I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. Resting with my dagger under my pillow and one bloodshot eye open was all I could do after that horrible warning racking my brain.

  Enemy. Traitor.

  There’s more than one among us, and Boeru’s feelings are merging with mine, as Scorius trained us to be. Now I’m exhausted on my way to his class. There’s a twinkle in my tired eye at least.

  Ren… that kiss. More passionate than the one we shared outside in the gardens, more deadly to my relationship with Layla if she ever found out.

  I should just ignore her and keep to the cause. Gaining rank, finding Kane, surviving the sanctum.

  “Dragonborn! Hoo!” A high-society cadet raises his gem-encrusted bow as he passes me.

  I pump my fist to show I’m not ignoring a fan. It’s been so long since that victory, but still, people whisper as I walk by. Mostly about my sword, Spellglass, since it was literally handed down from a wealthy tier-three castle lord. Sometimes I pull it out of the sheath just to show a bit of its shine. Some fanfare is okay, I guess.

  My heart sinks once I reach the room of many doors, facing Scorius’ brooding ones. His classes haven’t been easy. Frustration plagues him since he feels personally responsible for molding the awakened for war. Apparently, even with the Torn Wing, I’m not doing good enough.

  The doors bellow open, and amongst the dark wood and stone columns, Scorius remains hunched over one of his desks, slamming an oversized tome shut.

  “Your progress drags like a bloated slug,” he seethes.

  “Head Magus come to check on you again?” I say flatly, letting the vibrations of his doors closing trickle up my legs.

  “Too consumed by the business of others,” he growls, turning his hawkish eye on me.

  “With respect, Prominent, I think that might be why you’re so discouraged too.” I hold strong in the center of his massive room.

  “Mind your tongue, boy.”

  I do as he says. Usually he allows me to speak freely, but today I sense a more sinister class.

  He hobbles to his next desk of bubbling vials, which makes me tense. I don’t like his potions. They tend to relieve me of my senses and send me to dark places. Minutes feel like hours when focusing on the warring dark—like my psyche is being stretched in every direction to the point it might rip. They’re called bonding exercises. Boeru and I must suffer together if we’re to become one.

  “Our skirmish last week proved a harsh reality.” Scorius turns to face me.

  I wonder what he’ll say next. I’m not up to par? Lor’fyre is superior? Never know with him, especially after he complimented my progress that day.

  “I was wrong about your bond.” He drags his cane against the stone floor, then slams it into the ground.

  “Sir?”

  “A symbiotic generally thrives when merged as one. An antagonistic flourishes on splitting. I am beginning to wonder… does the Torn Wing seek to be free?”

  Boeru rears his head from my back and boldly manifests over my shoulders, casting a large shadow. “I do not hide from my bond, Scorius.” Blue steam hisses over us both. “The mortal and I understand one another.”

  “Such folklore is true.” Scorius shows his teeth. “Yet you offer me no trait to work with. No possibility of seizing power from the warring dark. You do well to fight against it, pinning down Noctus in a crucial duel, combatting my wing. Both of you.” He points his cane. “But pulling from within? Abysmal.”

  I bow my head, and Boeru turns sharply to the side like he’s just been slapped.

  “Boeru, overpowering Noctus, as I imagine you have in the afterlife thousands of times over, will now be at an end. Today he caused a ripple here in this very room. He shadow snapped twice, breaking the barriers of sound and space, and evoking a terribly powerful magic. Advancements of that caliber will earn him swift advancement in ranks to come.”

  Blood drains from my face. The green monster—envy—it’s starting to rear through Boeru and, in turn, me. The endless sparring, endless reading, endless tutoring… yet I still lag.

  “Traits win wars, Dragonborn. Without it, you are just another grunt amongst a sea of them, sacrificed for a faction sub-tier orphans have no love for,” Scorius says the quiet part aloud.

  That’s not true anymore, though. House Sivus feels more like a home than the sub-tier ever did. Even with Izfael’s sabotage, and the traitors lurking outside my quarters, there are aspects of it I love.

  “Oh?” Scorius arcs an eyebrow. “Are you finding comfort in these sanctum walls?”

  He reads me like a book.

  “Does the fame of winning a donor’s challenge consume you like some petty high-society jouster?”

  No. That’s not true.

  “Perhaps I was wrong about you.”

  “Sir.” I straighten.

  “What is it?”

  “I am a mere glass rank in my first semester. If Head Magus pressures you to get my bond in order, I must ask, what is the state of the war?”

  “A grunt does not concern himself with such things.” Scorius wrinkles his nose. “He is to carry out his duty with steadfast focus. Foolish dragonborn.” He looks up at Boeru. “The mortal you chose cannot commit to his task.”

  I’m no stranger to being scolded like I don’t exist. Usually when that happens, it means I’m onto something.

  Boeru nods toward Scorius’ alchemy stations. “When you were awakened to the tiered world, were you satisfied knowing nothing?”

  “Prioritization is innate in me, much like the riderborn.” Scorius snarls and turns away. “I see it is both of you who are misguided. You are not grasping for power; you’re trying to understand it. Foolish. Foolish. Foolish. The warring dark does not respect those who tiptoe. You must dive, headfirst—”

  “Was your bond to Dyrlen an antagonistic one?” I blurt.

  He turns with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, making me want to recoil.

  “The rumors of you in the war-tier are staggering, Prominent,” I compliment. “A trait of sending a river of warring dark to disorient battalions of enemies—”

  “Enough,” he growls. “The riderborn already masters his trait and learns to merge, and you are worried about my history?”

  “To harness it,” I retort. “Mythos has detailed scriptures of bond theory, but all the practical information is standing right in front of me. The prime tank has taught me to live within Boeru, and now I can do so without it.” I point, then switch to his vials. “Umber potions send my consciousness straight into a black plane of consciousness, where Boeru and I manifest great strength. Now, I can pull without the crutches. Your training is working, Prominent. But as for my trait? We feel nothing, because we don’t know what we’re looking for.”

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  He continues to his station of potions.

  Shit. Not again.

  He grabs one of bubbling crimson liquid. “You asked about my bond, Dragonborn.” He swishes it and turns, bringing it my way. “I was trying to avoid damaging something good. But indeed, I may have been wrong.” He holds the vial up to me and uncorks it, sending a pungent smell of burnt hair wafting in my face. “Dyrlen… my revered war bird… started symbiotic, and ended in antagonistic peril.”

  His voice multiplies suddenly, the black feathery wing of his ex-bonded manifesting out of his back. Dark blood leaks from the tips, showing the truth. He is Scorius the Unbonded. Tore the wing of his spirit before severing their ties. I see it now…

  But why is my vision becoming hazy?

  One look up to Boeru shows him in a similar daze—eye half-closed. This isn’t a potion we have to drink… merely the smell…

  My vision strips to blackness, leaving my entire body weightless as my thoughts dissolve.

  When I shiver awake again, I find myself in a familiar spiritual plane. The swishing charcoal mountains ahead of me feel almost liquid in their movements. Invisible spirits hiss from the valleys, invoking paranoia.

  He’s sent us here before, usually with Boeru roaring out of my back to stave off the encroaching dark. I stand on a wavering ocean of black slithery wisps that I’ve seen Tristian use to guide weapons, or Scorius to summon his wing, or Broggen his artillery. This is the source.

  Spirits begin to howl, sounding like Layla getting whipped by House Mother. Then I hear Kane pleading to make it stop.

  My body goes stiff.

  “Brother!” I yell into the nether.

  I fear I’m in the afterlife when I hear him. I fear he’s passed.

  Kane. I rush forward into a dizzying world, moving nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

  No, he’s not dead, I tell myself, slowing down to gain my bearings. Because Layla… I heard her too. She’s alive on tier one with me.

  That’s right. I’ve seen the afterlife. This isn’t it.

  Boeru’s original gate in the Sept chambers showed of endless war far below. This is different. Shadows. Echoes. All of my anger and my misguided blood. All of that tempering is here, in the warring dark.

  The horizon beyond the mountains is purple and fading. Silhouettes of dragons, warriors, beasts, all fight and fall to their deaths—merging with the ocean at my feet. A bump in the ocean zooms toward my location, creating the pressure of the dark cycling my forearms.

  But I’m not really here. My body is ethereal.

  The threat, however, encroaches.

  It rears its head in the form of a hunched version of my brother—as if he and Scorius merged into a terrible, tormented creature. Despite my arms glowing hot with power, it ignores me and looks above my head, to where Boeru lingers silently in a daze.

  “Haledyn has no intention of seeking Elden magic. His only intent is to use you… to find me,” Kane says.

  “That’s not true.” I step up to him. “And you are not my brother.”

  Kane smirks at me. An evil, wry smirk. “I am not your brother,” he confirms, then morphs slowly into a dragon I’ve seen before… one with orange-and-white mismatched wings and a gentler maw than the others. Boeru’s sister, Sefene—the one who saved him on his walk to Mother.

  “By damnation.” Boeru’s claws scratch my shoulder as he climbs haphazardly out of my back.

  For the first time I feel him leaving my body, drawn to the vision. A harsh heat stretches through my chest. It feels like my soul is tearing in two. I haven’t felt this cold or vulnerable since the sub-tier. Such power I’ve been given. Do I take it for granted?

  He manifests so potently it’s like he never perished at all. Layered gray skin, armored scales, and a wing so sturdy it could knock down a castle.

  “Sefene. Where have you—” Boeru’s agitation leaves his voice, replaced with awe. “I’ve scoured the afterlife forever in search of you. What war do you fight?” He lowers his head in a submissive state.

  “You have been misled, Boeru.” Sefene lifts her chin, eyes red, unlike in the prime visions. “The Danes coax you with their tempered blood, use you for their own gain. Surely you must see it.” She paces. “They wish to pull you from the afterlife and catapult you up into their living war. It is the same, endless cycle that you do not deserve, fearless brother.”

  Boeru shuts his eye tight, shaking his head.

  “Your legacy is already etched in eternity. Your story lives through all the roosts,” she says soothingly. “It is time for you to rest.”

  “No,” he chuffs.

  “Yes, Brother. Torn Wing. Remember yourself. Break from this mortal bond and find me in the afterlife.”

  Boeru bares his fangs and shakes his head angrily, like something has latched onto his maw that he can’t get off.

  “You will not find what you seek with Haledyn Winbridge. You will not find creation magic enough to break away from your confinement, to find your living roost. Such power is not given to warmongers.” Sefene stalks left to right, boring into the dragon.

  Is that why he wants access to Elden?

  He misses his old family?

  “For centuries I battle to claim land, to rid the afterlife of rotting souls,” Boeru says. “I imprison them to clear the path, Sefene. To find you and our brothers.” Boeru slams down his claws into the slithery ground, expanding his healthy wing.

  “Oh, Boe,” Sefene’s voice grows soft. Soothing. Like a loving mother’s. She lowers to a seated position and folds her wings, dipping her head to try and find his eye. “You search for our siblings? The ones who burn and ridicule you? Why?”

  “You are all my home.” Boeru relaxes his claws.

  My heart sinks for him. I know how he feels. My home isn’t a place either. It’s people. Kane. Layla. They are my life. My marked… my care for them grows. Boeru…

  Sefene nods and curls herself like she’s going to sleep. “It is a tragic destiny. To be so misguided. You know what you must do, Boe. Cut your losses. Detach yourself from this mortal.”

  “No,” I protest, but my voice falls on deaf ears.

  “Sacrifice him if you must. And rush back to the afterlife to wrangle the rot. It is what a good soldier does.”

  “Boe, don’t listen to her. That is not the dragon we saw in your memories. It’s just her form. A trick,” I plead.

  “Then, one day, if you do a good enough job, perhaps I will find you again.” Sefene’s voice is so convincing, even I want to believe her. But when she knows Boeru isn’t looking, her eyes hone in on mine, and a wicked smirk lingers before her form melts into the ocean of wispy darkness.

  I’m not sure what to do. Boeru is on edge, his wing furling and unfurling, maw facing the floor.

  He looks at one of his claws. “Have I erred? Has the Sept tempted me?”

  “Boe.” I find my courage and walk in front of him.

  He won’t even look my way.

  “The Sept screws with all of us. We’re war tools. But there’s goodness to cling onto. That’s what you said you saw in me, remember?”

  He turns away sharply as if I’ve struck him.

  “A general’s faulty decision… is one which gets his roost annihilated.” Boeru’s fangs come out again.

  “Boe. We are bonded. I am not your bad decision. You saved me. Now I’ll do anything to save you.” I throw out my arms.

  He huffs and spreads his wing, knocking me skidding back over the ocean. I fly with harsh winds cradling me—my ethereal form bounding over a dark sea reflecting purple light. The dragon thrashes as he shrinks in the distance, as I bounce and claw to stop.

  There’s no pain each time I hop like a rock tossed across a lake, but there’s despair. The realm reflects it as a red sun changes the color of the entire sky.

  Boeru takes flight, soaring past me in a sonic boom of ferocity, ripping away the ocean, me, everything with it. As I awe in the wake of destruction, my vision goes black once more.

  “Arh!” I jolt awake on the cold stone of Scorius’ lair. The warring dark is no longer pressurized, but rather pulling at me. My shoulders, arms, legs. It’s trying to get out. “Prominent!”

  He’s hunched, toiling at his desk near the prime tank.

  “What did you do?” I scratch at my head. Everything is strained like I just got done getting beaten at the stables. My breathing is shallow.

  “Boe!” I shout in my head, to no answer.

  I get to my feet and stomp up to Scorius, who turns and holds his cane to my throat. “Remember where you are.” He flips the end to press it under my chin.

  Every part of me wants to slap it away for fucking with my bond, but he’s right. He’s my Prominent. The source of everything practical.

  “The Sept may have awakened you, Dragonborn. But their part in molding you is complete. You are in my care now. If you don’t show results, then I must shift.” He narrows his eyes. “Take that conclusion as far as you must.”

  My whole body feels like it’s on fire from the inside. Is Boeru even part of me right now?

  “You coaxed my bond to become antagonistic,” I say.

  His jaw clenches, hiding a smirk. “If it’s any consolation, I am impressed it wasn’t you who cracked.”

  What an insane thing to say. I still have pieces of my old home with me. Layla, my guard, stands tall beside me.

  “Boeru suffered centuries of hate and war, Prominent. He commanded legions in the afterlife to find—” I shut my mouth in case I’m revealing something I shouldn’t. “Was that you in there?”

  He growls and shoves me back with his cane. “I see you have not even considered a tome in alchemy. If you had, you would know the persuasion of certain ichors comes purely from within.”

  “Boe, do you hear that? It was our own guilt that screwed with us.”

  “You claimed your bond strong in these walls, more than once.” Scorius’ cane snaps. “Yet in the first sign of despair, your bond grows distant.” He points to the slivers of dark scattering off my arms.

  Shit. This is what Gen looks like at times.

  “Tell me something, Dragonborn. Up there, in the war-tier, do you believe all threats are physical?”

  I think back to what Mishcen told me about a Lacor mage turning Scorius’ bond against him. Is that what he preps me for? Preps us for?

  “No, sir.” I straighten, ignoring the anxiety rustling through me.

  “Good. Then you are not a complete fool.”

  “Sir. Prominent.”

  “Hm?”

  “Where has my dragon gone?”

  Scorius perches over his cane. “That… remains to be seen.”