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.

…

Snow 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 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.”