“Please work. Please work. Please work,” Imogen chants.

The map disappears out of her hands and reappears down the hallway in Rhiannon’s.

I barely have time to register that it worked as the guard stumbles, but he keeps running. Any closer and he’ll see my face.

“This was not part of the plan.” Liam moves to my side.

“Adapt! Emery!” Imogen hisses, and the third-year steps to the front of our little raiding party.

“I’m so sorry, man.” He holds out his hands and pushes. A torrent of air rushes down the hallway, ripping tapestries from the walls and knocking into the guard, sending him flying against the stone wall. “Run!”

We sprint down the hall toward where the guard lies limp. “Put him in here,” I hiss, forcing open the next door, the one that belongs to one of my mother’s undersecretaries.

Liam and Ridoc haul the guard in, and I put my fingers to his neck. “Good strong pulse. He just knocked him out. Open his mouth.” I snag the vial hidden in the pocket of my leathers, uncork it, and then let the tonic flow into the guard’s mouth. “He’ll sleep the rest of the night.”

Liam’s wide eyes meet mine. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

“Thank you.” I grin, and we get out of there, running as fast as we can.

Fifteen minutes later, our chests are still heaving as we skid into the Battle Brief room, just under the clock.

We’re the last to arrive, and the tick of Dain’s jaw from where he sits in the top row with the other leadership tells me we’re going to get an earful about it.

I drag my gaze away, and we find our seats as presentations begin in order of squad, giving us enough time to recover from our sprinting session before we have to take the stage.

A squad in First Wing stole Kaori’s handwritten manual on the personal habits and flaws of all active dragons. Impressive.

A squad in Second Wing elicits an appreciative murmur when they reveal the uniform of one of the Infantry professors, fully intact with something riders never bear—a name tag. That would grant any enemy access to our outposts, given the rank on the shoulder.

Third Wing’s best offering is a stunned, wide-eyed scribe, stolen straight from his bed, and given the way his mouth isn’t moving… Yep, someone’s signet power takes away speech. The poor thing is going to be traumatized when they finally let him go.

When it’s our turn to take the stage, Sawyer and Liam, the two tallest in our squad, hold the top corners of our map so it’s visible to all as it unrolls.

I stand back next to Imogen and search the leadership for a certain pair of onyx eyes. There he is.

Xaden is leaning against the wall near the other wingleaders, watching me with a pulse-quickening mix of curiosity and expectation.

“It was your idea,” Imogen whispers, nudging me forward. “Present.”

Markham’s eyes flare wide as saucers as he forces himself to stand, followed quickly by Devera, whose mouth hangs so wide, it’s almost comical.

I clear my throat and gesture to the map. “We have brought the ultimate weapon for our enemies. An up-to-date map of all current outposts of Navarrian wings, to include troop strength of infantry battlements.” I point to the forts along the Cygnisen border. “As well as the locations of all current skirmishes in the last thirty days. Including last night.”

A murmur rips through the quadrant.

“And how do we know this map is, in fact, current?” Kaori asks, holding his reclaimed journal under one arm.

There’s no stopping the smile that spreads across my face. “Because we stole it from General Sorrengail’s office.”

Absolute mayhem breaks out, some of the riders rushing the stage as professors battle their way toward us, but I ignore it all as Xaden tilts one corner of that beautiful mouth and tips an imaginary hat to me, bowing his head for a heartbeat before bringing his gaze back to hold mine. Satisfaction fills every ounce of my being as I smile up at him.

It doesn’t matter how the vote comes down.

I’ve already won.

There is no stronger bond than that between two mated dragons. It goes beyond the depth of human love or adoration to a primal, undeniable requirement for proximity. One cannot survive without the other.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

Flying for short distances is something I manage.

Flight maneuvers—the dips and dives that come with combat formations—send me spinning through the sky unless Tairn holds me on with bands of his own power.

But flying for six hours straight for our prize, a weeklong tour of a forward outpost, might just be the death of me.

“I’m pretty sure I’m dying.” Nadine bends over, bracing her hands on her knees.

“I feel that.” Every vertebra in my spine screams as I stretch, and the hands that were freezing only a few minutes ago start to sweat inside my leather gloves.

Naturally, Dain is minimally affected, his posture only slightly stiff as he and Professor Devera greet a tall man in rider black, who I assume is the outpost commander.

“Welcome, cadets,” the commander says with a professional smile, folding his arms across the chest of his lightweight leathers. His salt-and-pepper hair makes it hard to determine his age, and he has that gaunt, weathered look all riders get when they’ve been stationed on the border for too long. “I’m sure you’d all like to get settled and into something a little more appropriate to the climate. Then we’ll show you around Montserrat.”

Rhiannon inhales sharply, her gaze sweeping over the mountains.

“You all right?”

She nods. “Later.”

Later arrives in exactly twelve sweat-soaked minutes as we’re shown to our double-occupancy barracks rooms. They’re sparse, only furnished with two beds, two wardrobes, and a single desk under a wide window.

She’s quiet the entire time we make our way through the bathing chamber to wash off the ride and alarmingly silent while we dress in our summer leathers. It may only be April here at Montserrat, but it feels like Basgiath in June.

“You going to tell me what’s up?” I ask, stowing my pack beneath the bed before making sure all my daggers are where they’re supposed to be. The hilts are barely visible in the sheaths I wear at my thighs, but I doubt many people this far east would recognize the Tyrrish symbols.

Rhiannon’s hands tremble with what looks like nervous energy as she straps her sword to her back. “Do you know where we are?”

I mentally bring up a map. “We’re about two hundred miles from the coast—”

“My village is less than an hour away on foot.” Her eyes meet mine in an unspoken plea, so much emotion swirling in their dark-brown depths that my throat clogs, choking my words.

Taking her hands in mine, I squeeze, nodding. I know exactly what she’s asking and exactly what it will cost if we’re caught.