“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with the ripped sleeves says. Xaden Riorson? “You ready for this, Sorrengail?” Rhiannon asks, moving forward. The black-haired rider snaps his gaze to mine, turning fully toward me, and my heart thunders for all the wrong reasons. A rebellion relic, curving in dips and swirls, starts at his bare left wrist, then disappears under his black uniform to appear again at his collar, where it stretches and swirls up his neck, stopping at his jawline. “Oh shit,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow, as if he can hear me over the howl of wind that rips at my
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