Never forget that dragon riders have been selected, trained, and even bred for cruelty. Expecting mercy from a rider is a mistake, for none will be given.

—Chapter One: The Tactical Guide to Defeating Dragons by Colonel Elijah Joben

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A few hours later, I’m pretty sure this has been the longest day of my entire life. The gathering hall is less than a quarter full and the perfect place to wait for news, so that’s what the three of us do while Sawyer naps and the first-years tour with the fliers: sit—with our backs to the wall in case some Navarrian rider decides they want to make a point—and wait for Brennan and Mira to bring news.

Xaden hasn’t returned, either.

Not knowing if more venin could be running around campus is terrifying, but at least if there are, Xaden will sense them. The thought is oddly comforting.

“That venin by Jack’s cell had silver hair,” I mutter, setting my dagger to an apple and peeling it in one long ribbon. “That’s weird, right?”

“Everyone’s hair eventually turns gray. That’s the least weird thing about yesterday’s attack. How long are we supposed to wait to see if they charge us with treason?” Ridoc drums his fingers on the thick oak table. “Let’s just go with plan B already before another group of scarily coordinated dark wielders tries to break Barlowe out again.”

“It’s called plan A for a reason. Be patient,” Rhi lectures from Ridoc’s right, skimming through the book of Tyrrish knotwork Xaden gave me back before I knew it was meant to prepare me for runes. “I highly doubt the Treaty of Aretia was written in a matter of hours.”

“The initial phase was thirteen days of negotiation.” I finish peeling the apple as a first-year comes running through the arched double doors, then set my blade down as the gangly guy makes a beeline to a full table in First Wing’s section, immediately spreading what appears to be a tasty bit of gossip. “When are the first-years going to be done?” I ask.

Whatever rumor First Wing has caught wind of spreads quickly, rippling outward from the center table down the line in a fascinating display of turning heads and scrambling cadets.

“No clue,” Rhi says, turning a page. “I’m just hoping it’s a peaceful bonding experience, since I’m fairly certain there’s some kind of love triangle going on between Avalynn, Baylor, and Kai. Which I normally wouldn’t stress about; it’s not like Aetos cared who any of us were fucking last year—”

“So not true.” Ridoc snorts and shoulder bumps me.

I glance over at the next table to make sure Dain didn’t hear, but he’s clearly engrossed in conversation with a group of third-years, including Imogen and Quinn.

“—but they keep…” Rhi wrinkles her nose. “Squabbling. It isn’t helping integrate the fliers in this hostile environment, and it’s screwing with their interpersonal dynamics.”

Ridoc’s fingers pause, and he takes note of the pattern I’ve been watching. News spreads from person to person, and riders start scurrying out of the hall. “You seeing this?”

I nod and sheathe my dagger, leaving my apple uneaten. “Rhi.”

She closes the book and looks up.

“You think they’ll win?” a brunette in Third Wing asks excitedly, slamming her pewter mug down on the table across from us.

“No fucking way. It’ll be a bloodbath,” the guy next to her replies, catching my gaze and quickly averting his as he gets up from the table, grabbing his flight jacket and abandoning his drink.

“Something’s happening.” A quick glance down the tables makes my skin crawl. The only riders left in the gathering hall are Aretian.

All three of us rise as a stocky cadet barrels through the double doors, and I spot first-year rank and his name tag, Norris, a second before he throws his hood back, revealing his familiar face.

“Baylor?” Apprehension slithers between my shoulder blades at the panic in our squadmate’s brown eyes, the worry creasing the dark-brown skin of his forehead.

“They’re here!” he shouts over his shoulder, and Sloane races in behind him.

I grab my jacket and slip out from behind the table to meet the first-years in the middle of the gathering hall. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to do something.” Sloane stares past me to Rhiannon. She hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since she siphoned the life out of my mother. “First Wing grabbed one of Tail Section’s fliers in the courtyard, and they’re forcing a challenge.”

My stomach hurtles to the floor. If so much as a drop of flier blood is shed, it could end the peace talks.

“Beinhaven’s insisting at knifepoint,” Baylor all but growls.

A wingleader is orchestrating this? There aren’t enough four-letter words in the world. Article Four, Section Four…we need another wingleader.

“Let’s move,” Rhiannon orders, and they sprint toward the door, Ridoc sliding past me as I turn back to the third-years.

“Dain!” I shout, and his head jerks up, his familiar brown eyes finding me instantly. “We need you.” Without waiting for his response, I take off after my squad, shoving my arms into my coat.

Dain catches up before we hit the far side of commons, and the rest of the Aretian riders aren’t far behind him.

We burst through the doorway of the rotunda into the courtyard, and my gaze sweeps over the crowd, taking stock of the situation. There’s a clear division in the mass gathered in front of the dais, with most Navarrian riders standing to the left, at least half of them wearing sickening smirks while Caroline Ashton appears to take bets near the far staircase. The rest hold back the angry crowd of Aretian riders and fliers arguing directly in front of—

My heart lurches into my throat.

Aura Beinhaven stands centered in front of the crowd, holding one of the daggers she usually keeps strapped to her upper arms against the tan neck of a terrified first-year flier.

And there’s no leadership in sight.

“Find your squads and de-escalate at all costs,” Dain orders over his shoulder as we race down the steps and into the swarm.

“If only we were taught those techniques,” Ridoc mutters.

“They’re at the front. Follow me,” Baylor tells us, then pushes through the crush like it’s nothing, leaving us an easy wake to follow in. The snow has stopped, only to be replaced by a bitter chill as the sun sinks behind the mountains.

“Let him go!” Cat’s voice rises above the others as we reach the front of the crowd, and when Baylor steps aside, I spot Maren holding Cat back from the line of Navarrian riders guarding Aura, her arms hooked around her best friend’s waist.

“Feel free to accept the challenge, since he won’t.” A third-year out of Second Wing holds the tip of her sword less than a foot from Cat’s stomach.

“Happy to!” she shouts.

Holy shit, this place is a tinderbox just waiting for a single flame to set it ablaze.

Palming a dagger, I move before my common sense can get the better of me and put myself in front of Cat, lifting my chin at the third-year. “This isn’t how we treat our fellow cadets.”

“They’re not cadets!” she sneers.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when they were carting your little sister to the infirmary during the battle.” Imogen’s shoulder rubs against mine as she edges in, urging me back. “But if you’re going to raise blades”—she draws her sword—“then you’ll do so against someone your own year, Kaveh.”

Quinn pushes through on my other side, forcing Neve—one of our third-year fliers—behind her and setting the head of her labrys on the ground, squaring off against a guy out of First Wing who seems twice her height. “I kicked your ass our first year, and I don’t mind doing it again, Hedley.”

I take the opportunity and spin, putting my forearm at Cat’s collarbone and forcing her back into the safety of our squad.

“I’ll fight!” she shrieks.

“You can’t.” I grasp Cat’s forearm with my empty hand. “Cat, you can’t. If you fall—”

“You’d be so sad to lose your rival, wouldn’t you?” Her dark eyes narrow on mine. “Or are you more intimidated by the thought that I could win and once again prove why I’m the better match for—”

“Oh, shut up.” It takes everything I have not to shake her. “You can’t wield behind the wards, so stop trying to manipulate my emotions. There’s no winning here. If you bleed, we have no chance at an alliance, and I’m not willing to lose a squadmate over Second Wing’s assholery. You win and harm a rider, you’ll confirm everything they fear about you.”

Her expression softens, and for a second, she looks just like her older sister. “They’re never going to accept us.”

“They don’t have to,” I assure her. “We already have.”

“Challenge! Challenge! Challenge!” The chant comes from the left and quickly catches along the row of Navarrian riders.

Shit. Nothing like mob mentality.

“This coward won’t accept the challenge of a senior wingleader!” Aura shouts over the crowd, using lesser magic to amplify her voice. “But I’ll be merciful and accept another. Pick your champion or watch him die.”

“This goes against the Codex!” Dain elbows a Navarrian cadet from Third Wing in the head and pushes through the line. “Challenges are only issued in the presence of a combat master.”

“On what authority do you object, Aetos?” Aura snarls.

The crowd quiets, but the silence feels more dangerous than the chanting had been as everyone turns to watch the interaction.

“Stay here,” I order Cat, then shove my way between Imogen and Quinn.

“Article Four, Section Four.” Dain approaches Aura with his hands up, exposing his palms. “‘A wingleader has the authority and duty to maintain—’”

“Article Two, Section One,” Aura shouts, raking the edge of her dagger along the flier’s throat. “‘Riders outside quadrant chain of command can’t interfere with cadet matters.’ You are no longer in the chain of command.”

The Navarrian riders mutter in agreement, and tension rises like the bubbles in a simmering pot, one degree away from boiling. The quadrant has made us far too comfortable shedding each other’s blood.

My grip tightens on my dagger as color fills my peripheral vision. I look up to see both gryphons and dragons landing along the thick stone walls of the courtyard.

Great, just what we need in this situation: fire and talons.

“Are you here?” I ask. There are no black scales among the dragons, but I spot Cath behind the dais.

“Are you in danger?” Tairn asks, and I feel Andarna’s presence, but she remains silent.

“Not exactly, but—”

“Then I trust you can handle it.”

“Injuring a flier will jeopardize this alliance,” Dain argues, and I nod like he needs the encouragement.

“Who said we want it?” Aura drags the edge of her blade under the flier’s chin, and he winces but doesn’t move. “They haven’t crossed the parapet. They haven’t climbed the Gauntlet. They won’t even accept a challenge. We do not tolerate cowards!”

The Navarrian riders cheer, and I use the opportunity to dart between the two standing guard in front of us, finding myself quickly flanked by Ridoc on my left and, surprisingly, Aaric on my right. The first-year is almost as tall as Xaden, and his menacing glare keeps Kaveh and Hedley silent as they stand with Quinn’s and Imogen’s weapons at their backs.

“I’ll accept!” Kai shouts, the first-year flier charging through the line on the right, and every head turns as Rhi and Baylor quickly drag him back.

Bone crunches ahead of us, and my focus whips to Dain, who shoves Tail Section’s flier toward the line as Aura stumbles backward, disarmed, blood streaming through her fingers as she covers her nose.

“This ends now!” Dain’s shout echoes off the stone walls.

“We don’t answer to deserters!” Aura spits blood into the snow and straightens. “You no longer speak for Fourth Wing, Aetos. You’re nothing here.”

Dain takes the insult with a lift of his chin, and I crack open the door to Tairn’s power, welcoming the heat that floods my veins, warming my cold-cramped muscles and exposed hands.

“Fourth Wing!” Ewan Faber steps out of the crowd near the steps. “Prepare to defend your senior wingleader!”

“Fuck me,” Aaric mutters, drawing his sword as Ridoc does the same at my left.

Weapons rise at the edges of my vision, but I keep my gaze locked on Aura and adjust my grip around my dagger. I may have some very mixed feelings when it comes to Dain, but there’s no way under Amari’s sky that I’m going to let Aura harm any Aretian rider, let alone my oldest friend.

“We answer to Aetos,” Ridoc shouts down the line, pointing his sword in Faber’s direction. “And there’s more of us than there are of you.”

“Only in Fourth Wing!” Iris Drue announces, the leader of First Wing moving to Faber’s side. “First Wing stands strong! Stands loyal to Navarre!”

A cheer rises from the left.

“Not sure I’d brag about being in the wing that produced Jack Barlowe!” Ridoc counters.

“Ridoc!” Rhi hisses.

“I’m done,” he promises as Dain shoots a glare his way.

“Really missing the professors right now,” Aaric says under his breath.

“Challenge Aetos!” someone yells from the left, and a new fear wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes. There’s no single person in the courtyard with the authority to command us all. The only thing more dangerous than a quadrant full of arrogant killing machines is a leaderless quadrant, and if Dain accepts the challenge and…falls, an alliance with Poromiel won’t matter—we’ll tear each other apart from within.

Now would be a great time for Xaden to lower his fucking shields.

“The Dark One cannot unite what he broke.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“You blame us for Barlowe, but you’re the ones who left!” Aura motions at our side of the formation, displaying her bevy of patches beneath the one that indicates her fire-wielding signet as she stalks toward Dain.

Dain draws his dagger and drops it in the snow, facing Aura unarmed. “I’m not raising my blade against you, Beinhaven.”

“That’s a…choice,” Aaric says quietly. “He’s going to talk her down?”

One by one, I flex my fingers along the hilt of my dagger, prepping my hand for movement as power hums within me.

“Yes, we left,” Dain continues, his hands closing into fists. “But we also returned.”

Aura reaches for her shoulder as if forgetting she already used and lost that dagger, but she doesn’t draw the sword at her hip. “Did it occur to any of you that they only attacked because they knew we weren’t at full strength? That your desertion allowed the wards to fall in the first place?”

Ouch.

“We chose truth,” Dain shouts back, a vein bulging in his neck. “We chose to defend the helpless—”

“You chose to break the riot! Fracture the quadrant!” Aura counters, pointing her gloved finger at Dain’s chest as she approaches him with slow, methodical steps that elevate my pulse. “And then you bring home the very enemy we’ve spent centuries fighting, the enemy that killed my own cousin in one of their raids! And you think we should welcome them into the heart of the kingdom they’ve been trained to destroy?”

The Navarrians mutter in agreement.

“I think our boy is losing this one,” Aaric whispers. “He’s good, but he’s no Riorson.”

Xaden hadn’t just led Fourth Wing, he’d commanded the respect—and fear—of the entire quadrant. My jaw clenches. But he isn’t a cadet anymore, and the entirety of the Riders Quadrant will only answer to one of its own. He can’t unite what he broke.

“Xaden can’t fix this,” I murmur, mostly to myself. Fuck it, I hate when Tairn’s right.

Mercifully, he keeps silent.

“We need the fliers!” Dain holds his ground.

“You need them!” Aura’s voice edges on bitterness as she takes another step toward Dain. “We fought to save Basgiath! We were steadfast in our defense! We never wavered!” Another chorus of cheers resounds as she turns to the quadrant like a politician.

“He can’t win the crowd. She’s going to really challenge him,” Aaric warns, his gaze darting over the audience of dragons and gryphons, and I suddenly remember exactly who he is.

“Do you have a knack for public speaking?” I ask Aaric, unfastening the top button of my flight jacket as the heat starts to build. “It seems to run in your family.”

“Was it my rejection of a cushy birthright in favor of near-certain death that tipped you off?” he replies dryly.

I’ll take that as a no.

“What do you say? Your strongest against ours?” Aura smirks, pressing her bloody hand to her chest. “Here’s the deal, Wingleader: defeat me, and your fliers survive the night. Fail, and this courtyard will run red with your blood.”

The Navarrians’ deafening roar shakes the ground beneath me.

“Dain isn’t the strongest,” Andarna says matter-of-factly.

“Dain can handle her in hand-to-hand combat,” I counter. Nepotism aside, Dain earned his rank for good reason, and wielding magic is off-limits in challenges. My gaze locks on Aura as she pulls at the fingers of her glove. She doesn’t reach for a dagger or sword, and unease settles in my gut. There’s only one reason she’d want her hands bare.

Fire trumps memory-wielding every time.

Aura gestures to the hard-packed snow between them. “Let this serve as our mat. What would our combat master say?” she asks the crowd.

“Begin!” the whole of First Wing calls out.

“I’m not fighting you, Aura!” Dain roars.

“I’m fighting you!” Aura fidgets with her glove, and I flip my dagger, holding it by the tip. “Or have you really turned coward? Just another rebel who needs to be marked as such?”

Marked. Rage narrows my eyes.

“Dain isn’t the strongest!” Andarna repeats, and this time, I get the point.

I am.

Aura whips off her glove and flares her hand. I throw, releasing my dagger a second before flame erupts from her palm.

The steel pins her glove to the wooden support of the dais.

Aura gasps, and the flame dies before it can touch Dain, her head tracking the loss of her glove before whipping toward me. Her eyes narrow. “Sorrengail.”

“Violet, no,” Dain protests.

“‘Rebel’ is so…outdated. We prefer the term ‘revolutionary,’” I inform Aura, taking a measured step in her direction and welcoming the crackle of sizzling power in my fingertips. “And if you’re going to wield, then it’s me you’ll be dealing with.”