Onyx Storm by Rebecca Yarros Free Novel Chapter 31-40

 31

“Are you dizzy?” Xaden asks in a low whisper.

“No.” My gaze jumping from one attendant to the next as we walk toward them. They all have different heights, shapes, genders, and skin tones, but their hair color is as uniform as their blue robes.

One of the attendants on the top step claps her hands, and a group of children in light-blue tunics runs out from behind the statue of Dunne to race up the steps toward her. My gaze locks on the last of them, a girl who looks to be no more than ten. The brunette’s silver-tipped braid swings against her back as she scoops up a younger child and is ushered inside.

Breath abandons me as she disappears.

“Violet,” Xaden whispers. “Her hair—”

“I know.” I wobble, and he steadies me with a hand on my lower back.

Never in my twenty-one years have I seen anyone with hair like mine. Does hers always end in silver no matter how short she cuts it? Do her joints fail her? Do her bones break? I need to know. I have to know.

The cavalry captain shouts up at the walls as Tairn prowls above us, and the attendants all draw blades from the belts at their waists, jarring me from my spiraling thoughts.

“He said, ‘I’ve brought them,’” Dain translates from Xaden’s left as we form a straight line on the cusp of what feels like a theater floor. Or a battle briefing stage.

“The blades are cute,” Tairn remarks.

“The hair,” I reply. “Her hair looked like mine.”

“Survive first so you can be curious later. Focus.”

Metal creaks, and a gate rises above the highest row on our left. A moment later, two people step out of the tunnel.

“Xaden’s opponent?” I ask Tairn.

“Not unless he’s fighting an aging general and a high priestess.”

The middle-aged man with graying hair and rich brown skin on the left boasts the same uniform as the silver-dressed guards, and the older, light-skinned woman at his side wears not only the long pale blue robes of the temple attendants but a sword sheathed at her hip.

Her narrowed gaze sweeps over us, then fixes on me as the man calls out in Unnbrish at her left.

“He says he is the commander of the guard and asks if we truly wish an audience with their queen,” Dain translates.

“Tell him we do, and we will comply with their customs to get it,” I answer, sending up a prayer to Dunne that Xaden is ready for this.

Dain translates slowly, and the pair moves down the steps as the cavalry captain climbs to join them. The captain reports, and the commander’s mouth flattens before he draws his dagger and slices through the shoulder straps of the captain’s leather armor.

The green leather falls to the steps, and the captain lowers his head.

“I think that means demotion,” Cat whispers to Aaric’s right.

“In every language,” Aaric agrees.

The commander’s voice booms across the plaza and echoes off the rock as he descends the steps, and Dain translates as quickly as he can.

“‘All we can achieve is death, but to…’” Dain pauses. “Shit, I think he said to provide our strongest warriors, and they will test our worthiness to speak with their queen.”

Xaden nods. “Tell him I’m ready.”

Dain repeats the message, and the commander claps twice. Three bare-armed soldiers step out of the tunnel, and my chest tightens. The woman in the middle has to be the same height as Sawyer, if not Dain, and the bulky men flanking her tower above with the same height difference I have with Xaden. I think they’re twins.

The chill that races down my spine has nothing to do with the gusting wind or the disappearance of the sun behind the storm clouds overhead.

“Maybe we should rethink this strategy,” Cat whispers.

Yeah, I’m with her for once.

“What you call strategy, they call law,” Xaden replies.

My heart beats faster with every step the warriors descend behind their commander and the high priestess of the temple. By the time they reach the plaza, a hummingbird could time its wings to my pulse.

“Costa!” the guards along the walls cry out, and the warrior on the right lifts his muscle-laden arms.

“Marlis!” the rest of the guards shout, and the woman raises her chin.

“Palta!” Another chorus sounds, and the twin on the left cracks his neck.

The commander lifts his hand, and the soldiers fall silent before he speaks.

“He asks if this is our champion or our leader,” Dain translates.

“Close but no. He asked if Xaden is our champion or our prince. Don’t be embarrassed, Aetos. The words sound similar enough.” Aaric steps forward, then replies to the commander in what sounds like flawless Unnbrish.

My jaw drops, but he speaks too fast to understand anything other than “Navarre.”

Whatever he says gives the commander and the priestess pause before she replies, her gaze darting to me again.

“Are you fucking serious?” Dain snaps. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re fluent?”

“You never asked.” Aaric reaches for the pommel of his sword as he turns back to face us. “I told them who I am and that I’d be the one fighting.”

“You what?” My voice rises with my panic.

“I’m the one who needs the audience,” he replies. “I’m not my brother, nor my father, and I won’t hide while someone else—” He draws the first few inches of the sharpened steel.

“No!” I move toward him, but Xaden’s there first, covering Aaric’s hand.

“Prince or not, you’re a fucking first-year and we both know I can put you into the ground. Your tutors are no match for real-life experience.” He forces the sword back into its scabbard. “And no, you are not your father, nor your brother, which is precisely why you will not fight. We need you to live. Your kingdom needs you to live.” Xaden grabs the collar of Aaric’s uniform and pivots, forcing him back into line next to me. “Tell them I’m ready.”

Fuck, I don’t want either of them in that ring.

“Every possible path,” Andarna reminds me. “Even if my kind aren’t here, they may have seen them. May know of them.”

“Do not consider the Dark One,” Tairn chides. “Navarre needs the soldiers from this alliance to defend the borders, freeing the riders to go on the offensive.”

Either way, someone’s fighting.

“Same could be said for you.” Color rises along Aaric’s neck, and he shakes his head at Xaden.

“Tyrrendor is safe in Bodhi’s hands should I fall.” Xaden lowers his voice, and my stomach sours at the thought. “This isn’t about honor. Consider it your revenge. Remember what I did to your brother and tell them.”

Blood runs from my face. Xaden isn’t talking about Halden.

Aaric says something in Unnbrish, glaring at Xaden the entire time.

Xaden lets go of him, then checks with Dain.

“He said you’re the strongest,” Dain admits, then translates again as the commander begins to speak. “And they have chosen Costa as your opponent.”

One of the twins. I look past Xaden to see the warrior already standing in the middle of the plaza next to the priestess. He’s more terrifying up close than he had been walking down the steps. Thick neck. Huge arms. Gleefully menacing smile. He’s a walking arsenal, strapped with weaponry, and the scars up and down his tanned arms tell me he isn’t a stranger to pain. The assumption is confirmed when the priestess scores the back of his forearm with a dagger and he doesn’t so much as flinch.

Blood drips from the spot, spattering the dark stones beneath as the first rain drop hits my face, and the soldiers behind us cheer.

“That wasn’t in my father’s book.” My stomach sinks with suspicion of how those stones became the shade they are and the ever-growing fear that Xaden may have met his match.

“Incoming,” Dain announces, and Xaden turns to face the priestess as she approaches, passing by Marlis and Palta.

The tattoo of Dunne’s emblem inked into her forehead crinkles as she lifts her silver brows at Xaden and holds out her hand. “The Goddess of War demands her payment before you may prove your worth,” she says in the common language.

She must be at least seventy-five years old. How long would it take for such a tattoo to fade to the point it’s unrecognizable? My stomach lurches into my throat. There’s no way—

“Focus,” Tairn snaps like a frustrated professor.

Xaden shrugs out of his double scabbard, then his uniform top, leaving him in a short-sleeve undershirt as he holds out his left forearm. The high priestess draws the blade across his skin, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as blood flows, then drops onto the stones beside his boots. This isn’t right. Every cell in my body rebels against the thought of him going out there alone. Xaden can’t read Costa’s intentions—he doesn’t have the edge his second signet gives him. The collar of my uniform feels too tight, the leather too sticky in the growing humidity, its warmth too suffocating. I tear at the top button, then shove my sleeves up my forearms as thunder sounds in the distance, mocking my inability to wield it.

I want my fucking power back now. With them, Xaden isn’t the deadliest in this plaza. I am. He’s only out there because of me, and I should be the one taking on this fight.

Xaden faces me, then holds out his uniform top.

“He’s huge,” I whisper, our gazes colliding as I take the warm fabric from his hands and hug it to my chest.

“I know.” He slides his arms into the double scabbard and buckles it across his chest. “Garrick is going to be pissed he missed this.” He smirks, then cups the back of my neck and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. “Be right back.”

But what if he’s not? Even the best fighters die in combat.

He’s arrogant because he’s the best. At least that’s what I tell myself to slow my pounding heart as he walks toward Costa. The heat of anger swiftly replaces fear as the priestess moves to my side. I understand passing tests—I’d prepared my entire life to face the entrance exam for the Scribe’s Quadrant—but this feels just as callous as walking the parapet on Conscription Day.

“You don’t agree with Dunne’s ways,” the priestess surmises, her voice cracking with age as she looks down at me with dilated pupils. Oh great. Only Dunne herself knows what they’re ingesting beyond those pillars.

“I find it a poor test of character,” I reply.

“And yet character is always revealed in bloodshed, is it not?” The priestess looks my way and crosses in front of Aaric, her gaze appraising him, then Cat before turning her attention to Dain. “They’ll negotiate weapons now.”

“He’s fighting without his greatest one.” I watch Xaden’s back as he approaches Costa and the commander.

“I think you may be right about that.” The priestess glances up at the wall where Sgaeyl stands watch. “Which is why I have decided he should not fight alone.” Before I can question her, she drags the blade over Dain’s arm, cutting through his uniform.

Oh shit.

He hisses in surprise, then grabs hold of the wound. Blood flows through his fingers, dripping onto the stone.

“No!” I shout, reaching for Dain.

“Gods,” Cat whispers.

“All right.” Dain nods.

Xaden turns toward us, lines carved between his eyebrows, and I reach for our bond out of habit, coming up woefully empty again.

“I forbid it.” Aaric moves closer to my side and draws his sword. “I’ll fight in his stead.”

“You can’t.” I shake my head. What is with the fucking death wishes around here?

The corners of the priestess’s eyes crinkle with a soft smile. “See? Character is revealed in bloodshed.” She looks at Cat. “You’re an outsider, dressed differently than the others, yet your presence means they value you.” Her gaze snaps to Aaric, and she tilts her head. “You are the prince of your people, honorable yet foolish to think you could survive our finest. Do you not know what would happen to those pretty green eyes should you step foot on this battlefield? Even if you accepted your death, Dunne has not chosen you to prove your skill this day.”

Aaric’s jaw ticks.

“You are the smallest,” she says to me dismissively, then turns to Dain. “Which leaves you to fight beside your champion.”

“Dain…” Words fail me. If anything happens to him because of my decisions…

“This just got interesting,” Tairn notes.

“This is not interesting. This is terrifying.” I snap my reply.

“I’ve got this.” Dain slips out of his uniform top and hands it to me. “I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to come with you.”

My ribs strain, but I nod. “Be careful.” I add his top to the pile, and he starts toward Xaden, who’s already moving to intercept him halfway.

“Palta!” the priestess shouts, her voice echoing off the stone. The guards clamor in approval as the second twin steps forward, blood already dripping from his fingertips.

My gaze flies to the remaining warrior, Marlis, but thankfully there’s no cut on her folded arms.

“Tell me, did you choose this path yourself?” The priestess brings her weathered gaze to mine.

“My mother—” I start, but then I remember every time Dain tried to get me out of the quadrant, and I face forward as he and Xaden approach their opponents to negotiate weapons. “I chose my life.”

“Ah, then it is good we did not complete your dedication.”

“My what?” What kind of drugs do they provide in the temples here?

“But do you not yearn for temple? Usually the touch creates such longing that you can’t help but return. Or perhaps you now favor another god.” She glances up at Tairn, ignoring my outburst, and then her eyes slide to Xaden. “I still see us among your potential paths, should you decide to take it. Dunne will accept you. It is not too late to choose Her.”

I raise my eyebrows at the woman. “I choose him.” Whether she’s talking about Xaden or Tairn, my answer is the same.

“Ah.” She turns the dagger in her gnarled hand as the raindrops continue to fall. “So be it. Our goddess teaches that while battles may be won by the strongest warriors, they may also be lost by our weakest. Both must be tested today.”

Pain erupts in my forearm, and a second later, she lifts the dagger as fresh blood races down its honed edge.

My blood. Looks like I get to fight after all.

With such wan coloring in the vegetation, it comes as no surprise that it requires four times the amount of indigo to dye even the simplest garment. I can’t help but wonder if the colors of our Continent are the exception, or if the isles are.

—Unnbriel: Isle of Dunne by Second Lieutenant Asher Daxton

32

Blood trickles down the top of my left forearm to drip from my fingertips. I’ll have a scar to match the one Tynan gave me during Threshing. I grit my teeth through the burn of pain and look up.

“She faces Marlis!” the priestess shouts, and the soldiers behind us cheer.

Xaden whips in my direction, his eyes flaring with something that looks a little too close to terror to be comforting before he returns to whatever weaponry they’re negotiating.

Marlis moves into the plaza, unfolding her muscled arms. Blood spills from her hand, splattering the stones. She moves like she’s used to the weight of heavier armor, and she tucks the short strands of her flaxen hair behind her ears, coloring the strands red.

Three combatants. This had always been their plan.

“Unfair!” Golden anger courses down the bond and into my veins, heating my skin.

“Your ire will not aid her. Control yourself,” Tairn demands.

“No!” Aaric reaches for me, and I shove Dain’s and Xaden’s uniform tops into his hands.

“Yes.” I quickly take off my own to free my arms and add it to Aaric’s pile, leaving me in my armor and undershirt. It’s almost a relief in the cloying heat. “Don’t let him move,” I say to Cat. She grimaces but nods. The scattered raindrops cool my skin as I walk toward the center of the plaza and whatever is about to be my path.

But Andarna’s anger doesn’t dissipate. It blends with mine, growing with every step I take. I am not weak.

Marlis sizes me up as I approach, then huffs a laugh as she rolls her shoulders.

“I’ve taken down bigger,” I tell her as I step between Dain and Xaden.

She lifts an eyebrow, and I wonder if she speaks the common language.

Dain’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t translate.

“It must be the same for all three,” the silver-uniformed commander says to Xaden, eyeing me with pity.

“Then it’s daggers,” Xaden says.

My head whips at Xaden. “Your swords are your best—”

“Daggers,” Xaden tells the commander, earning a smile from our trio of opponents.

“Agreed,” Dain chimes in.

I could overrule them. This is my mission. But while choosing daggers gives me an advantage, it’s not like they’re not both lethal with the same form of weaponry. “Agreed.”

“So it is.” The commander nods, and the other three begin to disarm, handing their weapons to the temple attendants who scurry in our direction. “Best of three.”

Xaden and Dain hand their swords off to an attendant.

I scan the blue robes quickly, but there’s no sign of the girl with hair like mine. Movement catches my attention to the right, and when I look at the statue of Dunne, I would almost swear her eyes flash golden and glance my way for a second.

Just once it would be nice if Andarna would stay where I ask her to.

“Use your speed,” Xaden instructs me as he removes all weapons but the four daggers he carries sheathed at his sides. “Aim—”

“Stop.” I put my hand on his chest, and my brow puckers at how fast his heart races. A raindrop splashes on my forearm. “This is just a challenge without a mat. Dain wins his match. You win yours. I’ll win mine.”

Xaden’s jaw flexes.

“Whatever you do, don’t watch me. You can’t afford the distraction.” I tap his chest. “And don’t die.” Retreating three steps, just out of his reach, I unsheathe two of my daggers.

Then I face Marlis. My estimate was about right—she has at least ten inches and a good fifty pounds of muscle on me. Reach and strength are hers, too, so agility and speed will have to be mine.

Dain and Xaden turn toward their own opponents, putting enough distance on either side of me to give ample space to maneuver.

“Begin,” the commander orders as all others step off the plaza.

My focus narrows to Marlis and the smug tilt of her wide mouth as she palms only one of her two daggers and starts to circle me.

This is just a challenge. Xaden and Dain are on the other mats.

Let’s go.

I flip my left dagger to pinch the tip and rotate the other so the blade runs parallel with my arm as Marlis fake lunges twice, trying to throw me off-balance.

If I were a little more scared and a little less angry, that might have worked. Instead of falling for it and slipping on the wet stone, I flick my left wrist, throwing my dagger at her shoulder.

She dodges as expected, and the blade flies by. I take the opportunity to rush her, swinging my right fist toward her torso to slice across her chest—no stabbing here.

I don’t want her to die, just to yield.

Someone shouts beside me, but I keep my gaze locked on Marlis. Dain can handle himself. He has to.

Marlis dances backward with a bemused smile, avoiding each of my swipes. Faster. I pour my energy into speed and lunge, finally making contact along the side of her ribs—the one area that isn’t protected by her chest plate. Blood stains her silver uniform as I draw back, but I’m not fast enough on the retreat. She hisses at the same moment she strikes with her own dagger, stabbing into my side with so much force I hear my rib crack.

Her blade glances off my dragon-scale armor, and I stumble sideways from the blow, drawing controlled, deep breaths to try and block the nauseating pain that erupts under my left arm. No mental trick in my arsenal can contain the waves of star-bright agony, but I manage to stifle the scream that fights its way up my throat as steel clangs behind me. I will not be Xaden’s distraction. Adrenaline kicks in, coursing through me like power.

Marlis glances at her blade in confusion, then lifts her gaze to mine, staring at me with macabre fascination and a small glint of what I think might be appreciation. “I’ll remove my armor if you do, too,” she proposes in the common language, giving me precious, necessary seconds to breathe through the worst of the pain.

“I’ll pass.” She’s too tall for me to chance a leg takedown and too strong for me to expose myself any more than necessary. All I have is leverage, and that means getting closer to destabilize her. I crook two of my left fingers at her as rain begins to fall in earnest.

Her eyes flare, and she cocks her wrist back.

I’m already dropping to the ground when she throws.

The blade passes overhead so closely I can hear it whistle, followed by the rhythmic pounding of boots on the wet stone. Careful to keep control of my blade, I shove myself up with every ounce of strength in my arms and force my feet beneath me an instant before she arrives.

She slices for my throat, and I leap backward as I hear Xaden hiss in pain.

I fight every instinct to check on him and throw my right forearm up to block Marlis’s next assault. She hits with bone-rattling strength and cuts into my forearm.

Now.

I drop my blade, using every second I have before the pain hits to follow her downward swing with my bloodied arm, reaching for her wrist. Rain slickens her skin, but I grab hold and throw my weight with my shoulder, driving her hand toward the ground and dragging the rest of her body along with her own momentum.

She stumbles and I take the opening, wrenching my torso upward and grabbing hold of her knee. I lock it against my chest, lacing my fingers, then quickly ram my shoulder into the pocket between her upper thigh and hip.

“Faster! Aetos is already unconscious!” Andarna warns as Marlis swings for me, her blade flying toward my face.

Fuck.

I hold tight to Marlis’s leg and barrel my weight downward into her joint, throwing her completely off-balance and forcing her backward.

Her blade clatters against the ground and she falls like a toppled statue, her back smacking into the stone. She shouts, but I keep hold of her leg, and only when she tries to twist out from underneath me, flipping to her chest, do I let go, diving for her hands.

I wrench her wrists behind her back as the metal of her chest plate scrapes stone, then sit, locking her arms in place with my thighs. Light flashes in the sky above us, and rain comes down in sheets.

“No!” she screams, arching upward to buck me off.

“Yes.” I draw a dagger and press the tip to the side of her neck as thunder rumbles. “Now, yield.” A quick glance to my left confirms Andarna’s assessment. Dain is unconscious on the ground, blood pooling around what I can see of his shoulder, and Palta’s boot is against his neck.

“Never.” Marlis tenses under me.

“I have you!” Blood runs down my arm with the rain, turning her tunic a mottled shade of pink.

“Perhaps,” she admits, turning her face to the right and laying her cheek against the ground. “But Costa has him.”

Holding my blade against her neck, I chance a glimpse to the right, then do a double take.

Costa has Xaden pinned to his back, his dagger inches away from Xaden’s face. Xaden’s fighting, both his bloodied hands wrapped around Costa’s wrists to keep the blade from plunging, but it slowly lowers under Costa’s weight.

NO.

“Keep me pinned? Or help him?” Marlis asks. “Choices, choices.”

Xaden is seconds away from that blade meeting his face, and gods only know if Dain is even breathing under that boot.

Rage devours me from the scalp down, storming through my veins in a surge of heat that sizzles the rain on my skin. I yank my dagger from her neck, flip it, and throw in one smooth motion.

My blade lodges in the fleshy part of Costa’s shoulder, and he bellows, his torso slackening for the one heartbeat Xaden needs to knock Costa’s blade loose. It skitters across the stone, and I immediately look away, replacing the thrown blade with another from my thigh and pressing its tip against Marlis’s neck in less than a second.

“Yield!” I demand, anger burning so deep it reaches my very bones. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Xaden throw a punch in Costa’s face, then yank my dagger from his opponent’s shoulder and bring it to his throat.

“No!” Marlis shouts, and the air charges in a way I’m all too familiar with.

We’re in danger out here.

“Fucking yield!” The heat within me snaps outward and breaks with my voice.

Lightning streaks downward and strikes to the left and right. Rock cracks. Thunder immediately follows, rattling the ground and leaving only the patter of rain and silence in its wake.

I startle but manage not to nick her neck.

“I yield,” Marlis whispers, her eyes wide beneath me. “I yield!” she shouts.

Costa’s head whips in our direction, and Xaden slams his fist into his jaw. The fighter topples to the side, completely unconscious.

“She…yields!” the commander yells, and guards rush in.

I remove my blade and crawl off Marlis, then stagger to my feet as lightning cracks in the distance. Palta steps away, and to my relief, Dain appears to be breathing as Cat and Aaric race toward him.

Rain streams down my face when I look upward, finding Andarna between Sgaeyl and Tairn on the wall, her scales rippling with alarming speed in various shades of black. “Are you all right?” I ask.

“I am…angry,” she says, her head swiveling in a serpentine manner as her front claws crack the edges of the wall’s masonry. “Their laws say one match, not three.”

“Was that you?” Xaden arrives at my side, and I busy myself with checking for injuries. He now has two cuts on his arms, one of which will definitely need to be sewn shut, and his jaw is already bruising. “The lightning. Was that you?” he repeats, lifting my chin between his thumb and forefinger and searching my eyes.

“No.” I shake my head. “I mean…” The heat. The anger. The snap. Weird. “Just coincidence.” Or Dunne. “There isn’t any magic here.”

“Right.” Two lines appear between his brows and his gaze sweeps over me, then catches on my arm. “Fuck, you’re cut.”

“No worse than you are,” I tell him as the rain lets up. “But I think she broke a rib.”

His eyes slide shut and he cups the nape of my neck, then presses a hard kiss to my forehead. “Thank you. That throw probably saved my life.”

“Good thing I didn’t miss, or I don’t think you’d be saying the same thing.” My arm trembles as I sheathe my dagger and his hand slips away.

“You never miss.” He glances over my head. “Looks like Aetos is going to need some stitches in that shoulder, but Aaric is bringing him around.”

“I said I’m fine!” Marlis shouts behind me.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” someone replies.

Oh no, no, no. My stomach lurches. Please tell me I did not just hold a blade to the Queen of Unnbriel’s throat.

I pivot slowly to face what I’m sure is about to be a squad of royal executioners. A row of guards waits a respectful distance behind Marlis, who stands a few feet away with her arms folded over her armor.

“Well?” she asks, her mouth pinched in annoyance. “Two out of three victories. You’ve earned your audience.”

My heart starts beating double time. “I didn’t know who you were.”

“You weren’t supposed to.” She cocks her head to the side. “Are you going to speak, or has this all been for nothing?”

“Aaric—” I glance toward our friends.

“I only speak with those who best me,” Marlis interrupts. “And you are wasting my time, Amarali.” She hurls the word at me like an insult.

Bolstering myself with a deep breath, I lift my chin. “We’ve come for two reasons. First, we’re seeking the seventh breed of dragon.”

Marlis narrows her eyes. “If there were such a thing, this isle hasn’t seen fire-breathers in centuries. I’m afraid you’ve come looking in vain. What’s your second purpose?”

It isn’t quite a crushing blow, considering I’d already suspected as much, but the sorrowful pulse of disappointment coming down the bond tells me Andarna doesn’t feel the same.

“Allies,” I tell Queen Marlis. “We’re in a war that might claim every life on the Continent, and we need allies.”

“And you think we’ll fight for you?” Marlis stares at me like I’ve sprouted another head.

“I was hoping for with us.”

“Hmm.” She glances at Xaden, then up to the top of the wall. “You can’t afford our services.”

“Try me.” Hopefully Aaric forgives me for promising whatever is in the coffers.

“How did you do it?” Marlis asks.

“Take you down?” I reply as the storm blows past and the rain shifts to a drizzle. “It was a matter of leverage, targeting your joint to throw you off-balance—”

“I know what leverage is,” she snaps. “You took me down for the simple reason that I underestimated your abilities and allowed you close enough to throw me off-balance. How did you do that?” She gestures behind me.

I turn, following the motion, and stumble for words. The terraced seats carved into the wall are cracked down the middle, and the rock is charred black where lightning struck.

“I didn’t,” I answer, pivoting to face her. “You have no magic here for me to wield.”

Xaden moves to my side as Aaric helps Dain rise to his feet, holding the side of his head.

“And yet you’ve destroyed something that stood for seven hundred years before your arrival.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Perhaps it is truly Zihnal who blesses you. Good luck when you search that particular isle. They have a mean streak.”

“So you won’t fight with us?” I ask, trying to stay on topic and holding desperately to hope. No other army would be as effective.

“I think I prefer a Deverelli approach to an alliance for now,” she replies. “You may take shelter in our jungles and have hunting rights for yourselves and your mounts should you need to rest on our isle. But as for fighting alongside you, I’m afraid the price is something you’re unwilling to pay.” She turns to leave.

“What do you want?” I call after her as Aaric, Cat, and Dain head our way. “At least name your price.”

“The same thing everyone in the isles craves.” She pauses and looks back over her shoulder. “Dragons.”

Do not mistake a dragon’s bond for fealty. If you expect a dragon to choose their rider over the well-being of their own kind, prepare for two things: disappointment and death.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind

 

The plaza falls silent, but at least there are no flames erupting from the three dragons behind me, two of whom I know are pissed.

Xaden tenses, and our squadmates quickly form a line on my other side.

“You can’t be serious.” I shake my head at the Queen of Unnbriel’s ludicrous suggestion.

“We want dragons,” she repeats with an infuriating nod. “Not fully grown, of course. Your kind has let them become too headstrong, too arrogant.”

“I will show her arrogance,” Tairn threatens, and I wince at the godsawful sound he makes dragging his talons along the stone walls.

“Not necessary,” I promise as Molvic and Cath land hard beside the others, straining the limitations of the wall.

The queen turns fully and arches an eyebrow as though Tairn just proved her point. “Bring us, say…twelve eggs—two of each breed—and I’ll bring my army to the Continent.”

Eggs? My stomach hollows, and I retreat a single step as Tairn growls in warning. The second Krovlan uprising. Dad was right. But they weren’t looking for feathertails because of their gifts; it was because they thought they were…malleable?

Sgaeyl leaps from the wall, landing a few feet to Xaden’s left. The scent of sulfur fills the air as she lowers her head, baring dripping teeth.

A handful of the guards bolts for the gate at the top of the steps, but most stay.

Impressive.

Queen Marlis stares up at Sgaeyl, utterly enthralled. “What do you say?”

“If you want to be a rider, the quadrant accepts those who cross the parapet on July fifteenth.” The ache in my ribs starts to throb as the adrenaline wears off. “And the dragons choose their riders, not the other way around.”

“Surely a queen is worthy.” She lifts her hand like she might actually try and touch Sgaeyl.

Sgaeyl’s growl rises in pitch as she opens her jaw—

“Trust me, she’s not impressed by titles.” Xaden looks over at Sgaeyl. “If you want to, I understand, but her death would be incredibly inconvenient. Can you pick a guard or something?” The absolute lack of emotion in his voice lifts the hair at the back of my neck.

Golden eyes narrow in his direction, but she slowly clamps her teeth.

“Even thinking we might accept that offer makes you unworthy,” I tell the queen. “We don’t trade in dragons.”

“That’s what I thought.” Marlis lowers her hand. “Hold on to that indignation, at least for now. But do visit again when you feel more desperate. From what I know of them, they’re rather dedicated to protecting their own, and perhaps a dozen eggs aren’t such a bad price for saving the rest of them.” She leaves without another word, flanked by guards as she climbs the terraced seats to the gateway above.

Dedicated.

I look toward the temple, but there’s not a blue robe in sight, and the platoon of silver-uniformed guards standing watch in front of the steps serves as ample warning that we’re not welcome anymore.

Between finding our abandoned weapons and the time it takes to get back to the meadow, an hour passes before we arrive at the clearing. Trager rushes to Cat before she redirects him to Dain, across from where Tairn and Andarna land. Dismounting through the constant, pulsing pain in my arm and ribs takes me so long that I’m tempted to simply sleep in the damned saddle and keep my own field dressing on this cut, but I eventually make it to the ground.

Mostly because I know Tairn will never let me live it down if I don’t.

“Did you wield?” Mira is in my face before I have a chance to take more than a few steps.

“What?” I hold my ribs and spot the Unnbrish soldiers retreating into the surrounding jungle.

“Did you wield?” Mira repeats, grabbing my shoulders and examining my face. “Aaric and Cat filled me in on what happened.”

“Relax.” I lift my brows at my worrywart sister. “We got caught in a storm. Lightning struck multiple times, and luckily a really close strike scared the shit out of the queen. There’s no magic here. Why do I have to keep reminding people about that? Can you wield?”

“No, of course not, but you can still speak to your dragons.” She sighs and drops her hands as Xaden approaches. “I’m sorry they won’t ally with us. I thought an isle loyal to Dunne was our best chance.”

“Me too.” My brow furrows as I remember the priestess. “When did my hair turn silver at the ends?”

“Turn?” Mira’s expression mirrors my own. “It grew in that way. Are you all right? I thought Dain was the one knocked unconscious.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her as Xaden reaches us. Of course my parents didn’t dedicate me. That practice was outlawed in the two hundreds, and even earlier in Poromiel. “The high priestess just said some weird things that distracted me.” And I foolishly let her. I’m supposed to be smarter than that.

“As I’m sure she meant to do,” Mira says. “What does that have to do with your hair?”

“I saw a girl with the same hair as me.”

“Really?” Mira’s brow knits. “That’s bizarre. It’s not like we have family from the isles.”

“Right? I’d never thought of it potentially being hereditary—” I wince when my ribs protest a deep breath.

“We need to get you wrapped.” Xaden’s mouth tightens. “We might not have a mender, but we can at least hold the bones in place to heal, and Trager should see if you need stitches.”

“You’re the one who needs stitches,” I argue. “But yes to the wrap. Let’s make sure everyone is ready to leave as soon as possible. I don’t want to stay here a moment longer than we have to.”

“Agreed.”

• • •

After resting the gryphons for a full day at Drake’s suggestion and a thirteen-hour flight, it’s morning when we land on the rocky coast at the edge of Vidirys, the cream-stoned capital of Hedotis.

Have to admit, this is the isle I’m most excited to explore. A whole community built on knowledge and peace? Yes, please.

The weather is slightly colder this far south, and I strip off my gloves before dismounting. My wrapped ribs scream when I make impact, and I take a second to breathe through it before moving forward. “The vegetation is even paler here,” I say down the bond as I crush barely green sea grass under my boot.

Even the sporadic bushes are— Wait.

I crouch next to a wiry bramble bush and note the nine-pointed leaves, then lean closer. “This looks like tarsilla, but the bark is nearly white.”

“Perhaps magic weakens the farther from the Continent one gets?” Tairn muses. “Though I’m not sure how it can be much less than nonexistent.”

“I do not like this place.” Andarna scrapes a single talon through the grass, revealing only damp sand. “My kind would not settle here. We should leave.”

“Cover that. We have to at least ask. Besides, where better to find a cure for Xaden than on the isle of wisdom?” I stare up at the city as Xaden reaches my side. “It’s beautiful but all so…uniform.” There’s a single row of merchants about fifty feet away, and then the three-story buildings begin. They’re all the same color with equally distanced windows, each with the same muted flowers hanging in baskets beneath them. “They razed the original structures about a hundred and fifty years ago and rebuilt with what Dad called intention.”

“That’s a little unsettling,” he agrees, looking back between our shoulders. The tiny cuts on his cheek and forehead have scabbed over, but the bruise along his jaw looks worse today. “And there’s no port. It’s a coastal city with no port.”

The trading vessels are all anchored off the coastline, and we passed more than a few dinghies on the flight in. Small boats line the beachfront, pulled up onto the sand as if marooned here. For being the isle of wisdom, it’s a far from logical approach.

“So, this one is all you, right?” Ridoc asks as he approaches from the left with Cat and Maren. “You have to take a test or something to enter?”

“One of us has to prove wisdom in order to meet with the triumvirate,” I answer.

“I can’t believe they elect people for high leadership,” Cat mutters, glaring at the city like it might bite. “Town councils? Sure, but how can you confirm someone has the skills to lead if they’re not trained from birth?”

“Being trained from birth doesn’t make you any more qualified,” Aaric retorts from the right, Trager at his side. “Any of you truly excited at the prospect of being led by Halden?”

Cat crinkles her nose.

“Valid argument,” Trager points out.

Wait, is it just me, or did Cat actually grin at him?

“Not just you,” Andarna notes.

“Let me see the arms.” Trager moves to stand in front of Xaden and me, and yep, Cat totally tracks the movement.

I slip my left arm free of my flight jacket as Xaden does the same with his. My face puckers in a grimace when the blood-stained bandage catches on the cut beneath. I tug gently to remove it, and a bead of blood rises from the center of the cut, directly between the six stitches Trager sewed into my skin yesterday.

“Looks good,” Trager notes, lowering his head to my arm, and I bite back a smile when I spot a mouth-shaped bruise on the side of his neck. “No infection, no swelling.” He frowns at the last stitch, which is doing its best to tug straight through my skin. “That one doesn’t seem to want to stay put, though.”

“Happens.” I rotate my arm. “You did a good job with the stitches.”

“Thanks.” He flashes a soft smile, then looks to Xaden. “Your turn— Damn.”

“It’s fine.” Xaden’s arm is red and angry along the deep gash that required fourteen stitches.

“It’s not fine.” I step into his space and examine the cut. “I brought some Lorin salve in Brennan’s med kit. It will help with the inflammation and fight off any minor infection, but we need to get it on you in the next few hours.” Wind gusts, peppering our legs with sand, and I turn my back to the breeze, sheltering Xaden’s arm as much as possible. “Let’s wait until we’re out of the sand.”

He nods and quickly wraps the wound.

“Because that wouldn’t work,” Mira snaps at Drake as they walk over with Garrick and Dain, who sidesteps a dead bird.

Yuck.

“It really would,” Drake says to her with a grin that would probably charm anyone else but just seems to enrage my sister. “You pull a two-pronged Pelson flight formation—”

“And wyvern would pick you off twice as fast for dividing your forces in that environment.” Mira shakes her head.

Xaden and I slip our jackets back on.

“You clearly don’t understand Pelson.” Drake lifts his hand toward his cousin. “Tell her, Cat. In a contained environment, a Pelson maneuver—”

“I’m not telling Mira shit.” Cat shakes her head. “It’s like arguing with Syrena.”

“Oh, come on. Maren? Someone be on my side here,” Drake pleads.

Maren winces. “Have you seen her right hook?”

“I have,” Drake admits.

“I know Pelson,” Mira argues, crossing to my left. “I’ve studied Pelson at length because it was my job to beat your maneuvers for years. And you have no real-world examples to prove your theory. Just stop talking.” She looks me over like she expects new wounds.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“Drake, you’re starting to annoy me,” Xaden warns with a sideways glance. “You should stop that.” His tone ices over.

Garrick glances my way, and his mouth tenses.

Surely something that innocuous wouldn’t trigger—

“We have company,” Tairn alerts.

I yank my focus forward to find half a dozen people strolling onto the thick wooden walkway that connects the beach to the market. “Xaden.”

He lifts his head and moves closer to me.

The group is dressed in tunics and gowns of various pastel colors, the one-shoulder fashion something I’ve only seen in history books or onstage. Fabrics billow in the breeze as they come closer, all staring up at the dragons in awe.

“They’re incredible,” the middle-aged man in front says in the common language with a toothy smile. His hair bears two strips of silver amid red curls. “And well worth the walk to the beach to welcome you.” The intricate metallic embroidery of his tunic speaks to money, as does the sparkling red gem at the top of his cane.

It’s the brightest pop of color I’ve seen on the isle so far.

“And you might be?” Xaden asks.

“Where are my manners?” The man places an empty hand over his heart. “I’m Faris, the second of the triumvirate. The other two enjoy standing on ceremony, of course, but I see no benefit in waiting to meet you and therefore am here.” He bows slightly, then lifts his gaze as he straightens.

I blink and fight against the urge to stare. His eyes are so blue they’re actually…purple. And here I’d thought Dad had written that part of the tome in hyperbole.

“Welcome to Hedotis.” He turns his smile on me. “You have very unusual eyes. Not entirely blue or green or gold, but an amalgamation of all. Fascinating.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I admit.

“Mine are quite common on our isle,” he says. “I’ve brought my household to formally make your acquaintance and escort you through our beautiful city. If you’re amenable, we have room for you to rest at our home on the northeast shore.” He gestures up the beach, then glances back over his shoulder. “Darling, won’t you come say hello? I apologize for my wife. Talia seems to be overcome by your magnificent dragons.”

“I’m here, my love,” Talia says as she walks up the pathway behind him, her pale green gown and long black hair catching in the breeze. She moves to his side, then quickly laces their fingers before lifting her gaze. Her dark-brown eyes settle on Xaden immediately, and they flare in blatant, palpable shock.

“Is there a problem?” Faris asks.

She studies Xaden with a desperate intensity that puts us firmly in awkward territory, and Xaden must feel the same, given that he’s practically petrified into a piece of stone beside me.

“Oh, shit.” Garrick’s face drains of color.

“Xaden?” Talia whispers, lifting her hand, then quickly dropping it. “Is it really you?”

My eyebrows hit my fucking hairline.

Xaden reaches across me and wraps his hand over my hip like I need protection. “Mom.”

It has been the experience of my lifetime to spend these months with others who value knowledge just as reverently as I do. But though their intelligence and their wisdom inspire me, their artifice terrifies me.

—Hedotis: Isle of Hedeon by Captain Asher Sorrengail

Of all the ways I’d envisioned getting to know Xaden’s mother, holding her at bay in a bedroom doorway of her own house while her son refuses to see her definitely never came to mind.

“This is very kind of you.” I balance the silver tray of snacks she’s just delivered on one hand and grip the golden doorknob with the other. “I’ll be sure he gets these. And thank you for sending our missives.”

Having seen renderings of Fen Riorson, I can definitely say that Xaden takes after him in looks, but there are traces of Talia, too. Xaden shares her high cheekbones, her long eyelashes, and even the shape of her ears, but it’s the gold flecks in their eyes that make the biological link undeniable.

Hopefully Andarna’s kind will know how to bring the gold back fully in Xaden’s.

“It was lucky a ship bound for Deverelli was in the harbor to take your correspondence.” Talia uses her considerable height advantage to peer over my head into our bedroom with eyes so full of longing that pity wraps around my rib cage, then constricts. “I was hoping he might want to talk?”

He definitely does not.

“He’s resting.” I force a quick, sympathetic smile and pull the door closer, narrowing her scope of vision.

“What about dinner? He should meet the rest of the family.”

What an awful idea. He’s been nearly catatonic since this morning, and she wants to throw a party with people he’s never met? “I’ll ask, but that might be a lot for him to—”

“We’ll keep it small, then.” Talia’s face falls with her gaze and she purses her lips, forming little golden-brown lines around her mouth. “I was so young when he was born,” she whispers, staring at the doorframe. “Still young when the contract expired. I never thought I’d get to see him again, and now that he’s here…” Tears fill her eyes as she slowly looks at me. “You understand, right?”

What in Amari’s name am I supposed to say to that? Of course I can’t understand how anyone would leave him, but—

“Tell her the truth. He loathes her,” Tairn suggests. “As does Sgaeyl. The life-giver is lucky she wasn’t scorched this morning, though I do believe Sgaeyl is still contemplating her options.”

Because that would be great for international relations, considering who Talia is married to.

“That’s his mother,” Andarna argues. “What would you do, Violet?”

“I’m not the person to ask about motherly relationships,” I reply. Grief slices quick and deep, giving strength to the pity that’s stretching its viny little tethers toward my heart. “I understand wanting to know him,” I tell Talia. “He is spectacular in every way—”

“Then you’ll let—” She steps toward me.

“Dinner,” I say, standing my ground. “I’ll see if he’s willing to have dinner. But if he isn’t, you’re going to have to respect that, too. You push, and he’ll shove back twice as hard.”

She braces her hand on the doorframe and shifts her eyes in thought. “What if I can promise you’ll get a meeting with the full triumvirate? That’s what you need, right? Maybe I can give you some answers they’ll look for to evaluate your acumen.”

I blink, and pity recedes an inch. “What I need is for Xaden to be all right. If that means setting this house on fire and leaving without accomplishing anything else on this isle, then I’ll hand him a torch.” Damn, this tray is getting heavy.

Her posture softens and she steps out of my space, her hand falling to her side. “You must love him to prioritize his feelings over your mission,” she says quietly, like it’s a revelation.

“Yes.” I nod. “It’s nothing compared to the way he risked Aretia for me.”

“He risked Aretia,” she whispers through a watery smile. “Then he loves you, too. His father never would have…” She shakes her head, and her hair rustles against the back of her gown. “Doesn’t matter. Having dinner with him would be more than I’d ever hoped for. I’ll send someone up in a few hours to see if he’s willing to join us.”

“Thank you.” I wait until she heads down the long cream-colored hallway, then shut the door and turn the lock just in case.

Then I take the tray in both hands and go find Xaden.

The room they gave us is obviously meant for guests of distinction. It has high, vaulted ceilings; intricately carved furniture; sophisticated artwork; and a bed that could easily sleep four people. Everything is cream with touches of pale green and gold, all perfect in a way that borders on too pretty to touch. Our black flight jackets look sorely out of place draped across the chair of the delicate desk, and our packs and boots are so dirty I insisted on leaving them in the attached bathing chamber.

The carpet is soft under my bare feet as I cross the spacious room and open one of the double glass doors onto the covered veranda. The high balcony links with the four other bedrooms to the right on this side of the house, so it’s no surprise to find Garrick sitting on the edge of the balustrade with Ridoc, their backs to the ocean.

But it does surprise me to find the cushioned loveseat empty.

Ridoc lifts his brows at me and tilts his head to my left, and I take the cue, shimmying between the guys and the decorative table in front of the loveseat when they hop off the railing.

“Good luck.” Garrick pats my shoulder, and the two retreat down the veranda.

I find Xaden on the shaded floor between the loveseat and the corner piece of railing where my armor is tied, drying in the ocean breeze. He sits in sparring pants and an undershirt with his back against the wall, bare forearms resting on raised knees, gaze fixed into the distance.

“Room for one more down there?” I ask.

He blinks, then forces a half smile. “For you? I’ll move to the couch.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I squeeze in next to the railing, careful not to twist my torso and anger my ribs, then sit and set the tray on the floor in front of me.

“These fell out of your pack.” He opens his fist, revealing the two vials Bodhi gave me.

Shit. “Thanks.” I take the vials and slip them into my pants pocket.

“That little one-two combo would definitely help me get my hands on you at home if I didn’t think Sgaeyl would torch me for willingly blocking the bond, even temporarily.”

I swallow. “I should have told you I had it—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” He looks me straight in the eye. “I’m glad you have it. I don’t want to lose my connection to Sgaeyl, not when I can still use my signet to fight venin, especially since you have one obsessively hunting you. But feel free to shove that serum down my throat if at any moment I’m not…myself. I’d rather be powerless than potentially hurt you.” He glances down at the tray. “My mother?”

Nice subject change.

“She brought you food, but really only wanted to talk to you.” Through the gaps in the railing, I look out over the strip of sand that meets the ocean and press my lips into a tight line. While Tairn and Andarna sun their scales on the beach, Sgaeyl prowls along the waterline, her head low, her eyes narrowed.

“She’s pacing for some reason,” Xaden says as Sgaeyl passes by. “Not that I can ask her.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Not that she’d answer.”

“She’s worried.” I look over at his freshly salved wound. Good, the swelling has decreased a little already.

“Worrying isn’t in her nature. She likes to solve the immediate problem and handle consequences later.” He leans over and plucks a cinnamon-sprinkled dried fig from a crystal bowl, then studies it. “Of course there’s fucking sugar on it. Like somehow remembering that one little fact from when I was seven years old is going to make up for the last thirteen years.”

He leans again and drops it onto the empty plate, and I remain silent, hoping he’ll continue. He’s never really talked about his mom before.

“And all this time I figured she was living in Poromiel. She never even told me she was from Hedotis. Neither of them did.” He leans his head back against the wall. “Makes sense now—why she never had family visit, why she was so infatuated with all things colorful, the bedtime stories told with arinmint tea when she would whisper about people with purple eyes who lived without war.”

Waves crash against the beach below, and Sgaeyl turns, pacing back toward us.

“You should see if she’ll hunt with the others,” I suggest to Tairn.

“Feel free to ask. I’ll watch. Be sure you’re near the water so you can put yourself out when she sets you on fire,” he replies.

“It’s a mineral called viladrite,” I tell Xaden as he flicks the sugar off his fingers. “Dad wrote that it’s so prevalent on the isle that it’s in everything they eat and drink. It turns paler eye colors purple.”

“I love that you know that.” He drops his hand to my knee. “Did your dad’s eyes change?”

“Not that I know of. They were always hazel like mine.” I smile at the memory. “Guess he wasn’t here long enough.” I still can’t figure out when he had time to study the isles, but maybe my grandmother knows, if I ever get the courage to speak with her like Mira did.

“We’ll only be here long enough to search the isle for Andarna’s kind and speak with the triumvirate”—the bruise on his jaw ripples when he clenches his teeth—“and my mother is married to one of them. The irony is poetic.”

I twist toward him and wince when my ribs object. “She wants to have dinner tonight.”

“Fuck that.” His expression shifts into the same impenetrable mask he used to wear around me last year.

“Xaden.” I cradle the side of his face and stroke my thumb over the edge of his scar. “Don’t shut me out.”

His eyes flash to mine. “Never.” Sliding an arm behind me, he grabs hold of my hips with both hands and carefully lifts me into his lap. “I can think of far better ways to spend my evening than dinner.” He grazes his teeth along the shell of my ear, and a shiver rolls down my spine. “Can’t you?”

I gasp at the sudden rush of heat that flares low in my stomach when he kisses the side of my neck, flicking his tongue at the spot he knows turns me into a puddle.

“No magic,” he reminds me, sliding his hand down my stomach. “No danger of losing control.”

A whimper escapes my lips as his fingers dip beneath my waistband, mostly because what he suggests sounds fucking fantastic, but partially because I want all of him. I miss the heightened rush from our signets, his shadows flaring, my lightning cracking, the intimacy of lowering every barrier and hearing his voice fill my mind. I need to feel him unravel under my touch. Losing control is part of what makes us…us.

“No lumpy bedrolls,” he continues, slipping his hand into my pants. “No squadmates ten feet away. No awkward dinners. Just you and me and that bed.”

I groan, instantly remembering what we’re supposed to be talking about. “As utterly delicious as that sounds…” My fingers dig into his thigh as his mouth toys with my earlobe. “Sex is not going to fix the real problem.”

He sighs, then lifts his head. “I know.”

I scramble out of his lap before I change my mind and drag him to our bed. The quick motion has me hissing through the sharp sting as I stand and grasp the railing with both hands, facing the water.

“Fuck.” Xaden jumps to his feet and wraps his arms around me gently. “I’m so sorry. I forgot about your ribs. You shouldn’t be flying, let alone have me crawling all over you.”

“Not flying isn’t an option.” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as the worst of it passes. “And never apologize for touching me.”

He drops his chin on the top of my head. “I hate that we can’t get you mended.”

“In a life without magic, the best medicine is time,” I muse, a smile curving my mouth as I spot Cat and Trager walking down the beach, hand in hand. “Look at that.”

“Good for them. He’s been pining after her for years.” His hands bracket mine on the railing, and his body heat staves off the chill from the ocean breeze. “How much pain are you in? I don’t want to ask you to sit through dinner if it hurts.”

I’m not about to be a barrier if he wants to talk to his mother, especially knowing what I would give to have the same opportunity with mine. “It’s not too bad as long as I don’t twist. Or breathe too deeply. Or lift Andarna.” The joke falls flat.

“So you can sit through dinner.” The conflict in his voice has me turning in his arms.

“Only if you want to.” I look up at him.

“Do you want me to?” He swallows.

“I’m not making that choice for you.” I bring my hands to his chest, trying to remember the last time he was indecisive about anything and coming up short.

His eyes narrow and he steps back. “You think I should, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” I shake my head. “And I’m probably not the best person to give you advice on this—”

“Because she charmed you in the three minutes it took for her to push a tray through the door?” He puts more space between us, retreating down the veranda.

“Because my mother just died.”

He stills, and regret instantly washes over his face. “I’m sorry, Violet.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m just saying that I’m not the person to ask if you should spend a night talking to yours, because I would give anything for ten minutes with mine.” I set my hand over my chest like it has a prayer of holding the grief inside where it belongs. “I have so many questions, and I would kill for a single answer. Maybe you should talk to Garrick, because any advice I give you would be poisoned by my own grief. You have to do whatever’s best for you. Whatever you can live with once we leave here. Whatever choice you make will be the right one as far as I’m concerned. You have all my support.”

“I don’t know if there’s a right choice. She’s not like your mother.” He laces his hands behind his neck as Sgaeyl passes by again, following her own footprints. “I absolutely understand you wanting ten minutes. I want them for you. Right or wrong, everything your mother did was to protect you and your siblings. She died protecting you.”

“I know.” I swallow the growing lump in my throat.

“My mother abandoned me.” His hands drop to his sides.

“I know,” I repeat in a whisper, my heart breaking all over again for him. “I’m so sorry.”

“How does she”—he points to the door—“deserve my ten minutes when she fed me chocolate cake on my tenth birthday and vanished later that night? I am the fulfillment of a contract for her. Nothing more. I don’t give a shit how she looks at me, or whatever bullshit she undoubtedly spewed at you. The only reason we’re in her house is because she’s married to one of the triumvirate, and I have no problem using that to get what we need.”

My chest cracks a little more with every word, then splits clean open. I knew she’d left, just not how.

“And don’t think that has anything to do with this.” He points to his eye. “I’m aware in the moments I lack emotion. You and Garrick don’t need to share little oh no glances. I already feel it. It’s like sliding over a frozen lake while a shrinking part of me screams that I’m supposed to be swimming in those pieces I’ve bartered away, and those feelings are right beneath the surface, but fuck is skating faster and a hell of a lot less messy. This shit?” He swings his finger back toward the house. “It’s messy and painful and infuriating, and if I could choose to give this portion of myself away, so help me, Malek, I would. I get it now. It’s not just the power that’s addicting; it’s the freedom to not feel this.”

“Xaden,” I whisper, all but bleeding out by the time he finishes.

Steam billows over the veranda, and our heads whip in the direction of the beach, where Sgaeyl stands the width of Tairn away with a curled upper lip, glaring at Xaden.

“Stop pacing and eat something,” he begs her. “I know you’re hungry and I can’t stand that you’re hurting this far from magic, so alleviate some of the pain and go hunt. I’m all right.”

She drops her jaw and roars so loud my ears instantly ring. The glass doors bow and the little table trembles before she snaps her teeth shut. Three errisbirds fly out of the tree on my left, and two dark-haired boys come running out of the house to see what the commotion was.

“Sgaeyl,” Xaden says softly, walking toward the edge of the veranda.

She backs up three heavy steps, and my heart stutters as her hind claw nearly tramples one of the boys before she launches skyward over the house. Her tail swings so close, it slices the leaves from the trees before she disappears.

Good thing the errisbirds left.

“At least she didn’t set you on fire.” Tairn quickly follows and Andarna trails after, fighting to fully extend her wing.

All of them are struggling without power.

“Fuck.” Xaden’s eyes slide shut.

“Simeon! Gaius!” One of the maids runs out of the house three stories beneath us, holding her skirts high as she sprints across the sand. “Are you all right?” she asks in Hedotic.

“That was amazing!” the older boy shouts in kind, lifting his fists toward the sky.

“We can leave,” I offer Xaden, crossing the distance between us and winding my arms around his waist. “Right now.”

“My mother is having our uniforms laundered.” He brushes the loose strands of my braid behind my ears.

“So we’ll be cold. Say the word, and we’ll go.” I turn my cheek and rest my ear against his heartbeat. “You’re all that matters to me.”

“Same.” He drops his chin to the top of my head. “We can’t just skip an entire isle,” he grumbles, splaying his hands over my back. “We disobeyed direct orders to be here.”

“We can.” I listen to the steady rhythm of his heart and watch the maid fuss over the boys as they walk back toward the house. “The riot hunts, does a pass to make sure Andarna’s kind hasn’t chosen the blandest isle ever to call home, and we go. Hedotis hasn’t entered a war or aligned itself with any kingdom at war in its recorded history. They aren’t going to help us.” I run my hand up and down his spine. “And you know where your mother is now. If you ever feel the need, you can come back. They’re your ten minutes, too.”

“And you’re not hoping—” His words end abruptly as Talia runs out of the house beneath us, fisting the fabric of her gown.

“Boys!” she screams in Hedotic as she races to the edge of the stone patio, then yanks the children into her arms. “You’re all right?” She pulls back and gives them the same once-over I usually earn from Mira after a battle.

“We’re great!” the older assures her with a wide grin. “Right, Gaius?”

“Mama, you should have seen it roar!” the younger one adds with a bob of his head.

Mama. My stomach drops straight out of my body as I hope I have that word wrong.

Xaden tenses, and I hear his heart begin to race.

“I heard it roar, and that was excitement enough,” Talia tells the boys, running her hands over their hair and down the sides of their faces. “But you’re all right. You’re all right,” she repeats with a nod. “Elda, will you get them cleaned up? The triumvirate is joining us for dinner, and Faris’s parents would like the boys to spend the night there.”

“Of course,” the maid replies, then ushers the children into the house.

Talia remains, her shoulders trembling as she catches her breath.

“What did she say?” Xaden asks.

“The triumvirate is coming to dinner.” I start with the easiest part first. “And the boys…”

“They’re hers, aren’t they?” His tone slips into icy disdain.

“Yes,” I whisper, holding him tighter as Talia returns to the house without looking up.

“The older is probably what? Eleven?” His arms drop. “No wonder she never came back. She didn’t just marry; she built a whole new family.” There’s nothing amused about his laugh.

“I’m so sorry.” I pull back to look at him, but his expression is flat.

“You did nothing wrong.” He steps out of my arms, and it feels frighteningly poignant as he slips away. “This feeling is one I would gladly exchange.”

It’s not just the power that’s addicting; it’s the freedom to not feel this. His words play back in my head, and a new fear takes root, burrowing insidiously in the pit of my stomach. Does he know I’ve brought my new conduit? That there’s a fully charged piece of alloy in my pack?

“Don’t barter it away,” I beg as he stares at the sea, and the words spill out of me faster and faster as his eyes harden and he resurrects the defenses it took me a year to break past. “The pain. The mess. Give it to me. I’ll hold it. I know that sounds ludicrous, but I’ll find a way.” I lace our fingers. “I will hold everything you don’t want to feel because I love every part of you.”

“You already hold my soul and now you want my pain? Getting greedy, Violence.” He brings my hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss over my knuckles before letting go. “Fuck it. Dinner with my mother sounds great. Think I’ll wash up first.”

He leaves me standing on the veranda, my thoughts racing more rapidly than Tairn could ever fly. The triumvirate is coming to dinner. They’ll test us tonight. They sent the kids away.

Do they think we’re dangerous? Or are they?

We need an edge. What would Rhi or Brennan do?

Shit. What did I bring with me? Brennan sent the med kit—

Brennan sent the med kit.

I need Mira.

“Andarna, when those boys leave the house, I need you to follow as invisibly as you can,” I say down the bond.

“Are we scheming? I do enjoy scheming.”

“We’re planning.”

Two hours later, I hold the precious glass vial with both hands as Mira and I head downstairs. Now is not the time to be clumsy. We quickly find Talia in the dining room, discussing dinner with a spindly man in a pale green apron who scrubs at his nails with a blue-edged towel.

“Violet?” Hope lights her eyes, and she dismisses the man before walking our way. “Did you ask him?” Her gaze darts toward Mira.

My sister folds her arms and studies the table.

“He said dinner sounds great,” I tell Talia. It’s not exactly a lie. My hands twist around the glass, shielding its contents from view. “The rest will be flying, but six of us can make it. And I thought this might serve as a peace offering between us, and maybe…” I press my lips in a line and look down at the vial.

“Stop debating and just give it to her,” Mira orders with an exasperated sigh. “My sister is too polite to suggest that it might help smooth the waters and make tonight a little less awkward for those involved. Remind Xaden of home and all that.”

Talia lifts her brows, and I hand over the vial and its dehydrated, light-green leaves. She takes the gift with a bewildered smile. “Is this…”

“Dried arinmint,” I reply.

Gods bless Brennan.

The god of wisdom is the trickiest to placate. Hedeon seems to only answer those who do not pray to him.

—Major Rorilee’s Guide to Appeasing the Gods, Second Edition

The dining room is just as monochromatic as the rest of the house, and the three people seated across the circular table would blend into the pale green wall entirely if not for their heads. Nairi, Roslyn, and Faris are dressed in what my father described as sacred ceremonial robes. They look a little too close to scribe robes for comfort, even if they’re pastel green and their hoods aren’t up.

Out of the ten people at the table, Talia seems the most on edge sitting next to Faris, and Xaden somehow appears completely in his element at my side. Gone are the quick flashes of smiles and tender touches.

The man sitting next to me in his freshly laundered uniform more resembles the one I met at the parapet on Conscription Day than the one I fell in love with. He’s so cold I half expect the temperature around us to plummet.

Five servers are spread among us, each with a hand on a silver dome covering our plates. My stomach churns as Faris flicks his wrist. The servers respond to the nonverbal command, lifting the domes covering our dinner.

“Don’t be a head. Don’t be a head. Don’t be a head,” I chant under my breath, but from the sideways glance Aaric sends from my right, I’m guessing I’m not as quiet as I think. Thankfully, my plate steams with roasted chicken, potatoes, and some kind of stuffing mixed with what appears to be cauliflower. No heads.

“And we’re served,” Faris announces in the common language.

“We thank Hedeon for this meal,” Nairi says, also using the common language. “For the peace in our land, the wisdom he sees fit to gift, and the satisfaction of thriving relationships. We offer to him private confession of our day’s error in sacrifice. May only our minds know hunger.”

“May only our minds know hunger,” the Hedotics repeat, and I’m somehow not surprised when Aaric doesn’t miss a beat.

“Let’s eat,” Faris suggests, picking up his crystal goblet teeming with chilled arinmint tea and gesturing in my direction. “And thank you for your gift. My Talia is quite delighted to serve it.”

“I’m happy to bring her joy,” I reply, and an awkward silence follows as he holds his goblet aloft like he’s waiting for something.

“She’s welcome.” Xaden takes a deep drink of his tea and sets it down a little harder than necessary.

Faris’s smile slips, but then he drinks, too. We all do, but it doesn’t ease the awkwardness as we begin to eat.

“How do you find our city?” Roslyn asks, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiles.

“Hard to say, considering we haven’t seen it.” Mira plucks a lemon slice off the edge of her plate and tosses it into the glass.

“Hopefully we can change that tomorrow,” Roslyn replies, studying Mira like she’s found a worthy opponent for a chess match.

“After we pass your test?” I ask. “That’s what this is, right? We’re not in a formal setting as is custom, nor are there witnesses, but you’re testing us.”

Cat sets her silverware on her plate, but Aaric digs into his chicken, completely unfazed.

“Talia will serve as witness.” Nairi slices into a potato. “And we thought an informal setting would be best given the…delicate nature of relations.”

Talia’s shoulders curve inward.

“You mean in case I embarrass my mother in a public setting with my lack of wisdom.” Xaden leans back in his chair and extends his arm over the back of mine. “Is that your fear, Mom?”

“No.” Talia’s gaze jumps to Xaden, and her spine straightens. “My reticence about tonight is due to my own shame, in that I asked Faris for a personal favor so that you might be more comfortable during the conversation. I don’t worry about your intelligence, Xaden. You were always a bright boy.” Her hand trembles as she reaches for her goblet.

“Tell me something. When you die, do your dragons?” Faris asks, changing the subject.

“Depends on the dragon,” I answer. “But usually, no.”

“Gryphons do,” Cat adds. “They bond for life.”

Faris blinks. “To tie your life to another’s, especially something as frail and easily breakable as a human, seems a foolhardy thing to do.” His brow furrows. “You respect your gryphon for this choice?”

“I respect her for who she is and trust whatever decisions she makes,” Cat replies. “Gryphons and their sacrifice to bond humans have allowed us to win the Great War and to survive centuries of war after that.”

“Spoken like a royal.” Nairi’s eyes narrow on Cat. “Talia says you are in line for the throne of Poromiel.”

“If Queen Maraya does not choose to have children, then my uncle will rule and eventually my sister will be an excellent queen.” She picks up her fork and knife in a manner that dares them to argue.

Nairi’s gaze flickers from Cat to Xaden to Aaric. “So many young royals here. So many potential alliances. Why are you not contracted to one another? It seems…foolish not to forge futures and provide heirs who could unite your kingdoms.”

The chicken goes dry in my mouth, but Mira shoots me a can you believe these people look that steadies my heartbeat.

“My brother will be king,” Aaric says, slicing through his chicken like this is any normal dinner. “Though a horrible one. Heirs and alliances aren’t my concern. I will fight in this war, most likely die, and do so knowing that I protected others.”

“Honor has never been the equal of wisdom.” Nairi sighs, then looks to Xaden. “And your excuse? We received news months ago that your title had been restored to you.”

Which means they have current information. They knew about the rebellion. About Fen’s execution. I breathe deeply to help cool the instant, scorching anger that burns up my throat and level a less-than-friendly look on Talia. She knew and she left him there, didn’t even go back.

Xaden stabs a piece of potato with his fork but keeps his arm around my chair. “Well then as you know, I’m a duke, not a prince.”

“Tyrrendor is the largest province of Navarre,” Talia tells the triumvirate, rushing to her son’s defense. “Much of its territory lies beyond their wards, so its allegiance to the kingdom has always been…weaker than the others. It would not surprise me to find that in the course of this war, Tyrrendor regains its sovereignty, which is why a lifetime alliance”—her smile fades, and she glances at Xaden and me—“was secured. But you’re not…”

Xaden chews slowly, then swallows as everyone stares at him. “I don’t owe you an explanation about my love life.”

Talia flinches, then sets her hands in her lap, but her focus strays to Cat.

“For gods’ sake,” Cat mutters, abandoning her silverware again. “I said yes, he said no. He met Violet, and now they’re…them. They happen to be two of the most powerful riders on the Continent, so in that way, his alliance with her is perhaps wiser. The two of them could break and reshape the Continent if they chose to. And besides—I’m with someone else now.”

My chest constricts in stunned gratitude, but she only rolls her eyes when I look her way.

“Breaking such an advantageous alliance is…” Nairi shakes her head at Xaden. “Unwise.”

Oh shit.

Dinner churns in my stomach. They’re not judging our intelligence; they’re dissecting life choices.

“But easily remedied,” Faris says, looking at Nairi and Roslyn. “It would show great wisdom and dedication to their respective titles were they to contract for three…say four years?”

Roslyn nods. “Long enough to secure an heir for Tyrrendor and put Poromish blood in the line.”

I’m going to be sick.

Garrick huffs a sarcastic laugh. “If bloodlines equaled allegiance, we wouldn’t be sitting here under interrogation.” He glances to Talia at his right. “He is your son, right?”

She chugs the tea to the bottom of the glass.

“A contract marriage would be most wise,” Nairi agrees with a nod, ignoring Garrick’s words. “We could have the legalities performed in the morning at temple, and then hear what will, no doubt, be a plea for our assistance in their war tomorrow afternoon.”

Wood creaks behind me. “Draw up the papers,” Xaden says, gripping my chair.

Bile rises in my throat. What the fuck is he doing?

Cat’s head snaps in our direction, Mira and Garrick both gawk, and Aaric continues eating.

I want the damned bond back now.

“Ah, there we go!” Faris claps twice. “What an excellent decision. Shall we go with three or four years?”

“Lifetime. Anything less is unacceptable.” Xaden slides his hand to the back of my neck. “And her full name for the papers is Violet Sorrengail. Two Rs.”

I’m torn between throwing a dagger at his chest and kissing the shit out of him.

Mira stifles a grin.

“My last name is tied to the title, but we could take yours,” Xaden offers, and his eyes soften just slightly when they lock on mine.

“You could hyphenate,” Garrick suggests. “Or combine? Riorgail? Sorrenson?”

“That is not what they meant,” I whisper at Xaden.

“I don’t give a fuck what they meant,” he responds at full volume, and his fingers drift up and down the back of my neck as he faces the triumvirate. “You may question our knowledge, test our honor or dedication as riders and fliers. Serve up riddles, fake scenarios, chess games for all I care. But if you think I’m going to leave the only woman I’ve ever loved to contract marriage with a woman I do not get along with, then the lack of wisdom is yours, not mine.”

“It’s only three years,” Talia begs, panic rising in her eyes. “And then you’d be back together. Surely the potential of our alliance, of sharing our knowledge would make that sacrifice worthwhile. Think of Tyrrendor.”

Xaden leans forward, and his hand slips from my neck. “You cannot contemplate the things I have sacrificed for Tyrrendor. I lost my father, my freedom, my very—” He cuts himself off and I glance at the floor, half expecting to see shadows swirling at his feet. “Violet is the only choice I’ve made for myself. I won’t sacrifice her for three years. Not for a single day. You would know that if you hadn’t abandoned me, if you knew me at all.”

“I didn’t want to leave you!” She shakes her head, and Faris’s brows knit in disapproval. “Your father wouldn’t let me take you—”

“Do not speak of my father. I am the one who watched him die.” Xaden points to the relic that stretches up his neck. “You left a child to face down a war you knew was coming, on a continent you knew was infested with dark wielders.”

“I couldn’t take you,” she repeats. “You are Tyrrendor’s heir.”

“You could have stayed,” he retorts, and my heart aches at the ice in his tone that I know masks his true hurt. “You could have been my mother.”

I slide my hand onto his knee, wishing it was possible to take some of his pain.

“They would have executed me right next to your father, or in secret as was done to Mairi’s husband. I did what I thought best!” she argues.

“For you.” A mocking corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll admit, you’ve done well for yourself. Who needs to be the dowager duchess of Tyrrendor when you can be the wife to a member of the triumvirate? Mother of two? Live on a peaceful beach, in a peaceful city, on an isle that serves no greater good than its own.”

“This heated show of emotion during an interview is unbecoming,” Nairi mutters, then forks the last bite of her chicken.

“The interview ended before it began,” Mira says, twirling the stem of her goblet between her fingers. “You don’t care that Violet is the smartest person in this room. Or that Xaden tore apart Basgiath to save her, then returned to fight for Navarre because it was the right thing to do. Or that Cat lives in the most hostile environment possible to help her kingdom. You don’t care that Aaric had to step into the light he hates so we’d have a royal representative, or that Garrick has stood by Xaden’s side no matter the cost. We proved our lack of wisdom by coming here in the first place. You were never going to share your knowledge or ally yourself with us.”

“True.” Nairi pulls a jade stone from her robe and sets it in front of her plate. “And the first true piece of wisdom spoken here, which piques my interest. Now tell me, what do you think of our city?”

Mira glances at me, and I get the message. My turn.

“From the air, it seems laid out perfectly.” I sit up straight. “It’s a collection of exquisitely proportioned neighborhoods, all with central meeting places for markets and gatherings.”

“It is perfect,” Roslyn agrees, rolling her own jade stone over her knuckles.

“And cruel.” I give my assessment with a flat tone Xaden should be proud of. He covers my hand with his and laces our fingers together.

Roslyn grasps the stone and places her hand in her lap. “Please, do go on.” It’s more of a threat than a request.

“You razed an existing city to build what stands now, did you not?”

“We improved our capital, yes.” Roslyn’s eyes narrow. “The smaller towns should have their rejuvenations complete by the end of the decade.”

“And in doing so, you destroyed the historical base of the city, homes your citizens had lived in for generations. Yes, it’s beautiful and efficient, but it also shows your intolerance for things that are not.” I swallow hard. “I find it perplexing, too, that you don’t seem to have a port.”

“It is unwise to venture over water when we know next to nothing about what lurks within its depths—” Faris flusters.

They’re…aquaphobic?

Roslyn holds up her hand. “Are we supposed to take criticism from a group who doesn’t seem to know the name of their own continent?”

A deep breath disturbs my ribs painfully, and Xaden’s hand tightens.

Amaralis. That’s what both other isles have called us. Of course. Every other isle worships one member of the pantheon, and though we celebrate all, we hold one above all others. Amari.

“It’s Amaralys, according to ancient royal records, though I believe Poromish records called it Amelekis. The only thing our kingdoms ever agreed on was calling it the Continent after the Great War,” Aaric says, finally putting his silverware down after cleaning his plate. “Rather arrogant of us to simply refer to it as the Continent, as though there aren’t others beyond the sea, but we’ve been torn apart by war for so long it’s hard for anyone to think that we are one…anything.”

For fuck’s sake, what else is Aaric holding on to?

“You’re rather quiet for someone who seems to know so much,” Nairi remarks.

“I prefer keeping my mouth shut until I understand the rules of whatever game is aiming for my throat. Helps me judge the character and acumen of my opponent.” He looks at each of them in turn. “Honestly, I find you lacking, and I’m not sure I want you for an ally. You have no army and you’re stingy with the very thing that should be free to all—knowledge.”

“And yet you seek our favor?” Nairi’s eyebrows shoot up, and she blinks rapidly.

“Me?” Aaric shakes his head. “No. I’m just here because Halden can’t control his temper and Violet didn’t just bond one of our most terrifying battle dragons, but also an irid—the seventh breed. Dark wielders are spreading. People are dying as we sit here. Every day we’re gone could change the battle map in ways we can’t begin to predict. And my kingdom is full of assholes who won’t take refugees under king’s orders, so tracking down the irids is our best hope of not only adding to our numbers but maybe figuring out how we beat the venin six hundred years ago.

“If you fit into that solution, with all your wisdom, then great. If not, it seems all we’re accomplishing here is dragging out family resentment and judgment, which we get plenty of at home. If it were up to me, we would thank you for the meal and get out before we discover what you do to people who don’t pass your test.”

“You are the highest member of nobility in your party,” Roslyn notes, shifting in her seat with a grimace. “Is it not up to you?”

“Nobility doesn’t play into rank, at least not for me.” Aaric glances my way. “Andarna chose Violet, and though there are four superiorly ranked officers with us, it’s Violet’s mission. She’s in command. And with the exception of her rather questionable taste in men, I’ve trusted Violet’s wisdom since childhood.”

Our eyes meet, and I shoot him a small smile.

The door opens, and servants pour in. The room falls quiet as they remove our dinner plates and disappear back into what I assume is the kitchen.

“You are truly bonded to a seventh breed?” Roslyn asks me.

“I am.” I raise my chin. “She was left behind when her kind left the Cont—Amaralis, and we seek them. Now, are you interested in speaking to us about an alliance?”

“I am curious.” Roslyn sets her stone in front of her plate.

“Two down. You’re doing well.” Faris grins. “Unfortunately, it must be a unanimous decision and I’m a little more…shrewd with my approach. Tell me, if you truly seek knowledge, why do you not worship Hedeon? Why would you not take up residence here like others who seek wisdom instead of allyship? Our libraries are unparalleled, our colleges centers for learning and culture, not death.”

“I was taught that wisdom is never to be prayed for, but earned, and as much as I would revel in your library, I’m not interested unless it contains information on the venin.” I shrug. “I’m not going to hide on an isle while the people I love are condemned to death by draining.”

The door opens behind Faris again, and a server leans in. “Sir, are you ready for dessert?”

“We are,” Faris answers, and the man returns to the kitchen.

“Please tell me you’ve done something with all that chocolate Talia has been stockpiling for weeks. I swear, she’s bought every shipment that’s come in, and you know how rare it is,” Nairi teases, but a second later, her mouth purses and she adjusts in her chair. “Though I’m not sure I’m feeling up for sweets tonight.”

“Me either,” Roslyn agrees, holding her stomach.

“What kind of information?” Faris prompts me, his smile sharpening. “A weapon to destroy them, perhaps?”

“She already is one,” Xaden remarks as the door opens, and Faris’s eyes narrow on me slightly.

Servers stream in, then place our dishes on the table in front of us.

Oh…shit. A silver fork rests beside a perfectly sliced piece of chocolate cake.

Xaden’s hand goes lax on top of mine.

“Is it still your favorite?” Talia’s voice pitches up with excitement. “I know your birthday isn’t until the end of the month, but you’re here now.”

Xaden stares at the cake like Halden stared at Anna’s head.

“Phyllis,” Faris calls out to one of the servants as they file back into the kitchen. “It seems the four of us are missing our forks.”

“Of course. I’ll fetch them immediately,” the woman replies before the door shuts.

“Please, don’t wait on our account.” Faris waves at us. “Chocolate’s an uncommon treat this far from Deverelli.”

And she’s been hoarding it for weeks. My mind begins to race.

Weeks. She knew we were coming.

I prefer a Deverelli approach to an alliance. That’s what Queen Marlis said.

Courtlyn must have informed the other isles.

Talia knew Xaden was coming.

“If you don’t like it anymore, that’s all right.” Talia’s smile trembles. “I’ve been away from you longer than I was with you, and I know tastes can change. You’re an adult now, after all. But just in case yours hasn’t, we tried four recipes, and I think this one is closest to what we had in Aretia. You used to sneak into the kitchens when the cooks were baking—”

“I remember.” Xaden drags his gaze to meet his mother’s. “And it’s still my favorite.”

That scene on the beach where she acted so surprised was all…fake. My stomach sours. This is wrong. Something’s wrong. I’ve missed a detail I shouldn’t have.

Her smile brightens, and Faris wraps his arm around her shoulder.

“You did well, my love.” He kisses her cheek.

My gaze moves to Mira’s, and her brow knits. She slides her hand backward on the table, and my heart begins to pound. We’re being played. Talia knew Xaden was coming, which means Faris knew…and he’s more shrewd in his approach to testing us.

The four of them conveniently don’t have forks.

Something’s in the cake.

Xaden reaches for his fork, and my fingers dig into his knee. His gaze snaps to mine, two lines forming between his brows.

I shake my head, then whip out my right and snatch the fork from Aaric’s grip.

Cat drops her silverware, and it rattles on the plate.

“This tastes just like home,” Garrick says, lifting another bite to his mouth.

Oh Amari, he’s already eaten a third of it.

“Stop!” My heartbeat trips over itself.

Garrick pauses, then sets the forkful on the plate. “He said we could start—” He blinks once, then wobbles. “I feel…I feel—” Time seems to slow as his eyes flutter shut and he collapses, falling toward the table.

“Garrick!” Xaden shouts, shoving away from the table as Aaric lunges, catching Garrick’s head before it can hit the surface.

Aaric’s gaze swings wildly toward Xaden. “He isn’t breathing!”

The citizenship test for those wishing to reside in Hedotis reminds me of the entrance exam for the Scribe Quadrant, but our test is designed to measure how much a potential cadet has learned, and theirs reads as though to prove how much one has not.

—Hedotis: Isle of Hedeon by Captain Asher Sorrengail

Chairs screech against the stone floor as Mira, Cat, and I stand. “Get back here!” I shout down the bond, and panic wraps its sharp-nailed hands around my heart and squeezes.

“Already en route,” Tairn replies.

“Is Chradh—”

“Enraged but not suffering the loss of his rider from what I can tell.”

“He just set part of the forest on fire,” Andarna adds.

“Riorson, he’s not—” Aaric starts to repeat.

“I heard you the first time.” Xaden hooks his arms under Garrick’s shoulders and hauls him from his chair, then lays him out on the floor and kneels by his side.

“What did you put in it?” I ask Faris, rounding the table.

His smile shifts from playful to cruel, but he doesn’t answer.

“Get Trager!” Mira orders, and I hear a door open and shut behind me.

Xaden presses his ear to Garrick’s chest. “Sluggish but beating.”

“We need to get him to breathe—” Aaric starts. “He’s fucking blue.”

“Well aware.” Xaden pinches Garrick’s nose shut, then seals his mouth over Garrick’s and exhales.

Garrick’s chest rises.

I rock back on my heels and stand, finding Talia staring at Garrick with horror-stricken eyes. “What was in the cake?” I ask her.

She startles. “Nothing.” Her brow furrows as she looks at Garrick’s slice, then reaches for hers. “It’s just—”

“Not for you, my dear.” Faris takes her plate, then winces, tilting his head as he runs a hand over his stomach.

“What did you do?” Talia pushes back so quickly her chair falls into the wall behind her, leaving a mark on the pristine surface.

“I tested them as you asked,” he tells her with a loving smile. “Here, in the privacy of our home, where they’d be comfortable.”

Nairi and Roslyn both nudge their plates away, exchanging annoyed glances as Mira hovers, ready to strike.

“You poisoned my son?” Talia shrieks.

“Your son was wise enough not to eat it,” Faris replies. “Our isle can be unforgiving. You should be proud, not angry.”

I grab what’s left of Garrick’s cake and lift it to my nose. It smells like chocolate, and sugar, and maybe a hint of vanilla but— There. I breathe deeply, catching a hint of something sickly sweet. Like fruit that’s been left in the sun too long.

“It’s still slowing,” Aaric says, and I glance back to see him lying with his ear against Garrick’s chest as Xaden breathes again for his best friend.

My mind doesn’t race—it flies. It could be anything. Powdered and added to the flour, liquefied and mixed in with the eggs or added to the glaze. It could be indigenous or imported. All I have is Dad’s field guide. We’re so far out of our depths here that I’m not even sure Brennan could help.

“Violet,” Xaden pleads as our gazes collide. The panic in those onyx depths jars me like nothing else can.

I take a deep breath and steady my heartbeat to slow my thoughts. “I’ll find it,” I promise. “I won’t let him die.”

Xaden nods and breathes for Garrick again.

I smell the cake one last time and set it down, finding Faris watching us with rapt curiosity. Talia slowly backs herself against the curved wall, wrapping her arms around her middle as she watches Xaden.

“Is this the part where you draw a weapon?” Faris asks me, shifting in his seat. “Threaten to kill me if I don’t tell you what your hasty friend ingested?”

“No.” I lean my hip against the table where Talia should be sitting. “This is the part where I tell you I’ve already killed you.”

Faris’s smile slips. “And yet I breathe, and your friend does not.” But his body rolls like he’s trying to contain a belch, and he covers his mouth.

“Oh, you’ll breathe just fine.” I glance at the other three. “You all will. It’s the vomiting until your bile turns to blood that will kill you. Should start in about ten minutes. Don’t worry, it only lasts about an hour. Kind of a miserable way to go, but I worked with what I had.”

Nairi lurches out of her chair and drops to her knees, retching onto the floor.

“Shit, my timing’s off,” I say to Mira.

“She had two glasses.” Mira wrinkles her nose and retreats a step as Nairi empties the contents of her stomach.

“You drank and ate everything we did,” Faris says, the blood draining from his face. “I watched.”

“Not before dinner you didn’t.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Before dinner, it was just the six of us. Are you curious what I gave everyone for an appetizer as we walked down the stairs?”

His eyes flare. “You’re lying.”

“You wish.” I glance sideways as Talia slides down the wall, muffling a cry with her fist. “Time for your test. Do you know why arinmint is illegal to export? Why it’s against the rules to take it outside Aretia?”

“The fucking tea,” Faris hisses, shooting a glare at Talia.

I lift his empty goblet and turn it upside down. “And you drank it all.” I tsk at him, then set it back on the table. “I’ll make you a deal. I was saving this for the unlikely event we failed your test and needed leverage, but you give me your antidote and I’ll give you mine.”

“You don’t get to beat me.” He shakes his head.

Anger prickles along my skin.

“And you don’t get to poison my friend with impunity.” I tilt my head, refusing to let any of the panic curdling in my stomach show on my face.

“Your friend will be dead in the next twenty minutes, and I will still have forty to see you slaughtered by my guards. You think we won’t find the antidote in your room?” His voice rises.

The house shudders, and an ear-splitting roar rattles the forks against their plates.

“I wish you the best of luck.” I manage to keep my voice level. “You have mediocre guards. I have ten lethally trained riders and fliers, four gryphons, and seven pissed-off dragons. The odds are in my favor.”

Faris blanches. “How do I know you’re not bluffing? That what you’ve given us is deadly?”

“You don’t.” I shrug. “But as soon as you or your wife starts vomiting blood, I’m afraid the antidote won’t do you any good. Time’s ticking.”

The door swings open behind us, slamming into the wall.

“Oh fuck.” Drake immediately sidesteps out of the doorway and Trager rushes in, the others close behind.

“What did they give him?” the flier asks, dropping to his knees opposite Xaden.

“Working on that,” I tell him. And I’m failing.

Faris isn’t responding to a threat to his own life, or even his wife’s. It goes against every base instinct I have. I would have forked over the antidote as soon as I’d realized Xaden was in trouble.

“Stop thinking like you,” Tairn orders. “Think like him.”

“He’d rather die than lose.” Fear drips off the edges of every word. “He’s not going to tell me.”

“Then stop asking him.”

“Violet!” Xaden shouts.

“We have to get his heart beating stronger.” Trager puts one hand on top of the other on Garrick’s sternum, then forces all his weight down. “Keep breathing for him.”

The door opens behind Faris, and a servant gasps, then slams the door shut and screams.

My gaze swings to Mira. “I need you to handle everything else in this house that can kill us.” Then I look toward the doorway and find Dain standing behind Cat and Ridoc. “Get my dad’s book on Hedotis. It’s in my pack on the right side of my bed.”

Dain nods and takes off running.

“We seal the house now,” Mira orders. “There are three doors on this level. Cordella, take the front. Cat and Maren, handle the back by the patio. I’ll go for the side. Ridoc and Aaric, stay with Violet.” She draws her daggers and charges past the two sick women and through the servants’ entrance to the kitchen.

The cook.

“Ridoc, with me!” I call back over my shoulder, then race through the door Mira left open and into the kitchen.

Five servants stand around a large, cluttered table, their hands up at their shoulders, palms facing outward. There are two more at the hearth, one at the wash basin, and two by a stone oven.

“Where is the cook?”

They stare back at me.

“Where is the cook,” I repeat, switching to Hedotic.

The female servant who just found us trembles as she points to a doorway on her right. I draw two blades and trust Ridoc to watch my back as I storm past the workers and into— It’s a pantry.

Shelves with jars and baskets of fruits line the walls.

The spindly man startles and nearly drops what looks to be a jar of pickled eggs.

“What did you put in the cake?” I ask in Hedotic.

“What I was instructed to.” He slides the jar back onto the shelf, then reaches below and draws a knife from the block.

“Don’t do that.” I lift my blades. “Just tell me what’s killing my friend and you live.”

He charges me and I throw my daggers in quick succession, embedding them deep within both his forearms. Blood streams to his elbows and he drops the kitchen knife, then bellows, staring down at his arms as his hands shake.

“I told you not to do that!” I take three steps, then yank out both of my daggers by their hilts and kick him square in the stomach.

He stumbles backward into the shelves.

Debilitating pain explodes in my side, and I gasp, tensing every muscle like that might somehow rewind the last thirty seconds and spare my broken rib. Fuck, I did not think that through.

The cook brings his trembling hands together in a plea, revealing blue half-moons under his nails. “Please. No. I have a wife. And two children.”

Blue.

He hadn’t been using a blue-edged towel. He’d been scrubbing the blue off his hands.

I back out of the pantry slowly and find Ridoc guarding the door, flight jacket unbuttoned, sword drawn. “We’re looking for something blue.”

“You telling me there’s actually something colorful on this isle?” We both stare at the pots, pans, and dishes covering the newly deserted worktable, then move toward it. Ridoc sheathes his sword, picks up a pot, checks its cream-colored contents, and sets it back down. “Even the freaking birds are white—”

Errisbirds.

Blue nails. The scent of overripe fruit.

That’s it. “I know what it—”

The cook yells as he storms out of the pantry, and both Ridoc and I whirl.

My heart seizes as I catch sight of the cook’s kitchen knife mid-flight. I dodge right, then surge forward toward the cook, walling off the pain like it belongs to someone else, and pull a move from Courtlyn’s book. I throw the dagger with a snap of my wrist and pin the cook’s bloodied hand to the fucking doorframe.

He has the nerve to howl like he doesn’t deserve it.

“Stay there,” I order in Hedotic, then turn back toward Ridoc.

Air gushes from my lungs as Ridoc looks down.

The cook’s knife is lodged in his side.

I wish you and Sawyer were with us, but I’m grateful to have Ridoc, even if his sarcasm is wearing on Mira’s last nerve.

—Recovered Correspondence of Cadet Violet Sorrengail to Cadet Rhiannon Matthias

“Ridoc!” Fear pours into me, colder than a snow squall in January, as I stumble forward.

No. No. No. The words form a chant of pure denial in my head.

“That’s…unfortunate,” Ridoc says quietly, staring down at the knife that protrudes from his side.

Not Ridoc. Not anyone, but especially not Ridoc.

This isn’t happening. Not again. Not when we’re thousands of miles from home and he hasn’t graduated, or fallen in love, or gotten to live. “You’re all right,” I whisper. “Just keep it there, and I’ll get Trager—”

Ridoc reaches for the knife’s hilt.

“No!” I lunge across him to grab his hand, but he’s already yanked the blade free. I slam my palms over his side to stanch the flow of blood…but there isn’t any. No hole in his shirt, either, just two slices through his flight jacket and a cut in the counter.

The blade caught the edge of his flight jacket…not him.

Ridoc flies at the cook, and my hands slip off his stomach.

“Asshole!” Ridoc shouts, and I pivot to see him plow his fist into the cook’s face. “I have four uniforms, but only one fucking flight jacket, and I”—punch—“hate”—punch—“sewing!” Ridoc yanks my dagger from the cook’s hand, and the man slides down the doorframe, his eyes fluttering shut. “For fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be the civilized isle!” He wipes my blade on the cook’s tunic, then turns and walks back toward me. “What is the wisdom in a kitchen cook attacking two trained killers?” His face falls. “Vi, you all right?”

I gulp for air and nod. “Yeah. I just thought…but I’m fine. And you’re fine. And everything is…fine, except Garrick, so we should—”

Understanding softens his eyes, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a quick but gentle hug. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

I nod and we break apart. “I know what they put in the cake.”

“Good.” Ridoc gestures at the door, and we both head back toward the dining room. “And I want a patch for this shit, Violet. A quest squad patch. Understand?”

“Loud and clear.” I make it into the dining room first and find two of the triumvirate retching while Xaden and Trager monitor Garrick as Talia sobs. Aaric waits on the edge of the table, dagger in hand, and Faris sits hunched over with his arms around his stomach.

“He’s breathing on his own, but it’s shallow,” Xaden says. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Almost.” I try to smile.

“Book.” Dain slides my father’s field guide across the table. Aaric catches it, then hands it over.

“He’ll be dead in ten minutes,” Faris mutters.

“No, he won’t.” I flip through the book to the chapter I need, then run my finger down the flora chart Dad drew until I reach zakia berries.

POISONOUS WHEN ALLOWED TO FERMENT. TREAT WITH FIG OR LIME TO THE BACK OF THE THROAT WITHIN ONE HOUR.

Thank you, Dad.

“I’ve got it,” I tell Xaden, then slam the book shut and look over at Dain. “Upstairs on the veranda by our room, there’s a silver tray. Get the figs.”

Dain nods, then takes off at a run.

I motion to Aaric, and he slides from the table. “I need five small cups filled with water. Fresh, not salt. One is for Dain.”

He heads into the kitchen, and Ridoc follows.

“Figure out how to get him to swallow,” I say to Xaden, then lean against the edge of the table, grimacing at the pain in my ribs as I lean down to Faris. “We’re fighting a war for the future of our world. This shouldn’t be a competition. Logic and wisdom dictate that you assist us so you don’t become us.”

“It is your war,” he growls as Dain sprints back in.

“Crush it, dice it, whatever you have to do to mix it with enough water to get it down his throat,” I tell Dain.

“On it.” He steps onto a chair, then walks across the table, jumping off once he clears Garrick’s head. Then he, too, disappears into the kitchen.

“It will be our war.” I lean down as Faris shudders. “You think they won’t come here once they’ve drained every last ounce of magic from our home?”

“We’re safe.” He glares up at me. “We have no magic here.”

“Foolish, foolish man.” I shake my head. “They’ll drain you.”

His eyes flare a second before he groans in pain.

Xaden and Trager have Garrick on his side when Dain returns with the fig slurry and a spoon. Aaric and Ridoc follow, each carrying two small cups of water.

I take them one by one and set them behind me, out of Faris’s reach, then dig my nails into the palm of my hand to keep from panicking as the guys work to get the solution down Garrick’s throat.

He has an hour, according to Dad, and it hasn’t been—

Garrick sputters, spitting some of the slurry out, but his eyes flash open.

I sag in relief as Xaden yells at him to wake the fuck up and drink it. It takes him four big swallows before the cup is drained and he falls back, his head landing in Trager’s lap.

Xaden’s worried gaze snaps to mine.

“Give it time,” I say gently. “We’re under the hour mark. He’ll be all right.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, making the bruise ripple, but he nods.

“Now is when you pray that Garrick wakes in the next few minutes,” I whisper to Faris as Roslyn cries softly on the floor. “You pray to Hedeon, or whoever will listen, that you were not as clever as you thought you were, because that’s the only way he’s going to let you out of this alive.”

Faris’s purple eyes narrow up at me. “Why would I pray for him to wake and kill me?”

“Not Garrick.” I shake my head. “Xaden. Sgaeyl is widely known as one of the most ruthless dragons in Navarre, and she chose him for a reason.”

Fear streaks through his gaze.

I sit back and wait.

Three minutes later, Garrick groans and opens his eyes. “This is my least favorite isle.”

A relieved laugh bubbles through my lips, and Xaden’s head falls back like he’s giving thanks to Zihnal, or perhaps Malek, for not claiming his best friend.

“You didn’t win,” Faris snaps.

“You’re dying. I think that qualifies you as the loser.” I slide off the table.

Xaden jumps to his feet and barrels past me, yanking Faris from the chair and shoving him against the wall.

Oh, shit. And here I thought I’d been bluffing. My stomach hollows as Xaden hits Faris with a bone-crunching right hook.

“You poisoned him?” He slams him into the wall again. “You tried to poison her?” He draws a blade from his thigh and sets it at Faris’s neck.

“Whoa, whoa.” Ridoc walks toward them. “We can’t kill potential allies, even if they suck.”

Xaden turns a glare on Ridoc that freezes the blood in my veins. That isn’t him.

“No.” I move without thinking, stepping between them and pushing Ridoc back with a hand against his chest. “No.”

Ridoc lifts his brows but steps back, and Dain’s eyes narrow as I turn to Xaden.

“Look at me.” I take hold of his forearm, but he doesn’t back off Faris’s throat. A thin line of blood appears at the blade’s edge. “Look. At. Me.”

Xaden’s gaze drops to mine, and my stomach flips. It’s like I’m staring at a stranger dressed up as the man I love.

“Get off the ice,” I whisper. “Pull your shit together and come back to me because I need you. Not this. You.”

His eyes flicker with recognition. A second later, he pushes away from Faris, lowers his blade, walks past me, past Ridoc and Aaric and Dain, past his own mother and Garrick and Trager, to lean against the wall by the door. He sheathes his blade and folds his arms, staring at the plate in front of my seat.

“You have a plan here?” Dain asks, his gaze swinging from Xaden to me. “Or are we winging it?”

“I have a plan.” Sort of. That plan is just rapidly deteriorating the longer it takes Faris to buckle. Killing the triumvirate isn’t going to secure the alliance we need, and naturally, Faris knows that. “Can you get everyone ready to fly?”

Dain nods. “Aaric, help Trager with Garrick and start moving him toward Chradh. Ridoc, let’s pack everyone’s shit.”

They all move, leaving Xaden and me with the triumvirate and his mother.

“Sit,” I order Faris, pointing to his chair, and to my utter surprise, he does. “What should I charge you for the antidote?”

“Meet Malek,” he snarls.

“It’s a shame you don’t know more about Tyrrendor, seeing as your wife lived there for ten years.” I move to the edge of the table. “Arinmint of all things. Ironic that it’s your ignorance and not mine we discovered tonight.”

“You’ll never make it out of here alive,” he swears.

“We will.” I put the four glasses in front of me, then pull four vials from my left front pocket. “It’s only a question of if we leave here with an alliance, an understanding, or a newly elected triumvirate.”

He growls, but his gaze tracks my motions as I pour the vials into the water, one per glass. The clear liquid quickly turns black and grows sludgy.

“What’s it going to be?” I ask Faris.

“My staff knows what’s happened here. The city guards will shoot your dragons from the sky,” he warns.

“I highly doubt that.” I take Aaric’s unused fork and stir the slurries. “Because in a minute, my sister is going to bring one of your guards in, and you’re going to tell them to let us go, as we have a newfound allyship rooted in”—I glance at Talia, who has tucked her knees to her chest as she writhes in pain—“bloodline. Guess someone’s contract marriage worked out as intended, because your wife’s son is the Duke of Tyrrendor. Naturally, you’d want to nurture that relationship.”

“You would never be able to trust me. I’ll turn on you the second you leave.”

“You won’t.” I shake my head. “Because like you said, your staff knows what happened here. You can certainly keep them quiet, but you can’t keep us quiet. Do you truly think your isle would support your next bid for power if they knew you were outsmarted in your own home?”

He clenches his fists as his stomach heaves, but he doesn’t vomit. “How did you do it?”

Now that’s progress. “Arinmint looks just like regular mint, which is why its export is outlawed. By itself, steeped in milk, or turned into tea with lemon or a little chamomile, it works wonders for sleep and healing. But when you combine it with some other pretty ordinary herbs, say the shredded bark of the tarsilla bush, it becomes a deadly poison, and tarsilla grows all along your beaches.” I lean down, careful not to jostle my ribs, so I’m at his eye level. “Ask me why we’re going to fly out of here without you saying a single word.”

“Why?” he grinds out.

“Because you love your sons.” I smile. “That’s why you sent them out of the house tonight.”

Fear widens his eyes.

“Ask why there are only six dragons outside.” I lift my brows and wait, but his breaths start coming alarmingly fast. “If you’re going to be dramatic, I’ll just give you the answer. It’s because the seventh currently sits next to the window at your parents’ house, where your boys sleep—where she’ll stay until she knows we’re out of range of any weapons you might be hiding.”

Approval floods the bond, and I imagine Tairn’s chest puffing with pride.

“That’s impossible.” Faris shakes his head. “Someone would have seen.”

“Not when that dragon is an irid.”

Sweat drips down his forehead, catching in his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t. They’re children.”

“Do you really want to take that risk?” I stand and slide the first glass his way. “Or do you want to drink and live?”

“Faris!” Talia cries. “Please!”

“You didn’t outsmart me. None of this happened.” He reaches for the glass.

“I didn’t outsmart you alone,” I admit. “My father helped.”

He clutches the antidote. “The eyes. I should have recognized your eyes. You’re Asher Daxton’s girl.”

“One of them, yes.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “And the other currently has command of your house. Make your choice.”

He drinks.

Xaden doesn’t so much as look at his mother when we walk away.

• • •

We hover out of cross-bolt range until Andarna joins us, then fly through the night, heading northwest along the trading routes. We only have two major isles left to search for the irids, and as much as I enjoy not being hunted by Theophanie, we can’t stay out here long enough to thoroughly scour all the minor ones. Every day we fly lengthens the time it will take to get home, where the least of our worries will be the court-martial waiting for us if we don’t bring with us the assistance we disobeyed orders to find.

By morning, there’s still no sight of land.

My chest feels like it’s clamped in a permanent vise. Gods, if I’m wrong, I won’t have only almost gotten Garrick killed, I’ll be the end of the rest of us, too.

I sleep on and off in the saddle, my exhaustion the only thing capable of outweighing the pain in my ribs. Luckily for me, the power in the sunshield rune I carry still holds, and my skin remains unburned as the temperature warms. By the time the sun is directly above us, we reach the southeastern tip of the archipelago that leads to Zehyllna.

“Should be another hour until we reach the mainland,” Tairn says as we sail over the first island, which looks small enough to be swallowed at the slightest hint of a storm.

“Can the others make it that long?” Andarna is already strapped at his chest.

“I can’t exactly ask them, but no one has snapped at my wings, which I find to be a good sign.”

Or they’re all too tired to.

I twist as far as my ribs will allow and see that the gryphons are mostly holding the center of the formation. “Kiralair is lagging a little.”

“Is she?” Tairn doesn’t look back. “Or is Silaraine?”

I block the sun with my hand and focus hard on the second row of gryphons. “You’re right. It looks like she’s fallen back to keep pace with Silaraine.” But Cath and Molvic have their backs covered another row behind.

“I know.” We cross over the next island and the aqua water that surrounds it on all sides. “Seems Catriona has found someone worth lagging behind for.”

The thought brings a smile to my face as I settle in for the last part of the flight. True to his estimate, it’s about an hour before we fly past the white sand beaches and their swaying palm trees…and their waving humans.

“That’s…unusual.” No one screams and runs or mans the wall of cross-bolts as we pass over the coastal town. They just…wave.

“It’s unsettling,” Tairn agrees.

“It’s not a bad thing to be liked.” Andarna clicks out of her harness and flies off to Tairn’s right, tipping her wing when a group of children runs across a field, their arms extended.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we sail over green-leafed trees. Perhaps the color isn’t quite as rich as the tones on the Continent, but it’s definitely a welcome sight after the monochromatic scheme of Hedotis.

A sparkling river leads us into the hills, and we pass a sun-drenched waterfall before reaching a plateau, then continue due west along the winding riverbed.

Three more waterfalls and rises in elevation later, the capital city of Xortrys comes into view and takes my breath away.

It’s situated at the base of an enormous, curved waterfall, and the way the river splits around the city makes it appear as an island of its own. The city walls look like they rise from the water itself, and the structures beyond defy any and all architectural logic, as though vertical additions were erected upon existing buildings as they were needed, growing the city skyward.

“The south bridge is the main gate,” I remind Tairn, and he banks left along the southern branch of the river, flying toward the enormous structure that spans the water.

“Is that a gate? Or an amphitheater?” Tairn asks as a huge clearing comes into view at the end of the bridge.

“Uhh…both?” Along the western tree line sit rows upon rows of benched seating, enough to fit hundreds—maybe thousands—of people.

And they’re half full.

“Do you think this is normal, or…” The other option makes me a little queasy.

“They’re expecting us,” Andarna replies with excitement, descending into the field before Tairn. Her left wing trembles as she flares them wide and she lands a second before we do, dead center in the field.

The crowd comes to its feet in a raucous cheer as Tairn tucks his wings in and prowls forward to Andarna’s side. A few people dart from the stands and make a run for the bridge, too smiley to be fleeing for their lives.

“They’re spreading the news.” Tairn turns his head slowly, and I mirror his movement, lifting my flight goggles and taking in what is easily the oddest and potentially most dangerous arrival we’ve faced yet. We’re more than outnumbered, though no one appears to be holding any weapons against us, nor do they approach; they simply watch.

The stands rise a good twenty feet over Tairn’s head, and the people in them cheer louder as our squad lands in a single, long line. The earth shudders with each dragon’s arrival, but the gryphons fit themselves into formation gracefully. The excitement in the air is a living, palpable thing, roaring in my ears louder than the waterfall in the distance, clinging to my skin with more tenacity than the stifling heat and humidity, humming along my veins as though their zeal is contagious.

“This is weird.” I glance to the right and note Andarna scraping through the manicured grass with a single talon. “Stay close.”

“Any closer and I’ll be under him,” she retorts, her full claws flexing in the ground.

“Stop tearing up their grass before they—” Tairn lowers his head to the ground and inhales so deeply, his sides flare as his lungs expand. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” The buzz from the crowd grows to a fever pitch, and a wave of energy rushes up my body, prickling the back of my neck in a feeling that reminds me of… I gasp.

Magic.

To live amongst the Zihlni, you must prepare to accept luck as your guide and chaos as your standard.

—Zehyllna: Isle of Zihnal by Major Asher Sorrengail

No wonder the leaves are almost fully green. Zehyllna has magic. Not enough to channel or even properly shield, and nowhere in the realm of wielding, but there are definitely two strands of power trickling down the bonds from Tairn and Andarna.

I shove my flight jacket into my pack so I don’t sweat to death and make quick work of dismounting. Tairn dips even lower in deference to my aching ribs, and I pat the scales above his talon in thanks as I walk onto the field.

To my right, Andarna flicks her head left and right repeatedly, like she can’t fully focus on one sight before another catches her attention, and on my left, Ridoc stares up at Aotrom, saying something I can’t hear over the noise of the crowd. Just beyond him, Trager throws his head back in laughter, then reaches up to scratch under Silaraine’s silver-feathered jaw.

The gryphon tilts her head to give him easier access and closes her eyes.

I can’t help but wonder how long she’s had that particular itch, since it’s in a place she can’t reach.

“Can they talk?” I move forward just enough to see down the line of our squad and watch the same scene playing out among riders and fliers. Even Xaden is paused before Sgaeyl, though it looks like any conversation they might be having isn’t going his way.

“We all can,” Tairn replies with a sound I’d almost call a sigh of contentment.

I give myself a second to smile, to revel in the happiness of my friends who have been denied the closest of their relationships for the last couple of weeks. Then I look up at the mass of people gradually quieting and taking their seats, and scan down the rows to the bottom without finding a single weapon out of its scabbard. Color fills the crowd, but everyone sitting in the front row is dressed in identical sleeveless tunics the shade of apricots.

For as much excitement as they’re showing, none of them rush forward to greet us. In fact, the people joining climb the seats farthest to the right as they enter the field, as though not to obscure the crowd’s view for even a second.

A wisp of a shadow brushes against my mind, and my smile deepens.

“Hi there,” Xaden says as he strides toward me, the corners of his mouth curving. He’s shucked his flight jacket, too, and pushed up the sleeves of his uniform to his elbows.

“Hi there.” I grin, somehow having found home thousands of miles away from the Continent. “Everything good with Sgaeyl?”

“She’s yelling, but I’ll take it over silence any day.” A muscle in his jaw pops as he reaches my side, then turns to face the crowd. “Pretty sure she’s spent the last week or so cataloging every one of my missteps, given how quickly she listed them.”

“I’m sorry.” I brush the back of my hand against his.

“She has every right to be pissed.” He laces our fingers and holds tight as he studies our surroundings. “I need you to make me another promise, Violet.”

“That sounds serious.” I smile at Ridoc as he heads our way with a definite bounce in his step. The others aren’t far behind him.

“Look at me.” Xaden softens the sharp command with a brush of his thumb over mine.

My gaze snaps to his and my smile falls at the intensity in his stare. “What do you want me to promise?”

“That you’ll never do that again.”

I blink. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You put yourself between Ridoc and me—”

“It seemed like you might hit my friend.” I lift my brows. “And you weren’t exactly yourself.”

“That’s my point.” Fear flashes across his face before he quickly masks it. “There’s no telling what I could have done to you. It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

“Is it just me? Or are we the equivalent of the circus coming to town?” Ridoc asks.

“You won’t hurt me,” I argue for the hundredth time. “Even when you wanted to kill me last year, you never hurt me. Even when you lack your emotions, you’re still…you.”

“Oh, we’re definitely the show,” Cat answers Ridoc.

“This might be my favorite isle.” Trager takes Cat’s hand. “What do you think, Violet?”

“Me, without any restraint or reason.” Xaden lowers his brows.

“How about I decide when I think you’re too dangerous to approach.”

“I think I know when I’m too dangerous to approach.” He leans in.

“Don’t mind them.” Ridoc’s tone sings. “They’re back to doing…whatever it is they do when they ignore everyone around them and pretend they’re the only people in existence.”

“This from the same man who thinks I need to know how to kill him?” I lift my chin. “Which is it, Xaden? Am I too precious to get close? Or am I the one who needs to know which shadow is yours?”

He gives me a look Sgaeyl would be proud of, and I hold his gaze. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you.” The sun catches the amber flecks in his eyes, and I nearly relent at the plea in his tone.

“And I won’t be able to live with myself if I stand there and watch you hurt Ridoc.” I squeeze his hand. “I take full responsibility for my safety. You are a giant battle flag waving in the wind right now, Xaden, but you’re my battle flag, and you’d do the same thing in my position.”

“Hey, I hate to break up whatever moment you’re having,” Ridoc says, “but everyone’s here and their emissary is headed this way.”

“This discussion isn’t over,” Xaden warns as we turn our attention to the field.

“Happy to win the fight again later.” I squeeze his hand one last time, then let go as a woman in an orange tunic and matching scabbard walks toward us, carrying a cone-shaped object half my height. “I love you.”

“So fucking stubborn.” He sighs. “I love you.”

All down the line, the dragons lower their heads in warning.

The woman doesn’t flinch, but the crowd falls quiet.

I take a steadying breath and send a prayer up to Zihnal himself that this encounter goes better than our last.

“Welcome to Zehyllna!” the woman says in the common language, then grins as she approaches, her white teeth sharply contrasting her deep-brown cheeks. She’s beautiful, with joyful brown eyes, a halo of black, airy curls, and thick curves. “I am Calixta, mistress of today’s festivities.”

Festivities? My brows scrunch at the term, and Ridoc rocks back on his heels.

Xaden’s head tilts.

Calixta pauses about five feet from my boots, then glances across our squad and begins to speak in Zehylish.

I blink. Any studying I did is completely useless. Nothing on the page could prepare me for hearing it spoken. It’s a lilting, flowy language where one word seems to run into the next.

Dain replies slowly from my right, the words coming out like he’s in pain.

Aaric sighs from beside Xaden, then proceeds to speak like he was freaking born here.

Dain looks ready to murder him.

“Excellent!” Calixta replies in the common language. “I am happy to speak in your tongue if it brings you joy.” She turns to me. “Your translator says you are the leader of this glorious assembly.”

I’m really starting to loathe that word. “I’m Violet Sorrengail. We’ve come in hopes of—”

“Securing an alliance!” She beams. “Yes! Word of your travels reached us a few weeks ago, and we have been waiting ever since.”

“Here?” Ridoc asks. “You’ve all been waiting out here?”

“Of course not.” She scoffs. “People come to the festival grounds as they have time in hopes they will be the first to see the dragons. And Zihnal is certainly with those of us who chose today!” Her gaze sweeps over the riot. “Which is the irid?”

I draw back. “Courtlyn?”

“Courtlyn,” Xaden agrees.

Andarna lifts her head, and Tairn growls down the bond.

“Way to give yourself away.” I narrow my eyes at her.

“It looks…black,” Calixta remarks.

Andarna blinks, and her scales shift color, blending into the background.

“She,” I correct Calixta. “Her name is Andarna and she’s the only irid on the Contin—” I wince. “On Amaralys. We’re searching for the rest of her kind and allies to hopefully fight alongside us in a war against those who wield dark magic.”

“She is marvelous.” Calixta bows, low and deep.

Andarna shimmers again, her scales returning to black, then lowers her head when Tairn huffs a breath at her.

“Our queen is delighted you’ve sought us out and is eager to come to your aid. We have always revered dragonkind.” She tilts her head toward Silaraine. “And the gryphons, of course.”

There’s no fucking way this is that easy. Dad wrote about playing games picked at random to gain entrance. “May we speak to your queen?” I ask. “We’ve brought a prince of Navarre to speak on our kingdom’s behalf.”

“Of course!” Calixta replies. “But first—”

“Here we go,” Ridoc mutters under his breath.

My thought exactly.

“—we must see what gifts Zihnal has chosen for you,” she finishes. “If you are willing to play and accept whatever gift the god of luck presents you with”—she lifts a finger—“without complaint, then you will be granted entrance to our city, where our queen waits.”

“I expected dice or even a board game, not gifts,” I admit to Xaden.

“There’s a trick here,” Xaden warns. “But there’s not enough power to read her.”

“And if we…complain?” I ask.

All traces of amusement drain from her face. “If you do not accept that luck determines your fate, that Zihnal may gift you with great fortune or take it, then we cannot ally ourselves with you. We do not accept those who do not adjust their sails in a storm.”

Not such a random choice of game, then. They want to see how we handle disappointment.

“No whining,” Xaden remarks. “I can respect that.”

Looking left, then right, I meet the eyes of every person on our squad, starting with Trager. One by one, they nod, ending with Mira on the right, who immediately rolls her eyes afterward.

“We’ll do it,” I tell Calixta.

“Wonderful!” She spins back to the crowd and lifts the pointed end of the hollow cone to her mouth before shouting into it.

The crowd roars.

“She said we’ll play,” Aaric tells me, leaning forward to see around Xaden.

“Where were these language skills when we were translating journals last year?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’ve gained another head. “I was raised to be a diplomat. Diplomats don’t speak to dead people.”

“You didn’t think we should know you speak fluent everything?” I arch a brow.

“And nullify Aetos’s reason for joining…what is it Ridoc calls us? Quest squad?” Aaric shakes his head.

“Let us see what Zihnal shall gift you with!” Calixta says over her shoulder, then walks toward the crowd.

Five people emerge from the right side of the steps, four carrying a table and one, a chair and a canvas bag.

“Guess we follow,” I say to the others.

We walk as a line across the field, and I stifle a yawn. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can find our beds. I can’t remember the last full night of sleep we had without pulling watches. Deverelli, maybe?

“I don’t care if she hands you a steaming pile of goat shit,” Mira lectures down the line. “No one complains. Got it? Smile and thank her. This is our last real chance to secure an army.”

“What if it’s cow shit?” Ridoc asks. “That’s considerably heavier.”

“No complaining,” Drake snaps from the left.

“Fuck, it’s like traveling with my parents,” Ridoc mutters.

“What are you thinking?” I ask Xaden as the table is set on the field about twenty feet in front of the crowd.

“They’d better have an army worth handling cow shit for.” His gaze continuously moves over the area. “And I’m not a fan of it being two thousand to eleven, even with dragonfire at our back.”

“Agreed. Let’s get this over with.”

“Excellent idea. I’d like to find lunch,” Tairn says.

Three of the furniture carriers scatter, leaving Calixta facing us in the chair behind the table and two men off to her right. The closest holds the cone.

“Stop,” Calixta says, holding out her hand when we’re about six feet from the edge of the table.

We stop.

I wave a bug out of my face and glance up at the sky, hoping for some form of approaching cloud cover to shade us from the heat, but there’s none to be found. Guess Zihnal has decided we’ll bake in our leathers while we wait.

Calixta reaches into the canvas bag, then pulls out a stack of cards as thick as the width of my forearm. They’re the size of my face and have a bright-orange pattern on their backs. “Each card represents a gift,” she says, mixing them with a skill that speaks to practice.

The closest man translates for the crowd, his voice booming through the cone, and the taller one to his right signs.

Calixta spreads the cards face down in a long arc across the table. “You will pull the card Zihnal inspires you to choose and receive your gift.”

The men translate, and the crowd murmurs in anticipation.

“There’s no way two thousand people gather to watch us open presents.” My stomach turns at the looks of rapt fascination among the crowd.

“Don’t pick the shit card,” Xaden replies.

“Step forward and choose.” Calixta points to Mira.

Every muscle in my body tenses and a wave of dizziness makes me brace my feet apart. Not right now, I beg my body.

Mira walks to the right edge of the table and plucks a card without pause.

Calixta takes it and smiles. “Zihnal gifts you wine!” She shows us the painted wine bottle, then rotates it for the crowd as the men translate.

The applause is instant, and a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair runs forward from the left front row carrying a bottle of wine.

“Thank you,” Mira says as the woman hands it to her, and Calixta translates.

The woman bows her head, and Mira mirrors the gesture before turning toward me.

“I’m going to fucking need this,” she says with a fake smile, then falls back into line as the woman hurries to her seat.

One by one, Calixta calls us forward, moving down the line.

Maren receives two orange tunics from a short, smiling man with a shiny bald head.

Dain’s card reveals a hand, and when he offers his to the woman who walks over to him, she slaps him across the face so hard his head turns in our direction.

I swallow my gasp and force a blank expression onto my face when I catch Calixta glancing my way. Message received: we can’t complain about anyone else’s gifts, either.

Dain blinks twice, then thanks the woman and inclines his head.

Ridoc barely stifles a snort, but quickly schools his features when I glance sideways at him.

“Do not laugh,” I warn Xaden, fighting off another tide of dizziness.

“I’m more worried about the implications of that hit,” he answers without losing his professionally bored expression. “And a little jealous of the woman who delivered it.”

Garrick is given a rusted steel bucket.

Aaric receives a fractured hand mirror that immediately cuts his thumb when the man hands it to him top first.

My heart pounds like I’m on the mat as Xaden chooses his card.

He’s given an empty glass box the size of his foot, with pewter hinges and edges. “Better than getting slapped.”

A smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t calm my racing heart as I step forward. I choose a card on the far left end of the arch, then hold my breath as I hand it to Calixta.

“The compass!” she announces and the men translate.

A tall man with bronzed skin and short black hair comes forward from the right, and I turn to face him. His dark eyes study me for a moment that quickly becomes awkward.

I lift my chin and his mouth tilts into a smirk as he nods subtly, as though finding my reaction worthy. Extending his hand silently, he offers me a black compass on a dark chain. I glance down as I take it and notice that the needle doesn’t point anywhere near north. It’s broken.

Now I understand the smirk.

“Thank you,” I tell him and bow my head.

“Use it wisely,” he replies, his eyes blatantly mocking me as he bows.

“Broken compass,” I tell Xaden as I fall back into line.

“You can put it in my box of nothingness,” he replies. “We’ll keep them on the bedside table.”

“I’m not carrying this thing home.” But for now, I lift the chain over my head.

“It’s bad luck to throw away a gift from Zihnal,” Xaden lectures as Ridoc heads to the table.

Ridoc draws a card with a painted pair of lips, and the crowd cheers.

The way this is going, I half expect the lanky blond man approaching Ridoc to hand him a tin of lip rouge, or maybe a pair of lips that’s been sliced off a dead cow. Instead, the man clasps both sides of Ridoc’s face, then smacks a loud kiss onto each of his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Ridoc says, and the two bow, then part. He lifts his brows at me before taking his place in line.

Cat is given a gold necklace with a dangling ruby the size of my thumb.

Drake draws next.

“The claw!” Calixta announces, holding the painted symbol high, and the crowd cheers when the men translate.

My heart jumps into my throat as a bear of a man marches forward from the right, huge fists swinging by his sides.

Drake doesn’t flinch.

I ready myself for the punch that’s inevitably coming and wonder if the man’s nails have been filed into sharp points.

He stops in front of Drake, then reaches into the front pocket of his tunic.

And takes out a mewling kitten.

Drake receives the orange tabby with both hands, then thanks him and bows.

“What the fuck are we going to do with that thing for the rest of the trip?” Xaden questions.

“Keep Andarna from eating it.” A bead of sweat drips down the side of my face, and I wobble as my head starts to swim, but I keep upright.

“Dizzy?” Xaden asks, sidestepping so my shoulder rests against his arm.

“I could use some sleep like everyone else,” I answer but lean a little on him.

Trager draws a card from the center and hands it to Calixta.

“The arrow!” She holds it high, revealing a painted arrow, then turns it to the audience. The men translate, and the crowd falls silent.

Trager staggers backward. Time slows to a crawl as he turns toward us with three fumbling footsteps. His gaze lurches for Cat, and then he falls to his knees and sways.

An arrow protrudes from his heart.

He’s dead before Ridoc and I can catch him.

Sometimes the best gift the god of luck can give is his absence.

—Zehyllna: Isle of Zihnal by Major Asher Sorrengail

No. No. NO.

I stare down at Trager’s unseeing eyes as Ridoc and I lower him to his back, and a muffled sound comes from the left.

Ridoc’s chest heaves and his fingers tremble as he presses them to the side of Trager’s throat. He looks over at me and shakes his head, telling me what I already knew.

“No!” I shriek, but nothing works past my throat.

“Do not react!” Xaden’s wingleader voice barrels through the roaring in my head, and his hands grip my shoulders.

Ridoc’s eyes flutter shut and he bows his head as I’m lifted to my feet.

Trager’s dead. It’s my mission. My responsibility. My fault.

“Focus on me,” Xaden orders, turning me in his arms. “You react, and he will have died in vain.”

My head swims, and the world slows again, my thoughts drowned out by the sound of my racing heart. It pounds against my ribs and beats in my ears as I look right.

Drake’s arms bulge as he holds Cat back, his hand covering her mouth.

That muffled sound.

It’s her screaming.

Drake’s face crumples for the length of a heartbeat as he whispers in her ear.

Her feet stop kicking, and she sags against his chest.

Garrick sets Ridoc back in formation, his stunned gaze locked on the ground. No, not the ground. Trager’s body. Garrick’s hands steady Ridoc’s shoulders for another couple of heartbeats before he leaves him to stand on his own in front of the silent, waiting crowd.

“Violence,” Xaden demands.

My focus drifts toward him, but it catches as I look past Ridoc and across the field. Every dragon holds their head lowered and aimed in our direction, but the gryphons are all facing inward—toward Silaraine.

She stumbles forward with her neck arched, her silver feathers shining in the sun. Three steps. Four. Five.

Kiralair follows, then moves to Sila’s side, shouldering some of the gryphon’s weight. Sila strains for one more step, like she can reach Trager if she just tries hard enough. But her ankles give, then her shoulders, and she collapses, her beak sliding down Kira’s side before her head slams into the ground.

My eyes sting, and my fingernails bite into my clammy palms as the gryphons slowly turn to face the crowd, their eyes all narrowing in time with our dragons’.

Andarna roars down the bond in a tidal wave of grief and rage that rattles my soul.

“She is gone,” Tairn says, and Kira extends a wing over Sila’s body.

Something wet tracks down the left side of my face.

“VIOLET!” Xaden shouts, and his voice cuts through the haze. “I can’t do this for you. I wish I could, but they know you’re in command.”

In command. I’ve never hated those words more.

I suck in one full breath, then another, and the world spins back to normal speed. Wrath stiffens my spine, and I cut off the part of me that cries for Trager and Sila, leaving only the weapon Basgiath forged me to be. But it’s not my blade the situation calls for.

Fighting would be too easy. Killing them all for what they’ve done would be a fitting punishment.

The relentless sun beats into my leathers as I step out of Xaden’s grasp and turn slowly toward the crowd. I look past Aaric and his clenched, bleeding fists, past Garrick as he moves back into formation near the bucket, and find Mira staring at me. Her eyes say what her mouth can’t.

Handle this. Even with her arm wrapped around Maren, holding the flier upright, she’s never looked more like our mother.

And our mother died so we’d have a chance to fight this war. If we fail here, we lose the army they offer. If I fail, we will have lost another squadmate, another year-mate for nothing.

With a nod, I square my shoulders and face Calixta, finding the archer at her side.

I take the two steps that bring me to Trager’s body and lock eyes with the weathered man who took his and Sila’s lives. The weight of the crowd’s silent stares only serves to harden my resolve as I lift my chin before bowing my head.

And expel another piece of my humanity.

“Thank you.”

Fuck them.

• • •

Eight hours later, Mira, Xaden, Aaric, and I return to the moonlit field where the rest of our squad waits with Trager’s and Sila’s bodies. A straggling group of onlookers still sits in the stands, drinking and celebrating.

Tairn opens one golden eye as I approach, then closes it, falling back asleep with Sgaeyl’s head resting on his back. Andarna is passed out close enough to feel secure, but a wing’s length farther away than when she was a juvenile.

Every gryphon and dragon but Cath sleeps, and the red flicks his swordtail as if to remind any onlookers who lurk in the stands that he’s on watch. I can’t blame them for their exhaustion. They’ve basically flown from Unnbriel without a break, and they swept over this isle today, looking for Andarna’s kind while we negotiated.

And the irids aren’t here. They aren’t fucking anywhere. Fire burns in my stomach, and for the first time, I allow myself to consider what happens if we don’t find them. Andarna will be crushed. Melgren will be furious. Aetos will throw us all into a cell for dereliction of duty.

We could lose the war to the dark wielders.

I refuse to let that happen.

“At least we’re already in with the enemy,” Tairn grumbles.

“Go back to sleep.”

Xaden isn’t the enemy. He’s been infected by it.

We find Cat sitting against Kira’s side, her head on Maren’s shoulder, and the others hovering nearby. Everyone’s gazes turn our way as we join them.

“Is it done?” Drake asks.

“It’s done,” Mira answers. “Aaric agreed to terms, which were oddly favorable to us. They’ll send an advance party within the next couple of months and the rest of their troops whenever we’re ready to receive all forty thousand of them.”

Drake nods and looks Cat’s way. “We’ll be able to man thousands of cross-bolts, drive wyvern to the ground for a waiting infantry, increase patrols—”

“I get it,” Cat interrupts without lifting her gaze.

She’s better than I am, because I don’t.

“Did you all eat?” I ask Ridoc.

He nods. “They brought us food and offered us beds in town, but…” His gaze darts left, to where Sila and Trager lie.

“Good choice,” Xaden says, his hand resting on the small of my back.

“We have to bury him,” Maren says, and her jaw trembles for a second. “And burn her. Gryphons…they prefer to be burned.”

“We should burn him, too.” Cat’s voice is flat, her eyes vacant. “He would want to be with her.” She blinks, then looks up at us. “Not here. No part of them remains here.”

“Understood.” I nod, my ribs threatening to crush the air from my lungs. I owe her whatever she wants. Maren, too. And Neve, and Bragen, and Kai and… A boulder wedges itself in my throat. I’ll have to tell Rhi I lost Trager when she’s worked so hard to keep us all alive.

“So we take them south to Loysam in the morning?” Dain asks, standing with his arms crossed next to Garrick. “The riot won’t make it past the coast if they don’t get some rest tonight.”

“Not there, either. We can’t trust anyone not to dig up whatever’s left of her bones out of morbid curiosity.” Cat shakes her head. “There are dozens of uninhabited minor isles within a day’s flight north. Pick one.”

“Cat, that’s going to deviate us from the charted—” Drake starts.

“Fucking pick one,” Cat snaps. “We can get back to all the good this”—she gestures around us—“is doing us after we burn them. I think they’re worth losing a few days off the schedule.”

Sova’s head rises to the right, and he clicks his beak. Drake looks in his direction, then nods. “Fine by me.”

“Will that mess too much up?” Maren asks me quietly, as if Cat isn’t right next to her.

“No.” I shake my head. “We can split up after they’re given to Malek and search the minor isles three times as fast. Most will only need a flyover.” I look Cat in the eye. “Then when you’re ready, we’ll depart for Loysam.”

She nods. “It’s kind of our last chance, isn’t it? We’re running out of isles.”

I ignore the insidious kernel of truth her words shove in my face and straighten my spine. “That means we have to be close. The minor isles and Loysam border the edge of every map we have.” The prospect of complete failure at such a steep cost is too heavy to swallow.

The group in the stands begins singing like they’re in a damned tavern, like today’s festivities are cause for celebration.

“Great, then we’ll get to go home…if it’s still there.” Cat draws her knees to her chest and glares over at the stands. “We’re sleeping out here tonight.”

Everyone agrees.

“Cat, I’m so sorry—” I start.

“Don’t be.” She lays her head back on Maren’s shoulder. “I’m the one who asked him to come.”

A half hour later, beds are laid out within feet of one another inside the circle the dragons form, and watches are assigned. I can’t remember ever being this tired before. The bone-weary exhaustion goes beyond fatigue, and my body is suffering for it. The dizzy flares, the screaming aches in every joint, the pain in my ribs, the urge to scratch out my stitches, and the knots in my muscles from trying to hold myself together are all getting worse by the day.

But it’s my mind that fights me the hardest as I stare up at the stars from my back, reminding me of everything we have on the line and every way in which I’m failing. Mira called this a fool’s errand, and maybe she was right.

Xaden pulls a light blanket over us as he lies at my side, then drapes his arm over my stomach. “We have six hours before third watch. Try and rest.”

I turn onto my right shoulder, protecting my ribs, then lay my head on his biceps and look up at him. “I froze today.” The admission is a whisper in my mind.

His brow knits and he splays his hand over my hip. “He was your year-mate. You didn’t freeze; you went into shock. It’s understandable and why we travel as a squad.”

“Don’t be nice just because you love me.” I rest my hand on the thin fabric of his undershirt, right over his heart. Except for our boots, we’re still dressed and ready to fly at a moment’s notice if need be. “This is my mission. Trager and Sila are dead. Cat’s heartbroken. And I froze.”

“Everyone in leadership loses someone under their command.” He strokes his hand absentmindedly up over my waist. “You pulled yourself together and completed the mission.”

“At the cost of their lives.” My chest constricts, fighting to contain the full confession that I can only give to him. “I’m not meant to lead. Mira should be in charge, or even Drake. If they won’t, then you.”

“Because my judgment is dependable right now?” He huffs a sarcastic sigh. “The best leaders are the ones who never want the job. This is your mission because Andarna chose you. Tairn chose you.” His hand rises to my face. “What they never tell us in the quadrant is that rank is well and good, but you and I both know that the moment we fly onto the battlefield, it isn’t the humans giving commands. I hate to break it to you, but you were selected by a general among dragons. You can choose to step into leadership, or he can drag you. Either way, you’re going to end up in front.”

My heart starts to race as his words pierce a shield of denial I wasn’t even aware I’d been hiding behind, exposing a truth so blatantly obvious I feel foolish for not having seen it before. Tairn will always lead, and I will always be his rider.

Codagh speaks through Melgren, not the other way around.

“Then Tairn chose poorly.” The lump in my throat grows, and I’m torn between the pathetic instinct to wallow in self-pity and the opposing yet growing urge to channel a power greater than Tairn’s—anger.

“Say that to him when he’s awake and see how it goes for you.” Xaden brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “I’ve seen the moments you don’t just rise to the occasion—you own it. Deverelli. Unnbriel. You poisoned the entire triumvirate of Hedotis, for fuck’s sake. Imagine who you’ll become when you finally learn to not just embrace that confidence but live it.”

“You?” I force a smile.

“Better than me.” His thumb grazes my lower lip. “You have to be. You promised to help me protect Tyrrendor, remember?”

“I remember.” I nod. “I meant it. I’ll stand by your side.” Exhaustion slows my breath and weights my eyelids. “And between Andarna’s kind and the research we’re compiling about dark wielders, we’ll cure you.” My eyes give in, sliding shut.

“There is no cure for me.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s why you have to become better than me. There’s only you.”

Conscription rates are hereby doubled for each province until further notice.

—Public Notice 634.23 Transcribed by Percival Fitzgibbons

We fly northwest at dawn.

Aotrom clutches Trager’s body in his foreclaw.

Tairn carries Sila.

The ocean turns the blackest shade of blue I’ve ever seen as we soar over deep waters, leaving the safety of the trade routes and the major isles behind in hopes the map has been drawn correctly.

When night falls and the ocean only reveals the reflection of the moon, fear sours my belly. If we’ve erred, the dragons will be able to turn around and fly for Zehyllna, but the gryphons won’t make it.

There’s every chance that choosing to bury Trager and Sila on a minor isle will cause us to bury the others unless they consent to being carried.

By the middle of the night, I’m ready to give up and order our return when Tairn spots land.

Thank you, Amari.

Not sure I’ll ever pray to Zihnal again.

The perimeter sweep of the tiny isle and its one, hollow-tipped peak takes approximately ten minutes, and after we’re sure it’s uninhabited, we land on a northern beach nearly as wide as Tairn’s wingspan.

It could be a trick of the moonlight, but I’m pretty sure the sand is black.

Power ripples through me and energy crackles along my skin with about half the intensity that it does in Navarre.

We’ve found magic. And more than there was on Zehyllna, too.

The group seeks out fresh water from a nearby stream that runs through the beach, ensure the riot is hydrated, then make quick work of gathering wood from the edges of the jungle.

Sweat drips down the back of my neck as we carry load after load to the high point of the wide beach, halfway between the tide line and the forest behind us.

Once the pyre is built, we stand shoulder to shoulder, our backs to the jungle as Aotrom lowers his head and sets the wood ablaze. The fire lights up the night, and heat washes over my face.

Maren’s shoulders shake, and Cat hooks her arm through her best friend’s as she stares into the flames.

My throat tightens at the pain in their faces, and Xaden laces our fingers.

“Silaraine and Trager Karis,” Drake says from the left, his voice booming over the roar of the bright fire and the crashing ocean waves behind it. “With honor, love, and gratitude, we commend your souls to Malek.”

And so it’s done.

We make camp close to the stream, and the fliers take turns keeping watch over the fire through the night. By morning, the flames rise no higher than a few inches.

I fill waterskins at the stream with Ridoc, and when we walk back to camp, we find the others in a somber discussion.

“I think we’re off course,” Drake says, fighting to hold the map with one hand and the squirmy kitten in the other. The paper’s been folded so many times, holes have worn through the corners.

“Give me that.” To my surprise, Mira takes the kitten, not the map, cradling it against her chest with one hand.

“Her name is Broccoli, not that,” he mutters.

She looks at him like he’s sprouted whiskers. “You named a kitten Broccoli?”

“No one really wants broccoli, but it’s good for you, so seems fitting to me.” He shrugs. “Now, that’s clearly remnants of an old volcano”—he gestures to the peak high above us—“and the first marker for any such formation is here.” His finger swipes over the detailed painting of a small archipelago on the northeast side of the minor isles.

I start comparing landmarks.

“We didn’t fly that far,” Xaden notes, folding his arms across his chest and studying the map.

“Why not Carrots?” Mira asks, scratching under the kitten’s chin. “She’s orange.”

“Just to frustrate you, Sorrengail,” Drake answers, glancing up from the map.

She scoffs. “I’d guess we’re somewhere around here”—Mira taps an area of open ocean farther south—“and the map just doesn’t show it. We haven’t exactly been sending cartographers out this far.”

“I can see another isle from the edge of the point.” Aaric nods up the beach. “Molvic can make out two past it.”

“Tairn?” I ask down our singular bond, letting Andarna sleep. She’s utterly exhausted, and her wing trembled more than usual on the flight here.

“We are at the southern tip of an island chain of volcanic formations,” he answers from high above us. “It does not match anything on the map, though there is another mass of land an hour’s flight due west with what appears to be sizable cliffs.”

I squeeze in next to Mira and examine the map, then locate the isle fitting Tairn’s description, noting the mapmaker’s symbol for cliffs. Then I track east with my finger and find only open water. “Pretty sure we’re here, from what Tairn can see.” I lift my head and look past Maren’s shoulder out over the open water. “I’m guessing there are hundreds of islands out this way, not just the couple dozen the mapmakers recorded.”

“And you think we should search them all?” Drake asks, incredulity puckering his forehead.

I look to Mira, but she just shrugs. “Not my call.”

Xaden watches me just like he did last year, like he knows the answer but wants me to find it on my own.

“As many as we can today.” I straighten my shoulders, and his mouth twitches upward. “We break into five groups. Maren and Cat take the unmapped islands to the north. Drake and Dain take this quadrant.” I point to the nearest isles to our west, taking the gryphons’ exhaustion into account. “Aaric and Mira, you go here; Xaden and Garrick, you take these; and Ridoc and I will take this section.” I drag my finger to an eastern chain about two hours away. When I look up, everyone is staring at me. “What? I kept the gryphons close and paired dragons with similar flight strengths”—my gaze finds Xaden’s, and he’s not amused with my group pairings—“except for ours. Tairn and Sgaeyl have the best chance of staying in contact when separated if the rest of these islands have the same level of magic. It’s better for the group if they split for the day.”

He arches his scarred brow.

“Just you and me today, honey bear.” Garrick swings his arm over Xaden’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he leans in and whispers. “I’ll take good care of you.” He flashes a dimple.

“Sun should set a little after six, which gives us nine hours.” I nod, pretty damned satisfied with this. “Meet back here before nightfall. If we find nothing, we go as a group toward the southeast isles tomorrow, then make the flight to Loysam.” Where we’ll have to resupply.

“Solid plan,” Mira says.

“We can’t go until the fire is out,” Maren says. “No one leaves an offering to Malek unattended.”

Cat shifts her weight restlessly, giving the impression that she needs to be anywhere but here.

“Ridoc and I will stay until it burns out.” I glance back at Andarna. Her breaths are deep and even as she sleeps at the edge of the jungle, her scales a shade blacker than the sand. “That will give Andarna another hour or so to rest. Any other questions? Comments? Concerns?”

“Good to me.” Drake folds the map, and the group breaks apart to ready their packs, leaving Xaden staring at me.

Ridoc glances between us. “I’m going…somewhere else.” He walks off toward the dying fire.

“You can’t tell me to lead and then get pissed at how I do it.” I shrug.

He crosses the distance between us, leans down, and kisses me, hard and quick. “Be back by nightfall, love.”

I grasp for his wrist, keeping him a second longer as I search his eyes. The flecks are still amber. “Are you all right?” I whisper. “There’s magic and no wards.”

“It’s…” He grimaces. “It’s tempting, and I don’t even need it. But I can feel the power beneath my feet, and while I can wield enough to do this—” A whisp of inky black shadow curls up my leg, around my torso, and caresses the side of my face. “It’s hard to know I could be at full strength if I just…” He swallows, and my grip tightens on his wrist. “But I won’t.”

“Not unless something triggers you.” Unease rides the heels of the retreating shadow, sliding down my body and leaving goose bumps in its wake. “That’s the other reason I sent you with Garrick.”

Xaden tenses. “In case I channel?”

I shake my head. “So you don’t. The last time you did, it was because of me. I’m a trigger.”

He flinches. “You’re not a trigger. You’re the only thing I can’t fathom losing. Wielding to protect you has always been an instinct, but now it’s…uncontrollable.”

“I know.” I study the healing cut along his arm, then lift his hand and kiss the center of his palm. “Which is why you’re going with Garrick. He carries serum, too.”

“All right.” He grips my waist. “I mean it when I say you own my soul. You’re the only place I feel completely like me anymore. You’re not a trigger,” he repeats, then steals another kiss and walks away. “See you tonight.”

“Tonight,” I call after him. “I love you.”

Warmth floods the bond in reply.

The teams launch, and Tairn stomps down the beach toward me with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t start with me.” I shake my head as Aotrom barrels past Tairn out to where the water covers his ankles, sprinting with his wings tucked tight. “She’ll be back tonight.”

“I’ll say the same when you’ve been unable to communicate with your mate for weeks and are then deprived by choice,” he grumbles, stalking into the woods. Swaying trees mark his passing.

“Humans don’t mate!” I call after him.

“Another sign of your inferiority.” Wood cracks in the distance.

“Curmudgeon,” I mutter, walking toward Ridoc standing at the edge of the water, where the waves don’t quite reach his boots.

“I heard that.”

Aotrom skids to a halt ten feet from Ridoc, driving his snout into the shallows and creating a wave that rushes up the beach and over Ridoc’s shins.

“Why are you such a dick?” Ridoc flings his arms out sideways. “I brought one pair of boots—”

I halt in front of where Andarna sleeps along the tree line. Like hell am I getting near the water. Not when Xaden already wrapped my ribs today.

Aotrom lifts his head, then sprays water through his teeth, completely soaking Ridoc from the tips of his hair to the toes of his boots.

Yikes. I cross my feet and sit, resting my back against Andarna’s shoulder.

“Not fair!” Ridoc wipes the drops from his eyes as Aotrom walks from the water up the beach and disappears into the woods. “I’m still winning. That doesn’t count!” he calls after his dragon. A pause, and he yells, “Because we’re on a mission!”

He shakes his head and slogs toward me, his boots squishing with every step.

“Do I even want to know?”

“He’s getting me back because I won the last round.” He flashes a grin. “I bought enough itching powder to fill a bucket, then dropped it between his scales on the back of his neck right after flight maneuvers a few weeks ago. He had to submerge his entire body in the river to avoid everyone in the Vale knowing I’d gotten the best of him.”

“You guys are weird.” I am suddenly very content with having bonded a grumpy old man, though I can’t say what Andarna will be like in twenty years.

“Are we?” Ridoc tugs at the laces of his boots. “Or are the rest of you the weird ones?” He shrugs, yanking off his boots and setting them in the sand in front of Andarna. “Hopefully they dry out a little before we need to go. I’m going to get some fresh clothes on.” He heads toward camp, then grabs his pack and walks into the woods.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I whisper to my sleeping dragon, laying my head back against her sun-warmed scales and closing my eyes.

The ground shudders.

“I swear to Amari, Tairn, if you spray me down with water—” The ground shudders again and again, and my eyes fly open.

Sand jumps. Water sprays. And in front of us lie fresh dragon tracks.

But neither Tairn nor Aotrom is here.

Apprehension climbs my spine and I rise slowly, favoring my ribs. I draw a dagger with my left hand, then turn my right palm skyward and open myself to Tairn’s power. It seeps into my veins and hums along my skin as I sidestep around Andarna’s shoulder to position myself in front of her neck, where she’s most vulnerable.

Heat gusts against my face, and the scent of sulfur permeates the air.

“Tairn?” I swing my gaze along the beach, but there’s nothing there, just the shimmer of the morning sun on the waves.

“I am busy with curmudgeonly things.”

The sand ten feet in front of me moves, forming a series of furrows like the beach is splitting.

Like talons are flexing.

“TAIRN!” My heart jumps to a gallop as the air before me shimmers, then solidifies into gleaming sky-blue scales between two enormous nostrils.

“Hold fast!” Tairn demands. “I’m coming!”

The dragon before me inhales, then draws back, giving me a full view of pointed teeth before they tilt their head and narrow their golden eyes. Andarna rustles from her sleep, and motion at the edges of my vision makes me glance in both directions—then stare.

Six dragons of varying scale tones fill the beach, and all of them rival the size of Sgaeyl. Their massive claws dig into the sand as they lower their heads one by one.

My breath falters.

We didn’t find the irids; they found us.

We did it. They’re here.

Steam gusts across my face, and my stomach clenches. They’re here and really close with really big teeth.

The one directly in front of us flares their nostrils, and a sound like a slide whistle fills my head, pitching from low to painfully high in less than a heartbeat.

“Hello, human.”

What we know about dragonkind is nothing compared to what we don’t.

—Colonel Kaori’s Field Guide to Dragonkind