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A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
“This might sound harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”
He’s tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong and covered by warm tawny skin and dark stubble, and when he folds his arms across his torso, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple, moving in a way that makes me swallow. And his eyes… 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.
Sometime in the last year, Dain Aetos went from attractive and cute to gorgeous.
“I’m Dain Aetos, and I’m the leader for Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.”
Everyone else is simply a cadet before Threshing—when the dragons choose who they will bond—and a rider after.
“I’m what?” My hackles rise. “Go ahead and say it. When they sense I’m less than the others? Is that what you mean?”
“Three squads in each section and three sections in each of the four wings.”
“Dain Aetos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven’s,” Nyra orders.
Steam blasts my face as the navy-blue one directly in front of me exhales through its wide nostrils. Its glistening blue horns rise above its head in an elegant, lethal sweep, and its wings flare momentarily before tucking in, the tip of their top joint crowned by a single fierce talon. Their tails are just as fatal, but I can’t see them at this angle or even tell which breed of dragon each is without that clue. All are deadly.
A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
It knows I’m at a disadvantage, that I’m too small to climb its foreleg and mount, too frail to ride.
But I will not run. I wouldn’t be standing here if I’d quit every time something seemed impossible to overcome. I will not die today.
This morning, we’re all in rider black, and there’s a single silver four-pointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder.
We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers.
If we can complete the final Gauntlet, we’ll walk through the natural box canyon above it that leads to the flight field for Presentation, where this year’s dragons willing to bond will get their first look at the remaining cadets. Two days after that, Threshing will occur in the valley beneath the citadel.
My mother can wield the power of storms. Melgren can see the outcome of battles.
He points to the compass patch beneath his Fourth Wing one on his shoulder. Wearing that sigil indicates that a signet is too classified. I just didn’t notice it yesterday.
The image changes to Sgaeyl, the navy-blue dragon bonded to Xaden.
This is because feathertails reportedly abhor violence and are not suitable for bonding.
“Shadows, remember? They hear everything, see everything, conceal everything.” The rest of the world disappears. He could do anything to me in here and no one would be the wiser.
“Here’s the thing, Sorrengail. Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.”
What makes you a rider is what you do after people die. You want to know why you’re still alive? Because you’re the scale I currently judge myself against every night.
It is a grave offense against Malek to keep the belongings of a dead loved one. They belong in the beyond with the god of death and the departed. In the absence of a proper temple, any fire will do. He who does not burn for Malek will be burned by Malek.
Ridoc hugs my back, squeezing me like I’m the filling of a sandwich as he hollers in happiness.
“A rider may only bring to the quadrant the items they can carry—” I start. “Are you quoting the Codex to me?” Amber shouts.
“Talk to your nearby squadmates while you’re on the path, as it will help the dragons get a sense of who you are and how well you play with others. There’s a correlation between bonded cadets and level of chatter.”
Standing at the end of the line is a small golden dragon. Sunlight reflects off its scales and horns as it stands to its full height, flicking a feathered tail around the side of its body. The feathertail.
At its full height, it’s probably only a few feet taller than I am, like a perfect miniature of the brown next to it.
“Kind of like dragons but bigger, with two feet instead of four, a mane of razor-sharp feathers streaking down their necks, and a taste for humans. Unlike dragons, who think we’re a little gamey.”
“Maybe we should slow down and take our time?” Pryor suggests from ahead of Rhiannon, rubbing his palms along the sides of his uniform.
“Pryor is… He’s…” Pryor’s dead.
Realization hits and I choke out a tight, surreal laugh. “You smell Teine, don’t you?” I ask quietly.
“She collected Teine’s scales after he shed them last year and had them shrunk down so she could sew them into the vest to help keep me safe.”
Nausea swirls in my stomach, and my fingernails bite into my palms. They’re going to try and kill the little golden one.
“It’s unrideable, a certified freak, and you know feathertails are useless in combat. They refuse to fight.”
The trees rustle from the south, and Jack steps into the clearing, his sword swaying in his right hand. A step later, he’s flanked by Oren and Tynan, both their weapons drawn.
It’s going to die just because it’s smaller, weaker than the other dragons…just like me. My throat closes.
Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.
It chuffs twice, and I spare a glance down at its claws. Or should I say…paws.
Standing with the golden one tucked under an enormous, scarred black wing is the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen in my life—the unbonded black dragon Professor Kaori showed us in class. I don’t even come close to reaching its ankle.
He scoffs. “Let’s go, Violet Sorrengail.” He lifts his head, and the golden dragon peeks out from under his wing. “How do you know my name?” I gawk up at him. “And to think, I’d almost forgotten just how loquacious humans are.” He sighs, the gust of his breath rattling the trees. “Get on my back.” Oh. Shit. He’s choosing…me.
“One does not live a century without being well aware of the space one takes up. Now get on.”
The scales are larger and thicker than my hand and surprisingly warm to the touch. They layer into the next above them in an intricate pattern that leaves no space to grab hold. “You are a rider, are you not?”
Dragons never supplicate for anyone, and yet here he is, bowing to make it easier for me to climb on. It’s steep but manageable.
“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil, descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.”
“But I’m not going to assume that you’ll be able to remember that once we reach the field, so Tairn will do until I inevitably have to remind you.”
Just because you survive Threshing doesn’t mean you’ll survive the ride to the flight field. Being chosen isn’t the only test, and if you can’t hold your seat, then you’ll fly straight into the ground.
He’s one of the deadliest dragons in Navarre. Professor Kaori’s lesson. What else had he said? The only unbonded black dragon hadn’t agreed to bond this year. He hadn’t even been seen in the last five years. His rider died in the Tyrrish rebellion.
