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.