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.
“Fighting?” The woman finishes my question.
“Yes.” I keep my gaze centered on Xaden, who lands quick, consecutive punches to the other rider’s kidneys.
“There’s only one pass for lieutenants this weekend,” she says, moving a little closer. “Jarrett has it, and Riorson wants it.”
“So they’re fighting for it?” I peel my eyes from Xaden long enough to glance sideways at the rider beside me. She has short brown hair, sharp, birdlike features, and a thumbprint-size scar on her jawline.
“Leave and pride. Lieutenant Colonel Degrensi’s rules. You want it? You fight for it. You want to keep it? You’d better be good enough to defend it.”
“They have to fight for passes? Isn’t that brutal?” And wrong. Extreme. Horrible. “And detrimental to wing morale?” He’s fighting so Sgaeyl will have time off to spend with Tairn, so he’ll have time with me.
“Brutal? Hardly.” She scoffs. “No blades. No signets. It’s just a fistfight. You want to see brutal, go and visit one of the coastal outposts with nothing to do but turn on one another.” She leans forward and shouts as Xaden deflects the next punch, then grabs Jarrett by the biceps and throws him to his back. “Damn. I really thought Jarrett was going to take him in less time.”
A slow, proud smile spreads across my face.
“He won’t take him at all.” I shake my head, staring at Xaden with more than a little delight as he waits for Jarrett to gain his feet. “Xaden’s playing with him.”
The rider turns toward me, her gaze scanning me in clear assessment, but I’m too busy watching Xaden land hit after carefully placed hit to bother with what the lieutenant thinks about me.
