“Be careful,” Tairn orders me, waiting behind me in the field where he landed. “It’s known to be…brutal as a first assignment.”

So naturally, they’d send Xaden here.

“I’ll be all right,” I promise. “And my shields are up.”

To be sure, I check the walls of my mental Archives, where I ground in my power, and can’t help the little bounce in my step when I see only a hint of light from my bonds coming from the doorways. I am definitely getting better at this.

I head for the entrance to the mammoth fortress that rises before me, its dark-red stone cutting into the crisp blue sky. It’s probably laid out like Athebyne and Montserrat, but it’s easily twice as big as either. Two companies of infantry and eighteen dragons and their riders are stationed here.

Something sways up high on the wall, and I look to see a man in infantry colors sitting in a cage about four stories above me.

Well, all right then. It’s a little after eight in the morning, so I can’t help but wonder if he’s been up there all night.

There’s a hum in my veins that only grows stronger as I walk up the ramp that leads to the portcullis, where two guards are stationed. A platoon passes by, headed out for a morning run.

“It’s the wards,” Tairn says.

“They didn’t feel like this at Montserrat,” I tell him.

“They’re stronger here, and since your signet has manifested, you’re more sensitive to them now.” His tone is tight, and when I glance back over my shoulder, I note that all the soldiers give him a wide berth, taking a path off to the side of the field.

“You don’t have to watch my back,” I say, reaching the top of the ramp. “This is an outpost. I’m safe here.”

“There’s a drift on the other side of the mountains, a mile beyond the border. Sgaeyl just told me. You’re not safe until you’re behind the walls or with the wingleader.”

I don’t bother reminding him that Xaden isn’t a wingleader anymore as my stomach jumps into my throat. “A friendly drift?”

“Define friendly.”

Great. We’re not on the front; we are the front.

The guards at the gate stand taller when they take in my flight leathers but remain silent as I pass by. “They’re not acting like there’s a drift across the ridgeline.”

“Apparently it’s commonplace.”

Even better.

“There, I’m all safe behind the walls,” I tell Tairn, walking into the bailey of the fortress. At least it’s cooler here than at Basgiath, but I’m not sure I’d like to experience winter at this altitude.

Or Aretia’s, come to think of it.

“Call if you need me. I’ll be nearby.” A second later, wingbeats fill the air.

Like hell am I going to call him for anything. In fact, I’ll consider these next twenty-four hours a success if I can block him out altogether. I’ve been on the wrong mental side of the bond during one of his trysts with Sgaeyl, and no thank you.

I pass by several platoons of infantry standing in formation and note the infirmary off to the right, in the same location as Montserrat’s, but I’m the only person in black.

Where the hell are all the riders? I stifle a yawn—there wasn’t much sleep to be had in the saddle—and locate the entrance to the barracks that make up the southern side of the fortress. The corridor is dimly lit as I walk through, passing the office of the scribes, but I find the stairs at the end. A sensation of unwelcome familiarity crawls along my skin as I climb.

Breathe.

This outpost isn’t deserted. There isn’t a horde of venin and wyvern waiting to be spotted from the highest point, either. It’s only the same layout because almost all outposts are built from the same plans.

I push open the door to the third floor without encountering anyone. Odd. One side of the hallway is lined with windows that open to the bailey, and the other with equidistant wooden doors. My pulse picks up as I reach for the handle of the second door. It swings open with a squeak, and I recognize the tingle of energy that rushes over my skin, leaving chills in its wake as I step through the wards into Xaden’s room.

Xaden’s empty room.

Shit.

I sigh in pure disappointment as I drop my pack near his desk.

His room is austere, with serviceable furniture and a door that probably leads to a neighboring room, but there are touches of him here and there. He’s in the books that sit stacked along the shelves of the bookcase by the window, the rack of weapons I recognize from his room at Basgiath, and the two swords that sit near the door, like he’ll be back any second to retrieve them.

The only softness to be found is in the heavy black drapes—standard issue in the room of a rider who might have to fly night patrols—and the plush, darkgray blanket covering his bed. His very large bed.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

What the hell am I supposed to do if he’s not here? The swords say he’s not out flying, so I close my eyes and open up my senses, finding the shadow that’s only present when he’s near. If I found him that night on the parapet, surely I can do it here.

He’s close, but he must have his shields locked, because he doesn’t reach out like he usually would when I’m close. The bond feels like it’s tugging me downward, like he’s actually…under me.

I close Xaden’s door on the way out and follow the tugging sensation, making my way to the staircase and then descending. I pass the arched entrance to the second floor, catching a glimpse of a wide stone hallway with more barracks doors, then the entrance to the first, and finally reaching the sublevel of the fortress where natural light ends with the staircase on a stone floor. Mage lights illuminate two possible paths along the foundation of the fortress, both dimly lit and as welcoming as a dungeon. The scent of damp earth and metal permeates the air.

Shouts and cheers come from down a corridor to the right, echoing off the walls and floor. I follow the pull of the bond that direction and find a pair of infantry guards about twenty yards from the stairs who take one look at my uniform and step aside, allowing me access to a room carved out of the very foundation.

Noise overwhelms every other sense when I enter the chamber, and shock halts my feet inside the doorway.

What in the gods’ names is going on?

More than a dozen riders—all in black—stand along the sides of the square-shaped, windowless room that looks better suited for storage than occupation. They’re all leaning over a thick wooden railing, intently watching something in the excavated pit below.

I take the empty space on the rail directly ahead of me, finding myself between a veteran rider with a grizzled beard on my left and a woman who looks a few years older than me on the right. Then I see who’s below and my heart stops.

Xaden. And he is shirtless.

So is the other rider as they circle each other, their fists raised like they’re sparring. But there’s no mat beneath them, only a packed-dirt floor decorated with suspicious spatters of crimson, both old and fresh.

They’re equally matched in height, but the other rider is bulky, built like Garrick, and looks to have about twenty pounds on Xaden, who’s cut in deep, muscular lines.

The rider swings for Xaden’s face, and I white-knuckle the rough railing, holding my breath as Xaden easily evades the punch, delivering one of his own to his opponent’s ribs. The riders around me cheer, and I’m pretty sure I see money change hands across the pit.

This isn’t sparring. This is straight-up fighting.

And the way Xaden hit him? He’s holding back.

“Why are they…” I ask the silver-barred lieutenant next to me, my words dying as Xaden dips and spins, avoiding another attempted hit. There’s a definite sparkle in those dark eyes as he deftly jumps back again, denying his opponent’s strike.

My pulse jumps. Damn, he’s fast.