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Jesinia Neilwart, Curator of the Scribe Quadrant at Basgiath War College.
A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
Hundreds of them have been preparing for the Riders Quadrant, the chance to become one of the elite, since birth. I’ve had exactly six months.
Every Navarrian officer, whether they choose to be schooled as healers, scribes, infantry, or riders, is molded within these cruel walls over three years,
kingdom of Poromiel and their gryphon riders.
“Hi, Mira.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She might be here to say her goodbyes, but I’m just glad to see my sister for the first time in years.
“She’s spent her whole life training to become a scribe. She wasn’t raised to be a rider.”
At twenty-six years old, Mira’s a younger version of our mother. She’s tall, with strong, powerful muscles toned from years of sparring and hundreds of hours spent on the back of her dragon. Her skin practically glows with health, and her golden-brown hair is sheared short for combat in the same style as Mom’s.
the library Dad made my second home once she’d been stationed here at Basgiath as an instructor and he as a scribe.
“Dad wouldn’t want this!” Mira argues, color
Are you that eager to bury another child?” Mira seethes.
“Since, as commanding general of Basgiath, I’ll be your far superior officer.”
You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant.”
This is all wrong. I’m supposed to be dedicating my life to books, not throwing them in the corner to lighten my rucksack.
“No. You can’t. You’re barely thrice the weight of the pack, the parapet is roughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground,
Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left.
“Is it that old book of folklore about dark-wielding vermin and their wyvern? Haven’t you read it a thousand times already?” “Probably more,” I admit. “And they’re venin, not vermin.” “Dad and his allegories,” she says. “Just don’t try to channel power without being a bonded rider and red-eyed monsters won’t hide under your bed, waiting to snatch you away on their two-legged dragons to join their dark army.”
“I’m not going to die today.”
“I love you, Violet. Remember everything I’ve told you. Don’t become another name on the death roll.”
The main college is built into the side of Basgiath Mountain, as if it was cleaved from a ridgeline of the peak itself.
High above us, crossing the river-bottomed valley that divides the main college from the even higher, looming citadel of the Riders Quadrant on the southern ridgeline, is the parapet, the stone bridge that’s about to separate rider candidates from the cadets over the next few hours.
Cross the parapet before the terror owns you.”
whose high cheekbones and oval face remind me of renderings of Amari, the queen of the gods.
“A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that shimmering mark that starts on the top of his wrist? It’s a relic from the rebellion.”
But those relics are a symbol of honor and power and generally in the shape of the dragon who gifted them. These marks are swirls and slashes that feel more like a warning than a claiming. “A dragon did that?” I whisper.
“Mom says General Melgren’s dragon did it to all of them when he executed their parents,
“Stay the hell away from Xaden Riorson.”
“His father was the Great Betrayer. He led the rebellion,” I say quietly. “What is Xaden doing here?”
“All the children of the leaders were conscripted as punishment for their parents’ crimes,”
“Don’t die, Violet. I’d hate to be an only child.”
“I wonder how many candidates have fallen off the edge of the steps and died before they even reach the parapet,” the woman says, glancing down the center of the staircase as we climb higher. “Two last year.” I tilt my head when she glances back. “Well, three if you count the girl one of the guys landed on.”
“I’m Rhiannon Matthias, by the way.” “Dylan,” the blond guy responds with an enthusiastic wave. “Violet.” I give them a tense smile of my own, blatantly ignoring Mira’s earlier suggestion that I avoid friendships and only forge alliances.
“Mine always knew I wanted this, so they’ve been pretty supportive. Besides, they have my twin to dote on. Raegan’s already living her dream, married and expecting a baby.”
“Plus, I’ve heard that riders are allowed to marry sooner than the other quadrants,” Dylan adds. “True. Right after graduation.”
“I’m not dying,” Dylan says with way more confidence than I feel as he tugs a necklace from under his tunic to reveal a ring dangling from the chain. “She said it would be bad luck to propose before I left, so we’re waiting until graduation.” He kisses the ring and tucks the chain back under his collar. “The next three years are going to be long ones, but they’ll be worth it.”
Every trial in the quadrant—including this one—is designed to test a cadet’s ability to ride.
His eyes are the shade of gold-flecked onyx. The contrast is startling, jaw-dropping even—everything about him is. His features are so harsh that they look carved, and yet they’re astonishingly perfect, like an artist worked a lifetime sculpting him, and at least a year of that was spent on his mouth. He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen. And living in the war college means I’ve seen a lot of men. Even the diagonal scar that bisects his left eyebrow and marks the top corner of his cheek only makes him hotter. Flaming hot. Scorching hot. Gets-you-into-trouble-and-you-like-it level of hot.
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“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with the ripped sleeves says. Xaden Riorson?
“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.” His voice is deep and accusatory. “You’re Fen Riorson’s son,” I counter, the certainty of this revelation settling in my bones.
“Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”
“Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we’re even.”
A scream rends the air, and Rhiannon and I both jerk our attention to the parapet just in time to see Dylan slip.
“Oh gods!” My hand flies to cover my mouth, but he loses his grip on the water-slick stone and falls, disappearing from view. The wind and rain steal any sound his body might make in the valley below. They steal the sound of my muffled cry, too.
There’s a misconception that it’s kill or be killed in the Riders Quadrant. Riders, as a whole, aren’t out to assassinate other cadets…unless there’s a shortage of dragons that year or a cadet is a liability to their wing. Then things may get…interesting. —Major Afendra’s Guide to the Riders Quadrant (Unauthorized Edition)
“Name?” the rider asks again, but I know he’s not talking to me. “Jack Barlowe,” the one behind me answers. “Remember the name. I’m going to be a wingleader one day.” Even his voice reeks of arrogance.
“The Continent is home to two kingdoms—and we’ve been at war for four hundred years,”
“Navarre, my home, is the larger kingdom, with six unique provinces. Tyrrendor, our southernmost and largest province, shares its border with the province of Krovla within the Poromiel kingdom.”
breathing and steadies my heart rate, lessening the dizziness. “To our east lie the remaining two Poromiel provinces of Braevick and Cygnisen, with the Esben Mountains providing a natural border.”
“Beyond Krovla, beyond our enemy, lie the distant Barrens, a desert—”
“Within Navarre, Tyrrendor was the last of the bordering provinces to join the alliance and swear fealty to King Reginald,”
