Which is exactly why I’ve always wanted to be a scribe. Not that it matters now.
“First topic of the day.” Professor Devera moves toward the map and flicks her hand, bringing a mage light directly over the eastern border with the Poromiel province of Braevick. “The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders.”
Oh shit. A murmur rips through the hall, and I dip my quill into the inkpot on the desk in front of me so I can take notes. I can’t wait to channel so I can use the type of coveted pens Mom keeps on her desk. A smile curves my lips. There could definitely be perks to being a rider. There will be.
“Naturally, some information is redacted for security purposes, but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains.” Professor Devera pulls her hands apart and the light expands, illuminating the mountains that form our border with Braevick. “Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight.”
My stomach sinks as a murmur rises from the cadets, especially the first-years. Dragons aren’t the only animals capable of channeling powers to their riders. Gryphons from Poromiel also share the ability, but dragons are the only ones capable of powering the wards that make all other magic but their own impossible within our borders. They’re the reason Navarre’s borders are somewhat circular—their power radiates from the Vale and can only extend so far, even with squads stationed at every outpost. Without those wards, we’re fucked. It would be open season on Navarrian villages when the raiding parties from Poromiel inevitably descend. Those greedy assholes are never content with the resources they have. They always want ours, too, and until they learn to be content with our trade agreements, we have no chance of ending conscription in Navarre. No chance of experiencing peace.
But if we’re not on high alert, then they must have gotten the wards rewoven, or at least stabilized.
“Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive, but the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift,” Professor Devera finishes, folding her arms over her chest. “Based on that information, what questions would you ask?” She holds up a finger. “I only want answers from first-years to start.”
My initial question would be why the hell the wards faltered, but it’s not like they’re going to answer a question like that in a room full of cadets with zero security clearance.
I study the map. The Esben Mountain Range is the highest along our eastern border with Braevick, making it the least likely place for an attack, especially since gryphons don’t tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons, probably due to the fact that they’re half-lion, half-eagle and can’t handle the thinner air at higher altitudes.
There’s a reason we’ve been able to fend off every major assault on our territory for the last six hundred years, and we’ve successfully defended our land in this never-ending four-hundred-year-long war. Our abilities, both lesser and signet, are superior because our dragons can channel more power than gryphons. So why attack in that mountain range? What caused the wards to falter there?
“Come on, first-years, show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical-thinking skills to be here,” Professor Devera demands. “It’s more important than ever that you’re ready for what’s beyond our borders.”
“Is this the first time the wards have faltered?” a first-year a couple of rows ahead asks.
Professors Devera and Markham share a look before she turns toward the cadet. “No.”
My heart jolts into my throat and the room falls pin-drop quiet.
It’s not the first time.
The girl clears her throat. “And how…often are they faltering?”
Professor Markham’s shrewd eyes narrow on her. “That’s above your pay grade, cadet.” He turns his attention to our section. “Next relevant question to the attack we’re discussing?”
“How many casualties did the wing suffer?” a first-year down the row to my right asks.
“One injured dragon. One dead rider.”
Another murmur rises from the hall. Surviving graduation doesn’t mean we’ll survive service. Statistically, most riders die before retirement age, especially at the rate riders have been falling over the last two years.
“Why would you ask that particular question?” Professor Devera asks the cadet.
“To know how many reinforcements they’ll need,” he answers.
Professor Devera nods, turning toward Pryor, the meekest first-year in our squad, who has his hand up, but he lowers it quickly, scrunching his dark eyebrows. “Did you want to ask a question?”
“Yes.” He nods, sending a few locks of black hair into his eyes, then shakes his head. “No. Never mind.”
“So decisive,” Luca—the catty first-year in our squad I’ll do just about anything to avoid—mocks from next to him, tilting her head as cadets laugh around them. A corner of her mouth tilts up into a smirk, and she flips her long brown hair over her shoulder in a move that’s anything but casual. Like me, she’s one of the few women in the quadrant who didn’t cut her hair. I envy her confidence that it won’t be used against her, but not her attitude, and I’ve known her less than a day.
“He’s in our squad,” Aurelie—at least I think that’s her name—chastises, her no-nonsense black eyes narrowing on Luca. “Show some loyalty.”
“Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can’t even decide if he wants to ask a question. And did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held the entire line up because he couldn’t choose between bacon or sausage.” Luca rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?” Professor Devera asks, lifting a brow.
“Ask what altitude the village is at,” I whisper to Rhiannon.
“What?” Her brow furrows.
“Just ask,” I reply, trying to keep Dain’s advice in mind. I swear I can feel him staring at the back of my neck from seven rows behind me, but I’m not going to turn and look, not when I know Xaden’s up there somewhere, too.
“What altitude is the village at?” Rhiannon asks.
Professor Devera’s eyebrows rise as she turns to Rhiannon. “Markham?”
“A little less than ten thousand feet,” he answers. “Why?”
Rhiannon darts a dose of side-eye at me and clears her throat. “Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons.”
“Good job,” I whisper.
“It is a little high for a planned attack,” Devera says. “Why don’t you tell me why that’s bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you’d like to ask your own questions from here on out.” She levels a stare on me that has me squirming in my seat.
Every head in the room turns in my direction. If anyone had an inkling of doubt about who I am, it’s long gone now. Awesome.
“Gryphons aren’t as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel,” I say. “It’s an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about what…an hour’s flight from the nearest outpost?” I glance at the map to be sure I’m not making a fool of myself. “That is Chakir right there, isn’t it?” Scribe’s training for the win.
“It is.” A corner of Professor Devera’s mouth lifts into a smirk. “Keep going with that line of thought.”
