“Except when sleeping. It’s an executable offense to attack any cadet while sleeping. Article Three—”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe at night. Sleep in this if you can.” She taps the stomach of my corset.

“Rider black is supposed to be earned. You sure I shouldn’t wear my tunic today?” I skim my hands over the leather.

“The wind up on the parapet will catch any spare cloth like a sail.” She hands me my now-much-lighter pack. “The tighter your clothes, the better off you are up there, and in the ring once you start sparring. Wear the armor at all times. Keep your daggers on you at all times.” She points to the sheaths down her thighs.

“Someone’s going to say I didn’t earn them.”

“You’re a Sorrengail,” she responds, as if that’s answer enough. “Fuck what they say.”

“And you don’t think the dragon scales are cheating?”

“There’s no such thing as cheating once you climb the turret. There’s only survival and death.” The bell chimes—only thirty minutes left. She swallows. “It’s almost time. Ready?”

“No.”

“Neither was I.” A wry smile lifts a corner of her mouth. “And I’d spent my life training for it.”

“I’m not going to die today.” I sling my pack over my shoulders and breathe a little easier than this morning. It’s infinitely more manageable.

The halls of the central, administrative part of the fortress are eerily quiet as we wind our way down through various staircases, but the noise from outside grows louder the lower we descend. Through the windows, I see thousands of candidates hugging their loved ones and saying their goodbyes on the grassy fields just beneath the main gate. From what I’ve witnessed every year, most families hold on to their candidates right up to the very last bell. The four roads leading to the fortress are clogged with horses and wagons, especially where they converge in front of the college, but it’s the empty ones at the edge of the fields that make me nauseous.

They’re for the bodies.

Right before we round the last corner that will lead to the courtyard, Mira stops.

“What is— Oof.” She yanks me against her chest, hugging me tight in the relative privacy of the corridor.

“I love you, Violet. Remember everything I’ve told you. Don’t become another name on the death roll.” Her voice shakes, and I wrap my arms around her, squeezing tight.

“I’ll be all right,” I promise.

She nods, her chin bumping against the top of my head. “I know. Let’s go.”

That’s all she says before pulling away and walking into the crowded courtyard just inside the main gate to the fortress. Instructors, commanders, and even our mother are gathered informally, waiting for the madness outside the walls to become the order within. Out of all the doors in the war college, the main gate is the only one no cadet will enter today, since each quadrant has its own entrance and facilities. Hell, the riders have their own citadel. Pretentious, egotistical fucks.

I follow Mira, catching her with a few quick strides.

“Find Dain Aetos,” Mira tells me as we cross through the courtyard, heading for the open gate.

“Dain?” I can’t help but smile at the thought of seeing Dain again, and my heart rate jumps. It’s been a year, and I’ve missed his soft brown eyes and the way he laughs, the way every part of his body joins in. I’ve missed our friendship, and the moments I thought it might turn into more under the right circumstances. I’ve missed the way he looks at me, like I’m someone worth noticing. I’ve just missed…him.

“I’ve only been out of the quadrant for three years, but from what I hear, he’s doing well, and he’ll keep you safe. Don’t smile like that,” Mira chides. “He’ll be a second-year.” She shakes her finger at me. “Don’t mess around with second-years. If you want to get laid, and you should”—she lifts her brows—“often, considering you never know what the day brings, then screw around in your own year. Nothing is worse than cadets gossiping that you’ve slept your way to safety.”

“So I’m free to take any of the first-years I want to bed,” I say with a little grin. “Just not the second- or third-years.”

“Exactly.” She winks.

We cross through the gates, leaving the fortress, and join the organized chaos beyond.

Each of Navarre’s six provinces has sent this year’s share of candidates for military service. Some volunteer. Some are sentenced as punishment. Most are conscripted. The only thing we have in common here at Basgiath is that we passed the entrance exam—both written and an agility test I still cannot believe I passed—which means at least we won’t end up as fodder for the infantry on the front line.

The atmosphere is tense with anticipation as Mira leads me along the worn cobblestone path toward the southern turret. The main college is built into the side of Basgiath Mountain, as if it was cleaved from a ridgeline of the peak itself. The sprawling, formidable structure towers over the crowd of anxious, waiting candidates and their tearful families, with its stories-tall stone battlements—built to protect the high rise of the keep within—and defensive turrets at each of its corners, one of which houses the bells.

The majority of the crowd moves to line up at the base of the northern turret—the entrance to the Infantry Quadrant. Some of the mass heads toward the gate behind us—the Healer Quadrant that consumes the southern end of the college. Envy clenches my chest when I spot a few taking the central tunnel into the archives below the fortress to join the Scribe Quadrant.

The entrance to the Riders Quadrant is nothing more than a fortified door at the base of the tower, just like the infantry entrance to the north. But while the infantry candidates can walk straight into their ground-level quadrant, we rider candidates will climb.

Mira and I join the riders’ line, waiting to sign in, and I make the mistake of glancing up.

High above us, crossing the river-bottomed valley that divides the main college from the even higher, looming citadel of the Riders Quadrant on the southern ridgeline, is the parapet, the stone bridge that’s about to separate rider candidates from the cadets over the next few hours.

I can’t believe I’m about to cross that thing.

“And to think, I’ve been preparing for the scribe’s written exam all these years.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “I should have been playing on a balance beam.”

Mira ignores me as the line moves forward and candidates disappear through the door. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.”

Two candidates ahead of us, a woman sobs as her partner rips her away from a young man, the couple breaking from the line, retreating in tears down the hillside toward the crowd of loved ones lining the roads. There are no other parents ahead of us, only a few dozen candidates moving toward the roll-keepers.

“Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down,” Mira says, the lines of her face tightening. “Arms out for balance. If the pack slips, drop it. Better it falls than you.”

I look behind us, where it seems hundreds have filed in within the span of minutes. “Maybe I should let them go first,” I whisper as panic fists my heart. What the hell am I doing?

“No,” Mira answers. “The longer you wait on those steps”—she motions toward the tower—“the greater your fear has a chance to grow. Cross the parapet before the terror owns you.”

The line moves, and the bell chimes again. It’s eight o’clock.

Sure enough, the crowd of thousands behind us has separated fully into their chosen quadrants, all lined up to sign the roll and begin their service.

“Focus,” Mira snaps, and I whip my head forward. “This might sound harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”

There are only two ahead of us now—a woman with a full pack, whose high cheekbones and oval face remind me of renderings of Amari, the queen of the gods. Her dark brown hair is worn in several rows of short braids that just touch the equally dark skin of her neck. The second is the muscular blond man with the woman crying over him. He’s carrying an even bigger rucksack.

I look around the pair toward the roll-keeping desk, and my eyes widen. “Is he…?” I whisper.

Mira glances and mutters a curse. “A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that shimmering mark that starts on the top of his wrist? It’s a relic from the rebellion.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. The only relics I’ve ever heard of are when a dragon uses magic to mark the skin of their bonded rider. But those relics are a symbol of honor and power and generally in the shape of the dragon who gifted them. These marks are swirls and slashes that feel more like a warning than a claiming.

“A dragon did that?” I whisper.

She nods. “Mom says General Melgren’s dragon did it to all of them when he executed their parents, but she wasn’t exactly open to further discussion on the topic. Nothing like punishing the kids to deter more parents from committing treason.”

It seems…cruel, but the first rule of living at Basgiath is never question a dragon. They tend to cremate anyone they find rude.

“Most of the marked kids who carry rebellion relics are from Tyrrendor, of course, but there are a few whose parents turned traitor from the other provinces—” The blood drains from her face, and she grips the straps of my pack, turning me to face her. “I just remembered.” Her voice drops, and I lean in, my heart jumping at the urgency in her tone. “Stay the hell away from Xaden Riorson.”