“You’re agitated.” There’s worry in Tairn’s tone.
“I’m fine.” That’s what we’re all supposed to be, right? Fine. Doesn’t matter who dies next to us or who we kill during training—or war. We’re fine.
The ceremony finally starts with Panchek’s ominous-yet-pompous welcome to the first-years and our new vice commandant, and then Aura delivers a surprisingly inspirational talk about the honor of defending our people before Dain takes the lead, clearly trying to step into Xaden’s boots.
But he’s no Xaden.
The sound of wingbeats and the gasps of first-years fill the air, and I breathe deeply as six dragons—five belonging to the wingleaders and a one-eyed Orange Daggertail I don’t recognize—land on the courtyard walls behind the dais.
That orange looks temperamental, his gaze darting over the formation as his tail twitches, but none of them are as menacing as Sgaeyl or as terrifying as Tairn. I glance down and pick a piece of stray lint off my dark uniform.
First-year shrieks echo off the stone walls as the dragons’ claws flex, digging into the stonework. A heavy rock falls, missing the dais by a mere matter of feet, and yet not a single rider up there flinches. Now I understand how Dain was so blasé about all of this last year.
There’s not a single dragon up there who would risk Tairn’s wrath by torching me. Are they beautiful to behold? Absolutely. Daunting? Sure. There’s even a slight elevation in my pulse. And yeah, Aura’s Red Clubtail is eyeing the cadets like lunch, but I know it’s mostly to see if she can weed out the weak—
The redhead directly ahead of me vomits, puke splattering the gravel, then Aaric’s boots, as she bends at the waist and heaves, emptying the contents of her stomach.
Gross.
Sloane wobbles, and she shifts her stance like she’s about to bolt.
That’s a bad idea.
“Don’t move and you’ll be fine, Mairi,” I say. “They’ll torch you if you run.”
She stiffens but her hands curl into fists.
Good. Pissed is better than scared right now. Dragons respect anger. They exterminate cowards.
“Let’s hope the rest aren’t sympathetic pukers,” Ridoc mutters and wrinkles his nose.
“Yeah, that one isn’t going to make it if she does that at Presentation,” Imogen whispers.
These first-years would shit themselves if Tairn did so much as a fly-by. He’s almost twice as big as any of the dragons perched on the wall.
“Didn’t feel like loaning your sheer intimidation skills to this show?” I ask Tairn.
“I do not participate in parlor tricks,” he responds, his derision making me smile as Dain prattles on about something. He’s trying desperately for Xaden’s charisma and coming up woefully short.
“What do you know about Major Varrish’s orange? He looks…unstable.” And hungry.
“Solas is there?” His tone sharpens.
“Is Solas a one-eyed Orange Daggertail?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t sound happy about it. “Do not take your eyes off him.”
Weird, but all right. I can watch the orange glare at cadets out of his one good eye.
“A third of you will be dead by next July. If you want to wear rider black, then you earn it!” Dain shouts, his voice rising with each word. “You earn it every single day!”
Cath digs his red claws into the masonry and leans over Dain’s head, swinging his swordtail behind him in a serpentine motion as he blows a hot breath of steam over the crowd that sours my stomach. Dain really needs to check Cath’s teeth, because there has to be a bone stuck in there decaying or something.
Cries sound in the courtyard, and a first-year to the right—Tail Section— breaks out of formation and sprints back toward the parapet, racing through the aisles between cadets.
No, no, no.
“We have a runner,” Ridoc mutters.
“Shit.” I cringe, my heart sinking as two others from Third Wing decide to follow his example, their arms pumping wildly as they make a break for it from First Squad of their Tail Section. This isn’t going to end well.
“Looks contagious,” Quinn adds as they race by.
“Fuck, they actually think they’ll make it.” Imogen sighs, her shoulders drooping.
The trio nearly collides directly behind the center of our wing—our section— then bolt toward the opening in the courtyard wall where the parapet lies.
“Eyes on Solas!” Tairn shouts.
I look forward again, watching Solas narrow his one eye to a slit and swivel his head as he draws a full, rumbling breath. Lead fills my chest as I glance back over my shoulder and glimpse the runners nearing the parapet. The dragons didn’t let them get that far last year.
He’s toying with them, and at this angle…
Oh shit.
Solas extends his neck, tilts his head horrifyingly low, and curls his tongue, fire churning up his throat—
“Get down!” I shout, lunging for Sloane and tackling her to the ground as fire blasts overhead, the flames so close that heat singes every patch of exposed skin on my body.
