“Or detailing whatever mess of relationships the six of them got into.” Dain nods, cracking a huge yawn.
“Exactly.” I glance over at him. “You should get to bed.”
“You should, too.” He glances over at the nearby clock. “It’s almost midnight. I’m sure Riorson is wondering—”
“He’s not here.” I shake my head and sigh with entirely too much self-pity. “His squad is watching over Draithus this week. But you really should get some sleep. I’m only going to stay another few minutes.”
His brow knits.
“Go,” I urge him with a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He sighs but nods and pushes his chair back, standing, then stretching his arms above his head. “Don’t tell him I said so”—he drops his arms—“but the way I’ve heard he wants to reorganize the combat squads by strengths, since the active riders don’t have a full wing to pull from, is brilliant.”
“I’ll be sure not to tell him,” I promise, a corner of my mouth tugging upward.
Dain takes his pack off the table. “See you tomorrow.”
I nod, and he walks out.
The library is comfortably quiet as I pour over the next entry, translating into what we call our draft journal. “The air has grown cold enough,” I say out loud as I write the words into the draft journal, “to see my blood in the mornings.”
I blink, then stare at the symbol for “blood.” My mind spins at the possibility, and then I turn back to earlier entries, just to be sure. Every single time we translated the symbol “blood”…the word breath fits even better. We have the wrong word.
The blood of life is actually the breath of life, and setting the stone ablaze in an iron flame…
I close the journals and sit back in my chair. The six doesn’t refer to riders.
“They’re dragons,” I say out loud in the empty library. Dain. I should tell—
No. He’ll act only on the rules, not taking the ethics into account. There’s only one person I trust to always do the right thing.
I stuff my things into my pack, sling it over my shoulders, and race out of the library, then climb four flights of stairs. My heart races as I knock on Rhiannon’s door.
“Hey,” she says when she opens the door, her bright smile faltering when I don’t return it. Without another word, she steps back, ushering me into her room.
I glance at the spartan decor as I start to pace the length of the room, taking in two plain desks, two doorless armoires, and two beds with simple black sheets that have been awkwardly shoved into a space obviously meant for one—the result of the fliers’ arrival. A single window illuminates the room with morning light. We’re due in formation shortly.
“That one is supposed to be yours,” Rhi says, gesturing to the bed on the right. “Just in case you ever want a night away from Riorson.”
I press my lips between my teeth, searching for the right words as I wear a path in Rhiannon’s floor. “I need to tell you something.”
“All right.”
Stopping suddenly in the middle of the room, I turn toward her. “I know how to raise the wards. I’m just not entirely sure we should.”
The breath of life of the six and the one combined and set the stone ablaze in an iron flame.
—THE JOURNAL OF WARRICK OF LUCERAS —TRANSLATED BY CADETS VIOLET SORRENGAIL AND DAIN AETOS
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Rhiannon slides a mug of warm apple cider across her sister’s dining room table the next day, then takes the empty seat between Ridoc and Sloane. The house has the same scent as most of the barracks in Riorson House—newly cut wood and a faint hint of stain. The carpenters have been working around the clock to turn out serviceable furniture.
I refuse to believe that it could all go up in flames if those dark wielders decide to test their wyvern at altitude. Four hours. That’s all it would take for them to reach us from Draithus.
“Thanks.” I take the mug and lift it to my face, breathing in the comforting scent before drinking. Looking over my mug, into the connected living room of the townhouse, I smile at the sight of Sawyer sitting with Jesinia on a blanket near the fire, an intense look of concentration on his face as he signs—
Shit, he might have just told her that he thinks her turtle is blue, but I’m not getting in the middle of that.
It’s the second time this week Raegan has opened her home to our squad at Rhi’s request, and the first time Jesinia’s joined us. I have to give it to Rhi—her idea was genius. Getting our entire squad—eighteen of us—together outside the academic setting of Riorson House hasn’t solved the tension between riders and fliers, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Even Cat, who’s sitting as far away from me as possible in the corner of the living room, isn’t sneering as she and Neve talk to Quinn. She still hates being in Second Squad, but at least she’s civil about it to everyone but me.
We’ve fallen into a routine over the last couple of weeks of November—now the first of December—adjusting our formation to include the fliers, attending classes together within our years, and even making it through our first sparring session where no one spilled blood yesterday. Rhiannon laid down the law last week, and now we run together every morning and sit together at Battle Brief and meals. She even assigned us study partners hoping that proximity might lead to mutual understanding or at least tolerance. Thank gods Maren is my study partner, but I still feel shitty that Rhi took on Cat to spare me.
“Any chance you speak Old Lucerish?” I ask Aaric at the end of the table. His tutoring would only be second to mine, considering Markham was my mentor. I’d feel better if someone else quadruple-checked the translation, someone other than rule-following Dain, but I’m pretty sure we have it. Otherwise, why would we be here?
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head and focuses on his new ink pen, his forehead lined with concentration. All of our first-years are channeling, and though they have yet to manifest a signet, they have a bet going about who will be able to master the lesser magic needed to work the writing implement first. Pretty sure Kai—the lone first-year flier without Luella—is going to beat them all.
He’s currently on the couch between a couple of first-years, his spiky black hair bobbing, a dimple forming in his bronze cheek as he laughs at whatever story Bragen—the driftleader and our new XO—is currently telling. Other than Maren, Bragen is the easiest of the fliers to get along with. He also spends a lot of time shooting longing looks Cat’s way.
“Why would Aaric speak Old Lucerish?” Visia asks from the opposite end of the table, looking up from her physics homework. “Aren’t you from Calldyr?”
My face freezes. Fuck, I need to be more careful.
“Yep.” Aaric looks up at me, his features a perfect, polished mask. “You have me confused with Lynx. He’s from Luceras.”
