Over the next twenty minutes, we’re drilled in strategy during the walk over to the flight field, and from the sound of it, Dain was paying attention to Mira.

The plan is simple: play to our individual strengths and pass the flag often, never giving First Wing a chance to spot who is carrying it.

When we get to the flight field, there are dozens upon dozens of dragons filling the muddy field, all positioned as though they had formation in their squads, too. It’s easy to spot Tairn, seeing as his head rises above all others.

There’s a palpable air of anticipation as we walk by the other squads, all mounting as the squad and section leaders give out last-minute orders.

“We’re going to win,” Rhiannon says with confidence, linking her arm with mine as we approach our section of the field.

“What makes you so sure?”

“We have you, Tairn, Riorson, and Sgaeyl. And obviously—me.” She grins. “There’s no way we’re losing this.”

“You are certainly—” My words die as Tairn comes into full view.

He stands tall and proud at the front of our section, not bothering to give deference to Cath as Dain’s dragon, but it’s not his position that steals my breath. It’s the saddle strapped across his back that has me gawking.

“I hear it’s all the fashion,” Tairn brags.

“That’s…” I don’t even have words. The black metal bands look to be intricately linked as they loop around each foreleg and come together at the front of his chest, forming a triangular plate before rising above his shoulders to a saddle with strapped, secure stirrups. “That’s a saddle.”

“That’s cool, that’s what that is.” Rhiannon thumps my back. “And it looks way more comfortable than Feirge’s bony spine, I’ll tell you that. See you up there.” She walks past Tairn toward her own mount.

“I can’t use that.” I shake my head. “It’s not allowed.”

“I decide what’s allowed and what’s not,” Tairn growls, lowering his head to my level and blasting me with a chuff of steam. “There is no rule that says a dragon cannot modify their seat to serve their rider. You have worked just as hard—if not harder—than every rider in this quadrant. Just because your body is built differently than the others doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to keep your seat. It takes more than a few strips of leather and a pommel to define a rider.”

“He’s right, you know,” Xaden agrees as he approaches, and I briefly wonder where he’d gone that he’s back so quickly.

“No one asked you.” My pulse jolts and my skin flushes at the sight of him. Our uniforms make every rider look good, but Xaden takes even that up a notch with the way it cuts across the muscled lines of his body.

“If you don’t use it, I’ll take personal offense.” He folds his arms across his chest and studies the rigging. “Considering I had it made for you and just about got myself burned alive in the process of trying to get it on him.” He lifts a brow at Tairn. “Even though he helped design it, I might add.”

“The first models were unacceptable, and you had the gall to pinch my chest scales when clumsily assembling it this morning.” Tairn’s golden eyes narrow on Xaden.

“How was I to know the leather from the prototype would burn so easily? And it’s not like there are a lot of manuals on fitting a saddle to a dragon,” Xaden drawls.

“It doesn’t matter because I can’t use it.” I turn to face Xaden. “It’s beautiful, a marvel of engineering…”

“And?” His jaw locks.

“And everyone here will know I can’t keep my seat without it.” Heat stings my cheeks.

“Hate to break it to you, Violence, but everyone already knows that.” He gestures to the saddle. “That right there is the most practical way for you to ride. It has straps across your thighs to buckle yourself in once you’re up, and theoretically, you should be able to change positions on long flights without unbuckling, since we built in a lap belt, too.”

“Theoretically?”

“He wasn’t amenable to me giving it a test flight.”

“You can ride me when the flesh rots off my bones, wingleader.”

Well, that’s descriptive.

“Look, there’s no rule against it. I checked. And if anything, you’ll be doing Tairn a favor by freeing all his power and taking the weight of worry off his mind. Mine too, if that helps matters.”

My fingernails bite into my palms as I search for another reason, another excuse, but there isn’t one. I might not want to appear different than every other rider on this field, but I already am.

“Fuck, that stubborn, feisty look always makes me want to kiss you.” Xaden’s expression remains bland, bored even, but his eyes heat as his gaze drops to my mouth.

“And you say this now, where people will see if you actually do.” My breath catches.

“When did I ever give you the impression that I give a fuck what people think about me?” A corner of his mouth rises, and now it’s all I can concentrate on, damn him. “I only care what they think about you.”

Because he’s a wingleader.

Nothing is worse than cadets gossiping that you’ve slept your way to safety. That’s what Mira warned at Parapet.

“Mount up, Sorrengail. We have a battle to win.”

I rip my gaze from his and study the exquisite, intricate structure of the saddle. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Xaden.”

“You’re welcome.” He turns but leans into my space, and a shiver dances down my spine when his lips brush my ear. “Consider my favor fulfilled.”

“Is that a saddle?”

I jump back from Xaden, but he doesn’t budge an inch as Dain interrupts, holding a giant yellow flag on a four-foot pole, his eyes wide as he stares at Tairn.

“No, it’s a collar,” Tairn snips, snapping his teeth together.

Dain backs up a few steps.

“Yes,” Xaden answers. “Have a problem with it?”

“No.” Dain looks at Xaden like he’s being unreasonable. “Why would I have an issue with it? I’m fine with whatever keeps Violet safe, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Good.” Xaden nods once and turns toward me. “Bet it would be even more awkward if I kissed you now, huh?”

Yes, please.

“The next time we kiss had better not be just to piss off Dain.” The next time had better only be because we want it.

“Next time, huh?” His gaze lowers to my mouth again.

And of course, now that’s all I’m thinking about, the feel of his lips on mine, the way his hands always cradle the nape of my neck, the slide of his tongue. I stop myself from leaning in. Barely. “Go lead your wing—or do whatever it is you do.”

“I’ll be stealing an egg.” His smile flashes before he turns back to Dain. “Keep our flag out of First Wing’s hands.”

Dain nods and Xaden leaves, heading across the field to where Sgaeyl waits.