-FIVE
oralee Ryle. Nicholai Panya,” a newly pinned Major Devera calls
out over the frost-covered courtyard, reading from what’s become
the new death roll. For the first time since entering the quadrant, the names
called every morning for the last week haven’t been cadets, but active riders
—and fliers—on the front lines, fighting to fortify the villages along the
Stonewater River. Trying to divert the venin’s attention from our valley,
where four new dragons have hatched.
Don’t say Mira. Don’t say Mira. Don’t say Mira. It’s become my
personal prayer to whatever god will listen while standing in formation.
I feel so fucking useless. Unlike the last two weeks, there’s no luminary
to fetch, no wards to fail at. There’s a real war down there, and we’re up
here learning history and physics.
“We lost two yesterday?” Aaric tenses in the row ahead.
Rhiannon glances back over her shoulder at me, sorrow haunting her
eyes for a heartbeat before she composes herself with a grace I can never
seem to manage and straightens her shoulders at Sawyer’s side. Two riders
in one day is unfathomable in active service. The entirety of the Aretian
Quadrant will be dead in less than two months at this rate.
“I think that’s Isar’s brother,” Ridoc says from beside me. “Second
Wing.”
We both glance left, past Third Wing. Isar Panya bows her head from the
middle of her squad in Tail Section.
I blink back the burning in my eyes, and my fingers squeeze tight around
the conduit in my left hand.
“He was a lieutenant,” Imogen says quietly.
“Two years ahead of us,” Quinn adds. “Great sense of humor.”
“This is cruel,” I whisper. “Telling us that our siblings, our friends are
dead this way is fucking cruel.” It’s harsher than anything we’ve been put
through at Basgiath.
“It’s no different than morning formation,” Visia says over her shoulder.
“Yes, it is,” Sloane argues. “Hearing someone from a different wing
died, or hell, even our squad, isn’t the same as being told your brother’s
gone.” Her voice cracks.
A lump swells painfully in my throat. Brennan is inside, no doubt
arguing with the Assembly about where to find game for the tsunami of
predators we’ve brought here over the last month or coordinating shipments
from the now-functioning forge. He’s safe.
Every commissioned rider that isn’t here teaching has been sent in shifts
to man the outposts along the Cliffs of Dralor, like Xaden, Garrick, Heaton,
and Emery…or to hold the front, like Mira.
Devera clears her throat and exchanges the roll for the one Jesinia holds.
My shoulders dip, a breath of relief clouding the freezing air. Mira’s
alive. Or at least she was last night when the rotational rider brought the
news in. Morning formation doesn’t scare me when it comes to Xaden—I’d
know instantly if he…
Gods, I can’t even think it.
“Chrissa Verlin,” Devera begins reading from the commissioned fliers’
roll. “Mika Renfrew—”
“Mika!” A low, guttural scream erupts from our right, and every head
turns to a drift near the center of the fliers’ formation as a guy falls to his
knees. The rest of his drift turns, covering him with comforting arms.
“I’m never going to get used to hearing them do that,” Aaric mutters,
shifting his weight.
“Hearing them what?” Sloane counters. “Have emotions?”
“Sorrengail knows what I mean. You’ve been out there—” Aaric says to
me.
“And I cried like an infant while Liam died. Turn around.” Shit, isn’t
that at odds with everything I told Rhiannon when we fought beside the
Gauntlet? The deaths are supposed to harden us, so why do I agree with
Sloane on this one? There’s something infinitely more…human about the
way the fliers react.
Even the way they conduct their own Threshing at Cliffsbane is
considerably less cruel than what we endure at Basgiath. Now I can’t decide
if it makes us stronger…or simply harder.
“— and Alvar Gilana,” Devara concludes. “We commend their souls to
Malek.”
I glance right—just like I do every morning—and see Cat’s posture
soften, her eyes close briefly from her drift on the closest edge of their
formation. Syrena is still alive, too.
She looks over at me and I nod, which she returns, even if it’s curt. It’s
our one daily moment of truce, the only time we seem to recognize each
other as little sisters instead of enemies, and it’s over in less than a
heartbeat.
Her gaze shifts into a glare as formation breaks.
Swear to Amari, Cat’s hell-bent on making my life as miserable as
fucking possible every other minute of the day and tries twice as hard on
the days Xaden is here. Her loathing makes Sloane look downright warm
and fuzzy—and worse, her entire drift seems focused on our squad, with
five of the remaining six—Maren being the exception—blaming me for
Luella’s death and loudly proclaiming that I chose the rider over the flier.
The tall guy with shoulder-length brown hair—pretty sure his name is
Trager—swung for Ridoc on the valley’s flight field two days ago and
ended up with Rhiannon’s fist in his face when he ran his mouth about her
particular border village turning away refugees. His lip is still scabbed.
Guess our little hike up the cliffs didn’t bond us like they’d hoped.
“What did she do this morning?” Rhiannon asks, looking Cat’s direction
with a raised brow.
“Knocked on my door before dawn, then got all annoyed when I actually
answered the damned thing.” Just the thought of it has my hand warming
along the conduit. Felix has replaced the alloy in my conduit twice this
week, but at least my inability to control my own power is helping imbue
alloy for daggers, so in a way, I’m helping the war effort, since my attempt
at activating the wardstone failed. I roll my right shoulder, hoping to ease
the ache now that I’ve ditched the sling, but it still protests.
“Is she running out of bullshit to pull on you?” Ridoc asks as we start to
move toward the door. It takes twice as long to get out of formation here
than at Basgiath, considering Riorson House was built for keeping people
out, not letting them in. “That doesn’t sound as bad as Saturday, when she
posted that list of all the fliers Mira has taken out over the years.”
That day had been a treat and definitely soothed relations between riders
and fliers. We’d had at least a dozen more fights than usual break out in the
hallways.
“She was wearing a Deverelli silk robe when I answered the door.” I
grab my pack from the ground and swing it over my shoulders, grimacing at
the weight. “How do I know it was Deverelli silk, you ask? Because it was
pretty much see-through.”
“Oh, damn!” Sawyer cringes. “Why would she… Are you…”
Rhiannon, Quinn, and even Imogen stare at him as the first-years head
inside.
“Think about where she sleeps!” Ridoc smacks the back of Sawyer’s
head.
“Ow! Right. You’re still in Riorson’s room,” Sawyer says slowly,
blatantly turning his back on Cat as she walks by with her drift. “I forgot.
Roll has you listed in Rhiannon’s room.”
Bringing an extra hundred cadets here meant doubling up, and
technically, I shouldn’t be sleeping in a lieutenant’s room—not that either of
us care or leadership is going to say anything to the man who owns the
house.
“Which I appreciate.” Rhiannon rests her hand over her heart. “As it
gives me a little privacy for whenever Tara and I actually get time to see
each other.”
“Happy to help.” I crack a smile.
“Have to give it to the girl.” Imogen shakes her head, sighing as she
looks past me toward Cat and her drift. “She’s tenacious.”
Every head swivels in her direction.
“Hey.” Imogen puts her hands up. “I’m Team Violet. Just saying that I
bet if Xaden ever called it quits, you’d fight to get him back, too.”
Ugh. When she puts it that way…
“Do not humanize that walking piece of terror,” Rhiannon counters. “I
climbed the entire cliff with her, and I’m starting to think we’d be better off
having Jack Barlowe up here instead.”
He’s one person I’m glad stayed behind, no matter how nice he’d been
to me. I still don’t trust that guy. Never will.
“Is Cat being…Cat again?” Bodhi asks, walking over as the courtyard
empties.
“It’s fine. She’s fine. I’m fine.” I shake my head, lying through my teeth
so he doesn’t tell Xaden that I can’t handle myself. “Rhiannon and I have
somewhere to be.”
“We do?” Rhi’s eyebrows rise. “We do.”
“Right.” He turns to Rhiannon. “Well, Professor Trissa just chose your
second-years for a new class. Tomorrow at two in the valley.”
Trissa? She’s the petite, quiet member of the Assembly.
“We’ll be there,” Rhi promises.
…
now falls in Aretia earlier than it does at Basgiath, and by the first week in
November, a thin blanket of white covers the rapidly growing town but not
S
the valley above, thanks to a combination of the natural thermal heat of
the mountain range and the magic channeled by gryphon and dragon
alike, which only seems to be increasing.
I glance toward the worn path at the end of the valley that leads down to
Riorson House, anxiety churning in my stomach.
“This is awkward.” Sawyer folds his arms and levels a bored look across
the fifteen feet of valley grass that separate the second-year riders in our
squad from the second-year fliers in Cat’s drift.
Looks like we’ve both been summoned.
But if the line of dragons standing behind us and the gryphons behind
the fliers can manage not to attack each other, surely we can be civil.
“Agreed.”
“Civil is overrated,” Andarna notes, flexing her claws in the grass. “I’ve
never tasted gryphon—”
“We do not eat our allies,” Tairn lectures. “Find another snack.”
Looking right, I catch Sawyer glancing between Andarna and Tairn over
and over, like he’s comparing the differences. “Don’t worry, I feel like I see
double all the time.”
“It’s not that. Did she grow again?” he asks, pulling at his collar. “I feel
like she grew.”
“I think a few inches this week.” I nod. “We had to add a link to her
harness on each side.”
“Soon I’ll be able to fly without it,” Andarna notes with a huff.
Ridoc pivots to make his own observations, smiling up at Andarna. “The
little Mini-Tairn is becoming ferocious, isn’t she—”
“I am no one’s miniature.” Andarna’s head darts toward him, and she
snaps her teeth less than a foot in front of his face.
My heart bolts. “Andarna!” I shout, turning quickly to put myself
between her and Ridoc as she withdraws.
“Damn!” Ridoc throws his hands up, his hair blowing back from the
force of what can only be described as the frustrated huff of Tairn’s…sigh.
“Big,” Ridoc blurts. “Meant to say big.”
“No more spending time with Sgaeyl.” I point at her, stopping short of
tapping her chin before looking up at Tairn, who’s lowered his head over
her like he might actually put her between his teeth and yank her off the
field like a puppy. “I mean it. She’s rubbing off on you.”
“I could only be so lucky.” Andarna lifts her head, preening, and Tairn
grumbles something in his own language.
“Holy shit,” Maren mutters from behind me.
“Sorry about that. Adolescents.” I shrug at Ridoc.
“Still can’t believe feathertails are kids,” Sawyer says, taking a step
away from Andarna. “Or that you bonded two black dragons.”
“That one caught me off guard, too.”
I glance toward the path again, but there’s no sign of Rhiannon. If
Professor Trissa gets here before Rhi, she’ll be in major trouble. Trissa
might be the softest-spoken member of the Assembly, but she’s also the
sharpest-tongued when pissed, according to what Xaden told me before he
flew out for the border again this morning with Heaton and Emery. At least
we’d had a night together.
The third-years went, too, patrolling the Cliffs of Dralor for wyvern and
Navarrian riders.
Wyvern we wouldn’t have to worry about if I hadn’t failed to raise the
wards.
“Which part’s worse?” Ridoc muses, tapping the dimple in his chin.
“Them silently glaring at us like we have any fucking clue why they’re up
here, too? Or their menacing escorts?” His gaze locks on the gryphons
standing guard over their fliers.
Dajalair wobbles slightly, still clearly not adjusted to the altitude. I have
yet to see a single gryphon fly in the week that they’ve been here.
“Both.” Sawyer unbuttons his flight jacket. “Is it me or is it getting
hotter up here?”
“Hotter,” I agree, breathing a sigh of relief when Rhiannon appears,
flashing me an excited smile as she hikes toward us from the other side of
the field. I add to Ridoc, “And be nice. I like Maren.”
“I like Maren, too—but her best friend needs to get tossed off this cliff,”
Sawyer notes under his breath.
“The gryphons are up and about faster than I thought,” Ridoc observes.
“Most of them were still sleeping off the altitude a few days ago.”
The gryphon standing behind Trager, the guy with the shoulder-length
brown hair and crooked smile—notices Ridoc’s appraisal, and snaps his
sharp, two-foot beak in warning.
Trager smirks.
Aotrom blows a hot gust of steam over our heads, blasting all three fliers
in the face with not just steam but a healthy layer of…is that snot?
“In their defense, we brought our own escorts,” I note as Andarna stalks
forward, her claws sinking into the grass on either side of me in clear
warning. Her talons grow sharper by the day, and she fully extended her
wing for the first time this morning, making her extra bold this afternoon.
“Elders say I’ll be flying within a few weeks.” A growl aimed at the
gryphon works up her throat, and his beady eyes flare, then blink.
“You’re baring your teeth, aren’t you?” I don’t bother hiding my smile.
“I don’t trust them,” she answers. “Especially the one in the center who
looks to be plotting your death.”
“Don’t let her bother you.”
Cat’s eyes are indeed narrowed on me as usual.
“She bothers you.” Andarna takes a single step forward, putting her
chest scales just over my head.
“And she’ll get used to it, or she’ll kill her,” Tairn answers from behind
us where the other three—no, four—dragons wait now that Feirge has
arrived. “Either is acceptable.”
“I thought you were against us killing allies?” I glance over my
shoulder as his shade envelops me thanks to the afternoon sun. Maybe it’s
Sliseag moving closer on her right, but there’s a reddish sheen to Andarna’s
scales, and I can’t help but wonder when that shimmer will dull to a shade
more like Tairn.
“She has yet to prove herself an ally,” Tairn notes.
“She still blames me for Luella’s death.”
“Hey, while we’re just standing here…” Sawyer rubs the back of his
neck, and his cheeks redden. “I…”
“You…?” I lift my eyebrows at the clearly unfinished question.
“I was wondering if you…” He cringes, then sighs. “Never mind.”
“He wants you to teach him how to sign,” Ridoc finishes, rocking back
on his heels in clear boredom.
“Ridoc!” Sawyer glares his way.
“What? You made that way more painful than it had to be. For fuck’s
sake, it was like you were leading up to asking her out or something.” He
visibly shudders.
“What if he had been?” I counter.
“Then I’d be stuck cleaning little pieces of him off our shared floor
when Riorson ripped him to shreds.” Ridoc shakes his head. “So messy.”
“First, Xaden has more than enough confidence to survive me being
asked out.” I glance up at Sawyer. “And yes, I’ll teach you to sign. Why
would that be embarrassing?”
“I should have learned years ago.” Sawyer drops his hand. “And…
obvious reasons.”
“I’m not fluent enough to make a good teacher, apparently.” Ridoc rolls
his eyes.
“You’d teach me the sign for sex and tell me it was hello, just to see
what happened when I used it,” Sawyer fires back.
“What? I’m not a total dick.” A smile curves Ridoc’s mouth. “I would
have waited until you asked about the word for dinner—that way, when you
asked her if she wanted to grab a bite with you—”
“Oh!” I blink, putting the pieces together. Jesinia. “Don’t worry, Sawyer.
I’ve got you. Rhi signs fluently, too. So do Aaric and Quinn, and—”
“Everyone but me.” Sawyer sighs, his shoulders dipping.
“Almost didn’t make it in time,” Rhiannon says, slightly out of breath as
she reaches us.
Trager’s eyes narrow even further on Rhi as Professor Trissa rounds the
corner behind her.
“How’s the lip?” Rhiannon asks, winking at Trager.
He moves to step forward, but Maren blocks him, shaking her head.
“I would have covered for you. Did you get your family settled?” I ask
Rhi.
They’d arrived late last night, travel-weary and with only the items they
could fit in a narrow wagon capable of making it up the Precipice Pass, the
winding trading route up the northeast side of the Cliffs of Dralor, bordering
the Deaconshire province.
“Yeah.” Rhi grins and drops her pack in the surprisingly supple grass
next to mine. I swear, it’s like the seasons are reversing up in this valley.
“Thank your brother for me. He assigned their houses right next to each
other near the market square, and they’ve already picked out a spot to set up
shop.”
“Will do. And Lukas?” Just the thought of her nephew’s perfect, chubby
cheeks has me smiling wide.
“Still the cutest boy ever.” She unbuttons her flight jacket and shrugs it
off her shoulders. “They’re exhausted, but they’re safe. And the fact that I
get to see them whenever I want now? Amazing. Plus, I got to show off my
signet, and they were appropriately awed.”
“That’s phenomenal. I’m really happy for you.” My posture relaxes, and
I take a truly deep breath. Families have been arriving in Aretia for the last
week, led in small, unnoticeable groups by the members of the revolution
who delivered their offers of sanctuary. Ridoc’s dad should arrive any day,
but we haven’t had word from Sawyer’s parents yet.
“You might be wondering why we’re meeting in the valley,” Professor
Trissa says, her breaths perfectly even as she reaches into her pack and pulls
out seven printed illustrations, then hands them out to the seven of us.
Another smile tugs at my lips. Jesinia and the others got the printing
press up and running.
The illustration’s a depiction of a Tyrrish rune, not unlike those in the
weaving book Xaden left me when he graduated. After a closer look at the
illustration, I recognize it. The series of graduated squares is nearly
identical to the hilt of the dagger on my right hip.
“As you are currently the top squad and drift, we have chosen your
group as our…test of sorts.” Professor Trissa steps back so she can see both
lines of us. “You can channel?” she asks the fliers.
“About half power since yesterday morning,” Cat answers.
“Mindwork?” the professor asks with a tone of curiosity.
“Not yet,” Maren answers.
“But soon,” Cat says, staring straight at me. “The drifts are getting
stronger every day.”
As if I’d forget what it was like to have her running amok in my head.
“So, back to arts-and-crafts hour?” Ridoc asks, folding his arms.
“Who knows how mage lights are powered?” Professor Trissa asks,
ignoring his question and reaching into her pack. She removes eight small
wooden boards, no bigger than a plate. She puts them in the center of our
little stand-off. “Well?”
“Lesser magic,” Maren answers.
“The ones you create yourself.” Professor Trissa nods. “What about the
ones that run continuously in, say, the first-year dorms. The ones that work
before you can channel?”
Every rider looks at me.
“They’re powered by the excess magic both we and our dragons
channel,” I answer. “It comes off us naturally, like…waves of body heat,
but it’s such a small amount that we don’t even notice it.”
“Exactly,” the professor agrees. “And what is it that makes that kind of
magic possible? Magic tied to objects instead of a wielder?” She looks us
over with expectant, dark-brown eyes, then rubs the bridge of her nose.
“Gods, I thought Felix was joking. Sorrengail, you’re practically covered in
them.”
I glance down, glimpsing the shimmer of my dragon-scale armor
beneath the V-neck of my uniform top, then lock onto the daggers Xaden
gave me. “Runes?”
“Runes,” Professor Trissa confirms. “Runes aren’t just decorative.
They’re strands of magic pulled from our power, woven into geometric
patterns for specific uses, then placed into an object, either for immediate
work or usage at a later date. We call the process ‘tempering.’”
“That’s not possible.” Maren shakes her head. “Magic is only wielded.”
“It’s still wielded.” Professor Trissa all but sighs in disappointment at
our ignorance. “But just like we store food for winter, a wielder can temper
a rune using as much or as little power as they choose, then place it into
something.” She bends down and picks up one of the boards and waves it in
our general directions. “Like wood, or metal, or whatever object the wielder
chooses. That rune will activate when triggered and perform whatever
action it was tempered for. Unlike alloy, which houses power, runes are
tempered with power for specific actions.”
Rhi and I exchange a confused glance.
“I see we’ll need some convincing.” Professor Trissa drops the board
and lifts her hands. “First you separate a strand of your power.” She reaches
forward and pinches air between her thumb and forefinger. “Which can be
the most complicated step to learn, honestly.”
“Is she pretending?” Ridoc whispers.
Professor Trissa shoots him a sharp-eyed glare. “Just because you can’t
see my power doesn’t mean I can’t. Or are you unfamiliar with the process
of grounding? Like your shields, your power is only visible to you when
you give it form, whether it’s the shape of your signet as a rider, or lesser
magics, which you are all capable of.”
“Point taken.” Ridoc puts his empty hand up in defeat.
“Power can be shaped.” Her hands move quickly, pulling at pieces of air,
then using her fingers to form invisible shapes. Circles? Squares? Was that
a triangle? It’s hard to tell when we can’t see. “Every shape has meaning.
The points where we tie the power change that meaning. All of which you
will need to memorize.” She reaches into the air again, then creates…a
rhombus? “The shapes we combine layer the meanings, changing the rune.
Will it activate immediately? Sit in suspended state? How many times can it
activate before the rune depletes? It’s all decided here.” She seems to flip
whatever she’s working on, then pulls another string and does…something.
“Fucking weird,” Ridoc mumbles under his breath. “It’s like when
you’re little and you ask your parents to drink from the teacup, knowing
there’s no actual tea in it.”
Rhiannon shushes him.
“Once it’s ready”—Professor Trissa bends and grabs the board, then
stands— “we place the rune. Until it’s placed, it has no meaning, no
purpose, and will fade quickly. It’s tempering the rune that makes it an
active magic.” She grabs what I assume is the rune she’s been tempering
with her right hand, then pushes her palm into the wooden board. “This
particular one is a simple heating rune.”
“That was simple?” Sawyer asks.
The board smokes, and I lean forward, my eyes widening.
“And there you have it.” She turns the front of the board toward the
fliers, then shows us. “Once you understand which shapes combine to make
what symbols, the combinations are nearly limitless.”
My jaw hangs open for a moment. The shapes have been burned into
what I would have said was a decorative rune about ten minutes ago. I
glance down at the illustration in my hands and wonder what the hell the
dagger on my hip is supposed to do.
Every shape has meaning. The points where we tie the power change
that meaning. I take another look at the multifaceted shape before she flips
the board, holding it to face skyward, and my eyes widen with realization.
“It’s a logosyllabic language,” I blurt. “Like Old Lucerish or
Morrainian.”
Professor Trissa lifts her eyebrows as she looks my way. “Very similar,
yes.” Her mouth curves into a smile. “That’s right, you can read Old
Lucerish, too.” She nods. “Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“She’s ours,” Ridoc says to the fliers, pointing at me.
Not sure I’m anything to brag about, considering I barely passed the
history quiz this morning. At least I’m solid in math, but then again, math
doesn’t change overnight.
“You’re an ice wielder, are you not?” Professor Trissa asks Ridoc.
He nods, and she holds out her hand.
Ridoc uncorks the skin strapped at his hip, then draws the water out
from the mouthpeice in a frozen cylinder before walking it to Professor
Trissa.
She places the ice on the board, and my gasp isn’t the only one heard as
the ice dissolves in a matter of seconds and water drips from the sizzling
wood. “Be careful of the medium you choose to hold the rune. A bit more
power and that board would have gone up in flames.”
“Why does no one teach this?” Maren asks, glancing from her
parchment to the board.
“It’s a skill the Tyrrish once controlled and perfected, but it was banned
a couple hundred years after the unification of Navarre, even though many
of our outposts and Basgiath itself were built upon them. Why?” She lifts
her brows. “I’m so glad you asked. You see, riders are naturally more
powerful, given the amount of magic we channel and the signets we wield.”
Trager rolls his eyes.
“But runes are the great equalizer,” Professor Trissa continues, setting
the board on the grass now that it’s stopped sizzling. “A rune is only limited
to how much power you choose to temper, how long you want it to last, and
how many uses it has before it depletes. They banned runes so they
wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.” She glances at the fliers. “Your hands,
specifically. Get good enough at runes, and you can compete with a fair
amount of signets.”
“So, you want us to…temper this?” Cat asks, studying the illustration
with an arched eyebrow. “Out of…magic?”
I hate to admit it, but I’m with Cat on this one—and by the looks on the
faces around me, we all are. Even Rhi is glancing at the drawing with
trepidation. This feels…overwhelming.
“Yes. With the power you’ll learn to separate from yourselves, just like I
showed you.” Professor Trissa opens her pack and dumps another pile of
boards onto the first.
She made it look so easy.
“We’re going to start with a simple unlocking rune. Easy to build, easy
to test.” She glances between our lines.
“We can all unlock doors with lesser magic,” Trager notes.
“Of course you can.” Professor Trissa sighs. “But an unlocking rune can
be used by someone who doesn’t possess lesser magic. Now let’s go. I
expect your first runes woven before sunset.”
“There’s no way we’re going to learn how to do that before sunset,”
Sawyer argues.
“Nonsense. Every marked one has learned a simple unlocking rune the
first day.”
“No pressure,” Rhi mutters.
“Sloane and Imogen can do this?” I ask.
“Naturally.” Professor Trissa shakes her head at me.
This is why Xaden had me practicing runes with fabric. Is that man ever
going to learn to just tell me things outright? Or am I always going to have
to dig information out of him? “‘I’ll answer any question you ask,’” I mock
under my breath. It’s hard to ask questions I don’t even know exist.
“You’re supposed to be the best of your year, so stop gawking and get to
work,” Professor Trissa lectures. “The first thing you’ll need to do is learn
to separate a piece of your own power. Let it fill your mind, then reach in
and visualize plucking a thread of it from the current.”
Rhiannon, Sawyer, Ridoc, and I exchange a series of what-the-fuck
glances that are echoed by the fliers across from us.
“Advice?” I ask Tairn and Andarna.
“Don’t blow anything up.” Tairn shifts his weight behind me.
“At least blowing something up would be interesting,” Andarna notes,
eliciting a growl from Tairn.
“Now,” Trissa demands, then holds up a finger. “Oh, and be careful.
Power gets temperamental when you pull from it. That’s why your bondeds
are here. The closer the source, the easier it is for the first time.” She looks
us over, then folds her arms across her chest. “Well, what are you waiting
for?”
I shut my eyes and envision my Archives and the swirling power that
surrounds it. The blazing, molten stream of Tairn’s power that flows behind
his giant door looks capable of consuming me, but the pearlescent flow of
Andarna’s power just beyond the windows feels…approachable.
Steadying my breath, I reach for Andarna’s power—
Boom. An explosion sounds, and my eyes fly open, every head whipping
toward Sawyer as he flies backward. He lands just short of Sliseag’s claws,
a scorch mark left smoking in the grass where he’d been standing.
“And that is why we’re having this class outdoors.” Professor Trissa
shakes her head. “On your feet. Try again.”
Ridoc walks back and helps Sawyer to his feet, and then we do just that.
Try again. And again. And again.
Before sunset, I manage to weave an unlocking rune, but I’m not the
first.
Cat has that honor and, unlike the rest of us, no scorch marks beneath
her feet.
It is somewhat fitting that the only weapon capable of killing a dark
wielder is the same thing that drove them to soullessness…power.
—CAPTAIN LERA DORRELL’S GUIDE TO VANQUISHING THE VENIN
PROPERTY OF CLIFFSBANE ACADEMY
“R
