One. Two. Three. I start to count heartbeats as the desiccation expands.

On the fourth beat, Jack wrenches his hands from the wall and grasps Dain’s forearms.

“Xaden?” It’s a request, and we both know it, but he doesn’t act.

Dain begins to tremble.

“Xaden!” I shout. “Jack’s draining him!” Power ripples up my fingertips,

ready to strike.

Only when Dain screams in pain does Xaden take the final step and slam the hilt of the dagger against Jack’s temple, knocking him unconscious.

I rush to Dain as he stumbles backward, ripping at his flight jacket, tugging it off and shoving the fabric of his uniform up his arms to reveal a matching set of gray handprints burned into his skin in the same place where Jack grabbed him.

“Are you all right?” Gods, the skin is crinkling.

“I think so.” Dain runs his hands down his arms in turn, then flexes his fingers in appraisal. “Hurts like a fucking ice burn.”

“I’m assuming you know what to do with him? Seeing as you’ve been doing it since May?” Xaden shoots Nolon a withering look.

Nolon nods, reaching Jack and pouring a vial of serum into his mouth. Xaden withdraws his shadows, allowing Jack to crumble to the floor, then leans over and cuts away Jack’s First Wing patch.

“How many riders are here?” Dain asks Nolon, who stares at Jack with a mix of disbelief and horror. Suddenly, I understand why he was always so exhausted this year. He wasn’t mending a soul in the figurative sense, but the literal. “How many riders, Nolon?” Dain snaps.

The mender lifts his tired gaze.

“A hundred and nineteen cadets,” my mother answers, holding her hand to her bleeding head. “Ten leadership. The rest have all been sent to midland posts and Samara.” She glances at me. “Plus the ones you brought.”

“I saw his memories. It’s not enough.” Dain shakes his head.

“Well, it has to be,” Mira counters.

“Gather everyone. They’re faster than dragons,” Dain says to my mother.

“We have ten hours. Maybe less. Then we’re all dead.”

A half hour later, nearly every seat in Battle Brief is full, and the lines are clearly drawn between those of us who chose to fight for Poromiel and those who chose to stay to defend Navarre. The Aretian cadets hold the right side of the terraced classroom, and for the first time, I don’t pull out pen and paper to take notes when my mother and Devera take the stage with Dain.

The nervous energy in the room reminds me of those moments on top of the turret in Athebyne, where we decided to fight in Resson. Except there’s no choice to make today; we’re here.

This battle began in the wardstone chamber, and we’ve already lost. We just happen to still be breathing. Greim relayed to Tairn that Melgren and his forces won’t arrive until after the approaching horde does, and word came in about an hour ago that there are other wyvern flying in a second wave.

As if the first won’t be enough to destroy us.

Glancing over my shoulder, toward the top seats, I see Xaden standing next to Bodhi with his arms folded across his chest, listening to whatever Garrick tells him. A painful ache erupts in my heart. How can we only have hours left?

As if he senses the weight of my gaze, he looks at me, then winks like we’re not facing certain annihilation. Like we’ve transported ourselves back to last year and this is just another Battle Brief.

“How are the hands?” Sawyer asks Ridoc as leadership confers about something onstage.

“Nolon mended them right after he took care of General Sorrengail.” Ridoc flexes his fingers, showing off unblemished skin. “Dain?” he asks me.

“Nothing he can do for him.” I shake my head. “Not sure if it’s because it’s an unmendable wound or because Nolon’s too exhausted from trying to mend Jack over and over.”

“Fucking Jack,” Rhi mutters.

“Fucking Jack,” I agree.

Devera starts the briefing. Intel reports a thousand wyvern headed this way. The good news? They didn’t even bother stopping at Samara, which means casualties are low. The bad news? They don’t seem to be stopping anywhere, which means we won’t get a delay.

Dain steps forward and clears his throat. “How many of you have mastered a tracking rune?”

Not a single hand rises among the Aretian cadets, including Rhi’s and mine. The Basgiath cadets look like Dain is speaking Krovlish up there.

“Right.” Dain shoves his hand into his hair, and his face falls before he masks it. “That complicates things. Dark wielders know exactly where we are because, according to Barlowe’s memories, he planted lures all over the college and up the path to the Vale.”

Guess Dain’s done keeping his signet classified.

My lips part. That’s the energy Chradh picked up on when we arrived, the same energy that summoned the venin to Resson. Destroying the lures is our best chance of buying time, or at least throwing off further waves.

“I saw where Barlowe put most of the lure boxes but not all of them,” Dain continues as footsteps sound in the doorway.

Every head turns as infantry cadets pour in wearing uncertain, anxious faces. I spot Calvin, the leader of the platoon we were paired with for maneuvers, gawking at the space, his gaze landing and remaining on the map of Navarre. He’s wearing the same insignia as the rest of them, leading me to believe they’ve only sent their quadrant’s leadership.

“The Infantry Quadrant will spend the next few hours trying to hunt them down for us while also preparing themselves…” Dain’s voice drops off, and he swallows.

Devera takes mercy on him, stepping forward. “You’ll be working within your squads tonight. Remember that wyvern are the distraction and the weapon. You take down one of the venin, and you kill the wyvern they’ve created. No one takes on a dark wielder alone. That’s how you get killed. Work together, rely on each other, complement each other’s signets just like it’s the Squad Battle.”

“Except it’s real battle,” Rhiannon says under her breath.

Where real cadets will really die.

“Remember that venin will mimic your fighting style, so change it up if you have no choice but hand-to-hand,” Devera continues, the lines of her mouth tense with worry and perhaps a little dread.

The Basgiath cadets murmur among themselves and shift in their seats.

“I’ll bet you all the daggers we’ve brought with us that they didn’t teach them how to fight venin.” Sawyer shakes his head, drumming his fingertips along the desk.

“First-years who haven’t manifested, I expect you packed and ready to fly should we fall. Healers are stocking the infirmary and are preparing. Scribes are in the process of evacuating with our most important texts.” Devera glances at my mother.

Of course they are. I can only wonder which texts they’ll consider valuable enough to save, and which they’ll conveniently leave behind to burn.