The wooden library cart squeaks as I push it over the bridge that connects the
Riders Quadrant to the Healer, and then past the clinic doors into the heart of
Basgiath.
Mage lights illuminate my way down the tunnels as I take a path so familiar
that I could walk it with my eyes shut. The scent of earth and stone fills my
lungs the deeper I descend, and the stab of longing that’s hit me nearly every
day for the past month since I was assigned to Archives duty isn’t quite as sharp
as it was yesterday, and that wasn’t as sharp as the day before.
I nod to the first-year scribe at the entrance to the Archives and he jumps out
of his seat, hurrying to open the vault-like door.
“Good morning, Cadet Sorrengail,” he says, holding the entrance open so I
can pass. “I missed you yesterday.”
“Good morning, Cadet Pierson.” I offer him a smile as I push the cart
through. As quadrant chores go, I’ve scored my favorite. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
I’d had dizzy spells all day, no doubt from not drinking enough water, but at
least I’d been able to rest.
The Archives smell like parchment, book-binding glue, and ink. They smell
like home.
Rows of twenty-foot-high shelves run the length of the cavernous structure,
and I soak in the sight as I wait by the table nearest the entrance, the place
where I spent the majority of my hours these past five years. Only scribes may
pass any farther, and I am a rider.
The thought brings a smile to my lips as a woman approaches in a cream
tunic and hood, a single rectangle of gold woven onto her shoulder. A first-year.
When she pulls the fabric from her head, baring long brown hair, and brings her
gaze to meet mine, I full-on grin. I sign, “Jesinia!”
“Cadet Sorrengail,” she signs back. Her bright eyes sparkle, but she smothers
her smile.
For just this second, I abhor the rituals and customs of the scribes. There
would be nothing wrong with pulling my friend into a hug, but she’d be
chastised for a loss of composure. After all, how could we know how earnest the
scribes are about their work, how dedicated they remain, if they were to crack a
smile?
“It’s really good to see you,” I sign and can’t quit grinning. “I knew you’d
pass the test.”
“Only because I studied with you for the past year,” she signs back, pressing
her lips together so they don’t curve upward. Then her face falls. “I was horrified
to hear about you being forced into the Riders Quadrant. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, then pause to search my memory for the correct sign
for a dragon bond. “I’m bonded and…” My feelings are complicated, but I think
about the way it felt to soar on Tairn’s back, the gentle nudges from Andarna to
keep going when I thought my muscles might give out during Imogen’s training
sessions, and my relationships with my friends, and I can’t deny the truth. “I’m
happy.”
Her eyes widen. “Aren’t you constantly worried you’re going to—” She
glances left and right, but there’s no one near enough to see us. “You know…
die?”
“Sure.” I nod. “But oddly enough, you kind of get used to that.”
“If you say so.” She looks skeptical. “Let’s get you taken care of. Are these all
returns?”
I nod and reach into the pocket of my pants for a small scroll of parchment
and hand it to her before signing, “And a few requests from Professor Devera.”
The rider in charge of our small library sends a list of requests and the returns
every night, and I fetch them before breakfast, which is probably why my
stomach is growling.
Burning all the extra calories from a combination of flight, Rhiannon’s
sparring lessons, and Imogen’s torture sessions means I have an all-new capacity
for food.
“Anything else?” she asks after putting the scroll in a hidden pocket in her
robes.
Maybe it’s being in the Archives, but a stab of homesickness nearly bowls me
over. “Any chance you guys have a copy of The Fables of the Barren?” Mira was
right, I had no business bringing the book of fables with me, but it would be nice
to spend an evening curled up with a familiar story.
Jesinia’s brow furrows. “I’m not familiar with that text.”
I blink. “It’s not for academics or anything, just a collection of folklore my
dad shared with me. A little on the dark side, honestly, but I love it.” I think for
a moment. There’s no sign for wyvern or venin, so I spell them out. “Wyvern,
venin, magic, the battles of good and evil—you know, the good stuff.” I grin. If
anyone understands my love of books, it’s Jesinia.
“I’ve never heard of that one, but I’ll look for it while I pull these.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.” Now that I’m going to be the one
wielding magic, I could use a few good folktales of what happens when humans
defile the power channeled to them. No doubt they were written as a parable to
warn us of the dangers of bonding dragons, but in Navarre’s six-hundred-year
history of unification, I’ve never read of a single rider losing their soul to their
powers. The dragons keep us from that.
Jesinia nods and pushes the cart, disappearing into the shelves.
It usually takes about fifteen minutes to gather the requests that come in
from both professors and cadets in my quadrant, but I’m more than content to
wait. Scribes come and go, some in groups as they train to become our
kingdom’s historians, and I find myself staring at every hooded figure, searching
for a face I know I can’t find—searching for my father.
“Violet?”
I turn to the left and see Professor Markham leading a squad of first-year
scribes. “Hello, Professor.” Keeping my face emotionless around him is easier
because I know he’ll expect it.
“I didn’t realize you had library chore duty.” He glances toward the spot in
the shelves where Jesinia disappeared. “Are you being helped?”
“Jesinia—” I cringe. “I mean, Cadet Neilwart is most helpful.”
“You know,” he says to the squad of five as they arc around me, “Cadet
Sorrengail here was my prized student until the Riders Quadrant stole her
away.” His gaze meets mine under his hood. “I had hopes she would return, but
alas, she has bonded to not one but two dragons.”
A girl to his right gasps, then covers her mouth and mutters an apology.
“Don’t worry, I felt the same way,” I tell her.
“Perhaps you can explain something to Cadet Nasya over here, who was just
griping that there’s not nearly enough fresh air in here.” Professor Markham
turns his focus to a boy on his left. “This group is just starting their rotation in
the Archives.”
Nasya turns beet red under his cream hood.
“It’s part of the fire mitigation system,” I tell him. “Less air, less risk of our
history burning to the ground.”
“And the stuffy hoods?” Nasya lifts a brow at me.
“Makes it harder for you to stand out against the tomes,” I explain. “A
symbol that no one and nothing is more important than the documents and
books in this very room.” My gaze darts around the chamber, and a new pang of
homesickness hits me.
“Exactly.” Professor Markham levels a glare at Nasya. “Now, if you’ll excuse
us, Cadet Sorrengail, we have work to attend. I’ll see you tomorrow in Battle
Brief.”
“Yes, sir.” I step back, giving the squad room to pass.
“You are sad?” Andarna asks, her voice soft.
“Just visiting the Archives. No need to worry,” I tell her.
“It’s hard to love a second home as much as the first.”
I swallow. “It’s easy when the second home is the right one.” And that is what
the Riders Quadrant has become to me—the right home. The longing for the
kind of peace and solitude I found only here can’t match the adrenaline rush of
flight.
Jesinia reappears with the cart, laden down with the requested books and
bits of mail for the professors of my quadrant. She signs, “I’m so sorry, but I
couldn’t find that book. I even searched the catalog for wyvern—I think that’s
what you said—but there’s nothing.”
I stare for a second. Our Archives have either a copy or the original of almost
every book in Navarre. Only ultrarare or forbidden tomes are excluded. When
did folklore become either of those? Though, come to think of it, I never came
across anything like The Fables of the Barren on the shelves while I was studying
to become a scribe. Chimera? Yes. Kraken? Sure. But wyvern or the venin that
create them? None. Bizarre. “That’s all right. Thank you for looking,” I sign
back.
“You look different,” she signs, then hands the cart over.
My eyes widen.
“Not bad different, just…different. Your face is leaner, and even your
posture…” She shakes her head.
“I’ve been training.” I pause, my hands hanging by my sides while I consider
my answer. “It’s hard, but great, too. I’m getting quicker on the mat.”
“The mat?” Her brow furrows.
“For sparring.”
“Right. I forget that you guys fight each other, too.” Sympathy fills her eyes.
“I’m really all right,” I promise her, leaving out the times I’ve caught Oren
gripping a dagger in my presence or the way Jack seethes in my direction. “How
about you? Is it everything you wanted?”
“It’s everything and more. So much more. The responsibility we have not
only to record history but to speed information from the front lines is more than
I ever could have imagined, and it’s so fulfilling.” She presses her lips together
again.
“Good. I’m happy for you.” And I mean it.
“But I worry for you.” She sucks in a breath. “The uptick in attacks along the
border…” Concern etches lines into her forehead.
“I know. We hear about them in Battle Brief.” It’s always the same, striking
at faltering wards, ransacking villages high in the mountains, and more dead
riders. My heart breaks every time we get a report, and a part of me shuts down
with each attack that I have to analyze.
“And Dain?” she asks as we head for the door. “Have you seen him?”
My smile falters. “That’s a story for another day.”
She sighs. “I’ll try and be here around this time so I can see you.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I refrain from pulling her into a hug and walk through
the door she opens.
By the time I return the cart to the library and make it through the lunch
line, our time is almost up, which means I’m busy shoveling food in my mouth
as fast as I can while the members of our original squad chat around me. The
newbies, two first-years and two second-years we took on when the third squad
was dissolved, are a table away. They’ve refused to sit with anyone with a
rebellion relic.
So, fuck them.
“It was the coolest thing ever,” Ridoc continues. “One second he was sparring
against that third-year with the wicked broadsword skills, and then Sawyer—”
“You could let him tell the story,” Rhiannon chides, rolling her eyes.
“No thank you,” Sawyer counters, shaking his head, staring at his fork with a
hefty dose of fear.
Ridoc grins, in all his glory telling the story. “And then the sword just twists
in Sawyer’s hand, curving toward the third-year even though Sawyer was way
off the mark.” He grimaces in Sawyer’s direction. “Sorry, man, but you were. If
your sword hadn’t decided to warp and go straight for that guy’s arm—”
“You’re a metallurgist?” Quinn’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”
Holy crap, Sawyer can manipulate metals. I force down a little more turkey
and openly stare at him. As far as I know, he’s the first of us to display any form
of power, let alone a signet.
Sawyer nods. “That’s what Carr says. Aetos dragged me straight to the
professor when he saw it happen.”
“I’m so jealous!” Ridoc grabs his chest. “I want my signet power to
manifest!”
“You wouldn’t be so excited if it meant you weren’t sure if your fork would
stab into the roof of your mouth because you can’t control it yet.” Sawyer shoves
his tray away.
“Good point.” Ridoc looks at his own tray.
“You’ll manifest when your dragon is ready to trust you with all that power,”
Quinn says, then finishes off her water. “Just hope your dragons trust you before
about six months and—” She makes a sound like an explosion and mimics it
with her hands.
“Stop scaring the children,” Imogen says. “That hasn’t happened in”—she
pauses to think—“decades.” When we all stare at her, she rolls her eyes. “Look,
the relic your dragons transferred onto you at Threshing is the conduit to let all
that magic into your body. If you don’t manifest a signet and let it out, then
after a bunch of months, bad things happen.”
We all gawk.
“The magic consumes you,” Quinn adds, making the explosion sound again.
“Relax, it’s not like a hard deadline or something. It’s just an average.”
Imogen shrugs.
“Fuck me, it’s always something around here,” Ridoc mutters.
“Feeling a little luckier now,” Sawyer says, staring at his fork.
“We’ll get you some wooden utensils,” I tell Sawyer. “And you should
probably avoid the armory or sparring with…anything.”
Sawyer scoffs. “That’s the truth. At least I’ll be safe during flight this
afternoon.”
Adding flight classes to our schedule has been essential since Threshing. The
wings rotate for access to the flight field, and today is one of our lucky days of
the week.
I feel a tingle in my scalp and know if I turn, I’ll find Xaden watching us.
Watching me. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking. He hasn’t said so
much as a word to me since Threshing. That doesn’t mean I’m alone—oh, I’m
never alone. There’s always an upperclassman somewhere near when I’m
walking the halls or headed to the gym at night.
And they all have rebellion relics.
“I like it better when we have it in the morning,” Rhiannon says, her face
souring. “It’s way worse after we’ve eaten breakfast and lunch.”
“Agreed,” I manage between mouthfuls.
“Finish the turkey,” Imogen orders. “I’ll see you tonight.” She and Quinn
clear their trays, taking them back to the window for scullery.
“Is she any nicer when she’s training you?” Rhiannon asks.
“No. But she’s efficient.” I finish the turkey as the room begins to clear, and
we all make our way toward the scullery window. “What’s Professor Carr like?”
I ask Sawyer, then tuck my tray onto the stack. The wielding professor is one of
the only ones I haven’t met, since I haven’t manifested a signet.
“Fucking terrifying,” Sawyer answers. “I can’t wait for the entire year to start
wielding lessons so everyone can enjoy his particular brand of instruction.”
We head out through commons and the rotunda and into the courtyard, all
buttoning up our coats. November has hit hard with gusty winds and frosted
grass in the morning, and the first snow isn’t far behind.
“I knew it would work!” Jack Barlowe says ahead of us, dragging someone
under his arm and thumping her head affectionately.
“Isn’t that Caroline Ashton?” Rhiannon asks, her mouth hanging open as
Caroline heads toward the academic wing with Jack.
“Yeah.” Ridoc tenses. “She bonded Gleann this morning.”
“Wasn’t he already bonded?” Rhiannon watches them until they disappear
into the wing.
“His rider died on our first flight lesson.” I focus on the gate ahead that leads
to the flight field.
“So I guess the unbonded still have that shot they’re looking for,” Rhiannon
mutters.
“Yeah.” Sawyer nods, his features tense. “They do.”
…
“You only fell about a dozen times that trip,” Tairn remarks as we land on the
flight field.
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.” I take deep breaths and try to calm
my racing heart.
“Take it as you wish.”
I mentally roll my eyes and scoot out of the seat as he dips his shoulder so I
can slide down his foreleg. The move has become so practiced that I barely even
notice that other riders are capable of leaping to the ground or descending the
proper way. “Besides, you could make it easier, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
“I’m not the one putting us into spirals with steep banks while Kaori is teaching
plain dives.” My feet hit the ground of the field, and I arch an eyebrow at Tairn.
“I’m training you for battle. He’s teaching you parlor tricks.” He blinks a golden
eye at me and looks away.
“Do you think we can get Andarna to join us next week? Even if it’s just to fly
along?” I do all the checks Kaori has taught us, looking for any debris that could
have lodged between the long, taloned toes of Tairn’s claws or between the rock-
hard scales of his underbelly.
“I’m not foolish enough to not know that I have something stuck in my flesh. And
I wouldn’t ask Andarna to join us unless she requested it. She can’t keep up the speed,
and it would only draw unwanted attention.”
“I never get to see her,” I blatantly whine. “I’m always stuck with your grumpy
ass.”
“I’m always here,” Andarna answers, but there’s no flicker of gold. She’s most
likely in the Vale as usual, but at least she’s protected there.
“This grumpy ass just caught you a dozen times, Silver One.”
“Eventually you could call me Violet, you know.” I take the time to examine
every row of his scales. One of the biggest dangers to dragons are the smallest
things they can’t remove that penetrate between the scales, causing infection.
“I know,” he repeats. “And I could call you Violence like the wingleader.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I narrow my eyes as I move forward, checking where his
chest begins to rise. “And you know how much that ass annoys me.”
“Annoys you?” Tairn chuckles above me, the sound like a chuffing cat. “Is
that what you call it when your heart rate—”
“Don’t even start with me.”
A growl rumbles through Tairn’s chest above me and vibrates my very bones.
I pivot, my hands hovering along my sheathed daggers as Dain approaches.
“It’s just Dain.” I walk out from between Tairn’s forelegs when Dain pauses a
dozen feet away.
“Anger does not suit him.” He growls again, and a puff of steam hits the back
of my neck.
“Relax,” I say and glance back over my shoulder at him. My eyebrows shoot
up.
Tairn’s golden eyes are narrowed in a glare on Dain, and his teeth are bared,
dripping saliva as another growl rumbles.
“You’re a menace. Stop it,” I say.
“Tell him if he harms you, I’ll scorch the ground where he stands.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tairn.” I roll my eyes and walk to Dain, whose jaw is
locked, but his eyes are wide with apprehension.
“Tell him, or I’ll take it up with Cath.”
“Tairn says if you harm me, he’ll burn you,” I say as dragons to the left and
right launch skyward without their riders, headed back to the Vale. But not
Tairn. Nope, he’s still standing behind me like an overprotective dad.
“I’m not going to harm you!” Dain snaps.
“Word for word, Silver One.”
I blow a breath out slowly. “Sorry, he actually said, if you harm me, he’ll
scorch the ground where you stand.” I turn and look over my shoulder. “Better?”
Tairn blinks.
Dain keeps his eyes on me, but I see it there, the swirling anger Tairn warned
me about. “I would rather die than harm you, and you know it.”
“Happy now?” I ask Tairn.
“I’m hungry. I think I’ll partake in a flock of sheep.” He launches with great
beats of his wings.
“I need to talk to you.” Dain’s voice drops, and he narrows his eyes.
“Fine. Walk me back.” I motion at Rhiannon to go on without me, and she
walks ahead with the others, leaving Dain and me to bring up the rear.
We fall back at the edge of the field.
“Why didn’t you tell me you can’t keep your fucking seat?” he shouts at me,
grabbing my elbow.
“I’m sorry?” I yank my arm out of his hold.
Tairn growls in my mind.
“I’ve got this,” I shout back at him.
“All this time, I’ve been letting Kaori teach you, thinking he must have
everything under control. After all, if the rider of the strongest dragon in the
quadrant couldn’t keep her seat, then surely we’d all know.” He rips his hand
over his hair. “Surely I would know if my best friend fell every fucking day that
she flew!”
“It’s not a secret!” Anger bubbles in my veins. “Everyone in our wing knows!
I’m sorry if you haven’t been keeping tabs on your squad, but trust me, Dain.
Everyone knows. And I’m not going to stand here while you lecture me like I’m
a child.” I stalk off, my strides eating up the ground as I follow my wing.
“You didn’t tell me,” he says, anger in his voice giving way to hurt as he
catches up, more than matching my pace.
“There’s not a problem.” I shake my head. “Tairn can keep me buckled in
magically if he needs to. I’m the one asking him to loosen the restraints. And I’d
think twice before you question him. He’s more of the char-first-ask-questions-
later type.”
“It’s a huge problem, because he can’t channel—”
“His full powers?” I ask as we make it out of the field, heading toward the
steps that descend next to the Gauntlet. “I know that. Why do you think I’m up
there asking him to loosen up?” Frustration is a living, breathing thing inside
me, eating up all rational thought.
“You’ve been flying for a month, and you’re still falling.” His voice follows
me down the staircase.
“So is half the wing, Dain!”
“Not a dozen times, they aren’t,” he shoots back. He’s on my heels as I pick
up my pace toward the path that will lead back to the citadel, the gravel
crunching beneath my boots. “I just want to help you, Vi. How can I help?”
I sigh at the plaintive tone in his voice. I keep forgetting this is my best
friend, and he’s having to watch me risk my life every day. I don’t know how I’d
feel if our roles were reversed. Probably just as concerned. So I try to lighten the
mood and say, “You should have seen me a month ago when it was three dozen
times.”
“Three dozen?” His voice rises on the last word.
I halt at the mouth of the tunnel and offer a smile. “It sounds worse than it
is, Dain. I promise.”
“Will you at least tell me what part of flight you have trouble with? At least
let me help you.”
“You want a list of my flaws?” I roll my eyes. “My thighs are too weak, but
I’m building muscle. My hands can’t grip the pommel, but they’re getting
stronger. It took weeks for my biceps to heal, so I’m training that one, too. But
you don’t have to worry about me, Dain—Imogen is training me.”
“Because Riorson asked her to,” he guesses, folding his arms across his chest.
“Probably. Why does it matter?”
“Because he doesn’t have your best interest at heart.” He shakes his head,
looking more like a stranger than I’ve ever seen him before. “First, it was
bending the rules to make it up the Gauntlet, and yes, Amber lit into me for an
hour about how you acted dishonorably.”
Dishonorably? Fuck this.
“And you just took her word for it? Without asking me what happened?”
“She’s a wingleader, Vi. I’m not about to question her integrity!”
“I proved myself with the Codex, and Riorson accepted it. He’s a wingleader,
too.”
“Fine. You made it up. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t stand myself if
something happened to you, whether you were handling the trial the right or
wrong way. And then I thought you’d be fine if you survived Threshing, but
even bonded to the strongest of them…” He shakes his head.
“Go ahead. Say it.” My hands curl into fists, my nails biting into my palms.
“I’m terrified you’re not going to make it to graduation, Vi.” His shoulders
slump. “You know exactly how I feel about you, whether or not I can do
anything about it, and I’m terrified.”
It’s that last line that does me in. Laughter bubbles up through my throat and
escapes.
His eyes widen.
“This place cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you
are at your core.” I repeat his words from this summer. “Isn’t that what you said
to me? Is this who you really are at your core? Someone so enamored with rules
that he doesn’t know when to bend or break them for someone he cares about?
Someone so focused on the least I’m capable of doing, he can’t believe I can do
so much more?”
The warmth drains from his brown eyes.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Dain.” I take a step closer, but the distance
between us only widens. “The reason we’ll never be anything more than friends
isn’t because of your rules. It’s because you have no faith in me. Even now,
when I’ve survived against all odds and bonded not just one dragon but two, you
still think I won’t make it. So forgive me, but you’re about to be some of the
bullshit that this place cuts away from me.” I move to the side and march past
him through the tunnel, forcing air through my lungs.
Other than the last year, when he entered the Riders Quadrant, I can’t
remember a time without Dain in my life.
But I can’t take his constant pessimism about my future anymore.
Sunlight overpowers me for a second as I walk into the courtyard. Classes
are out for the afternoon, and I see Xaden and Garrick leaned up against the wall
of the academic building like gods surveying their domain.
Xaden arches a dark eyebrow as I pass by.
I flip him the middle finger.
I’m not taking his shit today, either.
“Everything all right?” Rhiannon asks as I catch up to her and the guys.
“Dain is an ass—”
“Make it stop!” someone screams, rushing down the steps of the rotunda and
holding his head. It’s a first-year in Third Wing who sits two rows beneath me in
Battle Brief and perpetually drops his quill. “For gods’ sake, make it stop!” he
shrieks, stumbling into the courtyard.
My hands hover over my blades.
A shadow moves to my left, and a glance tells me Xaden has moved, casually
putting himself just ahead of me.
The crowd hollows, forming a circle around the first-year as he screams,
clutching his head.
“Jeremiah!” someone shouts, coming forward.
“You!” Jeremiah spins, pointing his finger at the third-year. “You think I’ve
lost it!” His head tilts, and his eyes flare. “How does he know? He shouldn’t
know!” His tone shifts, like the words aren’t his own.
Chills race down my spine, dragging my stomach to the ground.
“And you!” He spins again, pointing at a second-year in First Wing. “What
the hell is wrong with him? Why is he screaming?” He turns again, focused on
Dain. “Is Violet going to hate me forever? Why can’t she see that I just want to
keep her alive? How is he…? He’s reading my thoughts!” The impression is
uncanny, embarrassing, and terrifying.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my heart thundering so loud, I can hear the pounding
blood in my ears. Forget the embarrassment. Who cares if people know Dain is
thinking about me? Jeremiah’s signet power is manifesting. He can read minds—
an inntinnsic. His power is a death sentence.
Ridoc stumbles backward on my left—shoved aside—and I don’t need to
look to know whose muscled arm now brushes my shoulder. The scent of mint
somehow steadies my heartbeat.
Jeremiah unsheathes his shortsword. “Make it stop! Can’t any of you see?
The thoughts won’t stop!” His panic is palpable, clogging my own throat.
“Do something,” I beg Xaden, glancing up at him.
His unwavering, lethal focus is on Jeremiah, but his body tenses at my plea,
poised, ready to strike. “Start mentally reciting whatever bookish shit you’ve
learned.”
“I’m sorry?” I hiss up at him.
“If you value your secrets, clear your thoughts. Now,” Xaden orders.
Oh. Shit.
Nothing comes to mind, and we’re clearly in imminent danger. Um… Many
Navarrian defense posts exist beyond the safety of our wards. Such posts are
considered to be in a zone of imminent danger and should only be staffed by military
personnel and never the civilians who usually accompany them.
“And you!” Jeremiah turns, his gaze locking on Garrick. “Damn it all to hell.
He’ll know about—” The shadows around Jeremiah’s feet snake up his legs in a
heartbeat, winding around his chest until they cover his mouth in bands of
black.
I swallow the boulder in my throat.
A professor pushes through the crowd, his shock of white hair bouncing with
every step of his large frame.
“He’s an inntinnsic!” someone shouts, and that seems to be all that’s
necessary.
The professor grips Jeremiah’s head with both hands, and a crack echoes off
the walls of the silent courtyard. Xaden’s shadows melt away and Jeremiah falls
to the ground, his head at an unnatural, macabre angle. His neck is broken.
The professor bends down and lifts Jeremiah’s body with surprising strength,
carrying him into the rotunda.
Xaden inhales sharply beside me, then walks away with Garrick, headed
toward the academic wing. Nice to see you, too.
“Maybe I don’t want a signet power after all,” Ridoc murmurs.
“That death is merciful compared to what will happen if you don’t manifest
one,” Dain says, and I swear I start to feel my relics burn across my back even
though my dragons haven’t started channeling.
“And that,” Sawyer says from Rhiannon’s side, “was Professor Carr.”
…
“You always have to check your sources,” Dad tells me, ruffling my hair as he
stands beside me at the table in the Archives. “Remember that firsthand
accounts are always more accurate, but you have to look deeper, Violet. You
have to see who is telling the story.”
“But what if I want to be a rider?” I ask with the voice of a much-younger
version of me. “Like Brennan and Mom?”
“WAKE.” A familiar, consuming voice rumbles through the Archives. A voice
that doesn’t belong here.
“You’re not like them, Violet. That’s not your path.” Dad offers me an
apologetic smile, the usual kind that says he sympathizes but there’s nothing he
can do, the kind he gives me when Mom makes a choice he doesn’t agree with.
“And it’s for the best. Your mother has never understood that while riders may
be the weapons of our kingdom, it’s the scribes who have all the real power in
this world.”
“Wake before you die!” The bookshelves in the Archives tremble, and my
heart jolts. “Now!”
My eyes fly open, and I gasp as the dream disintegrates. I’m not in the
Archives. I’m in my room in the Riders—
“Move!” Tairn bellows.
“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects off a sword slicing through the air
above me.
Oh. Shit. I roll toward the opposite side of my bed, but not fast enough, and
the blade slams into the side of my back with a force even my thick winter
blankets can’t diffuse.
Adrenaline camouflages the pain as the sword rebounds, unable to split the
dragon scales.
My knees slam into the hardwood floor, and I thrust my hands beneath my
pillow, drawing back two daggers as I untangle from the covers and gain my
feet. How the hell did they get my door unlocked?
Blowing my unbound hair out of my face, I meet the wide, shocked eyes of
an unbonded first-year, and he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in my
room. Four are unbonded men. Three are unbonded women—I gasp with
recognition—make that two as she runs for the door and slams it on the way out.
She opened the door. There’s no other explanation.
The rest are all armed. All determined to kill me. All standing between my
unlocked door and me. My hands curl around the hilts of my daggers and my
heart rate skyrockets. “Guess it won’t do me much good to ask you to leave
nicely?”
I’m going to have to fight my way out of here.
“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!”
Good point. But there’s not exactly a lot of places to go in this tiny room.
“Damn it! I told you her armor is impenetrable!” Oren hisses from the other
side of the room, blocking my exit. Fucking asshole.
“I should have killed you during Threshing,” I admit. My door is closed, but
surely someone will hear if I sc—
A woman lunges for me, scrambling across my bed, and I dodge, sliding
along the icy pane of the window. The window!
“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine, and I can’t get there fast enough!”
No window. Got it. Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of
my nightgown’s sleeve as it lodges in the armoire, but she missed any flesh. I
spin, leaving the sleeve behind as it rips away, and flick my dagger as I round
the end of my bed. It lands in her shoulder, my favorite target, and she goes
down with a cry, clutching her wound.
The rest of my weapons are stored near the door. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“No more throwing things. Keep ahold of that weapon!”
For someone who can’t help, Tairn has no problem dishing out opinions.
“You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts. “I’ll do it myself!”
I move my blade to my right hand and fend off one attack from the left,
slicing her down her forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a
man’s thigh. I kick out with my heel and catch another in the gut as he attacks,
sending him careening back onto my bed, his sword tumbling after him.
But now I’m cornered between my desk and the armoire.
There are too many of them.
And they all rush at the same damn time.
My dagger is kicked out of my hand with appalling ease, and my heart seizes
as Oren grips my throat, yanking me toward him. I sweep out for his knees, but
my bare feet make no impact as he lifts me off the ground, cutting off my air
supply as I kick for purchase.
No. No. No.
I dig my hands into his arm, my fingernails puncturing his skin as I claw,
drawing blood. He might bear my scars after this, but his grip doesn’t ease as he
crushes my throat.
Air. There’s no air.
“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone.
He who? I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
“Finish her!” one of the men yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”
They’re after Tairn.
Tairn’s roar of rage fills my head as Oren lowers my body, flipping me
around as he curls his arm so my back is against his chest. At least my feet are
on the ground, but the edge of my vision goes dark, my lungs fighting for
oxygen that isn’t there.
The greedy eyes of a bleeding first-year stare back into mine. “Do it!” she
demands.
“Your dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in my ear, and his hand falls away,
replaced by a blade.
Air rushes into my lungs as cold metal caresses my throat, the oxygen
flooding my blood and clearing my head enough to realize this is it. I am going
to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be my last, an overwhelming
sorrow seizes my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if I would have made it.
Would I have been strong enough to graduate? Would I have become worthy of
Tairn and Andarna? Would I have finally made my mother proud?
The knife tip touches my skin.
My bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the
stone wall, but I don’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before
a shriek pierces my vision.
“Mine!” Andarna screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down my spine, then
rushes to my fingertips and toes, and the next breath I take is in total, complete
silence.
“Go!” Andarna demands.
I blink and realize the first-year in front of me doesn’t. She isn’t breathing.
Isn’t moving.
No one is.
Everyone in this room is frozen in place…except me.
In response to the Great War, dragons claimed the western lands and
gryphons the central ones, abandoning the Barrens and the memory
of General Daramor, who nearly destroyed the Continent with his
army. Our allies sailed home and we began a period of peace and
prosperity as the provinces of Navarre united for the first time behind
the safety of our wards, under the protection of the first bonded
riders.
—Navarre, an Unedited History
by Colonel Lewis Markham
