Their gathering could be completely harmless, right? Maybe they’re homesick, like when the cadets from the Morraine province all spend a Saturday at the nearby lake just because it reminds them of the ocean they miss so much.
Or maybe marked ones are plotting to burn Basgiath to the ground and finish what their parents started.
I can sit up here and ignore them, but my complacency—my fear—could get people killed if they’re down there scheming. Telling Dain is the right thing to do, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Nausea churns in my stomach. I have to get closer.
Keeping myself on the opposite side of the trunk and sticking to the shadows that wrap around me, I climb down another branch with sloth-like speed, holding my breath as I test each branch with a fraction of my weight before lowering myself. Their voices are still muffled by the river, but I can hear the loudest of them, a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin, whose shoulders take up twice the space of any first-year, standing opposite Xaden’s position and wearing the rank of a third-year.
“We’ve already lost Sutherland and Luperco,” he says, but I can’t make out the response.
It takes two more rungs of branches before their words are clear. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my ribs. I’m close enough for any one of them to see if they look hard enough—well, everyone except Xaden, since his back is turned toward me.
“Like it or not, we’re going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation,” Imogen says. One little hop to the right and I could repay that callous shoulder maneuver she pulled on me with a quick kick to her head.
I just happen to value my own life more than I want revenge at the moment, so I keep my feet to myself.
“And if they find out we’re meeting?” a first-year girl with an olive complexion asks, her eyes darting around the circle.
“We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out,” Xaden responds, folding his arms and leaning back against the limb below my right. “They’re not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I’ll know.” The threat is obvious in his tone. “Like Garrick said, we’ve already lost two first-years to their own negligence. There are only forty-one of us in the Riders Quadrant, and we don’t want to lose any of you, but we will if you don’t help yourselves. The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”
There’s a muttered assent, and my breath hitches at the intensity in his voice. Damn it, I don’t want to find a single thing about Xaden Riorson admirable, and yet here he is, being all annoyingly admirable. Asshole.
Have to admit, it would be nice if a high-ranking rider from my province gave a shit if the rest of us from the province lived or died.
“How many of you are getting your asses handed to you in hand-to-hand?” Xaden asks.
Four hands shoot into the air, none of which belong to the spiky-blond-haired first-year standing with his arms crossed, a head taller than most others. Liam Mairi. He’s in Second Squad, Tail Section of our wing and already the top cadet in our year. He practically ran across the parapet and destroyed every opponent on assessment day.
“Shit,” Xaden swears, and I would give anything to see his expression as he lifts a hand to his face.
The big one—Garrick—sighs. “I’ll teach them.” I recognize him now. He’s the Flame Section leader in Fourth Wing. My direct superior above Dain.
Xaden shakes his head. “You’re our best fighter—”
“You’re our best fighter,” a second-year near Xaden counters with a quick grin. He’s handsome, with tawny brown skin crowned by a cloud of black curls and a litany of patches on what I can see of his uniform under his cloak. His features are close enough to Xaden’s that they might be related. Cousins, maybe? Fen Riorson had a sister, if I remember correctly. Shit, what was the guy’s name? It’s been years since I read the records, but I think it started with a B.
“Dirtiest fighter, maybe,” Imogen snarks.
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.”
