“Stop.” I jump off the wall, then yank out the small leather band I keep in the front pocket of my uniform and hand it to her. “Tie your hair back first. Braid is best.”
Sloane startles.
“Vi—” Dain begins.
I glare over my shoulder at him. He’s the reason Liam isn’t here to protect Sloane himself. Rage courses through my veins, heating my skin. “Don’t you dare say another word, or I’ll blast you off this turret, Aetos.” Power crackles through my hands without being called and erupts overhead, streaking across the sky horizontally.
Oops.
He sits, muttering something about losing every fight today.
Sloane takes the leather from me slowly, then braids her hair—simple and quick—tying it with the band and eyeing me the entire time with the three inches she has on me.
“Arms out for balance,” I tell her, nausea rolling through me at the risk she’s about to take. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.” They were Mira’s words, and now they’re mine. “Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down. If the pack slips, ditch it. Better you lose it than your life.”
She glances up at my hair, then down at the two patches sewn onto my summer uniform right above my heart. One is the Second Squad patch we won during the Squad Battle last year and the other is a bolt of lightning that branches off in four different directions. “You’re Violet Sorrengail.”
I nod, my tongue tying. I can’t think of the right words to say about how sorry I am for her loss. Anything that comes to mind isn’t enough.
Her expression shifts, and something that looks a lot like hatred fills her eyes as she leans down, her voice quieting so that I’m the only one who hears her say, “I know what really happened. You got my brother killed. He died for you.”
I can actually feel the blood drain from my face as I blink away the memory of Deigh crashing into the wyvern who’d come for Tairn, sending Liam flying across my saddle. He’d been so heavy that my shoulders had almost dislocated trying to keep him from falling.
“Yes.” I can’t deny it and I don’t look away. “I’m so sorry—”
“Go straight to hell,” she whispers. “And I really mean that. I hope no one commends your soul to Malek. I hope he rejects it. Liam was worth a dozen of your kind, and I hope you spend eternity paying for what you cost me, what you cost all of us.”
Yep, that look in her eyes is definitely hatred.
My heart abandons my body and lands somewhere in the vicinity of her recommendation.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Tairn says.
“It was.” And if I don’t pull my shit together right now, I’ll fail Liam all over again. “Feel free to hate me,” I say to Sloane, stepping aside and clearing the way to the parapet. “Just do me a favor and put your fucking arms out so you don’t see Liam before I do. Do it for him. Not me.” So much for the caring, gentle mentor I’d hoped to be for her.
She jerks her gaze from mine and steps up.
The wind kicks up and she wobbles, sending my heart rate spiking.
“What in the angry-Mairi was that about?” Rhiannon asks.
I shake my head. I just…can’t.
Then the stubborn girl finally extends her arms and starts walking. I don’t look away. I watch every damned step she takes like my future is tied to hers. My breath freezes when she stumbles halfway across, and my lungs don’t fully expand until I see her reach the other side.
“She made it,” I whisper up to Liam.
Then I take the next name.
Seventy-one candidates fall from the parapet, according to the rolls. That’s four more than our year.
An hour after the numbers are calculated, the quadrant assembles in typical formation—three columns per wing—and the roll keeper calls name after name, dividing the first-years into squads.
Our squad is nearly full and there’s still no sign of Sloane.
I looked for her in the courtyard earlier, but either she’s hiding from me… or she’s hiding from me. That’s the only logical answer.
Nadine, Ridoc, and I wait behind eight first-years shifting their weight, the living embodiment of anxiety. Aaric stands with impossibly perfect posture but keeps his head down next to a red-haired girl whose complexion is full-on green in the row ahead.
The fear radiating off them is palpable. It’s in every drop of sweat sliding down the stocky guy’s neck two rows ahead, in every bitten nail the brunette spits out onto the gravel next to him. It’s coming out of their pores.
“Is it me, or is this fucking weird?” Ridoc asks from my right.
“Fucking weird,” Nadine agrees. “I kind of want to tell them that it’s going to be okay—”
“It’s not polite to lie,” Imogen says from behind us, where she stands with Quinn, who looks downright bored as she trims the ends of her blond curls with a dagger. “Don’t get attached. They’re all dragon fodder until Threshing.”
The stocky-looking guy with deep umber skin looks over his shoulder, shooting a wide-eyed look at Imogen.
She stares him down and makes a circle with her forefinger, wordlessly telling him to turn around. He does.
“Be nice,” I whisper at her.
