we done?” Garrick asks, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, relaxed but solid. Hulking. I look at him properly for the first time in years and try to see what others see. All I see is Garrick. Dependable. Loveable. Predictable. He’s shed his flight jacket on the stair beneath him to show off the dense, corded muscles of his arms. He does this, I know, because five years ago Imogen said he had nice arms; now he’s incapable of wearing sleeves in her vicinity. 

There’s a new, pink scar stretching from beneath his dark halo of curls down to his jaw, though. I frown at it. 

“Counting our dragons before they hatch, aren’t we?” Imogen coos, brows raised. She looks pointedly at Dain, who, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under the sudden weight of our collective attention. “Doesn’t Aetos get a vote?”

Garrick scoffs heartily as if Imogen has just made a joke. Maybe she has, and I just haven’t realized it yet. 

Dain grimaces, still rolling and unrolling the short scrap of cloth in his hands. I can practically see unspent nervous energy coiling in the air around him, but his voice is steady and even when he replies. “I sincerely doubt that any of you give a single genuine fuck about my opinion on this.”

“Smarter than his past actions would indicate, then.” Xaden gestures to Dain as if showing off a piece of art or a new furnishing. 

I find myself asking the flagstones, “If you did have a vote, what would—?” 

Dain lifts his head and looks at me. He looks tired and rumpled; there’s blood splattered across his face, his flight leathers, his neck and his forearms. His usually warm eyes are dull, with no hint of their usual curiosity or owlish intelligence. There’s still kindness in them, but now there’s a guardedness, too. “I really don’t think—”

“Yes or no, Dain?” Imogen demands. 

He pockets the strip of gauze he’s been fidgeting with and says, “Yes.”

“We’re done, then,” I concede. 

Smiling crookedly, Garrick reaches out to pat my knee.

“Fantastic.” Xaden blows out a gust of air and looks down at Sorrengail. If she’s awake, it’s only by nominal degrees. “When Battle Brief is over, we’ll hold the formation. Until then, I want all of you to keep quiet and give me some fucking space.” He turns to Garrick and Imogen as the others disperse. “Think you can make it to the Healers Quadrant and back before then? If Violet’s going to make it to Tyrrendor, she’ll need whatever they can give her to make the journey tolerable.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Dain offers. 

Xaden points to the other side of the dais. “You will stand over there, where I can keep my fucking eye on you.”

Dain seems to consider arguing, but steps away instead, seemingly deciding against it. Garrick and Imogen depart for the Healers Quadrant seconds later, heads bent close as they speak. 

I stand silently in front of Xaden as he carefully studies Sorrengail’s labored breathing. “Happy now?” he asks me, not looking up.

“Not since the apostasy. You?”

“I’m a lot happier than I was this morning.”

Though I already know the answer, I find myself confirming, “They’ve had her for five days?”

He nods, circumspect.

Chewing my lip, I let my eyes wander over the violent splotches of bruising that mar her skin; the swelling at every joint; her two black eyes and the chapped wounds on her face. It seems so stupid, looking at her now, that I was jealous of her because someone was coming to save her, because nobody came to save me. I hear myself murmur, “I’m really glad that Violet’s safe.” 

I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it before turning to leave. 

Xaden stops me. “I can’t put everything to a vote, Sloane.”

“I know.” I nod, thoughtful, as I pivot to face him. “Look, I’m not going to tell you how to run what is apparently your revolution, Xaden, but—”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“I think you need people around you who can call you on your despotic tendencies from time to time and temper your worst inclinations.” I tilt my head as I consider him, marking all the differences that separate this man from the boy I knew. “You’re smart, Xaden, but you’re frequently short-sighted, and historically, you have made some really fucking stupid choices in the pursuit of what you think is honor and nobility.”

Despite his grim mood, Xaden grins. “Name one.”

I hesitate, then move to sit beside him. Up close, Sorrengail’s disfigurements don’t bear further scrutiny, so I look away, staring out at the courtyard, watching the marked ones who mill around. 

It occurs to me that I know so few of their names. I think I tried, in my first few weeks in the quadrant, to get to know some of them, but they seem to regard me as something different, something other. I didn’t know how to talk to them; they didn’t know how to talk to me, how much deference I was due, whether they owed me respect or whether I still needed to earn it. I have a relic, and my mother burned at Calldyr; I am a rider. Other than that, most of us have nothing in common.

If the secession had succeeded, their parents would have paid my parents tithes. 

I wonder if Xaden ever feels the distance between what they are and what we are. I know Bodhi doesn’t, because the one time I tried to ask him about it, he pinched my cheek and told me I think too much.

“Look, I can’t tell you that we’re making the right choice in doing this, but what I can tell you is that we made it together with open eyes and full hearts. If everything goes to shit, which is entirely possible, you won’t have to bear the burden of it squarely on your shoulders.” I chew the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. “You’ve carried enough for us as it is.” 

“‘When the consequences of a decision are so vast, no one person should have to bear the moral burden alone.’ That’s what your father said when he asked my father to put the secession to vote, isn’t it?” 

I nod. “Yeah. Something like that.”

It’s an exact quote, and we both know it.

Xaden looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “You remind me of him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“No, you don’t,” he admits. “You’re your mother, through and through.” There’s a rare vulnerability in his eyes that’s completely at odds with the fact that he’s drenched in other people’s blood. “Sloane, I owe you an apology. I told myself that I would look out for the best interests of every marked one, and I always did my best, but sometimes that necessitated making hard decisions that—” 

Guilt flashes across his face.

“I know.” 

After a long pause, he murmurs, “I used to lie awake at night trying to think of a way that I could get you out of that house without condemning us all to death, and I couldn’t. So, I told myself and the others that you were strong enough to handle it, and I tried not to think about the incredible sacrifice that I was leaving you to make if it could be avoided.”

I bristle. “I was strong enough to handle it.”

“You were,” he agrees, nodding softly. “You were a child, though. You shouldn’t have had to be strong.”

“We were all children.”

He shakes his head. “We didn’t all have to bear what you had to, Sloane. And I’m proud of who you are now, but sometimes I wonder who you would have been if you hadn’t had to be so strong. I remember you as this sweet, hopeful child, and I can’t help but think that maybe if I’d done something more, if I’d found a way to keep you safe and protected you the way I should have, then you would still have that hope.”

“Xaden, I—”

“I know you were hurt when you saw us at the Archives.” He rests the hand closest to me on his thigh, fingers flexing. “I want you to know that I haven’t been excluding you because I believe in any way that you are unworthy of being included.” 

He stares at me with painful sincerity, but I keep my face turned away. “Oh.”

He doesn’t rush his words. He just lets them fall into the space between us, steady and restrained, tempered with as much love as he has left to give. “I just wanted you to have one year of your life, Sloane, to grieve your family and maybe, if I was being really greedy, to rediscover that sense of hope you lost along the way. I thought that if I could give you that one year, then it would at least go some way to making up for all the years I couldn’t save you.” The shadows by my feet twitch as he chuckles self-derisively. “Of course, it never occurred to me to ask whether that was something that you wanted, and for that, I was wrong.” 

“So you won’t leave me out anymore?” My chest aches.

Xaden’s expression is one of measured earnestness. “You have earned your place in this revolution a thousand times over, Sloane. So if you want in, then you’re in, in whatever capacity you want to be involved. I’ll make you one of my personal advisors if you want to operate behind the scenes. If you want something more hands-on, then you can come along with me for any and all missions of your choosing.” He pauses, then adds, “Within reason.”

Mairis don’t cry, and yet I’m crying. Rivulets of tears stream down my cheeks, down my throat, pooling in the dip of my clavicle before dripping down my chest. 

I comfort myself with the fact that at least I’m crying noiselessly. I don’t have much left, but I do have that, at least: some last semblance of the self-control and iron will that I spent so many years of my life carefully cultivating. 

“Well, I appreciate you saying that.”

His voice breaks as he adds, “I’ve been trying to protect the girl they dragged away from us at Calldyr, but I guess it’s high time I accept that she’s gone and that she isn’t coming back. From now on, I promise I’ll do my best to protect and honor the woman that girl had to become.” 

“So you won’t—?”

He interrupts me. “I may not always succeed, but I’ll try.”

Xaden watches while I cry the last of my tears, then wipe them away with the lining of my flight jacket. Silence grows between us, warm and heavy but surprisingly comfortable. After a long moment, when I’ve finally gathered my wits, I lean towards him and rest my head on his shoulder. “I think I’d make an excellent personal advisor.”

When I sit up, Xaden studies me. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Positive.” I rise to my feet slowly, glancing towards the Battle Brief classroom, then towards the sky. I calculate the time by the sun’s position, then promptly calculate it again, because it seems improbable that only an hour has passed since I was called out of Battle Brief. “I don’t think I’m particularly well-suited to life-and-death missions, if I’m honest, but politics—”

Xaden groans. “If I had my way, politics would be life-and-death.”

“You can’t kill everyone who disagrees with you.”

“No.” He smirks. “I can kill everyone who disagrees with me. You mean to say I should not, which is a matter for debate, in my mind.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he grins. “I said I wouldn’t stand in the way of your involvement anymore, Mairi; I didn’t say I’d make it easy for you.”

“We have some time before Battle Brief is finished,” I tell him. “As your new personal advisor, might I humbly suggest you split the cohort into groups of four and send us to go get our things? We have no way of telling how the quadrant will respond to the delightful news we’re bringing them, but I’d say it’s probable that things will go south pretty rapidly. We might need to make a fast getaway.” 

Xaden looks proud as nods. “That’s a solid suggestion.” 

I can’t help it; I preen. “If you had spent a second of your miserable life listening to a godsdamned word I’ve said, Xaden Riorson, you would already know that I’m a fucking genius.”

-----

“That’s where leadership is now,” Dain explains sedately, his voice carrying over rows of riders. “Trying to hide the bodies of over a dozen dead wyvern.” 

I look out over the formation from my place at the left-hand side of the dais, parked between Imogen and Bodhi, studying the faces I can pick out of the crowd to assess how our message is being received. Gaps pepper the ranks, because instead of joining their squads, the marked ones have formed a barricade of bodies between the rest of the quadrant and the dais. Supplementing this makeshift guard are a significant number of last year’s graduates, some of whom I know, who were waiting in the courtyard when my group returned from the First Year dorms with our rucksacks in hand. 

Quickly, I form the prognosis that this is going fucking terribly. There are a handful of curious faces, but it’s hard to feel hopeful at the sight of them when most of the quadrant looks like they’d happily take a bath in our blood. 

I choose to take it as a good sign that no actual blood has been shed yet, but as comforts go, it’s a meager one. 

Dain glances over his shoulder, then carries on, making a valiant effort not to sound defeated and failing miserably. “If you don’t believe me, ask your dragons.” 

“The courtyard looks different from up here, doesn’t it?” Imogen asks pleasantly. I turn to look at her as she props her elbow on my shoulder and leans towards me. “Smaller, right?”

“I guess so.” Golden shafts of light beat down on us, taking the edge off of the autumn breeze that blows from the west. Two birds wheel through the air above us, chirping, then duck low and race through the ranks of murmuring riders.  I sigh and cross my arms over the clean set of flight leathers I changed into, wondering how long we have until someone pulls out their sword out and starts stabbing or sets one of us alight. By my estimate, it can’t be more than three minutes. “I will admit, it feels a lot less structurally sound than I thought it would.” 

There’s a weight in my gut like a hunk of iron ore. 

“I agree. It feels like it’s one stiff wind away from crumbling into dust underneath us.”

“Are we still talking about the dais?” Bodhi asks, watching the crowd below us with a tangible, growing sense of unease. 

“Hope you’re ready to make a quick departure, Tor.”

She snaps her teeth at me menacingly, likely offended by the implication that she might not be ready to sweep me away at a moment’s notice. 

“Could you try to look less imposing?” I ask, glancing over at the wall where she still stands vigil. “The goal is to win people to our side by convincing them we’re the good guys, not make them think we’re going to massacre them should they decline to join our cause.” It’s eerily similar to the words I used thirty minutes ago, when I sorted the marked ones into groups of four and sent them away from the courtyard with strict instructions to ensure they returned wearing clean clothes and as little blood as possible. For my own part, I was able to wash away most of Dasha’s, but I keep finding more of it in the strands of my hair and in the creases of my hands. 

“You’re lying!” I blink as Aura Beinhaven charges forward, towards the dais and Dain, blade in hand. Gods help me, but my first thought on seeing the knife in her hand is relief, because the fact that this is happening is probably a fairly solid indication that they weren’t fucking. 

Garrick steps into Beinhaven’s path, drawing his sword. “I have no problem adding to my body count for the day, Beinhaven.” 

Imogen scoffs. “I bet he doesn’t,” she whispers to me, “seeing as Xaden got to everyone first and left him with a big, fat goose egg.” Others in the crowd look like they’re about to step forward. Some of last year’s graduates draw their weapons, the relics on their arms glistening as they catch the light. Imogen, either insensitive to the rapidly devolving situation or unconcerned by it, shapes her hand into a circle. “You’ve killed more people than he has today.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

She frowns. “You didn’t?”

I shake my head, eyes fixed on Garrick and Beinhaven. She pales as she looks down at the dual tips of his swords, angled so that they could decapitate her in one quick and easy movement. And if Imogen wouldn’t kill me for even considering it, I would probably kiss Garrick right on the mouth for gifting me the single most beautiful sight I have ever seen: Aura Beinhaven, piss-her-pants scared.

“The Empyrean has given each individual dragon the choice to share with their riders what they know, if it is their will,” Thoirt informs me, interrupting my chain of thought. I feel a flash of regret that she wasn’t there when the Empyrean made their decision and wonder if it’s hers or mine. “Yours,” she answers almost immediately. “I find such meetings to be tedious and reductive. Frequently, they devolve into senseless yelling. I have much preferred sending a proxy and having only the pertinent information related to me.”

“Who’s your proxy?” I watch her from the corner of my eye, unable to help my grin. “Molvic, perhaps?”

“I will not dignify that with a response.”

“That, in and of itself, is a response. How many dragons will take the Empyrean up on that offer?”

“Beyond those already bonded to relic-marked riders, I anticipate that somewhere between fifty and eighty dragons will choose to share what they know, perhaps more. The final number will depend on the further discussions of the conclave.” 

“Gods, that’s a lot of riders.”

I’m preoccupied by numbers and equations, wondering if Xaden has the resources to properly accommodate a contingent of that size at Riorson House, when— 

Liam. 

I try to blink the image away, but I can’t. Liam is standing right in front of me, framed by the battlements of an outpost I don’t recognize. My ears ring; my hand twitches with the urge to reach out and touch him. 

I hear gasps echoing through the formation, but—

My breath catches in my throat as I drink in the sight of my brother, his hair and skin limned by the setting sun. His hair is brighter than I remembered it, almost white gold. His eyes are exactly as brilliant as I remembered them being, though, which is a strangely agonizing realization. Was he always this tall?

Joy hits, raw and aching. I move as if to take a step closer to him, but Bodhi’s hand snakes around my arm, holding me in place. 

My olfactory system is overloaded. I can smell Bodhi standing at my side, all red clover and sea salt, but I can smell the outpost, too: sawdust and the resinous tang of fresh-cut lumber; the unpleasant, oily scent of lanolin and the musk of raw wool; the dusty smell of burlap sacks; smoke from the chimney stacks and the faintest hint of petrichor. 

“It’s not real,” Bodhi tells me gravely, his voice somewhere distant. “Sloane, I don’t think you should—”

“This is Sorrengail’s memory of the events that occurred at Resson, which she has asked that Tairn share with the assembled riders.” I feel Thoirt’s guilt pulsing through me, mixing with my grief to form a new, unnameable emotion which is dizzying in its intensity, as she says, “I did not know what it would entail. If you’d rather not see, then—”

Determinedly, I whisper, “I want to see him.”

I clench my jaw involuntarily as Liam turns to me, frowning. His head tilts at an angle I know so well, an angle I know by sight and by feel, because my head tilts at that angle when I’m trying to solve a problem. 

Inside of me, I feel something bloom and then wither. 

“Do we have a riot nearby?”

In the memory, Sorrengail turns to watch a wyvern blast a mountain with fire. Turn back, I think, as if I can somehow change this memory through prayer or sheer force of will. Turn back around and let me look at him for just one more second, please. Let me hear his voice again. Let me memorize his face, because I didn’t realize until now how much of its detail I’d forgotten. Already, time is eroding what I have left of him, blurring his edges. 

Turn around again, so I can be with him again.  

“Wyvern,” Sorrengail says, panicked. It’s a strange feeling, to experience the texture of someone else’s panic. Sorrengail’s panic is wild and metallic; I taste in the air like I sometimes taste electricity in the air during thunderstorms. “Xaden, it has two legs, not four. It’s not a dragon; it’s a wyvern.”

The memory muddles through a series of disenfranchised moments, and I try to dig my heels into several of them, desperate to catch more glimpses of Liam: Soleil Telery and her dragon; a purple-robed venin who places her palms to the ground, and Soleil and her disintegrate; Resson burns; fleeting visions of Liam fighting, which I savor.

I never had the chance to see him fight. 

Gods, he was good.

When next I see him in Sorrengail’s memory, I’m holding him, and I’m so relieved to feel his weight in my arms and smell his scent again—wood sage, sea salt, perverted slightly by something metallic and the musk of his sweat but still familiar—that initially, I don’t realize that he’s dying. When Bodhi’s hands squeeze around my arm and Imogen reaches over and interlaces her fingers with mine, that’s when I realize that he’s dying. 

I can taste Sorrengail’s panic again, feel her sorrow layered with my own; she holds onto him desperately as they land hard. 

Liam takes several steps towards his dragon, then collapses to the ground.

Suddenly, I feel hollow.

Thoirt, I don’t want—

My knees buckle, and I bite back a cry as Thoirt rips me from the memory. If it weren’t for the fact that Bodhi and Imogen are holding me up, I’d be sprawled on the smooth stone floor of dais. 

When I lift my head, I see that half a-quadrant of riders remain inside of Sorrengail’s memory, watching my brother die. 

For six years, I have been a living piece of propaganda, barely better than a poster, extolling Navarre’s might and Tyrrendor’s inferiority through my mere existence. Now, in death, my brother’s memory has been propagandized for the Tyrs, his honorable sacrifice reduced to nothing more than a symbol of our righteousness. 

Anger coils in my chest and races through my veins, thick and hot. Molten.

My nails dig into my palms.

“That should have been private.” Thoirt turns her head as other dragons begin to arrive and take up perches on the wall beside her. 

I see several people crying in the crowd, and I want to scream. 

“If your dragons don’t choose—” Dain begins, but the formation is slowly being whipped into a tumult. 

My eyes glaze over the turmoil below. The squads are squabbling amongst themselves, and a general sense of anarchy has subsumed the ranks. They come to a dead stop when I look down at Beinhaven, who’s staring at me from between Garrick’s knives with a knowing smirk painted across her face. 

Did she watch my brother die?

Beinhaven must read the tenor of my thoughts in my expression, because her brow twitches as if in confirmation. I shake off Bodhi and Imogen and begin to step forward, hand drifting toward my dagger. 

Suddenly, the world goes black. For a moment, I think I might have fainted from emotional overexertion or something, or that I’m in another memory; then I realize that I can taste the darkness, and it tastes like fucking mint. 

As a chorus of screams ripples across the courtyard, Xaden’s shadows squeeze my shoulder, then pluck the dagger from my hand and carry it away.

“Enough!” 

The ground below my feet quakes. 

Quick as they came, the shadows dissipate, revealing that Xaden has moved to the front of the dais. I spot my dagger tucked into his back pocket and feel a flash of rage so hot, sweat prickles at my scalp in spite of the cool westerly wind. Every breath I take is sharp and shallow until my eyes land on Aaric at the back of the crowd, stone-faced. To his right, Visia watches me mournfully, her arm wrapped comfortingly around Avalynn’s shoulders as she weeps.

I take three slow, deep breaths.  

Beside me, Imogen tuts. “Riorsons. Can’t let anyone else be the star of the show, can they?” 

“Fucking show-off,” Garrick agrees, grinning as he looks at Imogen over his shoulder, both longswords still angled at Beinhaven’s throat. 

The fact that he can hold a longsword in each hand irks me.

The fact that he hasn’t yet stabbed Beinhaven irks me.

“You are all riders!” Xaden shouts. Which is fucking obnoxious, actually, considering his voice is already amplified by lesser magic. They can probably hear him over in the citadel. Hell, they can probably hear him down in Chantara. “All chosen, all threshed, and all responsible for what happens next. Act like it!”

My mouth tastes like ash and stale mint; I want to vomit. 

“What Aetos has told you is the truth. Whether or not you choose to believe it is up to you.” Xaden surveys the crowd like everyone in it is beneath him, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever heard the Tyrrish aphorism about luring more birds with grain than gravel. If he has, he obviously disagrees. “If your dragon has chosen not to share what some have seen, then your choice has been made for you.”

Wingbeats punctuate the air as another riot of dragons approaches. Conversations buzz.

As Sorrengail’s head snaps to the side, I follow her gaze in time to see three scribes emerging from the rotunda. They’re led by Jesinia, who’s clutching a stack of books in her arms as she races towards us, red-faced with exertion, rucksack thumping against her back. 

“Thoirt, can we—”

Thoirt chuffs, proximal enough that I can feel her steam on the back of my neck. “I had a feeling you would ask, so I have advised Tairn that I am willing to carry Jesinia. I stress, however, that I will not lower myself further than permitting a scribe to ride on my back. I will not go easy on her, or catch her; I will not bind her to me. If she falls, she is no longer my responsibility.”

“Noted.” 

Bitch. 

She blows a gust of hot steam at me. “I heard that.”

“Do that again, but aim for Beinhaven and this time, try to get more snot in there.”

I feel a tug down our bond. “Pay attention.”

I sense that things are rapidly drawing to a close. There isn’t much more we could say or do to convince those who aren’t already on our side, unless Sorrengail happens to have a painfully vivid memory of the Calldyr executions handy which she can disseminate to the crowd, or perhaps my father’s death. My personal tragedies are, after all, just fodder for her whims. 

“What about unbonded riders?” I ask suddenly.

Bodhi scoffs. “What about them?”

“If they want to come with us, how are we going to get them to Tyrrendor?”

Bodhi looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m the second coming of Amari, then replies, “We aren’t.”

“They don’t get the right to choose?”

“If they were worthy, a dragon would have chosen them.”

I feel my hackles rise. Beneath my indignation, I feel a shiver of delight at the fact that I finally have something, someone, to unleash my anger on. “You’re fucking disgusting,” I tell him, turning away. “The fact that their dragon wasn’t available this year doesn’t automatically preclude them from being decent.”

Bodhi is unperturbed. “If you want to find dragons who’ll carry cadets they have already deemed unworthy, be my guest,” he says dismissively.

“Thoirt, would any—?”

She stops me before I can finish the thought, chortling. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

When I turn back to Xaden, he’s still monologuing. “We are at war, a war in which we are outmatched not only in strength of signet but air superiority as a whole. Whatever you decide in the next hour will determine the course, and perhaps the end, of your life. If you come with us, I cannot promise you’ll live.” Wow. Sell it harder, Xaden. Through the haze of my vexation, I decide that I need to tack ‘speech writer’ onto the end of my position title, because I never realized that Xaden was such a bad orator. “But if you stay, I guarantee you will die fighting for the wrong side. The venin will not stop at the border. They will drain every ounce of magic in Poromiel, and then they’ll come for the hatching grounds in the Vale.”

Dissent rises from the ranks. 

“Several professors approach from the flight field.”

Seconds later, the door to the Gauntlet and flight field is nearly torn off its hinges as several professors race into the courtyard. “What have you done?” Professor Carr shouts, sprinting towards the dais, lifting his hands. Spittle flies from his mouth. “You’ll end us all, over who? People you’ve never met?”

“Looks like you’re up, Durran,” Imogen says, reaching around me to clap him on the shoulder. “Make me proud, kid.”

Carr shakes his head, wild-eyed. “I won’t allow it!”

There’s a collective gasp and several high-pitched screams as fire explodes from Carr’s hands, flooding towards the dais. Xaden shouts. Calmly, Bodhi takes a single step forward and twists his hand like he’s opening a door.

Carr’s fire sputters out. 

“You taught us well, Professor.” Bodhi shrugs, hand still raised in the air in front of him, fingers pinched into something not unlike a fist, as if the magic he tore from the air is something he caught mid-flight. He can’t help but smirk as he adds, “Maybe a little too well.” 

Overhead, a rainbow of dragons crests the ridgeline and descends at speed. Leading the pack is Sorrengail’s massive Black Morningstartail, Tairn, whose golden eyes already promise instantaneous death to anyone who might do so much as sneeze in Sorrengail’s direction. I spot other familiar dragons amongst the riot as they land: Caraich and Veirt, Visia and Baylor’s dragons, who are nearly indistinguishable from a distance; Cuir; Glane; Molvic; Lasadah, Avalynn’s Orange Scorpiontail; Cath.

With a start, I recognize Sian landing on one of the turrets, wings flared wide. 

“We won’t stop you.” Professor Devera tucks a lock of bright purple hair behind her ear as she looks toward her Red Clubtail, who landed by the parapet and is surveying the crowd coolly. “In fact, some of us have been waiting to join you.”

Bodhi grins. “Really?”

Devera nods. “Who do you think left the news about Zolya all over Battle Brief?” 

Huh, I think as she and several other professors detach themselves from the retinue of teachers, Emetterio chief amongst them. I guess I underestimated her, then. 

“We’re leaving within the hour.” Xaden flicks his onyx gaze over the Riders Quadrant, talking not just to the students, but the dragons who have gathered and watch him with their trademark intensity. “Your choice is as simple as it is personal. You can defend Navarre, or you can fight for the Continent.”

With that said, he turns his back on the crowd, his attention solely focused on Sorrengail, making it abundantly clear that the rest of us are, once again, beneath his interest.

-----

Fifteen minutes later, I decide that Matthias must be a distant relative of Amari, must have inherited god-like powers of persuasion, because she somehow manages to convince Xaden that Sorrengail can be entrusted to her care long enough for him to coordinate the mass exodus of what is turning out to be a very large number of riders. Several marked ones and four professors join him on the dais as she, Ridoc and Sawyer take shifts watching over Sorrengail, who’s slumped on a bench in the shade, periodically dozing.

“Do we have a final tally?” Xaden asks, still watching her with hawklike intensity.

“Yes. We’ve got one-hundred and one riders and”—Garrick whistles at that number, filling the pause that falls as I wait for confirmation from Thoirt—“two hundred and fifty-eight dragons, several of which are hatchlings, although Thoirt tells me that the hatchlings and a riot of about fifty unbonded dragons will stay behind and travel separately.”

“Is that because they’ll need to travel slower?” Devera asks. 

I wouldn’t describe myself as particularly trusting of her, given that every day for the past two months, between the hours of ten-thirty a.m. and twelve p.m., I’ve had to listen to her peddling bullshit to impressionable students on the state’s behalf. Being adversarial isn’t going to get us anywhere, though. So, in the spirit of camaraderie (and not being a fucking hypocrite), I shake my head and deign to answer her. “It’s practically guaranteed that a riot of unbonded dragons won’t be attacked, even if they’re bound for Tyrrendor.”

Devera nods. “So, we’re expecting retaliation?”

“Depends on how expeditiously they can get their outposts back in order, doesn’t it?” Garrick shrugs. 

Xaden rubs his palm over his chin as he contemplates the journey ahead. “So, we’re traveling with a riot that’s about three-hundred strong, a third of which are bonded?”

“Hope your kitchen staff are robust, your larder is full and your fields are full of sheep, Xaden.” I tap his ankle with the toe of my boot as I whisper, “If not, you’re going to have a legion of hungry riders and their dragons on your hands in a matter of mere hours, and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

He grunts in response. 

Garrick holds up his arm. “I’m thinking we position anyone with one of these at the edge of the formation.”

Devera and Emetterio exchange mystified looks, but say nothing.

Xaden nods, still pinching his chin between his fingers. “How do we minimize civilian sightings with a riot that large, though?”

“You could fly into Tyrrendor over the Precipice Pass,” Dain suggests, scratching the back of his neck, sparing a glance at Devera; she nods in agreement. “Algal blooms have been particularly robust this year. The path is already narrow; now it’s narrow and slick, so traffic density is at a record low. That would bring you onto the Tyrrish plateau just before the border of Elsum. I read this morning that cloud cover over the Cliffs of Dralor is particularly heavy this season because it’s been rainier than usual; we could hide in that.”

Garrick coughs something that sounds suspiciously like fucking nerd as he looks to the side, scratching his nose. 

“I think you mean ‘we’, son,” Emetterio says quietly.  

“Fine.” Xaden checks on Sorrengail over his shoulder, then pats Bodhi on the back. “I want us in the air in fifteen minutes. Aetos, find a map and go over our route with Bodhi and Garrick; I want it settled and communicated to the entire riot by the time claws are up.”

“I’ll help,” Devera offers. 

Xaden considers it, then nods his acquiescence. “Sloane, I want you to communicate the flight formation to each squadleader and make sure they understand marked ones are to remain on the outer edges. If there are any squads that don’t already have a relic-bearer in them, I need you to work with them and coordinate the temporary redistribution of personnel. Emetterio, you liaise with the section leaders.” He studies each of us carefully, then turns his back to us and starts to walk away. “Unless and until it’s time to leave this fucking place behind us, I don’t exist.”

When I step from the huddle, Visia is waiting for me against one of the dais’ crumbling columns.

“You should go get your things.”

She points across the courtyard. Baylor and Avalynn are lying atop a mountain of rucksacks. At its foot sits Lynx, who is absentmindedly strumming his lute; Aaric stands to one side, calmly directing the flow of traffic through the tunnel to the flight field. Beyond, dragons take turns landing so that their riders can hitch their rucksacks to them, then decamp to the flight field to await takeoff. 

I tip my neck back. Above, the sky—which is, I notice with a pang of grief, the exact same shade of blue as Liam’s eyes—churns with dragons of every hue, wheeling in slow arcs. I spot Thoirt amongst them and tug at the bond between us. “Marked ones on the outer edges from here to Aretia, Tor. Can you spread it around?” 

She tugs at our bond in confirmation as she banks left, spiraling lower amid the prismatic vortex of wings and scales. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Visia asks simply.

She doesn’t sound betrayed, or angry, or disappointed; I almost wish she did.

“How was I supposed to tell you?” I give her a skeptical look from the corner of my eye as I start walking towards the nearest squadleader.  

“It’s remarkably simple: mouth opens, tongue moves, words happen.”

I laugh breathlessly. “Would you have believed me?”

“You could tell me water is actually dry, Sloane, and I’d think you were fucking crazy, but I’d go along with it anyway, because that’s how much I care about you.” She waits impatiently to one side as I brief the squadleader, then continues trailing after me as I move toward the next. “Were you really going to leave without us?”

I sigh and pivot on my heel, facing her. “Yes.”

Visia crosses her arms, disgruntled. “You would have been okay with a world where we were fighting on opposite ends of a war?” she clarifies.

“No.” I shake my head vehemently. 

“What, then?” She rolls her milky green eyes skyward. “What was your plan, Sloane?”

“To be honest, Visia, I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.” I shrug, cross my arms to mirror her posture, then start aggressively shoving my tongue into the gap between my teeth until I taste blood. Visia says nothing, staring at me, making it clear that she finds my answer dissatisfying. Exasperated, I explain, “I was mostly preoccupied with day-to-day survival. I figured I had three years to find the right way to say it, because I had no reason to believe that I would be leaving the quadrant before graduation. Why rush?”

She eyes me critically, like my head is something made of glass and she can see all its inner workings. “Is it that you weren’t in a rush? Or is it that some part of you didn’t think you would make it to graduation, or we wouldn’t, and so you’d never have to disappoint us if you simply waited?”

The words have a tangible effect on the air around us. 

“Yeah.” I nod sullenly. “Yeah, could be that.”

Visia watches Aaric for a long moment, tongue prodding at the flesh of her cheek inside her mouth. “Your brother—” she begins.

“I didn’t watch it; I don’t want to know what happened or what he said, and I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“That’s fair.”

There are about a thousand things that need my attention. I hesitate, then hear myself say, “Dasha Fabrren is dead.”

Visia’s brow twitches, but she still won’t meet my eye. “Did you kill her?”

“No.” I take a shuddering breath. “I held her while she was dying, though.”

“What was that like?”

“Awkward.”

Visia snorts out a laugh, then presses her fingers to her mouth, wide-eyed. 

“Looking back at it all now, I think some part of me wanted to keep you at arm’s length,” I admit. Visia turns, her expression morphing into something that seems to say no shit, Sloane. I scoff, then reach out and tug her into a hug, murmuring into her neck as I do. “For a long, long time, I’ve been telling myself there isn’t a person in the world I would pick over Tyrrendor. If it came to it, I would have let Bodhi die, or Imogen die, or almost anyone die, if that’s what it took for my people to be free and safe. But when Dasha was lying in my lap dying, there was a second where I imagined that it was you, or Aaric, and I thought, ‘I don’t know if I could pick Tyrrendor over either of them.’”

“What about Avalynn?” Her voice is muffled by my shoulder.

I pretend to consider it. “I guess it would depend on how annoying she’s being that day.”

Eventually, Visia pats my shoulder. “We’re running out of time.” When she steps away, she wipes at her eyes savagely with the heel of her hand before clearing her throat. “If you want help, I can do all the squadleaders from First and Second Wing and you can cover all the squadleaders from Third and Fourth.”

I smile at her. “That sounds nice.”

“Why is it such a big deal that the marked ones go on the outer edges, anyway?”

I maneuver her out of the path of a Second Year who’s sprinting past with a rucksack in each hand, then grin as she shouts expletives at his retreating back. “Well, it’s kind of a secret, so—” When she turns back to me with an incredulous expression, I laugh and hold up my palms. “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you, but you have to swear to keep it a secret.” I nod at my relic with my chin. “Melgren can’t see the outcome of any battle that involves more than four people with one of these on their arm. If we’re on the outer edges, then Navarre can’t launch an attack without engaging us first, so…”

“Why would Codagh give you those relics if they render his signet effectively useless?” Visia’s brow knits.

“He didn’t.” Visia frowns, puzzled. Gods, how do I explain it all? “You know the big picture now, but there’s a lot of tiny, intricate details you don’t know yet. I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know soon, but now isn’t the time.” Gently, I push her towards the nearest squadleader.

She takes a few steps in that direction, then pivots to face me. “I’ve decided I forgive you,” she tells me magnanimously, “but I want you to know that if you ever lie to me again, even by omission, I will cut you out of my life for good.”  

“Can’t argue with that.” I glance back over at the pile of rucksacks. Avalynn is sitting up now, watching us intently. The sun casts a shimmering golden halo over her hair, and her skin glows bronze; I have never seen her so still or so staid. “Is Avalynn mad?”

Visia snorts. “Is Avalynn mad that we’re ditching school?”

“Is Avalynn mad that I didn’t tell you guys?”

“Avalynn is…” Visia searches for the right words to describe her, then shrugs. “Well, Avalynn is Avalynn.”

-----

Initially, Xaden isn’t exactly on board with the idea of Jesinia and I riding together. “You’re only marginally less experienced than she is,” he points out as he hands me my dagger with a stern, disapproving expression. I, in turn, give him a look that says I’m not in the market to receive a critical lecture from someone still covered in the blood of an unknown quantity of infantrymen whose greatest crime was doing their job.

Around us, the last arrangements are being put into place for our departure. Students who have elected to remain at Basgiath ogle us from the windows, many looking like they’d happily be judge, jury and executioner if given the opportunity. 

I sniff indignantly at him. “It would behoove you to remember that, of the two of us, I was the first to ride a dragon.”

“That hardly counts.” Xaden turns to scowl at a nearby Third Year who’s dragging four full rucksacks behind him. “Pick two, Starling. I don’t have nearly enough room to accommodate four bags’ worth of your shit.”

“Gods, you’re an asshole.”

“If I were an asshole, I would simply leave you to your own devices. If I were an asshole, I would let you find out the hard way why a newly-threshed First Year trying to help a fucking scribe keep her seat is a bad idea.” His face softens slightly. “Look, I’m sure there are other dragons who’d be willing to let Jesinia—”

The conversation falls to the wayside when Tairn, already saddled, crashes to the ground in the middle of the courtyard, rattling the curtain walls and sending the lingering students scrambling. With him distracted, I slip away.

Jesinia is waiting for me in the rotunda with the other trembling scribes. Imogen and Dain stand with them, too, and Dain is giving them a crash course on dragon riding. 

“Ready?” I sign at Jesinia as I walk towards them. 

Jesinia nods, beaming at me, and my step falters for a second at the sight of it. I’ve never seen her smile with her teeth before, and it’s like seeing the sun break through the clouds on a miserable winter’s day, enough to make me feel warm from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. 

No wonder Liam was half in love with her,  I think, and then— 

Liam. 

I see his agonized face. I cling to his dead weight in my arms, praying that I can hold onto him for just a little longer.

Jesinia’s smile falters at whatever she sees on my face. “You okay, Sloane?”

“Yeah.” I smile dryly.

“Have you ever ridden a horse?” Dain is asking one of the scribes, a tall woman named Aalimah with a heart-shaped face and bright, expressive eyes. His hands fly as he speaks, and I find myself transfixed by the careful, vigilant way he shapes words with them. Aalimah apparently feels the same. She nods, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed pink. “Well, riding a dragon is not unlike riding a horse, except there’s no reins.”

The male scribe to his right scoffs. It is, I notice, the redheaded scribe Visia made blush in the Archives the other day. “Yeah,” he says, translating for Jesinia as he speaks. “It’s just like riding a horse, except the horse is house-sized and breathes fire.”

Jesinia chuckles, then gestures to him as she signs, “Sloane, this is Glenn.”

I hate that. I grimace at him in acknowledgement, but I imagine it’s laced with pity, because Glenn is a truly abysmal name. I can hear it in my head: mucosal; flat; all consonants and no elegance. 

Then again, I hated ‘Dain’ when I first heard it, and now I find it’s grown on me. 

“If the dragon banks, your instinct is going to be to resist,” Dain continues, pointedly ignoring him. Jesinia watches the movements of his hands, too, with studious intensity. “Don’t do that. Lean into it instead, or you’ll get destabilized, and make sure that you’ve got a tight grip on the pommel and that your thighs are clenched tightly.”

“You can’t clench tightly enough,” Imogen chirps, inspecting her cuticles. 

“Won’t that hurt the dragon?” Aalimah asks. 

Imogen lifts her head to give her a dismissive look; Aalimah pales under the weight of it. “You know, if a dragon had heard you say that, they’d be insulted and you’d probably be dead.”

I translate for Jesinia, who presses her mouth together in a thin grimace. 

“I’ll be right behind you in the saddle,” I tell her. 

Dain cocks his head to the side as if he can hear something we can’t, then nods. “Time to go.”

Jesinia nudges me softly as he begins walking deeper into the rotunda, drawing my attention so that she can sign the words, “Aren’t we headed to the flight field?”

“We are,” I confirm, “but Dain figured we should spare you a trip up the stairs.” Not that he was the one who communicated this to me. I was informed of the plan by Imogen, who was informed by Garrick, who was informed by Xaden, who discussed it with Dain. “You’ll need to conserve all the energy you can for the flight.” I gesture loosely. “There’s a hidden tunnel up ahead that will take us directly there.” 

I answer aloud, too, for the benefit of the other two scribes. 

At the entrance to the tunnel, Dain lights a mage light, then opens the door and ushers us through: Imogen first, with Dain bringing up the rear. The male scribe walks in front of Jesinia and I, disproportionately intrigued by every insignificant aspect of the musty underground tunnel, from the utilitarian support pillars and retaining walls interspersed along its length to the load-bearing stone arches carved directly in the bedrock overhead.

“His area of special interest is architecture,” Jesinia tells me, perhaps noticing the way my eyebrows lift towards my hairline. “Aalimah specializes in musicology. Right now, she’s writing her dissertation on the social and ritual functions of music and dance in the provinces, and particularly the role they play in commemorating historical events and expressing cultural identities. Storytelling, I guess you could say.” Jesinia pauses, then frowns as she adds, “Well, she was writing her dissertation on that.”

“I don’t see any reason why she can’t continue writing it.” 

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch when I glance around at the details of the tunnel, trying to see what might have the male scribe so interested, and realize that we’re surrounded by a warm pink glow, but when I glance over my shoulder, Dain is watching us with a veiled expression that’s completely at odds with the gesture; I turn away, nibbling at the flesh of my cheek. 

“Perhaps.” Jesinia smiles shyly. 

“Why haven’t I seen you smile before?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Scribes aren’t supposed to smile.”

On the flight field, I lead Jesinia to Thoirt, who is standing in place at the edge of our squad. Thoirt lowers her leg as we approach, forming a ramp; Jesinia wrangles the hem of her robes, then climbs it with aplomb and settles into the saddle demurely. 

Thoirt eyes me contemptuously. “I will do this for you, because you feel a misguided sense of kinship for the scribe, but I want you to know that I mislike everything about this.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” I tell her, checking the tear in her wing. Next, I check the inner pocket of my jacket, where I’ve tucked ten of Liam’s letters, the ones I reread most frequently, and the letter Dasha wrote to her father. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me until I was standing in front of the door to her dorm room that I forgot to take the key from her pocket before she and Argall went plunging into the Iakobos, so I had to kick it down. I take several steps back, then approach her foreleg at a fast-paced jog and jump, planting my foot at hip height and wedging my hands between scales. 

I check that our rucksacks are securely fastened before settling into the pommel behind Jesinia. 

Xaden bounds up the stairs and glances around, no more dissatisfied by what he sees than usual. His eyes drift over Jesinia, who sits ramrod straight in front of me, white-knuckling the pommel even though we haven’t even started moving, then meet mine. He lifts one brow languorously; I smirk in response. 

I never said I would make his life easier, either.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he turns away from me to watch Tairn descend, Violet saddled on his back and a smaller, sleeping Black affixed to the harness at his front, its limp body dangling from side to side precariously with each flap of Tairn’s wings. 

This must be the fabled second dragon, I surmise. 

“Why is it sleeping?”

“She is in the Dreamless Sleep,” Thoirt tells me, voice taut and… concerned, maybe? “It’s the process by which our juveniles become adolescents.”

“So, you guys skip puberty?”

“What is ‘puberty’?”

“Puberty is the process by which human juveniles become adolescents,” I inform her, adjusting Jesinia’s chokehold on the pommel to make room for my hands, too. “We get moody, and hungry, and—”

“Oh.” Thoirt’s shoulders roll beneath us as she flares her wings, stretching in preparation for flight. “No. When she awakes from the Dreamless Sleep, she’ll be all of those things.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“If I were to name every pointless biological process humans suffer through, we would be here for a very, very long time.”

“Point taken.”

I tap Jesinia’s thigh to get her attention, then gesture ahead; a thunder of rumbling wingbeats signifies that the riot is about to launch. Sure enough, seconds later Sgaeyl nosedives toward the flight field, wings blowing up gales of dust. Xaden makes a running mount that, while impressive, is wildly unnecessary, and I roll my eyes at the sight of it. 

Garrick, seated on his Brown across from me, meets my eye over Jesinia’s shoulder, dimple already popping in his cheek. 

Show-off, we both mouth.

I lock my forearms to either side of Jesinia’s waist, holding her steady in preparation for take-off. “Ready?”

She nods determinedly.

Despite the fact that the route Dain has carved across Deaconshire and into the Precipice Pass is exceptionally solid, the journey isn’t easy. Thoirt and I cruise on the left flank with Lasadah situated at our right, and I spend most of the journey with my head on a swivel, terrified that someone—Avalynn, Visia, one of the scribes—will lose their seat and plunge to the terrain below. 

When I’m not anxious about that, I’m busy worrying that we’ll be intercepted by a Navarrian patrol. 

Jesinia keeps watch with me for most of the flight, but falls asleep somewhere over Ruel, her head lolling against my shoulder. 

My thighs ache and I’ve never wanted a bath more in my life, but my heart soars as we crest the Cliffs of Dralor and enter into the airspace above the Tyrrish plateau. I’m barely able to contain the happiness bursting inside of me as I drink in sights I thought I might not live to see again: sunlight dappling the crystalline waters of the Beatha River; forests of brilliant red flame trees; rolling, verdant hills and fields of yellow barley. 

Home. 

I’m home. 

I shake Jesinia awake as we approach Aretia, careful not to startle her enough that she loses her balance. She comes to with a start, then starts again when she looks down at what should be the charred remains of a city. 

At the point where her spine touches my chest, I feel her breathing hitch; she leans forward as if to get a closer look.

“Can we go lower?” 

Thoirt hesitates for a moment, then slowly tips forward, swooping low over the ruins of the bell tower. 

The blackened bones of the old towers still cast long shadows across the city, reminders of what was lost in the Battle of Aretia. General consensus is that they should be torn down, but I prefer to think of them like the ritualistic scars Tyrs sometimes carve into our skin: solemn, sacred reminders of the responsibilities we bear and the covenants we’ve sworn. 

I feel a flash of guilt as I catch a glimpse of them and realize that we’ve now broken those covenants.

Around the towers, new buildings of pale mortar, shale brick and shimmering yellow limestone stand, proud and defiant. Gardens bloom. In the busy market, color and chatter spill through the air; horses trot along broad avenues once choked with rubble, and children weave their way through the streets, laughing as they play touch-and-go. 

Jesinia stares and stares, open-mouthed. 

“Welcome to Tyrrendor,” I sign at her.

Music spills from the windows and open doors of the city’s taverns, rowdy songs of our people, and I let it fill me as we soar toward the valley beyond Riorson House. Then I realize what song they’re singing, and my smile quickly turns into a scowl.

-----

Aaric grunts as he catches the rucksack I’ve kicked over Thoirt’s shoulder. 

“That’s the last of it.” I wipe my hands on my trousers and check my squad’s progress. Visia and Lynx, already dismounted and wearing their packs (and, in Lynx’s case, a lute slung across his back, thumping hollowly every time it hits his rucksack), are helping some of the other First Years rebalance weight in their packs before they make the walk downhill to Riorson House. Avalynn, on the other hand, is lying on the grass with her forearm slung over her head; Baylor hitches her rucksack over his shoulder, then patiently tries to coax her into standing. 

I turn toward the mountain path, where the cream robes of the scribes stand in stark relief against their surroundings. They’re making quicker progress than I would have expected; already, they’re halfway down the mountain.

The odds of everyone making it here alive were low enough to be laughable, and yet, somehow we did. 

Zihnal, I decide, must be siding with Tyrrendor. 

“I just flew for twelve hours,” Avalynn whines, rolling over onto her belly and burying her face in the yellow-green grass. “I cannot possibly hike down a mountain in my current state, Baylor. Leave me here to die or something.” 

Baylor, exasperated, crouches at her side and murmurs something only she can hear. 

She lifts her head and grins at him. “You promise?”

He nods, offering her his hand, and she takes it.  

The valley thrums with energy as riders dismount their dragons. On the ridgeline above, a blaze of ochre trees whisper, their leaves stirred by the wings of the dragons who dip low over them as they make their descent. Standing on Thoirt’s back, I watch a line of black-clad riders march toward the narrow, winding path that cuts down the hillside to Riorson House under Imogen’s guidance. 

“Is that what ants look like to humans?” Thoirt asks wryly.

The air is crisp up here, and my breath puffs out in front of me like smoke. “I s’pose.”

I dismount and take my pack and one of Jesinia’s from Aaric, nearly staggering under the weight. I know, because she sheepishly admitted as much, that Jesinia brought four sets of robes with her, a hairbrush, and as many books as she could possibly carry. I put that one on my back and hug the other, trying to balance their weight for the hike. Aaric, meanwhile, shoulders both his own pack and Dain’s, which he collected from the ground between Cath’s talons. 

Within minutes of us landing, two of Xaden’s advisors arrived, short-breathed and red-faced, to escort Dain from the flight field. Judging by the look on Cath’s face, he isn’t happy about that turn of events. 

Frankly, neither am I. 

The sunk sinks lower, setting the treetops ablaze, as my squad and I make our way towards the path and start down the mountain. Garrick struts ahead of us, carrying a rucksack in each hand and one on his back, humming contentedly to himself. I smile, carefully picking my way along the path to avoid the slick, fallen leaves that crunch underfoot. The soles of my new boots have less traction than my old ones, and the last thing I need is to go toppling down the side of the mountain and—

I stop abruptly, glaring at Garrick’s back. “Stop that.”

Garrick turns to look at me over his shoulder and has the audacity to ask, “Stop what?”

“You know I hate that fucking song.”

“Oh?” I know he knows this. He has the audacity, however, to assume an innocent, perplexed expression. “You do?”

“What song?” Lynx asks, intrigued. 

Garrick feigns surprise. “You don’t know it?”

“Why would they know a Tyrrish folk song, Garrick?”

“I thought everybody knew that song.” He shrugs, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, before turning back around. 

We’ve walked barely a few paces before he begins singing under his breath.

          In Benserac, where the wind blows wide
          I carve stone on the mountainside

I growl in warning. “Garrick Tavis, if you don’t stop singing that right now, I swear I’ll—”

“Sorry, Mini Mairi.” He snickers to himself. “I heard them singing it in one of the taverns while we were flying in, and now it’s stuck in my head.”

Riorson House is in view now, its terraces and walkways laced with flowering vines that spill over the balustrades in cascades of lilac and violet, each level hewn in perfect harmony with the mountain. Buttresses reinforce the balconies, subtle enough that each one looks like something the mountain grew itself. Without the trailing flora hanging from its stone railings, only the reflection of the setting sun against the runed glass windows would give the fortress away; otherwise, it blends almost seamlessly into the rock. 

I wonder what Glenn, the architectonically-inclined scribe, thought when he first caught sight of it, seeing as a musty tunnel under the quadrant was enough to make his eyes bug out of his head. 

“So, what’s with the song, anyway?” Avalynn asks, clinging to Baylor’s shirt as she leans to over the side of the path and looks out over the ravine. She makes a strongly disapproving face at the sight of the drop below, then promptly moves to Baylor’s other side, skirting the wall. 

With Avalynn safely tucked away on the inside of the path, Baylor visibly relaxes.

“That song,” Garrick informs no one in particular, broad back to us and eyes still on the path ahead, “is called Lovely Lady Mairi.” 

I feel him smirking as he opens his mouth and starts singing again. 

He’s by no means technically proficient. His voice cracks on some of the higher notes, but it’s hearty and rich and rough. Each note rises into the thin mountain air and tumbles down over the side of the path, echoing through the valley below, carried on the wind all the way to fucking Aretia. 

Garrick finishes the first verse and chorus, then has the good sense to run away before I can kick him over the side of the path. 

“Is it about you?” Aaric clarifies, bemused.

I shake my head. “I would probably hate it less if it were. Imagine how awkward it is, growing up hearing taverns full of drunken men warble about how much some long-dead miner wanted to fuck your grandmother.” 

“Aw!” Avalynn clutches at Baylor’s arm, moony-eyed. “That’s actually kind of romantic! Did he?”

“What?”

“Did he fuck your grandmother?”

I scowl at her. “How should I know, Avalynn?”

“I liked it,” Lynx murmurs. The strings of his lute catch on the hilt of his sword as he steps over rubble that’s lately fallen into the path, humming a stray, discordant note. He holds up a hand to stop us while he and Aaric kick the rocks over the side. “Catchy. I can see why it’s popular.”

There are murmurs of general agreement. 

“That’s the first time I ever heard it,” Visia says ominously, “and yet, already, I feel like I know it off by heart.”

“Sing it, and you’re dead to me,” I warn them. 

They each nod solemnly, and then—

By the time we arrive at Riorson House, I’m sweaty, exhausted, and my entire squad has sung the first verse and chorus of Lovely Lady Mairi three times back-to-back, unbearably loud and pitchy and mostly out of rhythm.

Even still, I’m smiling when I walk through the doors. 

 

Notes:

Hi everyone,

This chapter concludes Act One of the story! I will be taking a short break from writing to rest, work through my very long TBR list, and do more detailed plotting for Act Two (so it might be a little longer than usual between updates). I don't have an ETA for the next chapter, but will provide an update on my Tumblr if it's going to be longer than two-ish weeks. You can find me at avatatewrites(dot)tumblr(dot)com.

This chapter was a hard chapter to write for many reasons, including the fact that it contains emotional scenes I wanted to do justice to, one of which was Dasha's death. Below, you will find the summary of the section of the story in which her death and Argall's suicide is depicted, which is probably not of interest to anyone who has already read the chapter. However, once again, I take this opportunity to say that if you are distressed by anything contained within this chapter or the summary below and need support, free 24/7 mental health and crisis support lines are available in most countries globally. You deserve to be supported.

-----

tw:
In the first section of this chapter, we rejoin Sloane and the marked ones in the corridor, where Dasha Fabrren has just come across them being escorted to the bridge. A violent fight breaks out, causing Sloane to panic and freeze, and she is startled and horrified by the brutality she witnesses. The six guards are quickly dispatched by the marked ones, whose attention then turns to Dasha.

Dasha, equally affected by what she's seen, attempts to flee and is chased down on the bridge beyond by one of the marked ones, a male Second Year. Sloane observes that he knows her name and that at one point, while struggling with each other, they look like they're hugging. Following a scuffle in which Dasha cuts the marked one multiple times, he stabs her and is immediately, visibly horrified by what he's done.

Quickly, it becomes evident that Dasha will not make a recovery from her injuries because she is bleeding out too quickly, and Imogen informs Sloane that it isn't worth the risk of trying to get her to the Riders Quadrant. This distresses Sloane. Before she walks away, Imogen points out that it's easy to say one person's life is worth less than a province until that person is actively dying in your arms.

Sloane remains with Dasha in her dying moments. They share a stilted, but wide-ranging conversation where:
- Dasha seems to express little resentment towards the Second Year who stabbed her,
- Dasha asks that Sloane doesn't mourn her as anything more than an acquaintance,
- Dasha reflects on her choice to intervene and expresses a wish that she hadn't,
- shortly afterward, Dasha contradicts herself while reflecting on the circular nature of history and their lives,
- Sloane offers to tell Dasha the truth about the nature of the war between Tyrrendor and Navarre, but Dasha expresses a preference not to know,
- Dasha requests that Sloane push her body off of the bridge so that she can be cremated by her dragon, Sian, like her mother was,
- Dasha requests that Sloane collect a letter from her room and send it to her father,
- Dasha jokes about how silly it is that Second Years still lock their dorms out of habit, even though they can all unlock doors using lesser magic.

As she walks back to the others, Sloane reflects on how Dasha's death was wasteful and that, during her time at Basgiath, she has seen nothing but wasteful deaths.

(note: A description of the suicide occurs in the following paragraph.)

Bodhi has made the Second Year who stabbed Dasha watch her death. When Sloane states that Dasha wants her body to be pushed into the river, the Second Year immediately offers to help; however, he ends up picking Dasha up by himself and carries her in his arms towards the side of the bridge. Sloane observes that he's crying, which leads her to realize that he isn't acting like Dasha was a stranger and seems to be deeply affected by her death. This realization causes her to reflect on the struggle she saw earlier and wonder if the Second Year intended to murder Dasha when he chased her down on the bridge. When the Second Year reaches the railing, he tucks Dasha's hair behind her ear and expresses his remorse, requesting that his soul is not commended to Malek. Before Sloane can act, he pushes himself off of the bridge with Dasha still held in his arms.

From the corridor, Bodhi states that they were squadmates, but Imogen immediately contradicts that definition of their relationship, stating that it appears they were something more than that.

This concludes the scene in which suicide is depicted. To continue the chapter, please search for the words, "We make our way across the college cautiously, but, by some miracle, don’t come across any more guards."