“I’d suggest you call a formation and divide them into equal wings, for starters,” Xaden suggests, his tone dripping with boredom. “Though they may prefer to stay intact. From what I’ve seen, Fourth Wing has the largest numbers.”

“Because you were their wingleader,” Brennan states. “They were used to following you.”

“And Aetos,” Xaden replies begrudgingly. “He’s the one who called the formation after killing the vice commandant.”

“Aetos is another matter.” Battle-Ax runs her finger over the flat side of her weapon like it’s habit. “He’s confined to quarters until we can ascertain his loyalty, as are the scribes.”

“Cath is enough to vouch for Dain’s loyalty,” I argue. “And Jesinia is the only reason we have Warrick’s journal.” My hand tightens on Xaden’s when all six of the riders startle with surprise. “You do still have Warrick’s journal, right?”

“You have a journal from Warrick?” Battle-Ax leans forward. “As in First Six Warrick?”

“I do. Jesinia helped Violet and her squad steal the journal for instructions on how to use the wardstone,” Xaden says, turning his gaze on Brennan. “And she was right. It contains cryptic instructions in Old Lucerish that need detailed, precise translation, but it’s better than nothing. I was supposed to bring it to you but got sidetracked by her capture.”

“Dad never taught me Old Lucerish, only Tyrrish,” Brennan says to me, lines forming between his brows, and a quiet woman with shiny black hair and wideset eyes keeps her diamond-sharp gaze on him. “But if you can translate it, then there’s a chance we can secure—”

“Secure?” Hawk Nose snaps. “You bring a hundred riders and two hundred dragons here and have the nerve to say that word?” His eyes narrow on me. “You may as well have handed Melgren a map of our location. Or was that what she was truly after?”

“Here we fucking go,” Imogen says under her breath.

“Violet risked her life to help us,” Xaden responds. “And nearly lost it doing so.”

“She should be confined and questioned,” Hawk Nose suggests.

“Go near my sister, and I’ll cut out your other eye, Ulices,” Brennan warns, leaning forward and glaring down the table. “She’s been questioned enough for two lifetimes.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s ruined us!” Battle-Ax declares. “We’ve already doubled patrols to the border, which leaves no one here to fight should Melgren launch an attack on us.” She swings a finger at Felix. “And don’t start with your Melgren doesn’t know we’re here. All the rebellion signets on the Continent can’t hide a riot the size of a thunderhead. We have no wards, no forge, and children running amok in the hallways!”

“Cadets who are acting with more composure than you are.” Xaden tilts his head. “Get a grip.

“Melgren isn’t coming. Even if he knew where we are—which he doesn’t—he can’t risk his forces coming after us when the kingdom is reeling from wyvern carcasses we left up and down the border. Half the riders he plans on having in three years are here. He might want to kill us, but he can’t afford to. And as for Violet”—he lets go of my hand and rips at the buttons of his flight jacket, then tugs his neckline down, exposing the scar on his chest—“if you want to confine her, question her, then it’s me you start with. I bear the responsibility for her and any decision she makes. Remember?”

Gravity shifts as I stare at that thin silver line and its precise edges. It’s… gods, it’s the same length as the ones on his back. Xaden isn’t responsible for just the marked ones anymore; he’s responsible for me. Responsible for my choices, my loyalties—not to Navarre, like the marked ones, but to Aretia.

Imogen tried to tell me that day on the flight field, but I didn’t pick up on it.

“When did you do that?” I ask.

“About two seconds after I put you in Brennan’s arms after Resson.”

My gaze falls to the floor as they continue to shout in Tyrrish. I brought the cadets here. I was the one who got caught stealing Lyra’s journal. I’m the one who forced Xaden’s hand, forced them all into this situation.

“Then you will consider them my guests.” Xaden’s words drag me out of my self-pity. Shadows fill the floor and curl around the dais. “I do not ask permission of you—of anyone—to bring guests into my own home.” Xaden’s tone cools to glacial.

Garrick swears under his breath and rests his hand on the hilt of one of his swords.

“Xaden—” Ulices starts.

“Or did you forget that this is my house?” Xaden tilts his head to the side and stares at them in the same way Sgaeyl studies prey. “My life is tethered to Violet’s, so if you want me in that fucking chair, you’ll accept her.”

Ulices’s skin blotches while I feel the blood rush from mine.

His chair. The empty one. He’s the seventh.

Holy shit. I knew this was his house, of course, but it never really registered. This is all Xaden’s. No noble has claimed the duchy of Aretia. They all think the land is ruined, or worse—cursed. It’s all his.

“Fine,” the quiet woman says, her voice soft and calm. “We will trust Violet Sorrengail. But that doesn’t help us arm the drifts without an operational forge. In winning this first battle with Navarre by taking half the Riders Quadrant, you may have lost us this war.”

“And what do we do with all these cadets?” Battle-Ax asks wearily, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Gods, you brought us Aetos and scribes. It’s not like we can send them out to battle wyvern and venin.”

“I also brought you four professors, and it’s not like you’re without your share of knowledge,” Xaden replies. “I’ve already questioned the scribes. They can be trusted, and Cath vouches for Aetos. As for the other cadets, I suggest you get them back into class.”

Something… shimmers, curling around the Archives I keep in my head.

“Violet.” Her soft voice rattles me to my very core, and I grasp Xaden’s arm to stay upright. Relief, joy, wonder—it all weakens my knees and stings my eyes.

For the first time in months, I feel whole.

A smile spreads across my face. “Andarna.”

With all we’ve sacrificed for this kingdom, we’d better be able to defend it.

—THE JOURNAL OF WARRICK OF LUCERAS—TRANSLATED BY CADET VIOLET SORRENGAIL

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The valley above Aretia looks eerily similar to the last time I was here, as though fall at this elevation is meaningless, when there are clear signs of winter approaching in the town beneath us. But unlike last time, there are dragons everywhere—the jagged outcroppings of rock above us, the mouths of the caves to the west, the wide valley to the east… everywhere.

And two of the biggest stand before me like bookends with Andarna between them.

“I thought you said she was awake?” I whisper at Tairn as if my voice might wake her, like there isn’t a giant brown stomping his way past the copse of trees where Andarna is napping, her body curved into an S-shape. Grass moves in front of her snout with every gust of her exhale, and she looks quite content with her scorpion tail curled around her. And kind of… green?

No, her scales are still black. It must be an adolescent thing that they’re so shiny she reflects some of the color around her.

“An hour ago.” Tairn chuffs and I’m pretty sure Sgaeyl just rolled her eyes.

“It took me an hour to get out of that meeting, and then I had to hike that cliff of a trail.” I shouldn’t wake her. The responsible action would be none, to let her sleep off the remnants of her nearly three-month-long dragon coma. But I’ve missed her so damn—

Gold eyes flash open.

Relief nearly brings me to my knees. She’s awake.

I grin and feel my world right itself. “Hi.”

“Violet.” Andarna lifts her head, and a puff of steam blows back the loosened strands of my long braid. “I meant to stay awake.”

“That’s all right. Tairn says you’ll be nodding off for the next week or so.” Stepping forward, I reach up to scratch her scaly jawline. “You were out a long time.”