My eyes open to a distorted view of Scorius’ lair. The thick, bubbling liquid suspending my numb body turns on me. Air has depleted inside the prime bubble. I realize it when I take a strangled inhale that stuffs my nose with fluid.

  Shit!

  I scramble out, clawing through syrup to find the magical edge. Feels like I’m going nowhere, inch by inch with jelly limbs. As soon as my head finds open air, I gasp, then press my palms on the edge of the magically confined surface, pushing the rest of my body out until I thump to the floor shoulder-first.

  Trying to wipe the gunk from my eyes is tough with pins and needles prickling my extremities. At least I can sort of breathe again.

  Before I can get my bearings, Scorius pokes me with his cane. “Don’t be so dramatic, invalid. Get up.” He hobbles away from me, to one of his tables in the iron-encased lair.

  Coughing out all of the green slime takes a minute, but as soon as my airways clear, I’m on my feet.

  Scorius throws me a towel that my face catches. “Dry yourself. We went over time, and as consequence, you will be late to Tutor Carlyle’s Battle Formations class.”

  “Prominent?” I dry my two-toned hair and drape the towel around my neck.

  He turns the page of a giant tome, using his finger to trace a small-print line. “Stand in the center of the stone circle.”

  I do what I’m told, my legs feeling like two jelly sacks. Each step is accompanied by a shockwave of more needles.

  “The formula concocted in my terrarium is meant for a stable bond to unite through inversion. You lived an experience of your spirit that mirrors your own, solidifying the ties that bind you. Most importantly, you stepped into his skin, harnessing the great power of a shadow who lived long past. Close your eyes.”

  I dip my head. It’s true. Boeru feels closer now. It’s not only my mind’s eye that senses him, but my entire body prickles as he crawls around my back. I’ve had instances of this feeling before—in the Sept chamber, against Izfael… but never when I’m not in a state of duress.

  “My form grows closer to the living, mortal. This war-tutor knows what he’s doing.”

  “’Course he does. He’s bonded, like us.”

  Boeru sniffs as if he’s onto a scent. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “The hell are you talking about? We saw him smack Broggen around with an oversized bird wing.”

  “The air is not yet clear on that one.”

  “Silence!” Scorius slams his cane. “Your incessant babbling will not gain you strength.”

  Gods. I keep forgetting he can sense Boeru in my mind.

  “If you’re to be any worth to this war sanctum, you must settle into your symbiotic bond, much like Broggen must learn to dominate his antagonistic one. He is far ahead of you, Haledyn. Had I decided to send him to war tomorrow, he might even last a day. You? Would perish within the first hour.”

  My jaw tenses.

  “You must rile the Torn Wing, dragging him closer to our realm, with one singular goal—evoke your unique trait. Every bond has the potential for this ancient magic, yet so few truly master it.”

  “What is your trait, sir?” I ask.

  Scorius’ mouth twists in anger, black feathery wing swirling to life at his back. “Focus.”

  I tense at the threat, then shut my eyes. Boeru’s claws detach from my back, and I hear the thud of his massive weight stomp down behind me. His low growl resounds in my ears, curving tail whipping around my ankle.

  “The air is thick in this chamber.” Boeru looks around inquisitively. “Stuffy like my prisons in the afterlife. Scorius is a dweller.”

  “That I am.” Scorius comes closer, snapping me to attention. His gaze stares to my left, where a misty shapeless shadow struggles to form. In my head Boeru was so clearly manifested, but in reality he’s just a blob of warring dark. “You, focus!” He whips the point of his cane at me. “Live through his eyes again.”

  “Yes, Prominent.”

  When I do as I’m told, Boeru forms again in my mind as a creature standing right beside me. I step into him. His vision is so sharp, perspective so tall. Scorius is nothing but a frail, hunched man from this height.

  “You say you manifested to fend off a threat?” he asks us both.

  Boeru dips his head, coming eye to eye with the tutor, then huffs cerulean smoke in his face. “What are you?”

  “Your Prominent!” He stamps his cane, igniting his warring dark to clamp a heavy black-metal muzzle around Boeru. “When I speak to Haledyn, I speak to you, dragon. You are one.”

  A force of the dragon’s anxiety flows through me like a rushing river. I clench my fists, holding my focus as he demands.

  “You must be one before you can exist as two,” Scorius growls, then whips his hand to summon more shackles around the dragon. “What will you do?”

  I fight to harness Boeru’s gaining anxiety. He thrashes in place; I can sense his confinement, his need to be free.

  “Mortal, you are weak. My strength is tethered to your limitations here!” Boeru bellows.

  “Boe. Stop trying to manifest and come back to me, like you normally exist as my bond. Maybe that will free you.”

  Boeru huffs and heeds my suggestion, falling to black sand that undulates around my forearms before swerving to my right side as the dragon once more.

  “Hm,” Boeru grunts.

  “Open your eyes, Dragonborn,” Scorius commands.

  When I do, Boeru’s maw is nearly fully formed over a mass of black misty smoke before he warps again back into my forearms. Exhaustion washes over me.

  “Now you are beginning to understand how to navigate a spirit. Dismissed.”

  “Prominent?” I fight to keep open my heavy eyes. “I have so many ques—”

  “Be gone, Dragonborn. One thing I hate more than tardiness is dealing with war-tutors softer than I. Run to Carlyle and learn your formations, so that you may one day lead them.” He whips his staff and turns for his table.

  Without another word, I rush to get my uniform and run out of the chamber.

  Thrum!

  The door shuts with a gust of wind, and I’m left in my underwear, clothes and dagger cradled in my arms.

  “Well, that was… intense,” I say internally.

  “We must find out more about this man, Haledyn. He holds keys to our success.” Boeru cranes his neck to stare at the large door. Meanwhile, students are starting to look my way. It’s odd, I’m sure, that I was just kicked out of a tutor’s room nearly naked.

  Shit. I’m late!

  I jump into my pants, tie my boots, and head to Carlyle’s section of the sanctum while slipping into my shirt and strapping on my cuirass.

  Can’t believe it. I almost manifested my spirit without being stabbed in the gut! A smile spreads across my face as I weave past cadets.

  Aster passed out maps of the sanctum earlier. Probably something I shouldn’t have left crumpled up in my sleeve. Thought I had this place memorized, but turns out information overload is a real thing. Left, and I think… right. Yeah.

  “Unique trait, Boeru! What do you think it is?”

  “Probably one of my talents, seeing as you have so few.”

  “Screw off!”

  The dragon snickers in my ear as I round the corner to the next hallway. A legion of sculpture ground mounts with riders atop them are frozen mid-motion. For a second, it feels like I’m running beside them. It clicks immediately; this is the way to the big wing of the sanctum, where classes of grandiose are conducted.

  Gods, how late am I?

  I rush past the gigantic pillars, to the closed wooden door that reads “Battle Room” above it. As I dare push it open, my fears are realized. One hundred students, easy, turn their heads and gape at me, with super-tall Carlyle stomping my way in full leather armor and plate pauldrons. He walks like he’s harboring more muscle than he has—legs striding wide and arms swaying.

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  “Look, cadets. The dragonborn this whole sanctum is on about, in the flesh. Aren’t we blessed.” He stops and bends inches from my face.

  “Apologies, War-tutor. It will not happen again.”

  He takes my chained dagger out of its sheath and flicks it down, sticking it into the wooden floor between my feet. “Cadets!” he shouts, making one of my eyes twitch. “Single formation! One-mile run. Now!”

  I tentatively move to join the line, but Carlyle sticks his finger to my chest.

  “Not you,” he whispers angrily. “Get in the center. Move!” Carlyle straightens as I step past him, doing what he says. “Yes, cadets. Show your loyalty to his majesty.”

  We approach the closed ring of cadets jogging in their armor. Among them, I catch my marked looking my way. All five of them. Even Jurso is in combatant uniform, which makes me think Carlyle dislikes intellectual-focused students. Or maybe the class just doesn’t call for it.

  No matter, because even though my marked are smirking at me, the rest of the class glares.

  “Make way for your king. How dare you block him. Halt!” Carlyle stomps, and the cadets do their best to stop without smashing into one another, creating a small space for me to politely slip past. Banners hang high over me—mostly displaying Miria’s shield and hammer insignia, along with designs of old factions I recall from mythos. My guess is these older kingdomonia fell or were absorbed by what we call Miria today, but I’m still flying blind to true history. They could just be sanctum designs for all I know.

  “Pick up the pace, cadets!” Carlyle scolds as he walks opposite the cadets’ route. “Show your king how dutiful you are. Praise him.”

  I sigh, trying to show the cadets that I’m sorry and that this isn’t what I want. My stomach twists into knots with every rotation. Can’t help but feel mortified as the rest of the class scoffs or hurl hidden curse gestures at me.

  “Perhaps we should own this mock title. Give the war-tutor a show.” Boeru smirks, forming next to me in my mind’s eye.

  “And have them really hate me?” I ask inwardly.

  “In my experience, when ousted as a mockery, best to lean in,” Boeru suggests.

  “What say you, King of Miria?” Carlyle spins on his heel, armor clinking as he straightens. “Satisfied with the performance of your troop?”

  He wants me to bow my head in shame, which would be the best option in getting past this mortifying show. But maybe the dragon’s right. Call it sleep exhaustion or delusion, but leaning in might be more fun.

  “Screw it.” I shut my eyes while moving my mind into Boeru’s, which feels like I’m sliding into a silky mold. My vision sharpens like I’m peering through a glass scope, and perspective rises as the warring dark flows from my forearms up past my shoulders.

  Boeru’s maw and great wing manifests high overhead, prompting me to open my eyes to ensure it’s really happening.

  It is.

  Smoky mist takes shape as the gray-scaled dragon in the parts that matter most—wing, maw, and chest. The rest of him is messy mist. But the message is clear. I’m playing the powerful king to taunt this eccentric tutor, and Boeru huffs out cerulean fire to accentuate his grand show before swirling back into me.

  Some of the class is stunned. Others roll their eyes. My marked cheer—except Renesta. And I can’t tell if my war-tutor is furious or impressed. One thing’s for sure, he stopped shouting for a moment.

  I stand there with a held-back smirk. “I say well done to my kingdom, Sir Carlyle.”

  He stomps over to me in the same fashion as when I walked in late, expression straight. But is that… a shadow of a smile on his face? Can’t be.

  “If you ever use magic unsanctioned in my war-room again, I’ll hang you next to the sanctum’s banner.” His eyes narrow. “Now get in line. Follow those prepared, and act as the fool you are. Class!” He spins, shouting loud. “Rook formation! Haoo!” He knocks metal gauntlet against pauldron, sending a ring reverberating throughout the hall while cadets scramble to recall their places.

  I exude the same energy, running straight after Layla.

  “Nice trick,” she says over her shoulder as I fold in behind her.

  Misty grabs my arm from the rear. “Badass, Dragonborn. Made my mark sizzle. Hah.”

  We’re lined up in rows of three, except for the first, which has four. The positioning is odd, because the row behind first is facing diagonal, and the one behind them are peering upward.

  Wait a second. I’ve seen this before.

  Front and second should have spears. Third should have bows. It’s a defensive formation revered in the castle battle mythos, meant to defend against an incoming ground army.

  “Which of you can tell me a situation in which rook formation is most useful?”

  I know the answer, but my speaking time has expired. Not taking any more risks after our little stunt.

  A woman across in the parallel rook raises her hand. I remember her from yesterday’s class. The one with a tri-braid and amber eyes. Fiora Dahl—the myth weaver.

  “Yes, Fiora.” Carlyle lifts an eyebrow.

  “Strong against incoming ground army with long ranks, weak against air assault. Rook can be shortened to half-rook if best suited to defend a castle or structure with a lesser front lawn, and can be adapted to range-rook—replacing back emergency spear ranks with archers—if the enemy is far.”

  What a kiss-ass.

  Carlyle’s nostrils flair. “And in battle, reciting mythos studied in a useless sky tower in order to impress your commandant… will get you killed!”

  Fiora frowns deeply but keeps her posture.

  “I will sharpen your thoughts so you don’t flail in combat like bookworm lunatics.”

  Yep. Guess he doesn’t like intellectuals.

  “You. You. And you! Friends from what I can tell. Break rank and line up in moldable formation!” He spins to my rook. “The five of you.” He points to me and my marked. “Comfort is not for war. Break!” We follow the lead of the others called out—spreading so we’re not near one another—and wait patiently as more of the same erodes the formation, tearing it apart like a decaying castle.

  He mixes and molds us how he pleases, teaching variant forms of rook, some of which Fiora already laid out. The charade goes on for a while as he unfurls a giant parchment from ceiling to halfway down the wall in dramatic fashion. Paintings of great battles the moments before clash we are meant to mesmerize. Questions are posed to us on who prevailed and why. It’s interesting to me. But the cadets at my back all whisper about last night’s rumors in Sivus. Guess I’m pretty popular for surviving Izfael’s assassination attempt, or dark sacrifice. I don’t know, people are calling it both, apparently.

  I dare not turn, partially because I don’t want to get in trouble again, and partially because I don’t want to deal with gossip. But a tap on my shoulder tempts fate again.

  “Hey, you alright? That gash looks pretty deep.”

  “Uh huh. I’m fine.” I nod, glancing over my shoulder.

  “Don’t want to talk about it? I get it. I wouldn’t either. I’m Mishcen. Alt-magic cadet from tier two, hoping to become a rider.” He holds his fist for me to bump it. “House Kavoh. Your old one, right? The batch twenty-eight ceremony kind of blew up your spot.”

  “It did, didn’t it? Haledyn.” I bump his fist, thinking what the hell alt-magic could be. Maybe like Aster’s magic? Non-traditional?

  “Say no more, Haledyn. I know more about you, Broggen, Fiora, and Jayden than I ever hoped to. All the big prospects this go round.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod.

  “Who’d they wind up assigning you to? I’m assuming one of the darker tutors.”

  “The darkest, I would imagine,” I say.

  “Which? Darbane? Huckslas?”

  I shake my head.

  “Gods! Scorius?”

  “Bingo,” I say.

  “Oof. How are you still upright? The man is ruthless,” Mishcen grimaces.

  “He doesn’t seem so bad.” I shrug. “Likes to slap us around a bit, but—”

  “Are you kidding? He’s the unbonded. Creep extraordinaire. Yo, Jacob, how many kills does he have in war-tier? Wasn’t it like six hundred something?”

  “Yeah, eighty of which were riders of Lacor. He’s a ruthless legend,” Jacob says.

  Mishcen raises his eyebrows. “Until he became unbonded.”

  Boeru tenses over my shoulders in my mind’s eye, stretching his neck to better hear. “This dainty rider speaks truth. The tutor’s afterlife scent is faint compared to Broggen’s.”

  “Unbonded?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Lacor thought him unstoppable at a point. He could command the warring dark like an under-god—summoning rivers of clawing shadows that would sink entire ranks and spit them out, only to be sliced down by Miria’s army. He’d summon his war-hawk, what was his name, Jacob? ‘Dy’ something.”

  “Dyrlen.”

  “Yeah! He would summon Dyrlen to lift him in range of riders, create an invisible portal of warring dark that would disorient beasts, and watch from the ground as ranks spun out of the sky. The definition of battle mage—”

  “I knew my instincts were right about him,” Boeru says.

  “Until Lacor breached the spirit realm and coaxed Dyrlen against him.”

  “What?” I say a bit too loud.

  “King of Miria!” Carlyle shouts from the front of the ranks, holding an overly large spear that he’s teaching the class with by pointing at paintings. “Is there something your lowly surfs should know of? Or is it top secret dealings of your inner chamber?”

  “Top secret, sir.”

  The class laughs.

  “I see.” Carlyle holds his smirk down. “Well, in your infinite wisdom, I hope you can tell me which formation General Fitz’gar should’ve adapted in order to turn the tide of this battle.”

  It’s an easy question, right out of war mythos. His army is currently sitting in flat shield rank to avoid impending dragon fire. He’d have to wait one round of fire, then switch to a hijack method of mage slow spells and chained warring dark archer arrows to knock down riders or steal the beasts entirely.

  “Cat got your tongue, king?” he mocks me.

  “Sky wall rank, sir.”

  Carlyle’s jaw tightens. “Mm. Entailing?”

  “With an impending assault that size—assuming seventy riders—the general would need five high-magic wind mages and two hundred archers accompanied by warring dark attuned.” I speak quick and direct so as not to get scolded like Fiora.

  “Do you think these specialty troops grow on trees?”

  “No, sir.”

  Just from the ashes of the Sept.

  “It is not a terrible answer,” Carlyle admits. “But the same result can be attained with a mirror spell to block their vision.” He uses his flagged-spear to circle the location he intends the spell to be cast. “A quick retreat into the castle, and a flip from flat-shield rank to long-range neck rank with ice archers along the balconies would ensure victory. Or at the very least, enemy retreat.” He continues to demonstrate. “This way, we are not plucking specialty soldiers out of thin air, Dragonborn, and instead using the artillery on hand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It’s a way more elaborate strategy than I thought of, and I see his point. The ice-tip arrows held by the archers in the painting ensure that what he’s saying is the most efficient, and most realistic way to fend off an attack like that. It would be frantic, for sure, but would work with the right army… right?

  Carlyle rambles on, rolling out the next painting without a moment to breathe, leaving Mishcen to squirm back into my ear.

  “That’s a lot of military knowledge for a sub-tier,” he says.

  “All we had was books and sticks,” I whisper back.

  “Better than fluffy bread and an anal mother. That tended to make me fat and anxious.” Mishcen and his friends cackle. It is funny, I guess, when you have the luxury of understanding what that’s like.

  “So what happened to Scorius and Dyrlen?” I ask low.

  “Oh, gods. So… when the Lacor battle mage, Kiz Fias, learned that Scorius’ bond wasn’t symbiotic as originally thought, he dove into the spirit realm and turned Dyrlen against him. Don’t ask me how, Dragonborn. It’s all speculation. That level of magic is beyond anything I ever want to know—”

  More stuff to dive into mythos about. Got it.

  “—But… the legend goes that once Socrius learned his spirit was no longer interested in preserving its vessel, he dove into the spirit realm, tore the war-hawk’s wing right off, and severed the head, leaving the rest of it to fade back to the afterlife.”

  My eyes widen.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Boeru huffs in my ear.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I know, right?” Mishcen gestures that his mind exploded. “As a parting gift, Dyrlen disfigured Scorius’ legs, afflicting them so badly that he’d need a thousand healers to mend them. Which he was offered, and refused.”

  “Checks out,” I say, shaking my head at the insanity.

  “Nobody fucks with him, Haledyn. He’s a crazed alchemist and a war hero mashed up into one grumpy, battle-obsessed tutor recruited by the Head Magus. Cadets have died under his tutelage. Remember it.”

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