Some combat signets are fearsome, but any rider can be brought low by two things: lack of a shield…or a group effort. Never give the enemy the advantage of surrounding you.
—Gryphons of Poromiel, a Study in Combat by Major Garion Savoy
By the time it’s our squad’s turn to descend the stone steps of the Infantry Quadrant’s outdoor amphitheater on Friday, it’s been another four days since I’ve seen Xaden, and he keeps his shields up so frequently that we may as well just start writing letters again.
Carved into a northern ridgeline just west of the Infantry Quadrant, the half-dome arena is more fighting pit than lecture hall. It’s capable of seating all thousand-plus infantry cadets, but this afternoon the magically warmed space only holds our squad, Caroline Ashton’s from First Wing, and the devastatingly beautiful man standing in the middle of the flat base of the amphitheater, impatience carved on every line of his face. I’ve always loved him in uniform, but there’s something about seeing him in tight-fitted sparring gear, swords strapped across his back, that makes me instantly wish this was a private teaching session.
“This is incredible,” Sloane says ahead of me. “The snow is piled up along the edges, but it feels like summer in here.”
“Weather ward?” Lynx guesses, ruffling the melting snow off his short black hair.
“I’d guess there’s a little more to it than that.” Given the way the magic pulled at me like a sticky piece of toffee while walking through, I’m sure weather isn’t the only thing we’re keeping out.
Shadows brush against my shields as I strip out of my winter flight jacket midway down the steps, and I crack open just enough of my defenses to let Xaden in.
“I’ve missed you.” His gaze devours me, but he does a good job of quickly looking away.
“Same.” I lay my jacket on the first row of stone seats beside my classmates, leaving me in traditional sparring gear. “Is this where you’ve been hiding out?”
“Welcome to your first session of Signet Sparring, in what I like to call the pit,” he announces as we reach the base of the steps. The floor is laid in an arched cobblestone pattern of various shades, but only five or so feet are visible before the mat begins. “Those who can wield, keep your feet on the rock but—and I cannot stress this enough—off the mat. Those who cannot, take a seat in the first row.” He gestures to the terraced stone behind us, and cadets move. “If by hiding out, you mean constructing incredibly complex wards that might make even your sister proud, then yes. And it’s not like you’ve been accessible. Bodhi says you’re either reading with Andarna as a backrest or wielding alone in the range.”
An hour a day, that’s what I’ve promised myself. No matter how cold it is or how tired I am, I’m on the ridgeline with Tairn, practicing smaller, more concise strikes until my arms feel like jelly.
“I spend a lot of time in the library, too.” I roll my shoulders, then take my place between Ridoc and Rhiannon, keeping two rows back from the mat as I secure the strap of the conduit through the loop on the left side of my waist. “Quest squad may be headed north, but I’m still reading everything I can find on Deverelli, which isn’t nearly enough.” And the tomes on dark wielders both Queen Maraya and Tecarus have sent, though there’s been no hint of a cure or mention of a dragon ever torching a venin like Andarna did. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t spend all my nighttime hours with Xaden, or I wouldn’t be flying through books like I am.
“Let’s go. It shouldn’t be this hard to sort yourselves out.” His gaze wanders to mine. “Quest squad?”
“Ridoc gave it a nickname and it stuck.” I shrug as the other squad fills in to the right of our third-years, standing in our mirror image, oldest at the center of the arc. “Aetos leaves for his trip to Calldyr soon, so we’ve been preparing to get into my parents’—” I wince. “His quarters.”
“Need my help?” He scans over our line, no doubt assessing strengths and weaknesses.
“No, but I’ll let you know if that changes.” I bend my left knee, testing to be sure the wrap is still in place. Doesn’t matter how often Brennan mends me, that particular joint never stays healed for long. “Any chance you can sneak away to Chantara this weekend? We’re dragging Sawyer out.”
“I hope you have a great time, but watching you across the pub sounds like torture.” His jaw ticks. “I think we had more time together when I was stationed at Samara.”
“Agreed, but you’re safe here.” I take stock of who we have on the floor. On Rhiannon’s right, Bragen and Neve—the third-year fliers—stand with Imogen and Quinn, and to Ridoc’s left are Trager, Cat, Maren, Baylor, Avalynn, Sloane, and Kai. Aaric and Lynx are seated behind us, and it catches me off guard to realize that all four of the first-years in the First Wing squad are sitting, too.
Dragons are taking their time when it comes to channeling.
“Safe is starting to feel overrated.” He looks toward First Wing. “You done gossiping among yourselves?”
“We were just saying that we’re not sure someone who graduated less than a year ago makes the best teacher.” Loran Yashil folds his arms. The cocky third-year with bright-purple locs is one of the best fighters in their wing.
“Oh shit,” Rhiannon whispers.
A corner of my lips rises. They’ve earned whatever Xaden is about to dish out.
“Let’s see if you can take me down and settle that worry right now.” Xaden crooks his fingers. “You’re a metallurgist, right?”
My heart twinges. “Sawyer should be here, too,” I whisper to Rhi.
“Yeah, well, everything I’ve tried to convince him has failed.” Her mouth tenses.
Shit. “You’re doing your best. I didn’t mean—”
Her shoulders dip. “I know.”
“Metallurgist.” Loran nods. “So these are nice and sharp.” He walks onto the mat, drawing the sword from his hip and a dagger from his waist.
“Good for you.” Xaden claps twice but keeps his feet planted apart on the mat. “I hope they help.”
Loran lifts his sword and circles Xaden to the left. “Are you going to draw a weapon?”
“We’ll see.” Xaden shrugs, his eyes tracking Loran’s movements. “Now do us both a favor and don’t hold back. Begin.”
Loran charges, and my ribs tighten like a vise around my lungs.
Xaden doesn’t move.
Loran runs until he’s three feet from Xaden, then thrusts his sword forward, keeping his dagger tucked at his side.
My breath catches as Xaden lets the blade come within inches of his chest, then sidesteps and slams his left fist on top of Loran’s wrist. Loran shouts as the sword falls, but he’s already pivoting toward Xaden before the blade hits the mat, his left arm swinging in an arc that’s aimed at slicing open Xaden’s jugular.
Xaden grabs hold of Loran’s forearm and spins, yanking the appendage behind Loran’s back and driving his elbow upward until Loran cries out in painful frustration. Then he plucks the dagger from Loran’s hand and releases him with a shove forward.
“The fucking nerve on that one,” Ridoc mutters, shaking his head. “If he’d waited a second later…”
But he didn’t, because he knew exactly what Loran intended.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I’ve always loved watching you on the mat.”
“I know.” Xaden rolls his neck. “I’ve used it to my advantage a few times.”
Of course he has.
Loran stumbles but, to his credit, immediately turns to face Xaden again.
Xaden flicks the dagger, and it lodges in the mat between Loran’s feet. “You threw too much energy into the charge. Using brute force instead of finesse is a first-year tactic.” He cocks his head to the side and studies Loran with a look that’s almost bored. “Now that we’ve proven I’m capable of kicking your ass without breaking a sweat or holding steel, what do you say we get to the point of the class and wield?” Xaden lifts his arms at a ninety-degree angle, palms up.
Loran swallows and keeps both eyes on Xaden as he retrieves his weapons.
“Begin,” Xaden orders.
Loran shifts his weight, and there’s a definite sheen of panic in his eyes as he circles Xaden again. To my utter consternation, the man I love doesn’t even look as Loran creeps around his back. No, instead of following his opponent’s moves, Xaden looks my way and fucking winks as Loran attacks from behind, the sword transforming, lengthening as he strikes.
In fact, he holds my gaze unflinchingly until Loran raises his blade a few feet from his neck.
Then Xaden glances down at his left, where the blade’s shadow stretches past his boot, elongated by the afternoon sun, and lifts a single finger.
The shadow rushes back on Loran and within a heartbeat wraps around his throat and arm.
Xaden steps to the side as Loran falls to his knees in the very space Xaden had stood, and the sword falls, too, abandoned as Loran grabs for the shadows tightening around his throat. His face blotches, and the other squad starts to shift uncomfortably before Xaden drops his hands.
The shadow falls back into position, and Loran gasps for air.
“I’m either completely in love with your boyfriend or utterly terrified of him,” Ridoc says under his breath. “Not sure at the moment.”
“Both,” Cat answers from his left. “You can be both. Trust me.”
“You shouldn’t be either,” Trager mutters.
Ridoc glances my way and rolls his eyes.
I bite back my smile. “I’m never scared of him.” Xaden’s eyes find mine, and my pulse skips. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
Rhi snorts and Ridoc offers me a sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Agreed,” Xaden says. “That’s far too casual a term for what we are.” His gaze drops to Loran, who’s still heaving for breath on the mat. “Get up.”
Loran staggers to his feet and runs his hand over the purple bruise forming on his throat.
“I have two swords and four daggers strapped to me,” Xaden tells him. “And you didn’t think to heat them? Twist them? Manipulate them in any way?”
“I used my sword—” Loran starts.
“Foolish choice. Get back to your squad.” Xaden dismisses him, and Loran retrieves his weapons before retreating. “I’m sure you all noticed the weather ward we have in place to keep you nice and comfortable for these first few lessons, but what you don’t see is that the area of the mat has been protected by the best ward-weavers in Navarre.”
He flares his hands and shadows run from his feet, expanding in every direction in a cloud of darkness that flies toward us, only to slam against an invisible barrier and flow upward. They withdraw with unnerving speed, clearing the air in front of us in a matter of heartbeats.
“With only a couple of exceptions”—he glances my way—“whatever you wield will stay between the opponents on the mat, and I’m assured your signets will not leave the amphitheater or endanger the campus, so when I tell you not to hold back, I mean it, because the venin won’t. Next?”
One by one, he sets just about everyone on their ass.
They put a fire wielder against him, and he dodges the flame, her own shadows taking her out at the knees with a flick of his wrist.
Quinn steps up and creates two versions of herself, and when shadows tug her feet from under her, the real Quinn falls and the projection dissipates.
Rhiannon has her own blade plucked from her grasp and lifted to her throat by a wisp of shadow.
Caroline barely gets her hands up before Xaden knocks her backward with a stream of shadow that propels her across the mat and forces her onto the stone.
Neve steps onto the mat gripping her daggers, then uses lesser magic to levitate them.
“Now that’s fun,” Xaden says with a grin as they race toward him, only to be grasped by shadow and returned with their tips poised to strike above her collarbones.
She puts up her hands, and the shadows fall, dropping the blades to the mat.
“Point made?” Xaden asks as Neve retrieves her blades and steps back into line. “I never need to draw a sword because I am the weapon. I’m just good with blades for the fun of it.”
“No,” Loran says, his voice still hoarse. “You handing everyone their ass on the mat isn’t anything new from last year.”
“Correct.” Xaden lifts a scarred brow. “Up until now, when we spar or challenge, our priority has been to beat our opponent at all costs. That means we train in private, we find an edge—” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Like poisoning our opponents.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “And we keep our tactics secret because we need that edge on the mat. The difference between my position as a cadet last year, even as a wingleader, and now is that as your teacher, I want to give you my edge. I want you to learn, not just from me but from one another. I’ll help expose the weaknesses in your signet so that when you come up against a dark wielder with such a power, you will have already practiced how to defeat them. Each of you has something to learn, and I’m here to keep you safe while you do it.”
“And what about the ones who can’t wield signets?” Caroline asks. “They’re just the practice dummies?”
Cat scoffs. “We’re far from helpless.” She turns a withering glare on Caroline. “You can try your water wielding on me, but I’ll already be in your head, turning your own emotions against you.”
“She’s good at it, too,” I admit, shifting the majority of my weight to my right leg.
“You’ll find that mindwork can be just as deadly,” Xaden agrees. “And if you haven’t learned how to shield, I suggest you spend some time with Professor Carr before facing off against a flier or anyone wearing a classified patch.” He glances at Imogen.
“And you’re going to teach us how to defeat you?” Aaric asks from behind us.
A corner of Xaden’s mouth slowly curves upward. “I can teach you to try, but there’s only one person capable of taking me down one day, and it isn’t you, Graycastle.”
My cheeks heat as heads swing my way.
“Let’s get back to it while you have some relative privacy. As of next week, the infantry cadets will be sitting in so they stand half a chance on the battlefield.” Xaden scans the line. “Gamlyn, you’re next.”
Ridoc ends up caged by a set of icicles of his own making.
Sloane retreats from the arena with her hands tied in shadow behind her back after not even trying. I glance at her rebellion relic and wonder if she’s hiding a second signet, too.
Neither Cat nor Maren get close before they’re off the mat and sent stumbling in our direction, but Cat is the only one of the pair who looks momentarily devastated at having failed.
“You’re going to get over him at some point, right?” Trager mutters as Cat falls back in line. “Seems like a waste of time to chase someone who doesn’t want you when there are plenty of people who do.”
Cat’s gaze snaps in his direction, and I lift my brows.
Go Trager.
And then Xaden lifts his brow at me. “No exceptions, Sorrengail.”
“Now this is what I’ve been waiting to see.” Caroline bounces on her toes like a child.
“Do me a favor,” I say to Xaden, unfastening the conduit’s leather strap at my hip and hooking it over my wrist so the orb fits comfortably in my palm. Then I take three steps forward onto the mat and open the door to Tairn’s power with a hell of a smirk. “Don’t let me hurt you.”
