The evening in our quarters is glum. Slouched shoulders, little eye contact. We were all flying high after fending off nameless gigantic soldiers on that conjured bridge. But that was overshadowed by the sudden violent death of a cadet. Madalyn Squire—another name burnt into my memory. Seeing her lay there wide-eyed in frozen fear broke me all over again.

  Guess it was a na?ve hope that the darkness of murdered siblings was left behind in the Sept.

  Carlyle’s goofiness doesn’t seem so harmless any longer. In fact, the whole sanctum has a darker tone. It reminds me of our first day here—when we shot up from the spire wind whip, only for Head Magus to threaten tossing us right back down to our deaths.

  Shit.

  We skip the library and arena tonight and just lay in bed. A couple of batch twenty-eight siblings who weren’t part of the day’s mishaps leave our room to go lay with their newfound mates. Turns out things are heating up since death looms. And as time goes by, we realize the ring leaders leave us mostly to our own devices.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about last night’s kiss. Renesta. That woman is completely unreadable. And although she’s a few beds away from mine, she might as well be in another house. As aloof as a gods-damn Dane.

  Then there’s Lay. She was a total badass on the bridge today, overpowering soldiers twice her size, ignoring the endless drop if she failed. Hm. Thinking of the few nights we decided to spar in our underwear, skin bashing against skin… there’s something there. Even if a glimmer.

  “Your mind goes to strange places when solemn, mortal,” Boeru chuffs.

  I lay in bed with my hands behind my head, rolling my eyes. “Can’t wait for the day Scorius shows me how to shut you out.”

  Boeru chortles, his smoky breath rising up my back.

  “We manifested well today,” I say.

  “It is true. I felt alive like the times of old, if only for a moment.”

  “You got carried away though.” I eye him. “The fire you wanted to breathe, it sucked the life right out of me. Felt like a gods-damn husk.”

  “Yes. I experienced it too. That mortal weakness of yours… hmph. Would do you well to walk a few dragon aisles to toughen you up.”

  Can’t help but shiver recalling being in Boeru’s skin—getting burned by my brethren. No way I’m going to show him though.

  “Yeah. Yeah. You would’ve lasted all but one night getting pummeled and whipped in my skin.”

  Boeru snickers at that. “One thing is certain, mortal. We have far to go.”

  I purse my lips, thinking of Kane fighting somewhere tiers above me, suffering. “Far to go” isn’t going to work. I have to find him.

  ***

  The next day is a little brighter. Non-threatening, intellectual classes go by in a jiff. Mathematics, physics, comprehension all work as a prime distraction. They’re crammed together and shortened since the war heightened, according to Aster. Doesn’t bother me. We learned all this already in House Kavoh, before and after House Mother’s whip. It’s just a refresher.

  Battle Beasts class is where the action should be today. I’m on the way right now. We’re to mount our first ground beasts, and understand what it takes to tame and assess chemistry. As far as I’m concerned, if a war horse doesn’t kick me in the face, I’m going to try and ride it.

  With book in hand, I make my way down the hall.

  It’s going to be awesome. Maybe our tutor will let us ride to the outer sections of the wall if we’re good enough.

  Yeah, that’d be sick.

  Hrrrrrrrrrr!

  My heart suddenly stalls when a deep horn bellows throughout the entire sanctum. I tense up, making some older years behind me laugh at my expense.

  “The sounds of war, mortal.” Boeru stretches out of my shoulders and begins to manifest, scaring the older students back.

  “Relax, Dragonborn.” A richly dressed student scoffs as he runs past me. “A challenge has been declared is all.”

  “Where are you going?” I shout at him.

  “Arena!”

  Students are running beside me. If expressions weren’t of pure excitement, I’d still be panicking right now.

  “Hm. It seems we were the subject of a ruse.”

  “Yeah, no one told us.” I look around to see a few other first years all bent out of shape.

  “In my time, a trick on a dragon would result in less tricksters.”

  “Oh, don’t be a shit about it, Boe.”

  “Hmph.” He huffs and swirls back into my shoulders.

  Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  The horn sounds again, vibrating through my toes, egging me to pick up the pace and follow suit. Even the intellectuals with flashy robes sprint toward the arena.

  What’s the rush? Seating, perhaps?

  As I sprint on a zagged path, each hallway grows more crowded than the last. Until, finally, I see it. The massive arena double doors I’ve only peeked in on my first days. Only this time, it’s packed. Without a second thought, I crush myself into the dogpile of cadets bottlenecking to get in. The excitement buzzes around me. A mix of magical residue, sweat, and incense makes my nose wrinkle as I squeeze through.

  “Who do you think challenged?” one student asks another.

  “I’ll bet you it’s Drydon and Castaniel. And you know those two would yield big-time donations.” The other presses his fingers together, indicating riches.

  “Lord Karloth will be crying if that happens!”

  My heart drops into my stomach. Indirectly, that’s a hit against me and my marked. Karloth traded Drydon for us.

  Once I make it past the doors, my eyes are immediately drawn to the overhanging balcony of eccentrically rich chairs filled by the four house lords, and the one in the center reserved for Head Magus, no doubt.

  Older students are all in the front rows—not sure if by design or because they’re just the most experienced in sprinting for a challenge. I’m still at a loss, gaping all around me in hopes to get a glimpse of my friends. It’s going to be a hard find, considering thousands are in attendance. I’ll bet even cadets with off periods flew out of bed to get here.

  Beneath the overhang balcony, war-tutors make their way leisurely to their seats, while cadets remain in a mad scramble. The arena is just noise in every direction.

  Once I’m near a barred ledge with enough space to breathe, I turn around and peer above me. There, someone I know. Broggen’s unstable bond slithers from the corners of his shoulders as he fights to subdue it. He looks particularly disturbed clenching the ledge two sections up. Maybe that’s why my eyes went straight to him. While everyone chats and cheers, his thousand-mile stare keeps him still with his band of brutes surrounding him. Gods, they found each other fast, and come to think of it, probably secured the most favorable first-year section in the house. I glare at Grondus standing with his arms folded like some high tier bodyguard.

  Can’t help but relive the moment his warring dark axe slashed Jurso’s lifeline.

  I’ll never forgive them for that.

  “Hale!” Jurso leans so hard over the third-section ledge I’m concerned he might fall, but then I see Rogo right behind him holding onto his robes.

  My eyes light up at the sight.

  They wave me up once I make eye contact.

  Pushing past more crowds, I notice Lay scrunching by people a few rows across to meet us. Her shield accidently bonks an intellectual in the nose, making me cackle.

  “C’mon.” I wave my hand from far away, teasing her, since I’ll make it first.

  This is fun.

  I bump into Jurso purposely and give Rogo a pound. Renesta farthest away tilts her head at me—saying “I’m here because you made me.” Or at least that’s what I think she’s saying.

  “We’re missing one very enthusiastic Misty,” I speak loudly so the others can hear.

  “She’s found her own place.” Jurso points to her pumping her fist in the air amongst a bunch of older cadets. They seem to be getting a kick out of her.

  “That idiot doesn’t know her own size,” Rogo says plainly. “Like a cat thinking itself a lion.”

  “She fooled a couple of those soldiers on the bridge,” I counter.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Hmph.” Rogo fights to hide his grin.

  Lay finally inches up beside me. “Gods! Good thing I didn’t wait too long at our meet-up spot between class, Hale.” She shoves me. “Would’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “What are you talking about? I was rushing here to save you a seat.”

  She shoves me again.

  As the last of the first years scramble to get situated, the front and back doors bellow shut in unison. Whispers of the Head Magus send all attention to the elite section of the audience. There he is, Foren Torell, brandishing his frosty orb for all to see.

  “Guys. Guys. I’m hearing this is a pretty big deal. The older high-magi cadets down there were whispering about a heavy donor coming through.” Jurso points.

  “Do you even know what that means?” Renesta side-eyes him.

  “Not a clue.” Jurso shrugs.

  Layla purses her lips. “In weapons class, Jackhiya said that Hookvos Tri’nel of the high bastion—who happens to be a castle-owning war distributor—has been waiting to gift some pristine high-magic-infused weaponry to the next victor.”

  “Layla, again with the gossip.” I shake my head jokingly. “What happened to you?”

  “Attendants of Elshard,” Head Magus’s unmistakable voice carries throughout the arena. “We gather for a grand challenge made by House Sivus’ newly most decorated cadet. Izfael Harenford.”

  “Ooh, that’s a dis if you ask me.” Jurso grits his teeth.

  “’Cause he’d be second if Drydon was still there,” Rogo says.

  “Duh.” Layla scoffs.

  “Gods. We’re House Sivus. Does this mean we have to root for the prick who almost killed me?” I clench my fists.

  The others laugh nervously.

  “A challenge courageously accepted by House Rhylock’s most notorious, Viego Stanbor the Second.”

  The audience gasps, and I have no idea why. Does that mean it’s going to be a good fight? Us first years are out of the know, and it’s as frustrating as it is exciting.

  My palms clam up around the ledge railing… flashbacks of being confined by the Sept pop into my head. The last time I had to watch a duel, my siblings were skewered for a chance at greatness. Has much changed?

  One look at Jurso tells me it has. He’s smiling. Blood and gunk doesn’t stain his hands nearly as much as it used to. And if he wanted to, he could sit in a corner and read real mythos all day. Elshard is better.

  Past trauma fails to stifle the excitement. Stomping all around me is electric. This is the arena that will ultimately lead me to my brother. The fastest way to earn merits, according to all the rumors.

  Are they held this infrequently? Is this some kind of special occasion?

  “Relax, mortal. The answers will come.”

  “It’s your spirit that’s making me this way!” I throw back.

  “This is what you are without affliction, Haledyn.” He snickers. “My spirit has naught to do with it.”

  I chuckle, remembering Kane standing in front of me whenever a fight broke out in House Kavoh. Talking down brutes, taking the lashings from House Mother when he knew I couldn’t handle any more.

  I owe him now that I’m strong…

  To think he needs my help and I can do nothing but watch…

  My hands clench harder around the ledge.

  “Both seasoned steel ranks seek ascendance to the war-tier… and only one may earn it by this year’s end.”

  More stomping and cheers buzz around me.

  “We are the heart of Miria! To graduate to the ranks of war-tier is your greatest honor. It will not be given to you! It will not!” The ice sphere spins rapidly over his palm. “Now behold. Aspire to greatness and earn your war weapons.” Foren spreads his arms. “For the high sponsors of castles in tier three descend to receive us.”

  All eyes look straight up, to the circular dome ceiling twisting smoothly overhead.

  “What in the Sept hells?” Rogo snarls.

  Magical runic symbols glow resplendent on a golden ring etched into the ceiling as slabs of interlocked stone slide back to slowly reveal a bright sky above. Rays of sunlight touch down on the arena’s center as if gifted from the heavens. The enormous moving architecture bellows louder than the war horn that scared me stiff earlier.

  I’ve seen this before in mythos… when kings and queens hosted entertainment for their guests. Watching the intricacies of the sanctum construction above me drags my thoughts to huge ballistae and castle weapons that may very well be real too. I don’t think there’s a first year in the auditorium whose jaw hasn’t dropped.

  Fsssh!

  My eyes play tricks on me—a six-tailed white phoenix descends. Each flap of its sapphire-tipped wings clacks throughout the sky like gentle chimes announcing a celebration.

  “So graceful.” Renesta gapes. “Our lowly gaze only sullies its beauty.”

  “Shut up,” Layla scowls. “We’re deserving as much as anyone.”

  The bird’s white talons curl over a designated spot on the sanctum roof, where we get the first glimpse of its tall rider. His scaled armor matches his pedicured bird, and his multi-blue cloak might as well have been spun from harpy silk.

  This man’s riches make all the high-born, snooty cadets look like sub-tier garbage.

  “A round of applause for today’s donor—Hookvos Tri’nel.”

  “Damn, good intel, Lay,” I commend.

  The applause radiates, offering a powerful welcoming for the donor. I wonder what we look like from his perspective—lowly ants begging for food? Or future warriors molded for slaughter?

  “These are the ways of war, Haledyn. Do not sully. We will not waste on the bottom of the hierarchy for long.” Boeru lifts my shoulders to square them.

  Hookvos holds up a gold-encased leather sack large enough to hold a handful of weapons, and the Head Magus snaps his fingers for one of his assistants to fetch it. After a courteous bow, the assistant’s fingers glow with red alt-magic, and in an instant the sack falls heavy in his grip.

  “I did not fly from my watch only to witness one victor, Head Magus,” Hooks’ voice washes over us like a god’s. “The fate of Miria is bleak, or have you forgotten from inside the walls of your protected sanctum?”

  “War birds of my caliber can never slow,” Head Magus snipes back. “And that bleakness subsides with a new generation of myth weavers and awakened in our midst.”

  My stomach twists at the mention. I might not be as invisible as I thought. Anxiety builds in my lungs like a stone prison. This man didn’t soar down only to see Izfael and Viego… he came to test the worthy.

  “We will see. As you well know, I don’t define greatness by the gifts given to cadets—magically or otherwise. My donations must be earned,” Hook’s voice booms. “Show your sanctum what I bring.”

  An exhale of relief escapes me. He doesn’t care that I’m a dragonborn. Surely a new first year shouldn’t be competing in front of thousands.

  The stray thought of cowardice is replaced by the fire of saving my brother.

  Kane wouldn’t cower.

  The assistant opens the sack to reveal hyrolth steel failing to stay hidden beneath a brown cloth. According to mythos, that’s top tier in rarity. Steel so sacred it shines like blue crystal in the darkness. If I’m not mistaken, not only is the hyrolth indestructible, but it can reflect high magic—which this sanctum seems to be flooded with.

  The assistant unravels it from the cloth and holds up the matte hilt of ornate reptilian design, showing the shimmering blade for all to ogle.

  A medium-length sword, about the same size I’ve been practicing with night after night. Anyone who wields it will surely have an edge in any battles to come.

  “Who among you will fight for this blade?” Hook challenges, and even the most seasoned cadets cower at his phoenix’s unwavering gaze. “Smelted in the skies of the war-tier, where the air is so thin smiths must fight to stay conscious. Eight were made. Seven rest in the sheathes of Miria’s commandants, and one will soon climb to the sky to join them!”

  A tingling sensation bursts through my chest and trickles into my limbs. Damn that’s inspiring.

  “A first year will earn their advantage.” Hook clasps his hands atop the bird. “If they dare.”

  “Hale,” a whisper comes from my left.

  “A first year? Haledyn. Hey!” another from my right.

  My marked are egging me as I stare forward at the glorious blade. Before I can react, Broggen perches on the ledge one section below me and leaps with his mighty riderborn shadow propelling him onto the stage. His cowl whips in the outdoor wind as he rises with one hand shielding the sun—staring directly at the donor.

  Shit. If he gets ahold of that sword and applies his warring dark to it… he’ll be unstoppable.

  “Broggen Lor’fyre of House Valor,” Head Magus introduces, and with the introduction, House Lord Baenar rises from his throne. His many swords look like a spider’s arms from this angle.

  “We have tempered the blood of a riderborn, Hook.” Baenar arcs his eyebrow. “From the very house you ascended from.”

  “About time,” Hook calls back, judging Broggen.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t make a comment about his very obvious antagonistic bond, but really, that’s in the back of my head. In the forefront, I’m ready to dive into the center to meet him.

  A hand claps over my shoulder. Layla.

  “Not him,” she whispers. “You can’t…”

  The words send a jolt of angry energy through me, so much so that I roll my shoulder to get her off. I’m thrown right back into the Sept arena—my guard has no faith in my abilities, even now.

  Hesitation cost me. Fiora—the tri-braided, amber-eyed myth weaver—leaps onto stage with nothing but her bare hands.

  “Fiora Dahl of House Kavoh,” Head Magus announces.

  “In dire need of a weapon, I see.” Hook snickers from above, his phoenix leaping to the other end of the open arena roof to get a better look. The bird’s shadow creates an epic shape over the ground, and it hurts to know I’m not in it.

  The window of seizing an opportunity has passed. My heart sinks at the realization. Now Kane has to suffer another day in agony because of this. Layla.

  “Some comradery would go a long way, guard,” I sneer at her.

  “Hale.” She frowns.

  “We train every night. Blood over blood until the sun rises.” I scowl, a part of Boeru coming out of me too.

  “And he’s been training his entire life, with the failed temperance of a Valor house father feeding him secrets,” Layla replies. “He has an edge we can’t compete with—”

  Doesn’t matter if she makes sense. The lack of faith… or fear of losing me, whatever it is, has to stop. “People are going to die in the war-tier, Lay. The only way we’re going to prevent that is if we take our risks now, where there’s a greater chance we’ll live.”

  She clenches her jaw.

  “Now I fucking missed it.”

  “I presume this overconfidence entrenched within your participants resides only in those who are deemed special in this generation—”

  Hook is stopped mid-sentence when a third contender stomps into the ring. The young man is gigantic. Bald head with a sickle tattoo curving around his ear, a two-handed axe that he flips around like it’s a plaything, and short, ever-angry breaths that seem so familiar. A spicer.

  “The hell?” Jurso looks up at me. “Thought we were watching a duel.”

  “Seems like it’s turning into a battle royale,” Rogo grunts excitedly. “Like what we used to pull in the stables, eh, Layla?”

  “This was not meant to be an event, cadet,” Head Magus says, then turns his head.

  Mistress Asentres rises from her seat, raising her chin at her cadet. “An entertainer, through and through. Don’t fault him for it. That sword is ever tempting.” She winks at the bald man. “Hook! This is Fontus Hammorack of House Rhylock. Born of the mountain people in tier two, he will pummel his way to your treasure.”

  “I don’t remember asking for background.” Head Magus laughs into a scoff.

  “The others need none. Myth weaver and riderborn? Mine… is a true contender, looking to earn his place,” Asentres bellows, causing the other lords to tense in anger.

  Head Magus hisses quietly, I’m sure to remind the lords that they have an esteemed guest and any further bickering would result in the sanctum looking petty.

  Well, fuck it. The closed window I was just whining about just reopened, and I’m not about to pass it up.

  Fsst!

  I press the contraption on my ring and release a bit of the budding warring dark cycling my forearms.

  “Boe, I’m either about to look like the biggest badass of this entire sanctum, or the biggest dick. Carry me to the center, just like we tried in Scorius’ class the other day. We’re fucking going!”

  Boeru breathes out a puff of blue steam, then extends out of my shoulder, one huge claw gripping me around the back of the neck as his body and good wing materializes. My marked back up in unison, as do the others gaping around me.

  Heads turn. Some low chatter.

  With one giant flap, I’m rising over the crowd with a dragon’s talon digging into the back of my neck, doing my best to hold composure as I arc down to the center of the arena. The momentary flight is surreal—my stomach flying into my chest.

  Watching hundreds of necks crane below me is something I only dreamt would happen in battle.

  I land epically, whipping out my chained dagger for effect as Boeru roars over my shoulders.

  Lord Karloth stands on my behalf. “An event wouldn’t be complete without the balance of House Sivus. I present to you Haledyn Winbridge,” he bellows. “Our dragonborn.”