Chapter Text
A dragon without its rider is a tragedy.
A rider without their dragon is dead.
—Article One, Section One
The Dragon Rider’s Codex
I fucking hate Conscription Day.
Every July, thousands of twenty-year-olds swarm the gates of Basgiath War College and wait to enter their chosen quadrant. Hundreds of these hopefuls will attempt to join the riders. Most of them have been training their entire lives for today, vying for a spot amongst the elite of Navarre’s military hierarchy.
Most of them won’t make it to graduation.
Many of them won’t make it to the end of the day.
Just like last year, I requested to work the intake side of Parapet. It’s a shitty job, taking down hundreds of names and watching the over-eager candidates attempt to cross a damned balance beam two hundred feet above roaring rapids.
It’s even shittier when they don’t make it.
But it’s my responsibility to ensure that the marked ones succeed in this quadrant, and I can’t do that from the comfort of the courtyard. There’s not much I can do to help them today—they’ll either make it across, or they won’t—but I can at least be here. I can be a living testament that it’s possible to make it through this hellhole. Show them that I had to cross the same bridge two years ago and am still standing here today.
The bells chime for eight o’clock as I take my post at the top of the southern tower with Masen and Belden from Tail Section. The final note has barely faded when the first couple of candidates step through the small wooden door and peer out over the crenelations. Gods, did they fucking run up here?
The first ones out of the tower are always a little too eager; full smiles, full packs, and full of hope. A bunch of crazy bastards, if you ask me. Although I suppose they’d have to be a little crazy to willingly choose this quadrant. Must be nice to have a choice.
Rolling my shoulders, I try to ease the weight of 107 lives, the tingle of 107 scars.
I fucking hate Conscription Day.
Forcing a look of stony indifference, I take my place on the left of the parapet entrance and study the new recruits. Unsurprisingly, every single one of them is already wearing some variation of rider black. Why these people are so ready to be one of the elite is beyond me. Most will be lucky to survive the next few hours, let alone the three years it will take to graduate. And even if they somehow make it through Basgiath’s horrors, most riders die long before ever reaching retirement age.
Basically, we’re all fucked.
The first candidate steps confidently toward us, her loose tunic snapping around her slender frame as the wind picks up. The leather strip holding her hair comes untied, causing the long blonde strands to whip around her face. I lean back against the wall and eye the darkening sky while she pulls it back into a loose braid. I had hoped that the weather would hold off for a few more hours to give the marked ones a chance to get across, but I should have known better.
Nothing’s ever fucking easy around here.
“Name?” Masen asks, squinting to see the roll page as he pulls it closer to his face. He opted to go without his glasses today, a good choice given how they fog in the humidity, though I don’t know why he insisted on being the roll-keeper if he can’t fucking see.
The girl’s steps falter when she notices Masen’s rebellion relic, his cutoff sleeves doing nothing to hide the shimmering mark. Her eyes widen as she takes in the dark, swirling lines that curve around his forearm and disappear on the inside of his left biceps. He clears his throat, but she stays rooted in place, completely engrossed.
Guess she’s never seen a separatist’s kid before.
Masen clears his throat again, louder this time, and repeats the question. “Name?”
Flushing, the girl snaps her attention back to his face and replies a bit breathlessly, “Elena Sosa.”
“All right Candidate Sosa, step on up,” Belden instructs, gesturing to the opening in the turret while Masen records her name in the first slot. “Once you reach the courtyard on the other side, you’ll give your name to that roll-keeper as well. Good luck.”
She nods and climbs onto the parapet, already throwing out her arms as she wobbles against the wind and takes her first tentative step.
Crossing the bridge is a treacherous feat when it’s clear and sunny, but with today’s storm blowing in, it’s going to be a fucking shitshow. Mairi and the others better be at the front of this damned line so they can get their asses on the other side before the rain starts.
The third-years and I have done everything we could to prepare the incoming class of marked ones, from stealing extra boots and leathers for them from central issue to teaching them how to pack their bags so that they’re well-balanced, every spare second we have is spent finding some new way to give them an edge in this quadrant. But we can only do so much, and unfortunately, controlling the weather is not one of my powers.
I tap a foot against the stone, idly wondering if a certain Sorrengail is responsible for today’s forecast. I wouldn’t put it past the general to take it upon herself to challenge this year’s group, though it doesn’t make much sense given the subject of our meeting this morning.
Our deal has been an axe hanging over my neck for the last five years: A favor of her choosing in exchange for giving us a chance in the quadrant. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights trying to figure out her game, wondering what she’d request from me, what I’d have to give. I never imagined that her price would come in the form of a person.
Or that the person would be her youngest daughter.
A gust of wind tunnels through the ravine, and I wince when a flash of pure terror lances through me as the first girl goes careening into the river far, far below.
“You need to strengthen your shields,” Sgaeyl chides. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Grimacing, I do as she commands, sealing off every opening into my mind except for the glowing sapphire bond that I share with her. Over the last couple of years, I’ve gotten pretty good at blocking everyone out. When my second signet manifested and I started hearing everyone’s intentions, I quickly realized that if I didn’t become adept at shielding, I’d lose more than just my mind—I’d lose my whole fucking head.
Now, I can usually keep everyone’s thoughts to a low hum, just background noise. But add in the emotion of Conscription Day? The adrenaline, excitement, and blinding panic of hundreds of people? It’s enough to cause an instant headache.
Needing to focus on something other than the pounding between my temples, I pick up our earlier conversation. “Of all the things she could have claimed, why do you think the general commanded me to protect her daughter? I always assumed she’d ask me to betray or kill someone. This seems like such a waste.” I gesture for the next candidate to begin, a stocky guy with bright red curls and a wicked-looking longsword strapped beneath his pack.
“Aren’t mothers supposed to be attached to their offspring and committed to their well-being?” Sgaeyl channels some of her own power into my shield, strengthening it against the mass of fear and anxiety climbing the turret’s steps.
“Not this one,” I mutter, remembering some of the stories Brennan’s told me over the years.
“Perhaps she does not believe the girl capable of defending herself.”
Another scream pierces the air.
Another fallen candidate.
At least my shields held strong for this one and I didn’t feel anything as the redhead slipped and plummeted to his death.
“If that’s the case, then why put her in the Riders Quadrant at all? Brennan said that his youngest sister was meant to be a scribe like their father. If she’s trained her whole life for the Archives, then sending her here is tantamount to a death sentence.” And if that’s the case, then the general has given me an impossible task. The chances of surviving in the quadrant on a scribe’s education are virtually zero—and that’s without the Sorrengail-sized target painted on her back from her name alone.
But maybe that’s been the general’s plan all along.
Maybe it’s not about her daughter at all, and she’s just setting me up to fail and finally give command the excuse they’ve been looking for to wipe out the marked ones for good. She’s already proven that she didn’t have a problem sending one child to his death, so what’s one more?
“It doesn’t matter if the girl is a spy, a pawn, or simply decided that life as a scribe would be too dull, the solution remains the same: Kill her before she becomes a problem,” Sgaeyl says. “Your deal doesn’t begin until after she crosses the bridge, so it’s quite simple. Don’t allow her to cross.”
“Right. Because throwing her off the tower before she sets foot on the parapet will be completely acceptable to her mother.” I scoff. “I’m sure she’ll understand and let me live based on that technicality alone. She seems benevolent like that.”
“Then perhaps I’ll fly in and torch the girl. I did not make a deal with your general.”
“You’re one of the most recognizable dragons at Basgiath.” I hold out a hand to stop the next candidate until the girl before him makes it a third of the way across.
Sgaeyl sighs. “I’m beginning to question your ability to see the obvious, Wingleader. Are you being thickheaded on purpose, or have you truly failed to consider the storm rolling in?”
Punctuating her point, thunder rumbles in the distance and echoes off the surrounding mountains with a deep, ominous growl. I nod for the waiting candidate to begin and turn after him to gaze out over the wall. The wind whips through the valley with a frenzy, bending and twisting the treetops until a few of the smaller ones snap completely in half, their thin trunks cracking against the merciless onslaught.
The looming storm has already done a number on the casualty rate this morning, and it would be nothing for a gust of wind—or a rogue shadow—to take out the youngest Sorrengail beneath the darkening sky.
Because Sgaeyl’s right.
It doesn’t matter why the general chose to call in her favor or what her daughter is doing in the quadrant. My job is to get the marked ones bonded and continue smuggling weapons out of Basgiath to give the revolution a fighting chance, and I can’t do either of those things if I’m protecting a fucking scribe all year.
The general’s already taken everything from us. Stripped us of our families, our homes…hell, even our free will. The least I can do is repay her in kind. If not for myself, then for the 106 other people who deserve their revenge just as much.
Refocusing my attention on the doorway, I watch for the telltale swirls and slashes of the relic marks we all bear, reminding myself that they’re my priority. They’re why I fought tooth and nail to climb my way to wingleader. So that I could do everything in my power to protect the ones I took responsibility for. To do everything I can to keep those lives living.
A familiar blonde head pops out of the stairwell, a huge grin spreading across his tanned face as he saunters over to me. “Sure is a nice day for a walk, isn’t it, Wingleader?” Liam’s sky-blue eyes sparkle as I look him over and do my best to hide my own grin. He looks good—better than good, actually. He’s packed on a shit-ton of muscle since I last saw him and grown at least three inches, standing nearly as tall as I am.
I clap him on the shoulder, the only recognition I can afford to give my foster brother up here in front of everyone. “You’d better get on with it then, cadet.” I look pointedly at the lightning carving a path across the graying sky. “You wouldn’t want to get those shiny new leathers wet.”
“Not a cadet yet,” he says, still grinning as he hops up onto the parapet, “but I’m about to be.” He winks at Masen before confidently striding out over the ravine.
Splitting my focus, I turn to face the next candidate as I send my shadows scampering after him.
Liam glances down and snorts when he sees them weaving between his boots. “You’re overstepping again.”
I will them into the shape of a hand and flip him the finger.
He laughs, but says softly, “I’ve missed you too, brother.”
My shadows flicker in response as he picks up the pace, trailing after him as he jogs the last half of the bridge. When he finally reaches the safety of the walls that surround the citadel, I let out a tight breath and refocus my attention on the world in front of me.
One down.
The next group of candidates emerge from the turret, led by an enthusiastic blonde kid who practically bounces out into the open air. He carries a massive pack with a broadsword tied to the back, and…is that a wedding band on his necklace?
Hate to say it, but the guy doesn’t have a chance in hell at surviving this place, not with all the baggage he’s bringing with him—both figuratively and literally.
Belden instructs him to move into position, and the candidate affectionately tucks the ring back into his shirt before stepping onto the parapet with his arms spread wide. “See you two on the other side!” he calls over his shoulder as he takes his first step.
A flash of silver catches my eye as the two women behind him are revealed. The one on the left is built like a typical rider: tall and athletic, with dark brown hair worn in several rows of short braids that just touch the equally dark skin of her neck. But the one on the right…gods, there’s nothing typical about her.
She’s on the shorter side, with creamy pale skin that practically glows against her fitted black clothes—clothes that do absolutely nothing to hide her soft curves beneath. Her eyes are a wild mix of blues and ambers that blend together to create the most striking shade of hazel I’ve ever seen. But it’s not her distinctive eyes or tantalizing body that captures my attention and threatens to steal the breath from my lungs. No, it’s the braid of chocolate brown and steely silver woven into a tight crown atop her head.
I’ve never seen anything like it, like her.
She’s utterly unique, like Amari herself spent a little extra time crafting her features by hand. But though I’m positive we’ve never met before, I can’t shake the feeling that she looks familiar. That I know her from somewhere.
Or maybe I just want to know her because she’s fucking gorgeous.
We lock eyes just as Masen turns and asks, “Ready for the next one, Riorson?”
Her eyes widen as her friend says, “You ready for this, Sorrengail?”
Sorrengail?
There’s no way in hell that this is the general’s daughter.
Pushing off the wall, I shift to face her head-on as her eyes slowly trace over the rebellion relic that peeks above my collar and marks me as her enemy.
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
This is Violet Sorrengail? This pint-sized, insignificant woman is who the general deemed equal to 107 Tyrrish lives? Is this a fucking joke?
I take a step toward her, then another, moving close enough that we’re nearly nose to nose. Well…nose to chest. The woman’s tiny, barely even reaches my collarbone.
“Sorrengail?” I rearrange my features into an icy mask and give her a look that sends most people running.
She peers up at me, somehow managing to stand her ground as she gives a small, answering nod.
That one simple movement ignites a spark of deep-rooted hatred within me, one that blazes beneath my skin and scorches my insides so quickly I swear I taste smoke as I look down and realize how easy, how fucking satisfying it would be to kill her right here. To back her up against the opening, pull out one of my daggers, and end her before I ever have to find out who she is. To show the general exactly what it feels like to lose someone and not be able to do a fucking thing to stop—
“Calm yourself,” Sgaeyl orders, her steady presence like a bucket of cold water that douses the hottest parts of my anger until I’m nothing but steam. Inhaling sharply, I will my racing pulse to slow and focus on regrounding myself so that I can actually think.
“Violet?” the woman next to her asks hesitantly, shifting forward in line.
The shadows churn beneath my boots as I wrestle back a modicum of control and study the petite, trembling woman before me. I hold back a sneer.
Of course it would be easy to kill her. I could set the shadows on her and watch them choke the life from her without ever lifting a finger. But if I did, it would be just as easy for her mother to turn around and execute every marked one I took responsibility for. We’d all be dead before the youngest Sorrengail’s body had the chance to cool, and no matter what Lilith may think, her daughter isn’t worth a single one of their lives.
“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest,” I state, not sure why I’m even speaking to her. If I were smart, I’d shut my mouth and give her to the parapet. I’d turn my back and let the storm take her before she ever becomes a problem, before she ever becomes a real person to me.
But instead of sending her on her way, I just stare at her. I stare and stare, searching her face for any resemblance to the cold-blooded bitch who stood behind her mahogany desk this morning and threatened to kill everyone I’ve ever cared about. If there’s so much as a trace of Lilith Sorrengail in this woman, it will make my decision that much easier. I could send her along without a second thought and let the shadows and wind take care of the rest.
But no matter how closely I look, no matter how hard I will it into existence, I just don’t see the general in the silver-haired Sorrengail. I don’t see her brother either, the brother who’s going to be fucking livid when he finds out that Lilith put his baby sister in the Riders Quadrant. And that I hold her fragile life in my blood-stained hands.
“You’re Fen Riorson’s son,” Sorrengail shoots back. She lifts her chin and sets her jaw, forcing herself to look up and meet my gaze.
I’m struck again by how small she is, small…but not weak. There’s steel in her. She’s obviously scared, but trying like hell to hide it.
Knowing it’s probably a mistake, but unable to stop myself, I crack open a sliver in my shields and mentally reach out to get a read on her. Her thoughts slam into me the second I brush her mind, and I suck in another breath as I try to orient myself amid the rushing torrent.
He’s going to throw me over the edge. He’s going to pick me up and drop me right off this turret. I’m never going to get the chance to even walk the parapet. I’ll die being exactly what my mother’s always danced around calling me—weak.
She’s scared shitless, and rightfully so, but there’s something else there, something bitter, something angry. I could understand her being pissed that I want to kill her, but that’s not it. She’s angry with her mother. With everyone who’s ever told her she was too weak, too small, too frail. More than anything, she wants to prove herself. Wants to shut up every person who’s ever doubted her. And she’s mad as all hell that she might die before she gets the chance.
Clenching my jaw, I try to separate her thoughts from my own as I say, “Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”
Her emotions continue searing through me. Incredulity. Indignation. Outrage. But nothing defensive. Nothing to indicate that she agrees with her mother’s actions.
No, the little Sorrengail channels all of her fury into me as she spits back, “Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we’re even.”
“Hardly,” I grit out, thinking of her brother living comfortably in my house while I’m stuck at this shithole they call a school. I look her up and down, trying to figure out how the innocent little bookworm Brennan remembers ended up here in…fighting leathers? “Your sister is a rider. Guess that explains the leathers.”
At this point, I’m just trying to keep her talking, trying to give myself time to understand why she’s here and what to do about it. Did their merciless mother corrupt her? Turn the little scribe-to-be into a weapon to spy on us?
“Guess so.” She defiantly holds my stare as I open myself up to her thoughts once more, not sure what I’m looking for but praying to Dunne that I’ll find it.
I’m getting across. Mira isn’t going to lose both her siblings.
Her fiery determination hits me hard enough that I tense, like I’m fending off a physical blow and not simply the aftershock of her iron will. She tenses too, as if readying herself for a fight.
He might throw me off this tower, but I won’t make it easy for him.
This certainly isn’t the kid sister Brennan left behind five years ago, but I have to give it to her; she’s got steel-fucking-balls.
“You all right?” the other candidate asks, gaze jumping between the two of us and breaking up whatever…this is.
I finally rip my eyes away from the little Sorrengail to look at the other woman. “You’re friends?”
“We met on the stairs,” she clarifies, squaring her shoulders as she looks up at me.
I quirk a brow and read her too, noting her anxiety about crossing the parapet before the rain starts, her worry for her new friend, and her confusion about what’s going on. How a dark part of her really hopes I don’t throw Violet off the tower because her toes are squished as hell right now, and she’d really like her left boot back.
Wait. Her left boot?
Trailing my eyes down to their feet, I finally notice that each girl is wearing a pair of mismatched shoes. The rubber-soled rider boots clearly belong to Sorrengail. If her sister went to the trouble of getting her miniature-sized fighting leathers, then she’d never let her out here in those slick-ass equestrian boots. The knot between my shoulders loosens as understanding settles over me.
Sorrengail must have noticed the other woman’s shitty boots and offered a swap. But what kind of person risks their life for someone they just met? Especially when facing one of the most dangerous challenges of their life. In the rain.
An agent of General Sorrengail showing compassion? That would be a fucking first.
“Interesting.” I drag my eyes back up her body and meet those fierce hazel eyes again. Despite her size, there’s a quiet strength about her. Like she’s been underestimated her whole life and she’s not going to keep taking it lying down.
She’s so completely different from what I expected that a part of me wants to sit back and see what will happen. To find out if she really can prove everyone wrong.
“Are you going to kill me?” Sorrengail demands, lifting her chin another inch as the sky opens and rain falls in a deluge.
The general’s signet is storm-wielding, for fuck’s sake.
If she was sending her youngest in to spy on us, wouldn’t she ease up on the weather until her daughter made it across? And if it really is just a trap for me, then why risk killing Violet before our deal comes into play?
I’m still trying to figure out her angle when a scream rends the air. Both girls jerk their attention to the bridge in time to see the blonde boy slip.
Sorrengail gasps, terror flooding her expression as he hooks his arms over the stone and scrambles to haul himself back up. Terror, not for herself and what she’s about to face, but for the boy out there.
The boy she just met ten minutes ago.
“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” her friend shouts.
“Oh gods!” Sorrengail’s hand flies up to cover her mouth, but even without looking, I know that it’s already too late. If Dylan didn’t have that heavy-ass pack dragging him down, he might be able to pull himself back up. Maybe.
I see it in her face the moment he loses his grip.
I feel her devastation as she watches him fall.
And I make up my mind just as she pulls her horrified gaze back to mine.
I’ll play the general’s game. If she gets her girl across, then I guess I’ll have my answer. And if she doesn’t…well, then it’s one less thing I have to worry about.
I’ve waited five long years for the opportunity to pay Lilith back for the hell she’s put us through. A few more minutes won’t kill me—though I can’t say the same for the little Sorrengail.
“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?” I flash her a wicked grin. “Your turn.”