CHAPTER_ONE

TWO WEEKS LATER
Flying in January should be a violation of the Codex. Between the
howling storm and the incessant fog in my goggles, I can’t see shit
as we cut through the blustering snow squall above the mountains
near Basgiath. Hoping we’re almost through the worst of it, I grip
the pommels of my saddle with gloved hands and hold tight.
“Dying today would be inconvenient,” I say down the mental
pathway connecting me to Tairn and Andarna. “Unless you’re trying
to keep me away from the Senarium this afternoon?” I’ve waited
more than a week for the invitation-disguised order to come from
the king’s council, but the delay is understandable given they’re on
the fourth day of unprecedented peace talks happening on campus.
Poromiel has publicly declared they’ll walk after the seventh day if
terms can’t be reached, and it isn’t looking good. I only hope that
they’ll be in an agreeable mood when I arrive.
“Want to make your meeting? Don’t fall off this time,” Tairn retorts.
“For the last time, I didn’t fall off,” I argue. “I jumped off to help
Sawyer—”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You can’t keep leaving me off patrols,” Andarna interrupts from
the warmth and protection of the Vale.
“It isn’t safe,” Tairn reminds her for what has to be the hundredth
time. “Weather aside, we’re hunting dark wielders, not out for a
pleasure flight.”
“You shouldn’t fly in this,” I agree, looking for any sign of Ridoc
and Aotrom, but there’s only walls of white. My chest tightens. How
are any of us supposed to see topography or our squadmates, let
alone spot a dark wielder hundreds of feet below in this mess? I
can’t remember a more brutal series of storms than the ones that
have battered the war college in the last two weeks, but without—
Mom. Grief sinks the tips of her razor-sharp claws into my chest,
and I lift my face to feel the stinging bite of snow against the tops of
my cheeks, focusing on anything else to keep breathing, keep
moving. I’ll mourn later, always later.
“It’s just a quick patrol,” Andarna whines, jarring me from my
thoughts. “I need the practice. Who knows what weather we’ll
encounter on the search for my kind?”
“Quick patrols” have proven deadly, and I’m not looking for reasons
to test Andarna’s fire theory. Dark wielders may have limited power
within the wards, but they’re still lethal fighters. The ones who didn’t
escape post-battle have used the element of surprise to add multiple
names to the death roll. First Wing, Third Wing, and our own Claw
Section have suffered losses.
“Then practice evenly dispersing enough magic to keep all your
extremities warm during flight, because your wings won’t hold the
weight of this ice,” Tairn growls into the falling snow.
“‘Your wings won’t hold the weight of this ice,’” Andarna blatantly
mocks him. “And yet yours miraculously carry the burden of your
ego.”
“Go find a sheep and let the adults work.” Tairn’s muscles shift
slightly beneath me in a familiar pattern, and I lean forward as far as
the saddle will allow, preparing for a dive.
My stomach lurches into my throat as his wings snap closed and
we pitch downward, slicing through the storm. Wind tears at my
winter flight hood, and the leather strap of my saddle bites into my
frozen thighs as I pray to Zihnal there isn’t a mountain peak directly
beneath us.
Tairn levels out, and my stomach settles as I tug my goggles up to
my forehead and blink quickly, looking right. The drop in altitude has
lessened the intensity of the storm, improving visibility enough to
see the rocky ridgeline just above the flight field.
“Looks clear.” My eyes tear up, assaulted by both wind and snow
that feels more like tiny projectiles of ice than flakes. I clean my
lenses using the suede tips of my gloves before snapping them over
my eyes again.
“Agreed. Once we hear the same from Feirge and Cruth, we’ll end
today’s endeavors,” he grumbles.
“You sound like making it three straight days without encountering
the enemy is a bad thing.” Maybe we’ve really caught and killed
them all. As cadets, we’ve slain thirty-one venin in the area
surrounding Basgiath while our professors work to clear the rest of
the province. It would be thirty-two if anyone suspected one of them
was living among us, though—even if he’s credited with seventeen
of the kills.
“I am not comforted by the quiet—” Wind whips overhead with a
crack, and Tairn’s head jerks upward. Mine immediately follows suit.
Oh no.
Not wind. Wings.
Aotrom’s claws consume my vision, and my heart seizes with panic.
He’s dropping out of the storm directly on top of us.
“Tairn!” I shout, but he’s already rolling left, hurling us from our
course.
The world rotates, sky and land exchanging places twice in a
nauseating dance before Tairn flares his wings in a jarring snap. The
movement cracks the inch-thick layer of ice along the front ridges of
his wings, and chunks fall away.
I
draw a full but shaky breath as Tairn pumps his wings with
maximum effort, gaining a hundred feet of altitude in a matter of
seconds and barreling straight toward the Brown Swordtail bonded
to Ridoc.
Wrath scalds the air in my lungs, Tairn’s emotions flooding my
system for a heartbeat before I can slam my mental shields down to
muffle the worst of what streams in through the bond.
“Don’t!” I shout into the wind as we come up on Aotrom’s left, but
as always, Tairn does whatever he wants and full-on crunches his
jaws within what looks like inches of Aotrom’s head. “It was clearly
an accident!” One that would usually be avoided by dragons
communicating.
The smaller Brown Swordtail squawks as Tairn repeats the
warning, then Aotrom exposes his throat in a gesture of submission.
Ridoc looks my way through the band of snow and throws up his
hands, but I doubt he sees my shrug of apology before Aotrom falls
away, heading south to the flight field.
Guess Feirge and Rhi reported in.
“Was that really necessary?” I drop my shields, and Tairn’s and
Andarna’s bonds come flooding back at full strength, but the
shimmering pathway that leads to Xaden is still blocked, dimmed to
an echo of its usual presence. The loss of constant connection sucks,
but he doesn’t trust himself—or what he thinks he’ll become—to
keep it open yet.
“Yes,” Tairn answers, declaring the single word sufficient.
“You’re almost twice his size and it was obviously an accident,” I
repeat as we descend rapidly to the flight field. The snow on the
ground of the box canyon has been trampled into a muddy series of
paths from the constant patrols second- and third-years are flying.
“It was negligent, and a twenty-two-year-old dragon should know
better than to close himself off from his riot simply because he’s
arguing with his rider,” Tairn grumbles, his anger lowering to a
simmer as Aotrom lands beside Rhi’s Green Daggertail, Feirge.
Tairn’s claws impact the frozen ground to Aotrom’s left, and the
sudden landing vibrates every bone in my body like a rung bell. Pain
explodes along my spine, my lower back taking the brunt of the
insult. I breathe through the worst of it, then accept the rest and
move on. “Well, that was graceful.” I jerk my goggles to my
forehead.
“You fly next time.” He shakes like a wet hound, and I block my
face with my hands as ice and snow fly off his scales.
I tug at the leather strap of my saddle when he stills, but the
buckle catches along the jagged, shitty line of stitches I put in after
the battle, and one of them pops. “Damn it. That wouldn’t have
happened if you’d let Xaden fix it.” I force my body out of the
saddle, ignoring the aching protest of my cold-cramped joints as I
make my way across the icy pattern of spikes and scales I know as
well as my own hand.
“The Dark One didn’t cut it in the first place,” Tairn responds.
“Stop calling him that.” My knee collapses, and I throw my arms
out to steady my balance, cursing my joints as I reach Tairn’s
shoulder. After an hour in the saddle at these temperatures, a
pissed-off knee is nothing; I’m lucky my hips still rotate.
“Stop denying the truth.” Tairn enunciates every word of the
damning order as I avoid a patch of ice and prepare to dismount.
“His soul is no longer his own.”
“That’s a little dramatic.” I’m not getting into this argument again.
“His eyes are back to normal—”
“That kind of power is addictive. You know it, or you wouldn’t be
pretending to sleep at night.” He twists his neck in a way that
reminds me of a snake and levels a golden glare on me.
“I’m sleeping.” It’s not entirely a lie, but definitely time to change
the subject. “Did you make me repair my saddle to teach me a
lesson?” My ass protests every scale on Tairn’s leg as I slide, then
land in a fresh foot of snow. “Or because you don’t trust Xaden with
my gear anymore?”
“Yes.” Tairn lifts his head far over mine and blasts a torrent of fire
along his wing, melting off the residual ice, and I turn away from the
surge of heat that painfully contrasts my body temperature.
“Tairn…” I struggle for words and look up at him. “I need to know
where you stand before this meeting. With or without Empyrean
approval, I can’t do any of this without you.”
“Meaning, will I support the myriad of ways you plan to court
death in the name of curing one who is beyond redemption?” He
swivels his head in my direction again.
Tension crackles along Andarna’s bond.
“He’s not—” I cut off that particular argument, since the rest is
sound. “Basically, yes.”
He grumbles deep within his chest. “I fly without warming my
wings in preparation for carrying heavier weight for longer distances.
Does that not answer your question?”
Meaning Andarna. Relief gusts through my lips on a swift exhale.
“Thank you.”
Steam rolls in billowing clouds from his nostrils. “But do not
mistake my unflinching support of you, my mate, and Andarna for
any form of faith in him.” Tairn lifts his head, cueing the end of the
conversation.
“Heard.” On that note, I trudge toward the trampled path where
Rhi and Quinn wait. Ridoc gives Tairn a wide berth as he does the
same to my right. My nearly numb, gloved fingers fumble with the
three buttons on the side of my winter flight hood, and the fur-lined
fabric falls away from my nose and mouth as I reach them.
“Everything good on your route?”
Rhi and Quinn look cold but uninjured, thank gods.
“Still…alarmingly routine. We didn’t see anything of concern.
Wyvern burn pit is still just ash and bone, too.” Rhi picks a clump of
snow from the lining of her hood, then pulls it back up over her
shoulder-length black braids.
“We didn’t see shit for those last ten minutes, period.” Ridoc
shoves his gloved hand into his hair, snowflakes slipping off his
brown cheeks without melting.
“At least you’re an ice wielder.” I gesture to his annoyingly flake
free face.
Quinn pulls her blond curls into a quick bun. “Wielding can help
keep you warm, too.”
“I’m not chancing it when I can’t see what I might strike.”
Especially having lost my only conduit in the battle. I glance at Ridoc
as a line of our Tail Section’s dragons launch for their patrol behind
him. “What were you arguing with Aotrom about, anyway?”
“Sorry about that.” Ridoc cringes and lowers his voice. “He wants
to go home—back to Aretia. Says we can launch the search for the
seventh breed from there.”
Rhi nods, and Quinn presses her lips in a firm line.
“Yeah, I get that,” I say—it’s a common sentiment among the riot.
We’re not exactly welcome here. The unity between Navarrian and
Aretian riders crumbled within hours of the battle’s end. “But the
only path for an alliance that can save Poromish civilians requires us
to be here. At least for now.”
Not to mention, Xaden insists we stay.
“He remains because Navarre’s wards protect you from him.” Tairn
blasts another stream of fire when I ignore him, heating his left
wing, then crouches before launching skyward with the others.
The courtyard is nearly empty when we enter through the tunnel
that runs under the ridgeline separating it from the training grounds.
In front of us, snow tops the dormitory wing, the centered rotunda
that links the quadrant’s structures, and all but the southernmost
roofline of the academic wing ahead to our left, where Malek’s fire
burns bright in the highest turret, consuming the belongings of our
dead as he requires.
Maybe the god of death will curse me for keeping my mother’s
personal journals, but it’s not like I wouldn’t have a few choice
words for him should we meet, anyway.
“Report,” Aura Beinhaven orders from the dais at our left, where
she stands with Ewan Faber—the stocky, sour-faced wingleader of
what little remains of Navarre’s Fourth Wing.
“Oh, good, you all made it back.” Ewan’s voice drips with sarcasm
as he folds his arms, snow falling on his broad shoulders. “We were
so worried.”
“Prick was barely a squad leader in Claw when we left,” Ridoc
mutters.
“Nothing this morning,” Rhiannon replies, and Aura nods but
doesn’t deign to say anything. “Any news from the front?”
My stomach knots. The lack of information is agonizing.
“Nothing I’d be willing to share with a bunch of deserters,” Aura
answers.
Oh, screw her.
“A bunch of deserters who saved your ass!” Quinn offers a middle
finger as we continue past, our boots crunching on the snow
covered gravel. “Navarrian riders, Aretian riders… We can’t function
like this,” she says to the group quietly. “If they won’t accept us, the
fliers don’t have a prayer.