Chapter 1
Rowan
tanding opposite Commandant Ainsley’s desk, I know exactly what she
is about to say. Namely, that I’m a major disappointment to the
kingdom of Eryndor, the Spire Joint Command, and her personally. My
mother is nothing if not predictable. At least when it comes to me.
“Commandant Ainsely,” my mother reads aloud from my latest
assessment. Her voice is clipped, making no effort to mask the frustration
radiating from her. She is in uniform, and exemplifies the kind of strength
and perfection the Eryndor army is known for. “I regret to inform you that
Cadet Rowan Lexington’s performance remains profoundly unsatisfactory,
particularly given her status as a third-year trainee at Spire East Command.
Lexington consistently fails to meet basic physical standards, frequently
falls behind in training exercises, and sustains recurring injuries due to her
apparent lack of coordination and strength. I understand that Cadet
Lexington’s rare alchemical ability is undoubtedly the reason she remains in
the program, but must warn that her performance undermines the rigorous
standards expected of our cadets and poses a liability to her cohort as they
enter their fusion year.”
I study the wall behind the commandant’s shoulder. I wish I could say
the scathing report is untrue, but whichever instructor wrote it hit the
bullseye dead center.
The commandant exhales slowly, her lips pursing together. She is good
at hiding her emotions when she wants to, but makes no effort now. “Do
you care this little for the innocents who live in fear of the next fae attack?
Or perhaps you think that, as the queen’s niece, nothing should be expected
of you? That other people can protect Eryndor while you hide?”
A flash of heat rises to my face. “Of course I care,” I counter. “And as a
descendent of the queen’s bloodline, I have a greater duty than others to
protect Eryndor, not less. I just—” I shut my mouth but it’s too late. The
words are already out and my mother isn’t going to let them go.
“You just what?” she demands.
Fuck it. I might as well say the truth. “I can do alchemy just as well
without an officer’s epaulets as with them.” I hurry on before I lose my
nerve. “My greatest contribution to Eryndor is the auric alloy I make for our
weapons. And that requires a workshop and supplies. No uniform or glory
necessary.”
My mother’s gray eyes flash and she stands abruptly, her chair scraping
against the stone floor. In two strides, she rounds the massive oak desk she
sat behind and closes the distance between us. Suddenly her hand cracks
across my cheek, the sharp sting reverberating through my skull.
“Your alchemy is a gift from the gods, meant to serve the throne and
protect our kingdom,” she seethes, her voice low and dangerous. “Not some
hobby for you to tinker with in a workshop.”
This time, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut and not point out
that I never claimed otherwise. The side of my face throbs and I can taste
blood where my teeth cut into my cheek.
She grabs my chin roughly, forcing me to meet her furious gaze. Her
fingers dig into my flesh. “You are an Ainsley. Your alchemy is proof of our
bloodline’s strength and hope for our plight. So no, Rowan, hiding in a
bloody workshop like some common glass blowing novice is not the same
as standing with our armies in the uniform of a Spire elite.”
Right. Gods forbid an Ainsley fails to get an officer’s commission in
Eryndor’s defense force. I am fairly certain my mother would rather see me
dead than suffer such disgrace.
Releasing me, she returns to her seat and taps her finger on the oak
desk, punctuating the silence between us. I give up the battle with myself
and rub my face while the commandant picks up my file again and flips
through it.
“So,” she says. “Do you care to explain why you are feigning injuries,
Cadet Lexington?” Lexington, not Ainsley. My mother decided that I
should officially be called by my middle name while I’m a Spire cadet a
few years ago, when it first became apparent what a clumsy weakling I was.
I’m only an Ainsley when it suits her narrative. At least for now. Once I
graduate—if I graduate—I’m certain she’ll dub me Ainsley once more and
do her best to help people forget that an awkward girl named Lexington
ever existed in the cadet ranks. The commandant is as good at perception
management as she is in battle.
And she is very good in battle. Highest military honors good.
“Answer me,” she demands.
“I’m not feigning, ma’am.” Hell, I’m only doing as well as I am
because Collin uses his magic to help with the dizzy spells and migraines I
get despite the tonic that’s supposed to keep them at bay.
The commandant slams her hand on the table, making me jump.
“You’ve a clean bill of health from the royal healer.”
As if the royal healer would ever dream of issuing any other document.
The daughter of Commandant Ainsley, the queen’s own niece, cannot be
sickly—after all, how would that reflect on the sovereign virtue doctrine of
our family line? The Eryndor family line is well bred and perfect. My
mother, a war veteran near her fifth decade, even looks perfect. Glowing
auburn hair, flawless skin, an athletic body any thirty year old would kill
for. It doesn’t seem possible that something as strong as her could even
begat someone like me.
Yet here I am. A failing cadet with a stupid body and scarred cheek. The
opposite of perfect.
My only worthwhile contribution to Eryndor’s survival is something I
was born with—a rare alchemic ability to make an alloy that’s deadly to
immortals and the draken they ride. Aside from the wards protecting the
core of Eryndor, alloy-coated weapons and arrows are our only defense
against the relentless assaults.
My fingers dig into my palms. “I don’t feign dizzy spells, ma’am. Why
would I?”
“There is only one reason I can think of,” the commandant says, leaning
forward on her elbows. “Because you are a lazy, self-indulgent brat who
makes herself into a victim to shirk work.”
I swallow.
“You want to know how to run without dizziness? How to fight without
tripping over your own feet? By running more. By sparring more. Eryndor
is at war! The fae from Flurry don’t just want our land, they want to wipe us
from the map. To kill all the humans living here. We survive only if
everyone does their part with discipline and honor.”
I wish I could convince her that my discipline and honor aren’t the
problem—my body is. But I know I can’t. I swallow and wait, staring at a
spot on the wall just over her shoulders. I really should have kept my mouth
shut from the start. Should have known that nothing I could say would
make things better. My mother can’t admit that I’m defective. She truly
thinks physical failings are just a lack of effort.
During my first year at the Spire, she ordered me to the flogging post to
receive four lashes for laziness. The second year, she took a different tact,
dragging me to a recently attacked village to see every shattered body,
starving family, and sobbing orphan left in the wake of a fae assault. To see
first hand all the people I was failing by not trying hard enough. I’m certain
she has something just as delightful planned this year as well.
“Your fusion year is about to start. Do you know what that means,
Lexington?” she says.
That I am one year away from finishing the war college at Spire East
Command, at which point I’ll be done making a fool of myself on obstacle
courses and archery ranges and can happily closet myself in an alchemy
workshop—while wearing pretty officers’ epaulets. “Yes, ma’am. It means
the enchanters will be combined with the elite combat track cadets.”
There is a hint of a gleam in my mother’s eyes as she delivers the next
bit of news. “It means you will be under the command of Kai Grayson, the
cadet in charge on the combat track.”
And there it is. This year’s motivation.
My stomach sinks. I’ve never met the man, but rumors of Grayson’s
possible command have been circulating around the enchanter barracks for
weeks now—along with recounts of his ruthlessness. If whispers are to be
believed—and the satisfaction in my mother’s face says they are—he and
his two friends, Kyrian and Logan, are by far the best fighters in the entire
track. The three of them, nicknamed the triad, break bones first and ask
questions later. Even the instructors do not mess with them. One time,
Grayson put a combat instructor into the infirmary over an argument, took a
dozen lashes for it, then turned around and put a second instructor into an
adjacent bed the same day.
If Grayson is put in charge of the fusion year cadets, it means the triad
will own me. To order me around as they see fit, to punish me as they see
fit. To make my life a living hell.
In my mother’s mind, I bet she imagines that unleashing Grayson on me
will correct my issues.
There is a knock at the door and a sergeant pops his head in. “My
apologies for the interruption, Commandant, but formation is about to be
called.”
Thank the gods for military schedules.
She nods, and waits for the door to close before standing to offer her
final words of wisdom from higher up. “Two bits of advice. One—do not
expect my protection. Two—reconsider whining about fabricated illnesses,
lest Grayson decides to find a novel way of correcting the problem.”
And there it is. Like I said, my mother is anything but unpredictable. At
least when it comes to me.
And that means she knows exactly what to expect from Grayson.
