Most everyone laughs, and even the first-years crack a smile.

“Fucking ruthless is more like it,” Garrick adds.

There’s a general consensus of nods, including one from Liam Mairi.

“Garrick is our best fighter, but Imogen is right up there with him, and she’s a hell of a lot more patient,” Xaden notes, which is just ludicrous considering she didn’t seem too patient while breaking my arm. “So the four of you split yourselves up between the two of them for training. A group of three won’t draw any unwanted attention. What else is giving you trouble?”

“I can’t do this,” a gangly first-year says, rolling his shoulders inward and lifting his slim fingers to his face.

“What do you mean?” Xaden asks, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“I can’t do this!” The smaller one shakes his head. “The death. The fighting. Any of it!” The pitch of his voice rises with every statement. “A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day! I want to go home! Can you help me with that?”

Every head swings toward Xaden.

“No.” Xaden shrugs. “You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and not take up more of my time.”

It’s all I can do to smother my gasp, and some of the others in the group don’t bother trying. What. A. Dick.

The smaller guy looks stricken, and I can’t help but feel bad for him.

“That was a little harsh, cousin,” the second-year who looks a little like Xaden says, lifting his eyebrows.

“What do you want me to say, Bodhi?” Xaden cocks his head to the side, his voice calm and even. “I can’t save everyone, especially not someone who isn’t willing to work to save themselves.”

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Way to give a pep talk.”

“If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they’re not flying out of the quadrant on graduation day. Let’s get real. I can hold their hands and make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more valuable.” He turns his head, and I can only assume he’s looking at the panicked first-year. “In war, people die. It’s not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It’s snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There’s nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur. This”—he gestures back toward the citadel—“isn’t some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It’s hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home…to whatever’s left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant.” He leans forward slightly. “So if you won’t get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You’re not going to make it.”

Only crickets dare to break the silence.

“Now, someone give me a problem I can actually solve,” Xaden orders.

“Battle Brief,” a first-year I recognize says softly. Her bunk is only a row away from Rhiannon’s and mine. Shit…what’s her name? There are too many women in the hall to know everyone, but I’m certain she’s in Third Wing. “It’s not that I can’t keep up, but the information…” She shrugs.

“That’s a tough one,” Imogen responds, turning to look at Xaden. Her profile in the moonlight is almost unrecognizable as the same person who shredded my shoulder. That Imogen is cruel, vicious even. But the way she’s looking at Xaden softens her eyes, her mouth, her whole posture as she tucks a short strand of pink hair behind her ear.

“You learn what they teach you,” Xaden says to the first-year, his voice taking a hard edge. “Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to.”

My brow furrows. What the hell does he mean by that? Battle Brief is one of the classes taught by scribes to keep the quadrant up-to-date on all nonclassified troop movements and battle lines. The only things we’re asked to recite are recent events and general knowledge of what’s going on near the front lines.

“Anyone else?” Xaden asks. “You’d better ask now. We don’t have all night.”

It hits me then—other than being gathered in a group of more than three, there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing here. There’s no plot, no coup, no danger. It’s just a group of older riders counseling first-years from their province. But if Dain knew, he’d be honor bound to—

“When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail?” a guy toward the back asks.

My blood turns to ice.

The murmur of assent among the group sends a jolt of terror down my spine.

“Yeah, Xaden,” Imogen says sweetly, lifting her pale green eyes to him. “When do we get to finally have our revenge?”

He turns just enough for me to see his profile and the scar that crosses his face as he narrows his eyes at Imogen. “I told you already, the youngest Sorrengail is mine, and I’ll handle her when the time is right.”

He’ll…handle me? My muscles thaw with the heat of indignation. I’m not some inconvenience to be handled. My short-lived admiration of Xaden is over.

“Didn’t you already learn that lesson, Imogen?” the look-alike Xaden chides from halfway down the circle. “What I hear, Aetos has you scrubbing dinner dishes for the next month for using your powers on the mat.”

Imogen’s head snaps in his direction. “Her mother is responsible for the execution of my mom and sister. I should have done more than just snap her shoulder.”

“Her mom is responsible for the capture of nearly all our parents,” Garrick counters, folding his arms over his wide chest. “Not her daughter. Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not the Tyrrish.”

“So we get conscripted because of what our parents did years ago and shoved into this death sentence of a college—” Imogen starts.

“In case you didn’t notice, she’s in the same death sentence of a college,” Garrick retorts. “Seems like she’s already suffering the same fate.”

Am I seriously watching them debate over whether I should be punished for being Lilith Sorrengail’s daughter?

“Don’t forget her brother was Brennan Sorrengail,” Xaden adds. “She has just as much reason to hate us as we do her.” He pointedly looks at Imogen and the first-year who raised the question. “And I’m not going to tell you again. She’s mine to handle. Anyone feel like arguing?”

Silence reigns.

“Good. Then get back to bed and go in threes.” He motions with his head, and they slowly disperse, walking away in groups of threes just like he ordered. Xaden is the last to leave.

I draw a slow breath. Holy shit, I just might live through this.

But I have to be sure they’re gone. I don’t move a muscle, even when my thighs cramp and my fingers lock as I count to five hundred in my head, breathing as evenly as possible to soften the beats of my galloping heart.

Only when I’m sure I’m alone, when the squirrels scurry past on the ground, do I finish climbing from the tree, jumping the last four feet to the grassy floor. Zihnal must have a soft spot for me, because I’m the luckiest woman on the Continent—

A shadow lunges behind me and I open my mouth to scream, but my air supply is cut off by an elbow around my neck as I’m yanked against a hard chest.

“Scream and you die,” he whispers, and my stomach plummets as the elbow is replaced by the sharp bite of a dagger at my throat.

I freeze. I’d recognize the rough pitch of Xaden’s voice anywhere.

“Fucking Sorrengail.” His hand yanks back the hood of my cloak.

“How did you know?” My tone is outright indignant, but whatever. If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going down as some simpering little beggar. “Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?”

He scoffs. “I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.” He lowers the knife and steps away.

I gasp. “Your signet is a shadow wielder?” No wonder he’s risen so high in rank. Shadow wielders are incredibly rare and highly coveted in battle, able to disorient entire drifts of gryphons, if not take them down, depending upon the signet’s strength.

“What, Aetos hasn’t warned you not to get caught alone in the dark with me yet?”

His voice is like rough velvet along my skin, and I shiver, then draw my own blade from the sheath at my thigh and raise it as I spin toward him, ready to defend myself to the death. “Is this how you plan to handle me?”