Panchek resumes his place at the podium, running his hands down the trim lines of his uniform as though smoothing away any wrinkles.
“I’ll find you before I go.” Xaden’s voice cuts through my shield and spiraling thoughts, then fades as he walks out of the courtyard and into the dormitory.
At least we’ll get to say goodbye. Or fight our goodbyes. Whatever.
“Congratulations to the new lieutenants,” Panchek says. “The rest of you will report to central issue to turn in your uniforms—yes, you may keep your earned patches—and pick up your new ones. From this moment, seconds are now third-years and firsts are now second-years, with all the privileges that entails. New command designations will be posted in commons this evening. You are dismissed.”
A resounding cheer goes up in the courtyard, and I’m grabbed into a hug by Ridoc, then Sawyer, then Rhiannon, and even Nadine.
We made it. We’re officially second-years.
Out of the eleven first-years who came through our squad during the year, both before and after Threshing, the five of us are the only ones left standing.
For now.
After three consecutive deaths of prisoners during his interrogations, it is this command’s opinion that Major
Burton Varrish should be reassigned from an active wing until further notice.
—MISSIVE FROM LIEUTENANT COLONEL DEGRENSI, SAMARA OUTPOST, TO GENERAL MELGREN
CHAPTER FIVE
Riders party as hard as we fight.
And we fight pretty damned hard.
The gathering hall is more raucous than I’ve ever seen it by the time the sun begins to set that evening. Cadets gather around—or in Second Wing’s case, on top of—tables overflowing with food and pitchers of sweet wine, frothy ale, and a lavender lemonade that clearly has its fair share of distilled liquor.
Only the dais table is empty. For this one moment, there are no wingleaders, no section leaders, not even a squad leader in sight. Other than the stars on the fronts of our shoulders that denote our years at Basgiath, we’re all equal tonight. Even the newly anointed lieutenants who wander in to say their goodbyes aren’t in our chain of command.
There’s a pleasant buzz in my head, courtesy of the lemonade and the two silver stars on my shoulder.
“Chantara?” Rhiannon asks, leaning forward to look past me and lifting her brows at Ridoc, who is seated on my other side. “Out of every privilege that comes with being a second-year, that’s what you’re looking forward to? It’s only a rumor.”
The village that supplies Basgiath has always been open to second-years from the Healer Quadrant, Scribe Quadrant, and Infantry Quadrant, but not ours. We’ve been banned for nearly a decade after a fight led to a local bar burning down.
“I’m just saying I heard they might lift the ban finally, and we’ve been stuck with this dating pool for the last year,” Ridoc states, using his cup to motion around the hall, which is mostly behind us. “So even the possibility of getting leave to spend a few hours in Chantara every week is definitely what I’m looking forward to the most.”
Nadine grins, her eyes sparkling as she gathers the hair she dyed purple this evening in one hand so it doesn’t fall into the pitcher, and leans over the table to clink her glass against Ridoc’s cup. “Hear, hear. It is getting a little…” She wrinkles her button nose, glancing past Sawyer at the other squads in our wing. “Familiar around here. I bet by third year it will feel downright incestuous.”
We all laugh, none of us stating the obvious. Statistically speaking, a third of our class won’t survive to see our third years, but we’re this year’s Iron Squad, having lost the fewest cadets between Parapet and Gauntlet, so I’m choosing to think positively tonight and every night of the next five days, during which our only duty will be to prepare for the arrival of the first-years.
Rhiannon pulls one of her braids under her nose and furrows her brow like Panchek as she mock-lectures, “You do know that trips to Chantara are for worship only, cadet.”
“Hey, I never said I wouldn’t stop by the temple of Zihnal to pay the God of Luck my respects.” Ridoc puts his hand over his heart.
“And not because you’re praying to get a little lucky while the other cadets are in town,” Sawyer comments, wiping the foam from his ale off his freckled upper lip.
“I’m changing my answer,” Ridoc says. “Being able to fraternize with other quadrants anywhere in our downtime is what I’m looking forward to.”
“What is this downtime you speak of?” I joke. We might have a few more empty hours here and there compared to first-years, but there’s a slew of harder courses headed for us.
“We have weekends now, and I’ll take whatever time we get.” His grin turns mischievous.
Rhiannon leans forward on her elbows and winks at me. “Like you’ll be using every second you can get with a certain Lieutenant Riorson.”
My liquor-flushed cheeks heat even more. “I’m not—”
A resounding boo sounds around the table.
“Pretty much everyone saw you show up to formation in his flight jacket before War Games,” Nadine says. “And after this morning’s display? Please.” She rolls her eyes.
Right. The display after he told me that he’d always keep secrets from me.
“Personally, I’m looking forward to letters,” Rhiannon says, clearly jumping in to save me as Imogen and Quinn arrive, sliding in next to Nadine. “It’s been way too long since I’ve been able to talk to my family.”
We share a small smile, neither of us mentioning that we snuck out of Montserrat to see her family a few months ago.
“No chore duty!” Sawyer adds. “I will never scrub another breakfast dish again.”
I’ll never push another library cart with Liam.
“I’m going with his answer,” Nadine agrees, sliding the pitchers of alcohol toward Imogen and Quinn.
A couple of months ago, Nadine wouldn’t even acknowledge Imogen’s presence because of her rebellion relic. It gives me hope that the new lieutenants who bear the same mark might not face discrimination at their new duty stations, but I saw firsthand at Montserrat how the wings look at marked ones—like they were the officers who perpetuated the rebellion, not their parents.
