The chimney is mine.
By the ninth—and next-to-last—session, I’m ready to set the entire obstacle course on fire. The section of the course that’s my downfall is meant to simulate the strength and agility it takes to mount a dragon, and it’s becoming clear that my size is going to fuck me.
“Maybe you can climb up onto my shoulders and then…” Rhiannon shakes her head as we study the crevice that’s become my nemesis.
“Then I’m still stuck halfway up,” I answer, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
“Doesn’t matter. You can’t touch another cadet on the route.” Sawyer folds his arms beside me, the tip of his nose now bright red from the high sun.
“Are you here to squash hopes and dreams, or do you have a suggestion?” Rhiannon retorts. “Because Presentation is tomorrow, so if you’ve got any bright ideas, now is the time.”
If I’m going to run to the Scribe Quadrant, then tonight is the night. My heart clenches against the thought. It’s the logical choice. The safe choice.
There are only two thoughts stopping me.
One, there’s no guarantee my mother won’t find out. Just because Markham would keep quiet doesn’t mean the instructors there will.
But most importantly, if I go, if I hide…I’ll never know if I’m good enough to make it here. And while I might not survive if I stay, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I leave.
…
“Doria Merrill,” Captain Fitzgibbons says from the dais. Every one of his features is crystal clear, not only because the sun is behind the shade of the clouds but because I’m closer. Our formation gets tighter with every cadet who falls.
According to Brennan and statistics, today will be one of the deadliest for first-years.
It’s Presentation Day, and in order to get to the flight field, we’ll have to climb the Gauntlet first. Everything about the Riders Quadrant is designed to weed out the weak, and today is no exception.
“Kamryn Dyre.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read from the roll.
I flinch. His seat was across from mine in Dragonkind.
“Arvel Pelipa.”
Imogen and Quinn—both second-years—suck in a breath ahead of me. First-years aren’t the only ones at risk; we’re just the most likely to die.
“Michel Iverem.” Captain Fitzgibbons closes the roll. “We commend their souls to Malek.” And with that final word, formation breaks.
“Second- and third-years, unless you’re on Gauntlet duty, head to class. First-years, it’s time to show us what you’ve got.” Dain forces a smile and skips right over me as he looks at our squad.
“Good luck today.” Imogen tucks an errant strand of pink hair behind her ear and aims a sickly-sweet smile right at me. “Hopefully you won’t fall…short.”
“See you later,” I reply, lifting my chin.
She stares at me with complete loathing for a second, then walks off with Quinn and Cianna, our executive officer, her shoulder-length blond curls bouncing.
“Best of luck.” Heaton—the thickest third-year in our squad, with red flames cut and dyed into their hair—taps their heart, right over two of their patches, and offers us all a genuine but flat-lipped smile before heading to class.
As I stare at their retreating back, I wonder what the circular patch on their upper right arm with water and floating spheres means. I know the triangular patch to the left of that one, with the longsword, means they’re not to be messed with on the mat. Since Dain told me about the patch denoting his top secret signet, I’ve been paying close attention to the patches other cadets have sewn into their uniforms. Most wear them like badges of honor, but I recognize them for what they really are—intelligence that I might one day need to defeat them.
“I didn’t realize Heaton actually knew how to speak.” Two lines appear between Ridoc’s brows.
“Maybe they figure they should at least say hi before we’re potentially roasted today,” Rhiannon says.
“Back into formation,” Dain orders.
“Are you going with us?” I ask.
He nods, still not looking at me.
The eight of us fall into two lines of four, the same as the other squads around us.
“Awkward,” Rhiannon whispers from my side. “He seems kind of pissed at you.”
I glance up over Trina’s slim shoulders as the breeze whips at the braid I’ve woven like a crown. It’s working a few of Trina’s ringlet curls loose, too. “He wants something I can’t give him.”
Her eyebrows rise.
I roll my eyes. “Not like…that.”
“I wouldn’t care if it was like that,” she replies under her breath. “He’s hot. He has that whole boy-next-door-who-can-still-kick-your-ass vibe going for him.”
I fight a smile because she’s right. He so does.
“We’re the biggest squad,” Ridoc notes behind us as the squads farthest left—from First Wing—file out through the western gate in the courtyard.
“What are we down to?” Tynan asks. “Hundred and eighty?”
“Hundred and seventy-one,” Dain answers. Squads from Second Wing begin to move, led by their wingleader, which means Xaden is somewhere ahead of us.
