There’s a clear divide in our ranks: a sea of black on my right and a swath of tan on the left, with a wide strip of bare floor between us. More than a dozen cadets wear bruises from the brawl that erupted yesterday in the great hall between Third Wing and two drifts.

“Yesterday’s outburst of violence was absolutely unacceptable,” the fliers’ professor starts, her auburn braid sliding over her shoulder as she turns her head, addressing all cadets, not just the fliers. “Working together is what’s going to make a difference in this war, and it has to start here!” She turns her finger on the rider cadets.

“Good luck with that,” Ridoc says under his breath.

“We’ll be making significant changes,” Devera announces. “You will no longer be separated for classes.”

My stomach pitches, and a mumble of discontent rolls through the gym. “Which means—” Devera raises her voice, quieting our side of the makeshift formation. “You will respect one another as equals. We may be in Aretia, but as of today, we’ve decided the Dragon Rider’s Codex still applies to every cadet.”

“And as their guests,” the flier professor says, placing a hand on her ample hip, “all fliers will abide by it.” A disgruntled murmur rolls through their half. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor Kiandra,” they respond in unison.

Damn. That’s kind of impressive, even if they do sound like infantry.

“But we acknowledge that we cannot move forward without addressing the hostility among you,” Emetterio says, his gaze shifting between the groups. “At Basgiath, we had a method for addressing grievances between cadets. You may ask for a challenge—a sparring match that ends when one of you is unconscious or taps out.”

“Or dies,” Aaric adds.

The fliers collectively gasp, and the majority of us roll our eyes. They wouldn’t last a day at Basgiath.

“Without killing your opponent,” Emetterio continues, talking directly at Aaric before moving on, “for the next six hours, every request—between cadets of the same year—for challenge will be granted. You will address your grievances once on these mats, and then you will put them behind you.”

“They’re going to let us beat the shit out of them?” Ridoc asks quietly.

“I think so,” Sloane whispers in response.

“It’s going to be a phenomenal afternoon.” Imogen grins, cracking her knuckles.

“They’ve been trained to fight venin,” I remind them. “I wouldn’t underestimate them.” When it comes to signets, we can blast them out of the fucking skies, but hand-to-hand? There’s a good chance we’re outmatched.

“You may only challenge one opponent, and each cadet may only be challenged once,” Emetterio says, holding up his forefinger and lifting his thick brows. “So choose carefully, because tomorrow, the rider or flier you hold contempt for may be off-limits.”

Oh shit. My stomach drops. There’s only one reason someone couldn’t call a challenge, but they wouldn’t…would they?

“Challenges between squadmates are forbidden under the Codex,” Devera explains to fliers, then turns to us. “And tomorrow each squad of riders will absorb one drift of fliers.”

Guess they would.

Anger flushes my cheeks, and Rhiannon and I exchange a perturbed glance, which is mirrored by everyone in our squad, especially Visia.

“Note that I said absorb.” Devera stares pointedly at us. “You will not be teamed up or partnered with. You will fuse, you will meld, you will unify.”

This goes against everything we’ve been taught. Squads are sacred. Squads are family. Squads are born after Parapet and forged through the Gauntlet, Threshing, and War Games. Squads aren’t merged unless they’re dissolved due to deaths—and we’re the Iron Squad.

We do not bend. And we definitely do not blend.

“And if you don’t”—Professor Kiandra’s tone softens as her gaze sweeps over the gym—“we will fail when it’s time for combat. We will die.”

“We’ll take your requests now,” Emetterio says, concluding the lecture portion of today’s festivities.

Lines form for those requesting challenges, and it doesn’t surprise me that most of the queue is wearing brown. They have far more reason to hate us than most of us do to hate them.

“We are the Iron Squad, and we’ll act like it,” Rhiannon orders as the last of the line approaches Emetterio. “We stick together and travel mat to mat with any challenge leveled on us.”

All eleven of us agree.

The first challenges are called, and I’m not surprised when Trager names Rhiannon to come to the mat. No doubt he’s still pissed about the punch she delivered on the flight field.

She wins in less than five minutes, and his lip is bleeding again.

The third-year leader from Cat’s drift, the stocky one with the necklace of scars, Bragen, knocks Quinn unconscious with a punch combination that leaves my mouth hanging.

Once Imogen is called to the mat by Neve—another third-year in Cat’s drift, with short strawberry-blond hair and deep-set eyes—I sense the pattern.

“This is about me,” I say quietly to Rhiannon when Imogen lands a solid kick to the other girl’s head.

“That makes it about us,” she responds. “Please tell me you’re wrapped and wearing your armor.”

I nod.

Imogen and Neve exchange precise, calculated blows until Devera calls it a draw after they’re both bleeding.

“Catriona Cordella and Violet Sorrengail,” Devera announces. “Disarm and take the mat.”

“Don’t do this.” Maren tries to talk Cat out of it, but there’s nothing but determination in her narrowed gaze.

“Of-fucking-course.” I hand the conduit to Rhiannon.

“Why am I not surprised, Cat?” Imogen glares across the mat before turning toward me.

“It’s fine. Predictable but fine.” One by one, I unsheathe all thirteen of my weapons and hand them to her.

“She’s got at least five inches on you, so watch for her reach,” Rhiannon says quietly.

“From what I remember, she’s quick on the attack and won’t leave you much time to react, so commit to your moves. Don’t hesitate,” Imogen adds.

“All right.” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, fighting like hell to steady the nerves that have my stomach doing somersaults. If I’d known this was where today was headed, I would have acted earlier, maybe laced her breakfast with the fonilee I saw growing on the ridge just beneath the valley.

“You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says with a nod. “You were trained by the best.”

“Xaden,” I whisper, wishing he was here and not on the border.

“Me.” She nudges me with her elbow and forces a smile.

“Violet?” Sloane moves to Imogen’s side. “Do me a favor and kick her ass.”

My mouth tugs into a real half smile, and I nod at her before stepping onto the mat. Guess nothing unites foes like a common enemy, and for some reason, Cat has decided I’m hers. The mat has the same density as the ones at Basgiath, the same feel under my boots as I walk to the center, where Cat waits with a malevolent smirk.