“I’ll be nice once I think they might stick around,” she replies.
“I thought you said it’s not polite to lie,” Ridoc counters with a grin, shaking his head in a way that makes the collar of his uniform move, but not the tall spikes he’s somehow gelled his dark hair into today.
I blink, then lean closer to him, staring at the side of his neck. “What is… Did you get a tattoo?”
He smiles and pulls at his collar, showing off the inked tip of a swordtail on the warm brown skin of his neck, ending near the base of his collar. “It wraps to my shoulder, to Aotrom’s relic. Badass, right?”
“Badass.” Nadine nods in appreciation.
“Absolutely,” I agree.
Visia Hawelynn is called to our squad. Her name is oddly familiar, and when she appears, moving into formation two rows ahead, I remember why. A burn scar sprawls from her collar to her hairline, curving along the right side of her face. She’s a repeat. She survived angering an Orange Daggertail at Threshing last year, but barely.
Sloane is called to First Wing.
“Shit,” I mutter. How the hell am I supposed to help her in an entirely different wing?
“I’d consider that a blessing,” Nadine says quietly. “She didn’t seem to be a fan.”
Dain steps forward on the dais to talk to Aura Beinhaven, the senior wingleader, and the daggers she has strapped to her upper arms glimmer in the sunlight as she nods her head in response. He glances my way, then crosses over to the roll-keeper at the edge of the dais and she pauses, lifting her pen to scribble something on the roll.
“Correction!” she calls out over the crowd. “Sloane Mairi to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”
Yes! My shoulders dip in pure relief.
Dain walks back to his position, ignoring the reproachful stare from Vice Commandant Varrish, and his composure slips for the second it takes for him to shoot me an indecipherable look. What? Is Sloane supposed to be some kind of peace offering?
The roll-keeper moves on, placing the first-years in their squads.
Sloane appears a minute or two later, and my relief is short-lived when she opens her mouth. “No. I refuse. Any squad but this one.”
Ouch.
Rhiannon moves from her place at the front of our squad and gives Sloane a look that makes me glad I’m never on Rhi’s bad side. “Does it look like I give a shit what you want, Mairi?”
“Mairi?” Sawyer looks back through the lines of first-years that separate us, and a new patch on his shoulder makes me smile. He’s a fantastic choice for Rhi’s executive officer.
“Liam’s sister,” I tell him.
His jaw slackens.
“No shit?” Ridoc glances between Sloane and me.
“No shit,” I respond. “Oh, and if you haven’t noticed, she already hates me.”
“I cannot be in the same squad as her!” Sloane glares at me with pure hate-fire in her eyes, but hey, her hair is still braided, so I’m calling that a win. She might loathe me, but maybe she’ll listen at least enough to stay alive.
“Stop disrespecting your squad leader and get in formation, Sloane,” Imogen hisses. “You’re acting like a spoiled aristocrat.”
“Imogen?” Sloane startles.
“Get. In. Formation,” Rhiannon orders. “I’m not asking, cadet.”
Sloane pales and steps into line in front of Nadine, taking our last first-year slot.
Rhiannon slides past Nadine and leans in close. “Pretty sure that girl wants you dead,” she whispers. “Any particular reason I should know about? Should I see if we can trade her to another squad?”
Yeah. I got her brother killed. He was sworn to protect me, and he lost his dragon—and his life—keeping that promise. But I can’t say that any more than I can tell her there are venin beyond our borders.
My stomach twists at the idea of having to lie to her.
Selective truths.
“She blames me for Liam’s death,” I say quietly. “Let her stay. At least if she’s in the squad, Codex says she can’t kill me.”
“You sure?” Her brow furrows.
“I promised Liam I’d take care of her. She stays.” I nod.
“Between Aaric and Sloane, you’re collecting strays,” Rhiannon warns quietly.
“We were strays once, too,” I answer.
“Good point. Now look at us. Alive and everything.” A slight smile curves her lips before she returns to her place in formation.
The noon sun beats down on the courtyard, and it hits me how far back we are from the dais, where the wingleaders wait with Commandant Panchek. Tufts of his hair catch in the morning breeze as he takes in the formation with wide, assessing brown eyes. This is the height of enrollment this year. We’ll start dying pretty much immediately.
But not me. I’ve danced with Malek more than my fair share over this last year and told him to fuck right off every single time. Maybe Sloane is right and he doesn’t want me.
