I blink. “Shit. I can’t remember. But I guess I’ll be able to read it again soon!” A bubble of joy rises in my chest. “You are the best.”
“I’ll give it to you at the outpost.” She leans back and gives me a thoughtful look. “I know they’re just stories, but I never used to get why the villains would choose to corrupt their souls and become venin, and now…” Her brow furrows.
“Now you empathize with the villain?” I tease.
“No.” She shakes her head. “But we have the kind of power people would kill for, Violet. Dragons and gryphons are the gatekeepers, and I’m sure that to someone jealous enough, ambitious enough, risking a soul would be a fair price for the ability to wield.” Her shoulders rise as she shrugs. “Just makes me glad our dragons are so discerning and our wards keep the gryphon riders at bay. Who the hell knows what kind of people those furry creatures choose?”
We stay another hour, until we know we’re risking exposure if we stay a minute longer. Then Mira and I give Rhiannon some privacy to say goodbye to her family and head out of the house into the humid night. Tairn has been uncharacteristically quiet the last couple of hours.
“Have you been stationed with any riders of mated pairs?” I ask Mira as I close the door behind us.
“One,” she answers, her eyes narrowing on the darkened path in front of the house. “Why?”
“I’m just wondering how long they can be separated.”
“Turns out, about three days is their max.” Xaden steps out of the shadows.
For valor above and beyond the call of duty in the battle of Strythmore, where her bravery resulted not only in the destruction of a battery behind enemy lines but also saved the lives of an entire company of infantry, I recommend Mira Sorrengail receive the Star of Navarre. But if the criterion is not met, which I assure you it has been, downgrading to the Order of the Talon would be a shame, but sufficient.
—Recommendation for Award from
Major Potsdam to General Sorrengail
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
“So all we do is wait for something to happen?” Ridoc asks the next afternoon, leaning back in his chair and putting his boots on the end of the wooden table that runs the length of the briefing room.
“Yes,” Mira says from the head of the table, then flicks her wrist and sends Ridoc flying backward. “And keep your feet off the table.”
One of the Montserrat riders laughs, changing the markers on the large map that consumes the only stone wall in the curved, windowed room. This is the highest turret in the outpost, offering unmatched views of the Esben mountain range around us.
We’ve been split into two groups for the day. Rhiannon, Sawyer, Cianna, Nadine, and Heaton spent the morning with Devera in this room, studying previous battles at the outpost, and are now out on patrol.
Dain, Ridoc, Liam, Emery, Quinn, and I spent the morning on a two-hour flight around the surrounding area, with one extra tagalong—Xaden. He’s been the worst kind of distraction since arriving last night.
Dain won’t stop glaring at him and making snide remarks.
Mira keeps one eye on him at all times as well, suspiciously quiet since last night.
And me? I can’t seem to keep my eyes to myself. There’s a palpable energy in every room he enters, and it brushes over my skin like a caress each time our eyes meet. Even now, I’m aware of every breath he takes as he sits next to me midway down the table.
“Consider this your Battle Brief,” Mira continues, side-eyeing Ridoc as he scrambles back into his chair. “This morning was about a quarter of the patrol we’d regularly fly, so normally we’d just be getting back about now and reporting our findings to the commander. But for the sake of killing time, since we’re in this room as the reaction flight for this afternoon, let’s pretend we’d come across a newly fortified enemy outpost crossing our border”—she turns to the map and sticks a pin with a small crimson flag near one of the peaks about two miles from the Cygnisen borderline—“here.”
“We’re supposed to pretend it just popped up overnight?” Emery asks, openly skeptical.
“For the sake of argument, third-year.” Mira narrows her eyes on him, and he sits up a little straighter.
“I like this game,” another one of the Montserrat riders says from the end of the table, lacing his fingers behind his neck.
“What would our objective be?” Mira glances around the table, noticeably skipping Xaden. Last night, she’d taken one look at the rebellion relic on his neck and walked by without saying a word. “Aetos?”
Dain startles from where he was glowering across the table at Xaden and turns to face the map. “What type of fortifications are there? Are we talking a haphazard wooden structure? Or something more substantial?”
“Like they had time to build a fortress overnight,” Ridoc mutters. “It has to be wooden, right?”
“You are all so fucking literal.” Mira sighs and rubs her thumb over her forehead. “Fine, let’s say they occupied a keep that’s already established. Stone and all.”
“But the civilians didn’t call for help?” Quinn asks, scratching her pointed chin. “Protocol calls for a distress signal this far into the mountains. They should have lit their distress beacon, alerting patrolling riders, at which time the dragons on patrol would have told all available dragons in the area. The very riders in this room would have mounted first as the reaction force and the others would have been woken from their rests, allowing the riders to prevent the loss of the keep in the first place.”
Mira scoffs and braces her hands on the end of the table, staring us all down. “Everything you’re taught at Basgiath is theory. You analyze past attacks and learn those very…theoretical combat maneuvers. But things out here don’t always go according to plan. So why don’t we talk about all the ways things can go sideways, so you’ll know what to do when they do, as opposed to arguing that the keep shouldn’t have fallen?”
Quinn shifts her weight uncomfortably.
“How many of you have been called out as third-years?” Mira stands straight, folding her arms over her black leathers and the strap that holds her sword to her back.
Emery and Xaden raise their hands, though Xaden’s is barely a gesture.
Dain looks like his head is about to explode. “That’s not correct. We’re never called into service until graduation.”
Xaden presses his lips in a tight line and nods, giving him a sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Yeah, all right.” Emery laughs. “Just wait until next year. I can’t count how many times we’re the ones sitting in these very rooms in the midland forts because their riders have been called to the front for an emergency.”
The color drains from Dain’s face.
