CHAPTER
EIGHT
The women’s hall is quiet as I dress for the morning, the sun barely peeking
above the horizon in the far windows. I take the dragon-scale vest from
where I left it to dry on the hanger at the end of my bed and slip it on over
my short-sleeve black shirt. It’s a good thing I’ve gotten pretty adept at
tightening the laces behind my back, since Rhiannon isn’t in her bed.
At least one of us is getting a few much-needed orgasms. Pretty sure
there’s a person or two scattered with their partners among the full bunks in
here, too. The squad leaders talk a good game about enforcing curfew, but
no one really cares. Well, except Dain. He cares about every rule.
Dain. My chest tightens, and I smile as I finish braiding my hair into a
crown. Seeing him is the best part of my day, even the moments when he’s
anything but personable in public. Even in the moments where he’s
consumed with trying to save me from this place.
I grab my bag on the way out, passing by rows of empty beds that
belonged to the dozen women who haven’t survived to see August, and
shove open the door.
There he is.
Dain’s eyes light up as he pushes off the wall of the hallway where he’s
obviously been waiting for me. “Morning.”
I can’t help the smile that curves my lips. “You don’t have to escort me to
duty every morning, you know.”
“It’s the only time I get to see you when I’m not your squad leader,” he
counters as we walk down the empty hallway, past the halls that will lead to
our rooms if we survive Threshing. “Trust me, it’s worth getting up an hour
early, though I still can’t figure out why you’d choose breakfast duty over
every other assignment.”
I shrug. “I have my reasons.” Really, really, really good reasons. Though
I do miss the extra hour of sleep I’d had before we chose our assignments
last week.
A door on the right flies open, and Dain darts in front of me, dragging me
behind him with his arm so I face-plant into his back. He smells like leather
and soap and—
“Rhiannon?” he snaps.
“Sorry!” Rhiannon’s eyes widen.
I slip out of Dain’s hold and move to his side so I can see her. “I
wondered where you were this morning.” A grin spreads across my face as
Tara appears next to her. “Hey, Tara.”
“Hey, Violet.” She gives me a wave, then heads down the hallway,
tucking her shirt into her pants.
“We have curfew for a reason, cadet,” Dain lectures, and I fight the urge
to roll my eyes. “And you know that no one is supposed to be in the private
dorms until after Threshing.”
“Maybe we were just up early,” Rhiannon counters. “You know, like you
are right now.” She glances between the two of us with a mischievous
smirk.
Dain rubs the bridge of his nose. “Just…get back to the dorms and
pretend you slept there, will you?”
“Absolutely!” She squeezes my hand as she passes by.
“Way to go,” I whisper quickly. She’s had a thing for Tara since we got
here.
“I know, right?” She backs away with a smile, then turns to push through
the hall doors.
“Monitoring the sex lives of first-years was not what I had in mind when
I applied to be a squad leader,” Dain mutters, and we continue toward the
kitchen.
“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t a first-year yourself last year.”
He lifts his brows in thought and eventually shrugs. “Fair point. And
you’re a first-year now…” His eyes slide my way as we near the arched
doorways that lead to the rotunda, and his lips part like he’s going to
continue, but he looks away, pivoting to open the door for me.
“Why, Dain Aetos! Are you asking me about my sex life?” I let my
fingers trail along the exposed fangs of the green dragon pillar and bite back
a smile as we walk by.
“No!” He shakes his head, then pauses in thought. “I mean…is there a
sex life to ask about?”
We climb the steps that lead into commons, and I turn just before the door
to face him. He’s two steps below me, putting us at eye level. “Since I got
here?” I tap my chin with my finger and smile. “That’s none of your
business. Before I got here? Still none of your business.”
“Another fair point.” His mouth curves into a grin that makes me wish it
was his business, though.
I turn around before I do something utterly foolish like make it his
business. We continue into commons, walking past the empty study tables
and the entrance to the library. It’s nothing as awe-inspiring as the scribes’
Archives, but it has every tome I’ll need for studying here.
“Are you ready for today?” Dain asks as we near the gathering hall. “For
the challenges to start this afternoon?”
My stomach knots.
“I’ll be all right,” I assure him, but he moves in front of me, halting my
steps.
“I know you’ve been practicing with Rhiannon, but…” Worry lines his
forehead.
“I’ve got it,” I promise, looking into his eyes so he knows I mean it. “You
don’t have to worry about me.” Last night, Oren Seifert’s name was posted
next to mine right where Brennan said it would be. He’s a tall blond in First
Wing with tolerable knife skills but one hell of a punch.
“I always worry about you.” Dain’s hands curl into fists.
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “I can handle myself.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
My ribs squeeze my heart like a vise.
“Then don’t watch.” I take his calloused hand in mine. “You can’t save
me from this, Dain. I’m going to be challenged once a week just like every
other cadet. And it’s not going to stop there. You can’t protect me from
Threshing, or the Gauntlet, or Jack Barlowe—”
“You need to lay low with that one.” Dain grimaces. “Avoid that
pompous ass whenever you can, Vi. Don’t give him an excuse to come after
you. He’s already responsible for too many names on the death roll.”
“Then the dragons are going to love him.” They always go for the vicious
ones.
Dain squeezes my hand gently. “Just steer clear of him.”
I blink. The advice is so different from Xaden’s throw-a-few-daggers-athis-head approach.
Xaden. The knot of guilt that’s been lodged in my stomach since last
week grows a fraction bigger. By code, I should tell Dain about seeing
marked ones under the oak tree, but I won’t, not because I told Xaden that I
wouldn’t but because keeping the secret feels like the right thing to do.
I’ve never kept a secret from Dain in my life.
“Violet? Did you hear me?” Dain asks, lifting a hand to cradle my face.
Jerking my gaze to his, I nod and repeat, “Steer clear of Barlowe.”
He drops his hand and shoves it into a pocket of his pants. “Hopefully
he’ll forget all about his little vendetta against you.”
“Do most men forget when a woman holds a knife to their balls?” I cock
an eyebrow at him.
“No.” He sighs. “You know, it’s not too late to sneak you down to the
scribes. Fitzgibbons will take you—”
The bells ring, marking quarter past five and saving me from another
session of Dain begging me to run away to the Scribe Quadrant.
“I’ll be all right. I’ll see you at formation.” I give his hand a squeeze, then
walk away, leaving him as I make my way to the kitchen. I’m always the
first here, and today is no exception.
I pocket the vial of dried, powdered fonilee berries from my satchel and
get started as the other workers come in, sleepy-eyed and grumbly. The
powder is nearly white, nearly invisible as I take my place in the serving
line an hour later, and completely undetectable as I sprinkle it over Oren
Seifert’s scrambled eggs when he approaches.
…
“Keep the temperaments of each specific breed in mind when you decide
which dragons to approach and which to run from at Threshing,” Professor
Kaori says, his serious, dark eyes slashing toward his nose as he studies the
new recruits for a beat, then he changes the projection he’s conjured from a
Green Daggertail to a Red Scorpiontail. He’s an illusionist and the only
professor in the quadrant with the signet ability to project what he sees in
his mind, which makes this class one of my favorites. He’s also the reason I
knew exactly what Oren Seifert looked like.
Do I feel guilty about blatantly misleading a professor about why I
needed to find another cadet? No. Do I think it’s cheating? Also no. I was
doing exactly what Mira suggested and using my brain.
The Red Scorpiontail in the center of our circled tables is a fraction of its
actual size, six feet tall at most, but it’s an exact replica of the actual
firebreather waiting in the Vale for Threshing.
“Red Scorpiontails, like Ghrian here, are the quickest to temper,”
Professor Kaori continues, his perfectly trimmed mustache curving as he
smiles at the illusion like he’s the dragon himself. We all take notes. “So if
you offend him, you’re—”
“Lunch,” Ridoc says from my left, and the class laughs. Even Jack
Barlowe, who hasn’t quit glaring at me since his squad took over their
quarter of the room a half hour ago, snorts.
“Precisely,” Professor Kaori responds. “So what’s the best way to
approach a Red Scorpiontail?” He glances around the room.
I know the answer, but I keep my hand to myself, heeding Dain’s advice
to lay low.
“You don’t,” Rhiannon mutters next to me, and I huff a laugh under my
breath.
“They prefer that you approach from the left and from the front, if
possible,” a woman from one of the other squads answers.
“Excellent.” Professor Kaori nods. “For this Threshing, there are three
Red Scorpiontails willing to bond.” The image changes in front of us to a
different dragon.
“How many dragons are there in total?” Rhiannon asks.
“A hundred for this year,” Professor Kaori answers, changing the image
again. “But some might change their minds during Presentation in about
two months, depending on what they see.”
My stomach hits the floor. “That’s thirty-seven fewer than last year.”
Maybe even fewer if they don’t like the look of us after we have to parade
by them for their perusal two days before Threshing. Then again, there’s
usually fewer cadets after that particular event anyway.
Professor Kaori’s dark eyebrows rise. “Yes, Cadet Sorrengail, it is, and
twenty-six fewer than the year before that.”
Fewer dragons are choosing to bond, but the number of riders entering
the quadrant has remained steady. My mind whirls. Attacks at the eastern
borders are increasing, according to every Battle Brief, and yet there are
fewer dragons willing to bond in order to defend Navarre.
“Will they tell you why they won’t bond?” another first-year asks.
“No, jackass,” Jack scoffs, his icy-blue gaze narrowing on the cadet.
“Dragons only talk to their bonded riders, just like they only give their full
name to their bonded rider. You should know that by now.”
Professor Kaori sends Jack a look that shuts the first-year’s mouth but
doesn’t stop him from sneering at the other cadet. “They don’t share their
reasons,” our instructor says. “And anyone who respects their life won’t ask
a question they’re not willing to answer.”
“Do the numbers affect the wards?” Aurelie asks from where she sits
behind me, tapping her quill against the edge of her desk. She’s never happy
sitting still.
Professor Kaori’s jaw ticks twice. “We’re not sure. The number of
bonded dragons has never affected the integrity of Navarre’s wards before,
but I’m not about to lie to you and say that we’re not seeing increased
breaches when you know from Battle Brief that we are.”
The wards are faltering at a rate that makes my stomach tense every time
Professor Devera starts our daily Battle Brief. Either we’re weakening or
our enemies are getting stronger. Both possibilities mean the cadets in this
room are needed more than ever.
Even me.
The image changes to Sgaeyl, the navy-blue dragon bonded to Xaden.
My stomach pitches as I remember the way she looked right through me
that first day.
“You won’t have to worry about how to approach blue dragons, since
there are none willing to bond this Threshing, but you should be able to
recognize Sgaeyl if you see her,” Professor Kaori says.
“So you can fucking run,” Ridoc drawls.
I nod along while others laugh.
“She’s a Blue Daggertail, the rarest of the blues, and yes, if you see her
without her bonded rider, you should…definitely find somewhere else to
be. Ruthless does not begin to describe her, nor does she abide by what we
assume to be what the dragons consider law. She even bonded the relative
of one of her previous riders, which you all know is typically forbidden, but
Sgaeyl does whatever she wants, whenever she wants. In fact, if you see
any of the blues, don’t approach them. Just…”
“Run,” Ridoc repeats, raking his hand through his floppy brown hair.
“Run,” Professor Kaori agrees with a smile, the mustache above his top
lip quivering slightly. “There are a handful of other blues in active service,
but you’ll find them all along the Esben Mountains in the east, where the
fighting is most intense. They’re all intimidating, but Sgaeyl is the most
powerful of them all.”
My breath catches. No wonder Xaden can wield shadows—shadows that
can yank daggers out of trees, shadows that can probably throw those same
daggers. And yet…he let me live. I shove the kernel of warmth that thought
gives me far, far away.
Probably just to screw with you, a monster playing with his prey before
pouncing.
“What about the black dragon?” the first-year next to Jack asks. “There’s
one here, right?”
Jack’s face lights up. “I want that one.”
“Not that it’s going to matter.” Professor Kaori flicks his wrist and Sgaeyl
disappears, and a massive black dragon takes her place. Even the illusion is
bigger, making me crane my neck slightly to see its head. “But just to
appease your curiosity, since this is the only time you’ll ever see him, here
is the only other black besides General Melgren’s.”
“He’s huge,” Rhiannon says. “And is that a clubtail?”
“No. A morningstartail. He has the same bludgeoning power of a clubtail,
but those spikes will eviscerate a person just as well as a daggertail.”
“Best of both worlds,” Jack calls out. “He looks like a killing machine.”
“He is,” Professor Kaori answers. “And honestly, I haven’t seen him in
the last five years, so this image is more than a little outdated. But since we
have him up here, what can you tell me about black dragons?”
“They’re the smartest and most discerning,” Aurelie calls out.
“They’re the rarest,” I add in. “There hasn’t been one born in the last…
century.”
“Correct.” Professor Kaori spins the illusion again, and I’m met with a
pair of glaring yellow eyes. “They’re also the most cunning. There’s no
such thing as outsmarting a black dragon. This one is a little over a
hundred, which makes him about middle-aged. He’s revered as a battle
dragon among their kind, and if not for him, we probably would have lost
during the Tyrrish rebellion. Add to it that he’s a morningstartail, and he’s
one of the deadliest dragons in Navarre.”
“I bet he powers one hell of a signet. How do you approach him?” Jack
asks, leaning forward in his seat. There’s pure avarice in his eyes, mirrored
by his friend next to him.
That’s the last thing this kingdom needs, someone as cruel as Jack
bonding to a black dragon. No thank you.
“You don’t,” Professor Kaori answers. “He hasn’t agreed to bond since
his previous and only rider was killed during the uprising, and the only way
you’d ever be near him is if you’re in the Vale, which you won’t be,
because you’d be incinerated before you ever got through the gorge.”
The pale redhead across the circle from me shifts in her seat and tugs her
sleeve down to cover her rebellion relic.
“Someone should ask him again,” Jack urges.
“It doesn’t work that way, Barlowe. Now, there is only one other black
dragon, which is in service—”
“General Melgren’s,” Sawyer says. His book is closed in front of him, but
I can’t blame him. I’d hardly be taking notes, either, if this was the second
time I’d gone through this class. “Codagh, right?”
“Yes.” Professor Kaori nods. “The eldest of their den and a swordtail.”
“But just for curiosity’s sake.” Jack’s glacial-blue gaze doesn’t stray from
the illusion of the unbonded black dragon still being projected. “What
signet ability would this guy gift his rider?”
Professor Kaori closes his fist, and the illusion disappears. “There’s no
telling. Signets are the result of the unique chemistry between rider and
dragon and usually say more about the rider than the dragon. The stronger
the bond and the more powerful the dragon, the stronger the signet.”
“Fine. What was his previous rider’s?” Jack asks.
“Naolin’s signet was siphoning.” Professor Kaori’s shoulders fall. “He
could absorb power from various sources, other dragons, other riders, and
then use it or redistribute it.”
“Badass.” Ridoc’s tone has more than a little hero worship.
“He was,” Professor Kaori agrees.
“What kills someone with that kind of signet?” Jack asks, crossing his
arms over his thick chest.
Professor Kaori glances at me for a heartbeat before looking away. “He
attempted to use that power to revive a fallen rider—which didn’t work,
because there’s no signet capable of resurrection—and depleted himself in
the process. To use a phrase you’ll become accustomed to after Threshing,
he burned out and died next to that rider.”
Something in my chest shifts, a feeling that I can’t explain and yet can’t
shake.
The bells ring, signaling the hour is up, and we all begin to gather our
things. The squads filter out to the hallway, emptying the room, and I rise
from behind my desk, shouldering my satchel as Rhiannon waits for me by
the door, a puzzled expression on her face. “It was Brennan, wasn’t it?” I
ask Professor Kaori.
Sadness fills his gaze as he meets mine. “Yes. He died trying to save your
brother, but Brennan was too far gone.”
“Why would he do that?” I shift the weight of my satchel. “Resurrection
isn’t possible. Why would he essentially kill himself when Brennan was
already gone?” A stampede of grief tramples my heart, stealing my breath.
Brennan never would have wanted anyone to die for him. That wasn’t in his
nature.
Professor Kaori sits back against his desk, pulling at the short, dark hairs
of his mustache as he stares at me. “Being a Sorrengail doesn’t do you any
favors in here, does it?”
I shake my head. “There are more than a few cadets who would like to
take me—and my last name—down a peg.”
He nods. “It won’t be like that once you leave. After graduation, you’ll
find that being General Sorrengail’s daughter means others will do just
about anything to keep you alive, even pleased, not because they love your
mother but because they either fear her or want her favor.”
“Which was Naolin?”
“A little bit of both. And sometimes it’s hard for a rider with a signet that
powerful to accept his limits. After all, bonding makes you a rider, but
resurrecting someone from the dead? Now, that makes you a god. I
somehow don’t think that Malek takes kindly to a mortal treading on his
territory.”
“Thank you for answering.” I turn and start toward the door.
“Violet,” Professor Kaori calls out, and I pivot to look back. “I taught
both your siblings. A signet like mine is too useful here in the classroom to
let me deploy with a wing for long. Brennan was a spectacular rider and a
good man. Mira is shrewd and gifted in the seat when it comes to riding.”
I nod.
“But you’re smarter than both of them.”
I blink. It’s not often I get compared to my brother and sister and
somehow come out on top.
“From what I’ve seen of you helping your friend study in commons every
night, it seems you might be more compassionate, too. Don’t forget that.”
“Thank you, but being smart and compassionate isn’t going to help me
when it comes to Threshing.” A self-deprecating laugh escapes. “You know
more about dragons than anyone else in the quadrant, probably anyone else
on the Continent. They choose strength and shrewdness.”
“They choose for reasons they don’t see fit to share with us.” He pushes
off his desk. “And not all strength is physical, Violet.”
I nod, because I can’t find any appropriate words for his well-intentioned
flattery, and head over to meet Rhiannon at the door. The only thing I know
for certain right now is that compassion isn’t going to help me on the mat
after lunch.
…
I’m so nervous I could puke as I stand at the side of the wide black mat,
watching Rhiannon beat the ever-loving shit out of her opponent. It’s a guy
from Second Wing, and it takes almost no time for her to get him into a
headlock, cutting off his air supply. It’s a move she’s tried her best to drill
into me over the last couple of weeks.
“She makes it look so easy,” I say to Dain as he stands at my side, his
elbow brushing mine.
“He’s going to try to kill you.”
“What?” I glance up, then follow his line of sight two mats over.
Dain’s glaring daggers at Xaden across the mat, a look of sheer boredom
on his face as Rhiannon squeezes the neck of the Second Wing first-year
tighter.
“Your opponent,” Dain says softly. “I overheard him and a few friends.
They think you’re a liability to the wing thanks to that Barlowe kid.” His
gaze shifts to Oren, who’s sizing me up like a damned plaything he’s
planning on breaking.
But there’s a greenish twinge to his complexion that makes me grin.
“I’m going to be fine,” I recite, because that’s my fucking mantra. I’m
stripped down to the dragon-scale vest that’s starting to feel like a second
skin and my fighting leathers. All four of my daggers are sheathed, and if
my plan goes correctly, I’ll have one more to add to my collection soon.
The Second Wing first-year passes out, and Rhiannon rises victorious as
we clap. Then she leans over her opponent and removes the dagger at his
side. “Looks like this is mine now. Enjoy your nap.” She pats him on the
head, which makes me laugh.
“Not sure why you’re laughing, Sorrengail,” a sneering voice calls out
from behind me.
I turn around and see Jack standing with his feet apart against the woodplanked wall about ten feet away, wearing a smile that can only be
described as evil.
“Fuck off, Barlowe.” I gift him the middle finger.
“I honestly hope you win today’s challenge.” His eyes dance with a
sadistic glee that makes me queasy. “It would be a shame for someone else
to kill you before I get the chance. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Violets are
such delicate…fragile things, you know.”
Delicate, my ass.
He’d probably think twice about plotting your murder if you threw a few
daggers at his head.
I unsheathe both daggers from my ribs and flick them in his direction in
one smooth movement. They land right where I intended—one nearly
nicking his ear and the other an inch beneath his balls.
Fear widens his eyes.
I shamelessly grin and wiggle my fingers in a wave.
“Violet,” Dain hisses as Jack maneuvers around my blades, stepping
away from the wall.
“You’ll pay for that.” Jack points at me and stalks off, but the rise and fall
of his shoulders is a little choppy.
I watch his back retreat, then retrieve my daggers, sheathing them at my
ribs before returning to Dain’s side.
“What the hell was that?” he seethes. “I told you to lay low when it
comes to him, and you…” He shakes his head at me. “You just piss him off
even more?”
“Laying low wasn’t getting me anywhere,” I say with a shrug as
Rhiannon’s opponent is carried off the mat. “He needs to realize I’m not a
liability.” And I’ll be harder to kill than he thinks.
There’s no ignoring the prickle at my scalp, and I let my gaze shift to
meet Xaden’s.
My heart does that damn stuttering thing again, as if he’d sent shadows
straight through my ribs to squeeze the organ. He lifts his scarred brow, and
I swear there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he leaves, walking over to
observe the Fourth Wing cadets at the next mat.
“Badass,” Rhiannon says as she moves to my other side. “I thought Jack
was going to shit himself.”
I smother a smile.
“Stop encouraging her,” Dain chastises.
“Sorrengail.” Professor Emetterio glances at his notebook and raises one
bushy black brow before continuing. “Seifert.”
Swallowing back the panic that threatens to creep up my throat, I step
onto the mat opposite Oren, who’s definitely looking green now.
Right on time.
I’ve prepared the best I can, wrapping my ankles and my knees just in
case he goes for the legs.
“Don’t take this personally,” he says as we start to circle, both our hands
raised. “But you’ll only be a hazard to your wing.”
He charges at me, but his footwork is sluggish and I spin away, landing a
punch to his kidney before bouncing back on my heels and palming a
dagger.
“I’m no more a hazard than you are,” I accuse.
His chest heaves once and sweat dots his forehead, but he shakes it off,
blinking rapidly as he reaches for his own knife. “My sister is a healer. I’ve
heard your bones snap like twigs.”
“Why don’t you come find out?” I force a smile and wait for him to
charge again, because that’s what he does. I’ve had three sessions to watch
him from a few mats over. He’s a bull, all power and no grace.
His entire body rolls like he’s going to vomit, and he covers his mouth
with his empty hand, breathing deeply before standing straight again. I
should attack, but instead I wait. And then he charges, his blade held high in
a striking position.
My heart pounds as I wait the torturous heartbeats it takes for him to
reach me, my brain somehow convincing my body to hold my ground until
the last possible second. He swings his knife downward, and I dodge to the
left, nicking his side with my blade in the process, then turn and deliver a
kick to his back, sending him sprawling.
Now.
He falls to the mat, and I take immediate advantage, digging a knee into
his spine just like Imogen had with me and putting my blade to his throat.
“Yield.” Who needs strength when you have speed and steel?
“No!” he shouts, but his body undulates under mine, and he retches,
bringing up everything he’s eaten since breakfast and splattering it across
the mat to the side of us.
So fucking gross.
“Oh my gods,” Rhiannon calls out, disgust dripping from her tone.
“Yield,” I demand again, but he’s heaving in earnest now and I have to
pull my knife away so I don’t accidentally slit his throat.
“He yields,” Professor Emetterio declares, his face contorted in revulsion.
I sheathe my blade and climb off him, dodging the puddles of sick. Then
I take the dagger Oren dropped a few feet back as he continues to vomit.
The knife is heavier and longer than my others, but it’s mine now, and I
earned it. I sheathe it in an empty place at my left thigh.
“You won!” Rhiannon says, clasping me in a hug as I walk off the mat.
“He’s sick,” I say with a shrug.
“I’ll take being lucky over being good any day,” Rhiannon counters.
“I have to find someone to get this cleaned up,” Dain says, his own
complexion turning peaked.
I won.
…
Timing is the hardest thing about my plan.
I win the next week when a stocky girl from First Wing can’t concentrate
long enough to throw a decent punch thanks to a few leighorrel mushrooms
and their hallucinogenic properties that somehow wind up in her lunch. She
gets in a good kick to my knee, but it’s nothing a few days in a wrap won’t
heal.
I win the week after that when a tall guy from Third Wing stumbles
because his large feet temporarily lose all feeling, courtesy of the zihna root
that grows on one outcropping near the ravine. My timing is off a little,
though, and he lands a few good punches to my face, leaving me with a
split lip and a bruise that colors my cheek for the next eleven days, but at
least he doesn’t break my jaw.
I win again the next week when a buxom cadet’s vision turns blurry midmatch, on account of the tarsilla leaves that found their way into her tea.
She’s fast, tossing me to the mat and delivering some overwhelmingly
painful kicks to my abdomen that leave colorful contusions and one distinct
boot print on my ribs. I almost broke down and went to see Nolon after that
one, but I gritted my teeth and wrapped my ribs, determined not to give the
others a reason to weed me out like Jack or any marked ones wanted.
I earn my fifth dagger, this one with a pretty ruby in the hilt, the last
challenge in August when I take a particularly sweaty guy with a gap
between his front teeth to the mat. The bark of the carmine tree that finds its
way into his waterskin makes him sluggish and ill. The effects are a little
too similar to the fonilee berries, and it’s just a shame that the entire Third
Squad, Claw Section of Third Wing is suffering the same stomach upset.
Must be something viral, at least that’s what I say when he finally yields to
my headlock after dislocating my thumb and nearly breaking my nose.
Come early September, there’s a spring in my step as I walk onto the mat.
I’ve taken down five opponents without killing any of them, something a
quarter of our year can’t say after almost twenty more names have been
added to the death roll the last month for the first-years alone.
I roll my sore shoulders and wait for my opponent.
But Rayma Corrie from Third Wing doesn’t step forward this week like
she’s supposed to.
“Sorry, Violet,” Professor Emetterio says, scratching his short black
beard. “You were supposed to challenge Rayma, but she’s been taken to the
healers because she can’t seem to walk in a straight line.”
Peels of the walwyn fruit will do that when ingested raw…say, like when
they’re mixed into the icing of your morning pastry.
“That’s”—shit—“too bad.” I wince. You served it to her too early.
“Should I just…” I start, already backing up to get off the mat.
“I’m happy to step in.” That voice. That tone. That prickle of ice along
my scalp…
Oh no. Hell no. No. No. No.
“You sure?” Professor Emetterio asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Absolutely.”
My stomach hits the floor.
And Xaden walks onto the mat
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Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros Free Chapter 9