“Yeah, and I’m going to be late to the flight field.” He motions toward the edge of the pillar. “Look, Riorson is still a wingleader. He’ll be after you, but he’ll find a way to do it within the rules of the Codex, at least when people are watching. I was…” His cheeks flush. “Really good friends with Amber Mavis—the current wingleader for Third Wing—last year, and I’m telling you, the Codex is sacred to them. Now, you go first. I’ll see you in the sparring gym.” He smiles reassuringly.
“I’ll see you.” I smile back and turn on my heel, walking around the base of the massive pillar into the semi-crowded rotunda. There’re a couple dozen cadets in here, walking from one building to another, and it takes a second to get my bearings.
I spot the academic doors between the orange-and-black pillars and start that way, blending into the crowd.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and a chill races down my spine as I cross the center of the rotunda, then my steps halt. Cadets move around me, but my eyes are drawn upward, toward the top of the steps that lead to the gathering hall.
Oh shit.
Xaden Riorson is watching me with narrowed eyes, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up his massive arms that remain folded across his chest, the warning in his relic-covered arm on full display as a third-year next to him says something that he blatantly ignores.
My heart jumps and lodges in my throat. There’s maybe twenty feet between us. My fingers twitch, ready to grab one of the blades sheathed at my ribs. Is this where he’ll do it? In the middle of the rotunda? The marble floor is gray, so it shouldn’t be that hard for the staff to get the blood out.
His head tilts, and he studies me with those impossibly dark eyes, like he’s deciding where I’m most vulnerable.
I should run, right? But at least I can see him coming if I hold this position.
His attention shifts, glancing to my right, and he lifts a single brow at me.
My stomach pitches as Dain emerges from behind the pillar.
“What are you—” Dain starts as he reaches me, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Top of the steps. Fourth door,” I hiss, interrupting him.
Dain’s gaze snaps up as the crowd thins out around us, and he mutters a curse, not-so-subtly stepping closer to me. Fewer people mean fewer witnesses, but I’m not foolish enough to think Xaden won’t kill me in front of the whole quadrant if he wants.
“I already knew your parents are tight,” Xaden calls out, a cruel smile tilting his lips. “But do you two have to be so fucking obvious?”
The few cadets who are still in the rotunda turn to look at us.
“Let me guess,” Xaden continues, glancing between Dain and me. “Childhood friends? First loves, even?”
“He can’t hurt you without cause, right?” I whisper. “Without cause and calling a quorum of wingleaders because you’re a squad leader. Article Four, Section Three.”
“Correct,” Dain answers, not bothering to lower his voice. “But you’re not.”
“I expected you to do a better job of hiding where your affections lie, Aetos.” Xaden moves, walking down the steps.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Run, Violet,” Dain orders me. “Now.”
I bolt.
Knowing I am in direct disagreement with General Melgren’s orders, I am officially objecting to the plan set forth in today’s briefing. It is not this general’s opinion that the children of the rebellion’s leaders should be forced to witness their parents’ executions. No child should watch their parent put to death.
—The Tyrrish Rebellion, an official brief for
King Tauri by General Lilith Sorrengail
CHAPTER
FIVE
“Welcome to your first Battle Brief,” Professor Devera says from the recessed floor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, a bright purple Flame Section patch on her shoulder matching her short hair perfectly. This is the only class held in the circular, tiered room that curves the entire end of the academic hall and one of only two rooms in the citadel capable of fitting every cadet. Every creaky wooden seat is full, and the senior third-years are standing against the walls behind us, but we all fit.
It’s a far cry from history last hour, where there were only three squads of first-years, but at least the first-years in our squad are all seated together. Now if I could only remember all their names.
Ridoc is easy to remember—he cracked wise-ass comments all through history. Hopefully he knows better than to try the same in here, though. Professor Devera isn’t the joking kind.
“In the past, riders have seldom been called into service before graduation,” Professor Devera continues, her mouth tensing as she paces slowly in front of a twenty-foot-high map of the Continent mounted to the back wall that’s intricately labeled with our defensive outposts along our borders. Dozens of mage lights illuminate the space, more than making up for the lack of windows and reflecting off the longsword she keeps strapped to her back.
“And if they were, they were always third-years who’d spent time shadowing forward wings, but we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we’re up against. It’s not about just knowing where every wing is stationed, either.” She takes her time, making eye contact with every first-year she sees. The rank on her shoulder says captain, but I know she’ll be a major before she leaves her rotation teaching here, given the medals pinned on her chest. “You need to understand the politics of our enemies, the strategies of defending our outposts from constant attack, and have a thorough knowledge of both recent and current battles. If you cannot grasp these basic topics, then you have no business on the back of a dragon.” She arches a black brow a few shades darker than her deep-brown skin.
“No pressure,” Rhiannon mutters at my side, furiously taking notes.
“We’ll be fine,” I promise her in a whisper. “Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front.” I’d kept my ears open around my mother enough to know that much.
“This is the only class you will have every day, because it’s the only class that will matter if you’re called into service early.” Professor Devera’s gaze sweeps from left to right and pauses on me. Her eyes flare wide for a heartbeat, but she gives an approving smile and nod before moving on. “Because this class is taught every day and relies on the most current information, you will also answer to Professor Markham, who deserves nothing but your utmost respect.”
She waves the scribe forward, and he moves to stand next to her, the cream color of his uniform contrasting with her stark black one. He leans in when she whispers something to him, and his thick eyebrows fly high as he whips his head in my direction.
There’s no approving smile when the colonel’s weary eyes find mine, only a sigh that fills my chest with heavy sorrow when I hear it. I was supposed to be his star pupil in the Scribe Quadrant, his crowning achievement before he retires. How absolutely ironic that I’m now the least likely to succeed in this one.
“It is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose after finally tearing his disappointed gaze from mine. “Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and—most importantly—veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we’re doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society.”
