The next days in this new tier are incredible. Battle ranks, weapon mechanics, bond fulfillment, rider prospects. What’s more, I’m getting the hang of the Elshard maze. Twists and turns in grand hallways settle in my head, marked by the varying statues in each wing. All the while I’m absorbing every bit of information I can, comparing it with this encyclopedia of false mythos floating around my head.

  I can’t help but imagine Kane in my place. He walked through these trials too. How did he respond to his Prominent? How did he answer Carlyle’s battle rank questions?

  What’s it like to be a ghoulborn?

  Thinking of my brother’s confidence, I have no doubt he soared… probably rallied a whole damn army on his first day.

  The thought propels me to be better, leading to a series of painful nights. Training with actual blades in the Sivus arenas tend to hurt a bit more than sticks when they split skin. It’s more of a burning sensation than a dull ache… you know, because of the steel piercing through muscle. Thankfully Layla is a tactical master at placement, pulling her punches—so to speak—and avoiding critical spots.

  The woman was born to wield a sword.

  I was hesitant to engage at first, but the Kavoh punishment method kicks in like muscle memory, washing away the fear of being cut. Also helps that there’s a healing aura taunting us in the corner of my eye. There’s guilt attached to it now though. Scorius’ voice scratches at the back of my mind like an insatiable itch.

  After one of our long sessions, Layla pulls off her boots and unlatches her mesh armor, dropping into a seat within the aura. “Going to sleep good tonight,” she sighs, then looks up at me. “The hell you doing? I got you right in the arm.” She nods to the gash dripping blood through the bandage.

  As a bonded, I’m supposed to withstand the pain. The aura is a crutch, even if a necessary one at times.

  “I’m holding out for Boeru’s sake.” I hold my arm.

  Lay tilts her head. “Have it your way. I’m not going easy on you though.” She sighs again. “You know what, screw it. These things are overrated anyway. Takes me forever to close a wound. Meanwhile you throw Jurs in here, he closes up like a clam.”

  I purse my lips, thinking back to Aster’s reasoning for letting Layla sit with me that night after Izfael nearly murdered me. The aura doesn’t affect her as much. Whenever I unleash my warring dark to try and test it, she snuffs it out with a single slice. I’m starting to think she really is resistant to magic.

  “Again, guide. We’ll toughen you up yet.” Layla slaps the bench and gets to her feet.

  We try out our varying methods from different classes. In close-combat, I learned the barbaric stances of ruthless armies. Layla learned proper stances first. It’s fun to test them and swap ideas when one form fails against the other.

  As the days go by, we both get stronger, but Lay’s brow grows heavier too. Still not a hint of magic, even after I told her in detail how to pull at the warring dark. On the twelfth night, frustration comes out of her after a particularly close duel.

  “It’s dragonshit, Hale,” Lay says, trying to catch her breath. “My Prominent won’t let me talk, won’t let me ask questions, and tells me nothing of magic. It’s like being in the sub-tier all over again.”

  “What does she teach you then?”

  “Stoic stance this, broad stance that. Yeah, I fucking get it, Eyonasis, I’m good at combat. How the fuck is that going to help me when a mage is hurling rings of poisonous magma at me?”

  I push my lips to one side in thought. I’m feeling even more grateful for Scorius’ direct efforts in evoking my bond. He’s more practical, I guess, because he knows how precious time is thanks to the war-tier.

  “Maybe ask Aster if you can change Prominents? You mentioned she’s an academic at heart. That’s not your style.”

  Lay scoffs. “Nah. I’m where I’m supposed to be, I guess. The other brutes in there are stuck with the same lack of magi. It just sucks. I wanted to guard you up there, if we ever made it. But I’ll just be a grunt on the front lines.”

  Clang!

  I slap my sword against hers. “Cut it out with the melancholy. You’re my fucking guard, Lay. Can’t have you faltering on the field.”

  Clang—ting!

  When I go for another hit, she twists her wrist properly and sends my blade tumbling into the sand.

  We both smirk at one another.

  “Maybe you’ll have a use for me yet.” She smiles sadly.

  ***

  Two nights later, I’m pulling my hair out in the library with Jurso. I promised Boeru I’d scour the tomes for Elden magic, and so far… nothing. Again, it’s like the sub-tier.

  No.

  No, it’s not.

  Lack of information is different from distortion. I have to be grateful there’s consensus and verification of mythos here in tier one. What I’m reading contains true events. Even though I’m traumatized from being lied to my whole life, I’ll keep repeating it in my head until it sinks in.

  History is written by the victors… a stray thought pokes me. There are lies in all mythos.

  “Same shit, Hale.” Jurso lifts his blond mop to look me in the eyes, then gazes back at the tome on the table, tracing a line with his finger. “Mist-rank legends are the only echelon ever to lay eyes on the secrets of Elden. We know of their feats and can trace the nearly unmeasurable essence as foreign, but we cannot reverse-engineer the summon of an Elden spell.”

  I fall back in my chair and fold my arms. “Same as this one.” I nod to the old brown-stained mythos in front of me. “‘Bond traits are considered unique magi above high magic, yet below Elden.’ It’s all the same. Reverence, kiss-ass mentions of its existence, but no real detail.”

  “This angers me, mortal.” Boeru extends in my mind’s eye, twisting to see Jurso’s text. “Though I am not surprised. All my brethren spirits failed in their quest to unlock the same secrets we chase. They arrive in the afterlife blinder to it than they began—”

  I straighten as a thought hits me. “Maybe because they don’t want the spirits to know.”

  “Hale?” Jurso peers at me with squinted eyes. “Know what?”

  “How to wield Elden magic,” I say aloud, speaking to both of them. “That’s why there’s nothing here. To keep the secrets hidden from foreign eyes. Or unworthy eyes. Jurs, how high a rank is the house lord? Does anyone talk about it?”

  Jurso grimaces and shrugs. “Hm. Um. I’d have to guess diamond, right?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go over the full rankings.” I slap another tomb down that lists them in order.

  War Ranking System

  Glass

  Iron

  Onyx

  Gold

  Steel

  Sapphire

  Diamond

  Mist

  “No one ever mentions mist. Only in mythos.” I underline it with my finger.

  “In that case, the house lords would be considered unworthy by your estimation?”

  “They would. If we’re going to find a clue, it’s going to be studying the most revered. C’mon.”

  The next two hours have us scrambling atop ladders to reach outdated mythos of unverified events. Apparently, there was once an eccentric swordsman by the name of Inos with hair that dragged on the floor who spent all of his time perfecting one technique. He’d apply warring dark, high magic, alt-magic, and eventually—once the technique was so fine-tuned—he was able to call forth Elden.

  After rereading a particularly interesting excerpt, I scan the diagrams of the technique, then drop the tome to Jurso waiting at the foot of the ladder. The words make him laugh into a coughing fit.

  “So gods-damn vague,” he says.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Even though a part of me was intrigued by the man’s story, Jurso’s right. It’s folklore.

  I pull the tome next to it, which is still an Inos mythos, partial events verified.

  Alright, so the man actually existed. That’s interesting.

  Wouldn’t be surprised if he was royalty of some kingdom absorbed by Miria long ago. History is written by the victors, right?

  Flipping through the tome and balancing on the ladder, my breath hitches when I catch the word “Elden” on one of the pages. Inos achieved mist rank after performing his technique in the Arcraggas duel, ending the life of a legendary rider, which ultimately led to the end of a four-year war. When interviewed by the scribes afterward, he stated his inspiration came from the grand mage, Mastaros, who—with a wave of his staff—created the sky of tier two.

  “By the gods, I was right,” the reaction slips out of me. “I knew the skies were Elden. I knew it.”

  It takes a lot of mental fortitude, but I eventually rein myself into logic. Only some of the claims of this mythos were verified. I could be letting dragonshit seep into my mind.

  “Jurs, check this one. Heads up.” I make sure he’s paying attention when I drop another tome into his hands. “Page five-sixty-two.”

  I can see him whispering to himself as he scans the page, the gears churning in his mind. “Mastaros? Who the hell is that?”

  “Another rabbit hole for us to dive into.” I slide down the sides of the ladder, skipping the rungs and catching myself a foot before the floor.

  As he turns to the next page, I notice a twitch in his right eye, something that’s been happening a little too often lately. He’s been practicing mantras under his breath after every coughing fit too. I’m not really sure what’s going on in his Prominent sessions, but I might have to ask soon.

  After another hour bouncing ideas off of one another, challenging our assumptions, not only do I realize we’re going to make one hell of a team once practical lessons really get going in the Big Wing, but this guy is exhausted.

  “C’mon, guy, let’s call it.” I put my arm around his shoulder. “You have early class, don’t you?”

  We head back through the halls of Sivus, past the room with a fountain shaped like a scale—each side taking turns tipping down whenever water overflows the basket. I’m worried if Jurso stares at it too long, he might be lulled fast to sleep.

  “Is Boeru mad at us?” he asks.

  “No way. At least we’re trying,” I speak for the dragon, who rumbles through my bones.

  “We don’t reward our roost for trying, mortal. The little one has better sense about him.”

  “What are you talking about? As soon as I’m cleared with an aerial rider, or maybe if you learn to manifest into something that can actually fly, then we can scope out the sub-tier sky and get our own samples. I’m sure Scorius would help us.”

  Boeru chuffs. “Your imagination is running. And your comrade is dragging.”

  “Oh shit!”

  Jurso literally fell asleep walking next to me, his robes dirtying on the floor as I carry him.

  “Hey. Wake up.” I shake him. “Couple more steps.”

  “Rggg.” He walks lazily like a zombie as we pass the next hallway. I forget how exhausting it is to live with Arkitus. It’s selfish of me to keep him up this late just because my new body works almost in reverse of everything normal. Whenever I get tired, a shot of adrenaline shoots me right back into gear. Meanwhile, my old one would’ve failed on day one.

  As I’m about to make a right toward batch twenty-eight’s quarters, Boeru rears his head in the other direction.

  The dragon sniffs, nearly dragging me the wrong way.

  “What is it?”

  “A familiar masked scent.”

  I carefully open our quarters’ door and push Jurso in.

  “N—” He stifles a yawn. “Not coming?”

  “Soon. I’m going to take a walk. Get some rest, friend. And thanks for the help.”

  “Mph.” He scratches his head and lumbers into the room.

  I want to check if there’s an empty bed in the quarters, but most of the privacy curtains are already pulled shut, and lighting a candle at this hour would ensure everyone’s fury at me for the next two days. There’s only one person on my mind right now.

  Renesta.

  I’m disturbing her trust by following her again. But it’s different this time. I’ll just blame my dragon spirit for picking up a strange scent.

  Once Jurso plops into bed, I carefully shut the door and head down the hall.

  “Lead the way,” I motion.

  The Sivus halls are mostly empty at this hour, but Boeru seems to think otherwise. He manifests for instances at a time, dragging me farther and farther from my quarters.

  “Foul magic is about, mortal.” Boeru claws onward, peeking past the statues, looking for something or someone invisible.

  “You’ve been saying that since we got here,” I scoff, then furrow my brow when I realize he’s leading to one of the exits. “Where are you going? Wait, that’s not right.”

  From a distance, I can tell the gigantic onyx-crusted double doors of the back entrance are cracked open—moonlight peeking through.

  Slipping out with just enough space for my body, warm, fresh air smacks me in the face.

  Damn. It’s nice out here at night. Moonlight isn’t obstructed by a black sky. Instead, it’s out in the open, staring at me like a pale, magic-activated eye. Grass fields stretch for miles ahead, up until a giant wall sections us off at the end.

  I wonder if aerial riders venture beyond there often. Do they send messages to other sanctums?

  Boeru shrinks back into my shoulders, tugging me toward a hedge maze down the way to my left. The shrubbery blows ominously in the night.

  “In there,” Boeru whispers.

  Something about the way the wind is behaving in that direction makes my skin crawl. It’s not following the grass around it, and feels warmer the closer I get. My first instinct is to worry about Izfael. Sure, the ring leaders set nightly protection in the house since he tried to murder me, but I’m outside now.

  I draw my dagger and unclamp it from the chain to avoid making noise. It’s a habit of mine to run my finger against the edge to test its sharpness. No idea what I’m in for as I approach an entrance of tightly packed leaves in the shape of a doorway. Seems like the only way in.

  Fttth.

  The leaves flutter ahead of me.

  My heart thunders in my ears as Boeru’s anxiety transfers unto me. Both arms flex, ready to stab anyone or anything that jumps out at me.

  As soon as I cross the threshold, shrubbery and vines surround me on either side. The walkway makes everything feel darker…

  Shwoo!

  Something crawls rapidly in my periphery, but when I turn to look, nothing’s there.

  “Maybe a steel rank is luring us, Boeru. Remember, we have to assume they know more about bonds than we do at this point.”

  “Do not doubt yourself, mortal. And more importantly, do not doubt me,” Boeru chuffs.

  “Mhm.” I crouch slightly to sneak forward, then halt entirely when I hear a silky voice somewhere closer to the center of the maze. The winds swirl violently in opposite directions to drown it out.

  Renesta…

  A part of me wants to shout so I don’t take such an acutely attuned dark wielder by surprise. Could wind up with another blade in my gut that way. I tighten the bandage on my arm, ignoring the ache of Layla slicing me yesterday. Wish I took a few minutes in the aura right about now.

  It’s true, though, what Scorius said. Whenever I sit in that healing chamber of blissful light, my connection to Boeru and the warring dark weakens. It comes back eventually, but it really does seem like I’m playing tug of war with the aura.

  Chh. Chh. Chh.

  Something moves at my back, making me turn abruptly, and the voices stop.

  My heart rate elevates further, warring dark pressurizing around my good arm.

  A threat?

  I twist the ring around my finger, ready to press it for a prick of blood if need be. In my training, anytime the warring dark releases, Boeru manifests with more strength—fine detail of his gray scales and crystal-blue eye making even Scorius gawk.

  If Izfael is among us, I won’t go down so easily this time.

  Glass rank versus steel rank, Haledyn. Best to just run, I tell myself, rounding the next corner once the voices pick back up again.

  After another two turns, my internal compass tells me I’m nearing the center. Silky whispers continue to tickle my ears, but they’re unintelligible.

  What are you hiding, Ren?

  The shrubbery rustles angrily to my left as I approach the last turn. Quietly… slowly… I tiptoe up.

  “Who’s there?” I announce myself as I jump out, and fifteen shadows slip out of the center square like bugs scurrying away from light, leaving only one solid form remaining.

  Renesta looks up at the sky in a white, nearly translucent silk night robe flowing in the wind. A purple clasp drapes from shoulder to belt, harnessing that enchanted sword of hers. “Should I summon a shadow to choke you out again?” She smirks.

  I clasp my dagger back to the chain and sheathe it. “We keep meeting up in these weird spots.”

  “You mean you keep following me to these weird spots.” She speaks like she’s been up for days, eyes exhausted with black half-circles rimming them.

  Who were you talking to, Ren? What really happened on the spire with Gen? I want to ask, but know she’d shut me out entirely if I did.

  I throw my hands up. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “You’re already here. Might as well enjoy the view with me.” She stares up at the moon, leaving me to inch closer to her. “You’re adapting nicely here, Haledyn. I sense growing dark within you, and your body has hardened to boot.”

  Heat flushes my face. It’s a good thing she’s not looking. Gods. I don’t know why, but she has a way of making me feel like I was before Boeru healed me.

  “While I…” she goes on, shaking her head. “I don’t belong here.”

  “You haven’t even given it a shot. Skipping classes, meandering in the grass all night.” I spread my arms.

  “Mm. Try as the sanctum might, I’m afraid my loyalties will never be to this empire.” She puckers her lips.

  Even though her voice is silvery, her words cut deep. Makes me wonder if those strange scents Boeru keeps picking up are that of a traitor’s.

  “Apologies for accepting your mark. I’ve made a grave mistake, it seems.” Her gaze lowers to mine.

  Despite my thoughts, her eyes don’t speak malice, and the statement doesn’t sound like someone who wants to destroy Miria from the inside…

  As I’m about to prod further, she grabs my hand, making my entire body freeze.

  “I can see you’re about to ask me a hundred questions until I pass out in the grass. Instead, why not just enjoy this moment with me?” She clasps her hand with mine and turns her head to the breeze.

  It’s only now I consider those looks she gave me back in the Sept cellar to be something more than curiosity. She hasn’t given me an inkling since.

  Unless… she’s trying to distract me.

  Scanning her symmetrical face—full lips, angular nose—it would be a nice moment if her eyes weren’t closed, and her head wasn’t tilted toward the sky.

  “There is something pleasant about this breeze, isn’t there?” A smile forms on her face. “Untainted by the black sky. House Father always said I would one day be free.”

  My eyes narrow. Come to think of it, the breeze did rewind back to the normal flow since I showed up.

  “Maybe that’s why I’m bonded right now, and you’re not.” I tilt my head up. “House Father didn’t temper your blood properly.”

  She sighs. “Not every orphan’s purpose is to receive an awakening, Haledyn. What say my house father decided to play the odds, and instead equipped me to survive.” She swings our clasped hands back and forth like we’re two kids frolicking in the grass.

  “Hmph. Maybe I’m just jealous your house father acknowledged you. Seems like only you, Broggen, and Tristian received that treatment.”

  “Attunement is a roll of the dice, I fear,” she says, facing me fully and grabbing my other hand. “If I were to flee this tier and never return, would you think me a coward?”

  I regard her for a long moment as she adjusts her hands in mine, sending tingles up my skin. This does feel a bit like a goodbye. But then again, what the hell was she doing out here? There’s no portal down to the sub-tier.

  “I’d be remorseful. Ever since the six of us became tethered together by Boeru’s mark, I hoped we’d one day soar into the war-tier as a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Under someone else’s agenda.” She frowns.

  “Is that what tires you?” I ask.

  “Being tugged along by puppet strings, fed grapes and told we’re special… it does not do for me what it does for you.”

  That one hurt like a punch to the gut, causing me to turn my head away.

  She untangles herself from my hands and tilts my chin so I’m facing her again. Electricity sparks between us. Not the magical kind, but emotional. “The great dragonborn,” she says, then leans in for a kiss.

  How can I not?

  Her lips are like soft pillows, breath a hint of minty lavender, and the pressure of the warring dark compresses at our backs to press our bodies together. The moment is surreal. A hand caressing my hair and another scratching my back tells of a want I never could’ve imagined. A hint of her tongue on mine sends heat in all the right places.

  Still, something is amiss.

  Even though I’m in heaven, I break away.

  We scan each other gingerly. I’m fighting every cell in my body from going back.

  “Don’t let it be goodbye,” I say.

  She smiles sadly at me. “The shadows rule me yet, Haledyn.”