He arches his scarred brow, then looks to me for my decision.

I nod. If what Melgren says is true and she’s called to the front lines, this might be the last time I see her. The thought sickens my stomach. It’s one thing to leave her, to cut any and all contact, and quite another to leave her to her death.

Xaden backs away without another word, only offering his back once he passes by Tairn’s claw.

“What do you want?” Mira asks.

“I’m not sure that matters at the moment.” Mom unbuttons her flight jacket with trembling fingers. “But I want most—what I’ve always wanted—is for my children to live. Whatever wards you’ve raised from the instructions in Warrick’s journal will fail.”

Mira stiffens. “Our wards are fine.”

She lies just as effortlessly as Xaden.

“They’re not.” Mom delivers a full lecture with a simple look. “Cut open the bodies of the wyvern who died crossing your border yesterday.”

My lips part.

“Whyever would you think I’d be ignorant of activities on your border, Violet? Ignorant of where my daught—children are?” She shakes her head and dresses me down with a quick, cutting glance that makes me instantly feel like I’m five again before turning to Mira. “You remember what the carcasses of the wyvern looked like at Samara? The ones Riorson so kindly delivered?”

Mira nods.

“The stones used to create them were nothing but cold, marked rocks.” Stones? Do dark wielders have runes?

“Yes. I was there.” Mira’s tone sharpens.

“If you don’t believe me, then check the wyvern you killed yesterday.”

“And then what?” I ask.

“Fix your wards.” She pulls a leather notebook from her jacket, and my eyes widen with recognition. “If you don’t, they’ll decline over time to nothing. Your father told me once that his research showed that Warrick never wanted anyone else to hold the power of the wards. He wanted Navarre to eternally hold the upper hand. But Lyra thought the knowledge should be shared.”

“Warrick lied,” I whisper. But about what?

She hands me the journal I’d been tortured for stealing, then nails my soul to the ground with the intensity of her gaze. “You have the heart of a rider but the mind of a scribe, Violet. I’m trusting you not only to protect yourself, but to protect Mira and”—she swallows hard—“Brennan.”

I open the journal long enough to recognize the language as Morainian. My heart sinks for a second, but I close the journal, undo the buttons of my jacket, and slide it into my inner pocket. Translating this one will be all on Jesinia. Morainian is one of the dead languages I can’t read.

She looks longingly over my shoulder, then glances at both Mira and me in turn. “You don’t have to understand my choices. You simply have to survive. I love you enough to bear the weight of your disappointment.” Before either of us responds, she turns on her heel and walks past Aimsir and disappears into the woods.

“Think she’s full of shit?” Mira asks.

“I think the fliers can wield.”

“Good point.”

On the flight back to Aretia, Mira and I break away from formation and head for the nearest wyvern carcass within our borders. Xaden stays true to his lesson-learned proclamation and doesn’t argue when we separate from the riot.

A half hour—and some creative knife work on Mira’s part—after locating the pair of wyvern bodies, Mira draws back a polished chunk of what appears to be onyx marked with a complex rune I couldn’t even begin to replicate.

And the damned thing is humming.

Oh shit. Is this why wyvern have suddenly reappeared? Did someone give the venin runes?

As if the stone has called to its partner, the carcass twenty feet away shudders, and our heads whip toward the giant, golden eye that blinks open.

“Fuck, no,” Mira whispers, drawing her sword.

But I’m already an open gate to Tairn’s power, and when I throw out my palms, it rips free, unleashed by my panic. Lightning cracks, flashing my vision to white and hitting its mark.

The blast knocks Mira and me backward, slamming us against the cold, stiff body of the wyvern behind us. Pain ripples down my spine, but everything seems to be where it’s supposed to as my ass hits the ground beside my sister.

We both sit in stunned silence, watching the now-smoking, charred wyvern for signs of movement.

“You’re sure lightning kills them?” Mira asks after a few tense minutes.

“Certain,” I answer. “Thank Dunne the dark wielders didn’t stick around longer to see that.” The cliffside would be littered with reanimating wyvern.

She slowly turns her head to look at me, keeping an eye on the body. “No pressure, but if you don’t figure out what Warrick lied about, we’re all fucked.”

“Right.” Because I did such a great job the first time. And I don’t even know Morrainian. I’ll have to rely fully on Jesinia to translate and compare the two. I draw a shaky breath. “No pressure.”

The combined hatching grounds at Basgiath is our generation’s

greatest asset…and our greatest liability.

—THE JOURNAL OF WARRICK OF LUCERAS

—TRANSLATED BY CADETS VIOLET SORRENGAIL AND DAIN AETOS

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

“Stubborn asshole,” I mutter, turning just before the auditorium and heading to the sparring gym. Talking to Brennan has gotten me exactly nowhere over the last week, and his quick, effective dismissal of my genuine plea for him to reconsider the Assembly’s position on the Samara problem has my blood boiling.

I push the doors open a little harder than necessary and find the sparring gym to be as empty as I’d expect at ten at night in the middle of a weekend, and dimly lit by the cool glow of mage lights hovering above each individual mat.

Xaden stands on the mat in the very center of the gym, feet apart and arms folded across his chest, wearing sparring gear and that carefully constructed mask of indifference he’s known for.

“I thought you were kidding when I got your note.” I close the door behind me, then focus on the lock and turn my hand in midair, channeling just enough power to hear the bolt slide home with a satisfying click. “I haven’t seen you in a week, and this is where you want to meet?”

He’d been sent to monitor Draithus right after our return from Athebyne.

“Figured we’d be fighting. What better place for that than the sparring gym?” He stands completely still, waiting for me to come to him. His usual swords are missing, but he has two daggers strapped to his hip.

“You now have a warded bedroom,” I remind him, stepping onto the mat. Though I’m not sure how strong those wards are given that our method for raising Aretia’s wards was obviously flawed.

“We now have a warded bedroom,” he corrects me, his gaze sweeping over me hungrily as I walk forward, stopping only a couple of feet away from him.