“What?” Dain stops dead in his tracks, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “You don’t mean that, Vi.”
“I do.” I rest my hands alongside the sheaths at my thighs.
“You should take her at her word. In fact…” Xaden doesn’t bother to lower his voice. “If you don’t, I’ll take personal offense. She made her choice, and it wasn’t you. It will never be you. I know it. She knows it. The whole quadrant knows it.”
Oh, just kill me now. Heat flushes my cheeks. Getting caught in his flight jacket before War Games is one thing. Outing us in public—when I’m not sure there is an us—is another.
Imogen grins, and I consider the merits of elbowing her in the side.
Dain glances left and right, his face flushing so scarlet I can see the color under the scruff of his light-brown beard as everyone looks on. “What else? You going to threaten to kill me, Riorson?” he retorts, the disgust on his face so similar to his father’s that my stomach sours.
“No.” Xaden shakes his head. “Why should I, when Sorrengail is perfectly capable of doing that herself? She doesn’t want you to touch her. Pretty sure everyone in the quadrant heard her. That should be enough for you to keep your hands to yourself.” He leans in, his whisper barely reaching my ears. “But in case it’s not, every time you think of reaching for her face, I want you to remember one word.”
“And what is that?” Dain seethes.
“Athebyne.” Xaden pulls back, and the pure menace in his expression sends a shiver along my skin.
Dain’s spine stiffens as Colonel Panchek calls the formation to attention.
“No response? Interesting.” Xaden’s head tilts to the side as he studies Dain’s face. “Get back in formation, squad leader, before I lose all pretense of civility on behalf of Liam and Soleil.”
Dain pales and has the decency to look away before stepping back into his place at the head of our squad.
Xaden’s gaze meets mine for a heartbeat before he walks to the front of Fourth Wing.
I should have known going for Dain’s pride would include a spectacle.
The squad shuffles, making room for Imogen and me in our usual places, and my face heats at the blatant stares from my friends.
“That was…interesting,” Rhiannon whispers at my side, her eyes puffy and red.
“That was hot,” Nadine comments from in front of us, standing beside Sawyer.
“Love triangles can get so fucking awkward, don’t you think?” Imogen says.
I shoot a glare over my shoulder at her for going along with Xaden’s implication—or assumption, but she shrugs unapologetically.
“Gods, I missed you.” The blue streak in Quinn’s short blond curls bobs as she shoulder-bumps Imogen. “War Games sucked. You didn’t miss much.”
Captain Fitzgibbons steps forward on the dais, sweat dripping down his face as he continues from where we interrupted, reading names from the death roll.
“Seventeen so far,” Rhiannon whispers. The final test for War Games is always deadly, ensuring only the strongest riders move on to graduation—but Liam was the strongest of our year, and that didn’t save him.
“Soleil Telery. Liam Mairi,” Captain Fitzgibbons calls out.
I struggle to force air through my lungs and fight the sting in my eyes as the rest of the names blur together until the scribe finishes the roll, commending their souls to Malek.
None of us cry.
Commandant Panchek clears his throat, and though there’s no need to magically amplify his voice over the small numbers we’ve been whittled down to over the last year, he can’t seem to help himself. “Beyond military commendations, there are no words of praise for riders. Our reward for a job well done is living to see the next duty station, the next rank. In keeping with our traditions and standards, those of you who have completed your third year will now be commissioned as lieutenants in the army of Navarre. Step forward when your name is called to receive your orders. You have until morning to depart for your new duty stations.”
Starting with First Wing, the third-years are named section by section, and each collects their orders before leaving the courtyard.
“It’s kind of underwhelming,” Ridoc whispers from my other side, earning a glare from Dain as he looks over his shoulder from two rows ahead.
Fuck him.
“Just saying, surviving three years of this place should come with a lifetime supply of ale and a party so good you can’t remember it.” He shrugs.
“That’s for tonight,” Quinn says. “Are they…handwriting those orders?”
“For the third-years they thought were dead,” Heaton says from the back row.
“Who do you think is going to be our new wingleader?” Nadine whispers from behind me.
“Aura Beinhaven,” Rhiannon answers. “She was instrumental in Second Wing’s win for War Games, but Aetos didn’t do too badly filling in for Riorson, either.”
Heaton and Emery are called up from our squad.
I glance at the others, remembering the first-years who started with us but won’t finish. The first-years who either lie buried at the foot of Basgiath in endless rows of stones or were taken home to be put to rest. The second-years who will never see a third star on their shoulders. The third-years like Soleil who were certain they’d graduate only to fall.
Maybe this place is exactly what the gryphon flier had called it—a death factory.
“Xaden Riorson,” the commandant calls out, and my pulse leaps as Xaden strides forward to take his orders, the last third-year in formation.
Nausea grips my stomach, and I sway. He’ll be gone by morning. Gone. Telling myself that I’ll see him every few days because of Tairn and Sgaeyl’s mating bond doesn’t quell the panic quickening my breaths. He won’t be here. Not on the mat, testing and pushing me to be better. Not in Battle Brief or on the flight line.
I should be happy for the space, but I’m not.
