“I underestimated you,” Dovesier’s voice bounces around my head, his maw forming and puffing away in Izfael’s chambers. He inspects the fallen bodies one by one. “Quite the mess you made. And here I thought to just scare them away.”

  As the dragon’s cackle subsides in my mind, a rush of anxiety fills me. I turn my head to Izfael’s burnt, sizzling body, his face an unrecognizable, blackened skull.

  This can’t be real.

  “Haledyn.” Tesstalia swallows hard, refusing or unable to get up off the floor. “That wasn’t the same dragon that tore me out of the sky. Do you have two—”

  “Don’t say it.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what it means. What have I done?”

  Tesstalia smiles. “You killed a steel rank.”

  I shake my head, disbelieving it. “No—”

  “Yes. He was about to kill you, Haledyn. You did what you had to.” Her smile is terrifying. A captive free of her shackles, relishing in the death of her master. “You freed me. Now listen. Don’t tell a soul about whatever it is you just summoned. Any anomalies are sent to the alchemist chambers for hopeful extraction and replication for war research. Don’t—”

  “Mmm,” Dovesier grumbles. “An army marches this way. I hear it from the grass lands beyond.”

  Warring dark pulses around my body. “Who? Who do they march for?”

  “This is not my concern. Perish for all I care, it makes no difference, so long as Boeru returns to the afterlife with me.” Dovesier turns his monstrous back in my mind’s eye and leaps away with a powerful beat of his wings.

  I’d fight him if I wasn’t paralyzed with awe. I can’t bring myself to look at Izfael again. Only his enchanted golden armor and weapons are left unscathed. Everything else is scorched. Vigil lays across the way with his head slumped—but I think I glimpse movement, shallow breathing. Tyros is not so lucky. The bolt that struck him was far more potent.

  Gods, did I reduce the voltage of Vigil’s so as not to harm Tess? Was I in control?

  Did I do this?

  The ground rumbles from the opening of large doors somewhere in House Sivus. Dove is right. They’re coming this way.

  Tess pushes to her knees, arms trembling. “We have to get you out of here.”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t something I can hide from.”

  “The Head Magus will execute you.” Her crazed smile finally fades. “Stealing one of Elshard’s most prized cadets…”

  Looking at my own hands, I scratch my nails over the torn stone, scooping up rubble into my fists. This all started when my bond turned bad.

  Thmp! Thmp! Thmp!

  Footsteps draw closer.

  “Izfael! What is the meaning of this?” Head Magus’ voice booms throughout his chambers two rooms away. “Donors await the challenge you started. How dare you make them wait?”

  Slivers of ice seep into the room, filling cracks in the floor. My breath becomes cold mist.

  My entire body is numb.

  Fsssboom!

  The concrete door slides to a roaring stop, and the first thing I see from the floor is Head Magus’ orb pulsing his fury. It cracks to mist as soon as he enters. His head jerks every which way, then he covers his nose from the smell of burning flesh.

  The house lords enter next. Karloth of Sivus arrives with wide eyes, holding onto the walls like he’s just been struck. Baenar of Valor snorts in disbelief, eyeing Mistress Asentres of Rhylock, whose jaw drops.

  Lordess Rayne of Kavoh steps in last, beauty sullied by the death around her.

  “A Seal right under our noses.” Rayne puckers her lips. “Boy, Karloth, you really let your house get out of hand.”

  Healers rush to Vigil and Tess. I’m frightened for when they get to me.

  “What happened here?” Head Magus Foren regains his posture and spins on his lords. “I demand answers for wasting Chayref’s time. He has donated artillery worth more than your houses!”

  “Foren, you speak to death and those at its doorstep.” Baenar presents the room, stepping over rubble to indicate Tyros’ body.

  “A message from Lacor?” Rayne wonders.

  “Where is the owner of these chambers?” Foren turns to Vigil, then to me. “Where’s Izfael?”

  It feels like a hundred icy daggers pierce into me. I do my best to keep my breathing quiet and my eyes squinted just enough to see.

  “Send someone to shoo the castle lord back to his throne. This is an emergency Elshard matter now.” Baenar kneels over Tyros’ body. “High-magic lightning. Steel rank or higher.”

  “There aren’t many of those running around at cadet level, Baenar.” Asentres steps up to join him.

  Steel rank? I’m glass no matter how you cut it. Gods. Did my warring dark baptism cause this?

  “Karloth, cat got your tongue?” Asentres arcs her eyebrow. “I’ll bet you wish you never gave up Drydon to Rayne now, hm?”

  Every part of me wants to play dead as the lords bicker. But my heart beats in my throat. I’m guilty. And if Vigil lives, no way he will plead my case.

  “All of that wealth, all of that rapport.” Asentres snaps her fingers. “Gone in a flash.”

  “Silence.” Foren booms, a cold snap of ice sending icicles forming over each of the lords. He steps up to me, pausing, then moves on to Izfael’s remains. “Sometimes I wonder if any of you can see past the bridge of your nose. This is a harsh blow to Elshard. Look here. A steel rank lies dead in his own chambers. And we lead Wolcrux Sanctum by a hair. What if our donors flock there for our folly? Do you forget the dread of war above us?”

  Shit. How could I have done this?

  The warring dark pulses even now, threatening to let Dovesier out again. Thinking of the dark chains I wrapped around the dragon’s neck in the afterlife. Did my baptism allow for this? The echo of the Shade’s Milk working with me to capture the dragon.

  Boe. Where the hell are you?

  “H—him,” a faint voice calls from the other side of the room.

  All of the healers perk up, and I notice Tesstalia tense in their grasp.

  “It was the dragonborn,” Vigil’s voice drips with scorn and pain. He coughs horribly back to unconsciousness, but the damage is already done.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  All eyes are on me.

  I pretend to wake, but with a flash of golden eyes, Foren whips me upright and encases my limbs in a frozen tomb. Struggling to break free is useless. The grip is iron-tight.

  The warring dark cracks inside me like thunder, and a low cackle rumbles from my chest. Dovesier watches.

  Thmp. Thmp.

  Footsteps stomp to my right. I can’t turn my head with this icy claw latched on, but I know who it is.

  I’ve never experienced the Head Magus up close. He’s terrifying. His jet-black locks wave with no wind, hardened eyes accusatory even without the facts. The ancient embroiders on his blue-gold sleeves look like a donor’s. He’s rich, and unafraid, and hardened from war.

  “The Torn Wing does not wield lightning.” He twists his hand, encasing my chest in a swirling blanket of ice that presses like a vice. “Does Vigil speak with delirium?”

  “Head Magus. Haledyn is not capable of this type of massacre.” Karloth finds his footing.

  I hold my tongue.

  “Another one stirs from slumber.” Rayne sways over to Tesstalia. “She is unharmed compared to the others. Perhaps she…?”

  Tesstalia looks my way as Rayne lifts her head by the chin to inspect her.

  “Vitals are intact. High magic active around your right arm. Speak, cadet. What happened here?” her silky voice demands.

  “Do the math, fool,” Baenar intervenes. “A cracked Seal and a bonded cadet. Is it not clear Izfael played with fire he couldn’t control? That room we passed through contained dark mythos of the rarest kind.”

  Foren stares me down hard as the house lords decrypt the situation.

  “Then why does our innocent little murderer wear the robes of Izfael’s servants?” Asentres points my way.

  “Indeed.” Foren narrows his eyes. “Why?”

  I can’t tell him I lost my bond and meant to chase another dragon in the afterlife to get it back. They would ask me how I lost him. They already know my bond doesn’t include lightning. They’re infinitely more experienced than I am. I’d be a fool to say anything. It could get Scorius in trouble.

  Foren straightens, looking down on me. “Do you have any idea the magnitude of this situation? Years the donors flock to aid Drydon and Izfael. The weaponry, the riches… his alone may make up one-tenth the sanctum’s donated wealth. And every second you remain silent is one where Elshard flails deaf, dumb, and blind to how our great steel rank remains a pile of ash at your feet.”

  The icy claw around my head tightens, reaching around my throat to strangle me once more. Fire and ice both want me dead.

  “A testy mortal this one is,” Dovesier growls in my head. “Perhaps I shall give you the storm to wield again.”

  It’s becoming hard to breathe. I’m being challenged on every turn. Dovesier is so prideful he can’t fathom that I stole the storm from him and shunned him in the first place. I can do it again right now.

  Maybe I should.

  Shit.

  The ice veins thicken over my throat.

  “Head Magus—” Karloth calls.

  “Silence,” his roar echoes around the chamber.

  He squeezes tighter, making my body squirm. My hands are numb either from the ice or the lack of oxygen flowing to them. My chest struggles to exhale as it’s compressed nearly flat. Whenever I breathe in it’s like a tundra surrounds me, freezing my nose, my throat.

  The Head Magus wouldn’t kill me here, would he?

  “How did Izfael fall?”

  Lightning forks throughout my body, zapping my fingertips to combat the freezing temperatures of Foren’s incredible hold. The ice shatters at my feet every time a bolt spawns.

  “How clear things become,” Foren seethes. “High magic mixed with the warring dark. Your trait takes hold…”

  Power runs through my veins like never before. Conflicting, agonizing power. Boeru’s presence returns to tackle his brother, sending waves of pressure fighting through me, until with the flash of gold rimming Head Magus’ eyes, my entire magi presence stills to naught.

  “I see,” Foren says, a grin forming on his face. “In a fit of rage, you killed him.”

  “He tried to kill me,” my voice is air.

  He grits his teeth, and I wonder if it was a grave mistake to say anything at all. “What did you just utter?”

  I bite my freezing lip. “Scorius.”

  “Your Prominent? War-tutor Scorius cannot save you now, Haledyn Winbridge. That is for my ice to decide.”

  Boom! Boom!

  The sound of metal against metal reverberates throughout the space.

  Boom!

  “Hale!” Layla’s voice is so far away it’s a whisper. “Let us through now!”

  Through my ailing breath and weakening limbs, I find my smile.

  “The kid has a fan club.” Asentres places her hand on her hip.

  Foren straightens and adjusts his robes. “Well, then. They can attend the execution.”

  ***

  The air vacuums out of the room at Head Magus’ brutal declaration. If I wasn’t delirious from the biting cold wrapped around me, I’d panic. But somehow, his ice magi stripped me of my warring dark and my bonds. It’s like he has the ability to freeze magic itself.

  Hypothermia sets in, making my lungs feel like tender bricks. My eyelids won’t shut, eyes turning dry. I fear he’ll kill me where I stand—in this icy tomb—and be done with it.

  “Head Magus. Haledyn Winbridge is part of my house.” Karloth grabs Foren’s wrist to stop him from losing control. “My responsibility.”

  “You have resided here too long, Karloth, and forget the protocols of deep war.”

  “I remember them quite well, actually. In a duel to the death among cadets, the victor inherits the spoils,” Karloth states. “You heard the dragonborn. He acted in self-defense. This wasn’t an assassination attempt on his part.”

  Foren laughs angrily and pulls his hand free, but Karloth doesn’t back away.

  “You actually intend to give this glass rank—a boy who barely made it up from the spire mere months ago—a shot at all this?” Foren waves his frigid fingers around the space. “Perhaps I should have you frozen and shipped to the enemy as well. You’d do well amid the psychotic.”

  “Foren.” Asentres furrows her brow.

  “Head Magus.” Baenar draws his long-stem scythe and drops it on the stone Seal. “In times of despair, it is important to recall that we are all Elshard.”

  Lordess Rayne delicately places her slender fingers on Baenar’s shoulder. “It’s not often I side with a brute, Head Magus. We must first ascertain the facts.”

  “Leave us.” Foren sweeps his gaze over the healers. “Wait in the next room. No one is to leave this chamber.”

  Once Foren follows the healers and their wounded to the door, after it rolls shut, he turns on his lords, where I’m forced to watch through near-frozen eyes.

  “The facts are as follows, House Lords. A major donor will be expecting answers once we emerge from the depths of this chamber with Izfael’s ashes rolled up in a cloth. We will be forced to announce the untimely death of a highly respected steel rank, and our entire sanctum will be challenged. If we present a glass as his killer, our integrity as contender for realm governance is all but destroyed.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Karloth seems tense, ready to attack if need be.

  Foren turns his gaze to me. “Executing an awakened student would be blasphemous.”

  A small sigh of relief escapes me.

  “However, it may strike fear in our enemy. Lacor would think us mad.” Foren’s eyes glint a hellish gold. “While, internally, we can classify this massacre as a mishap of dark mythos carried out by a fool who thought himself a Dane.”

  “The house of balance will never allow the scale to be tipped so darkly,” Karloth holds his ground.

  “You are just fearful of losing all this wealth.” Foren raises his chin. “Know that you will keep it, in the event I decide to go through with my plan.”

  My jaw is frozen shut, my magi cut from under me. I want to break out of these shackles and strike down the Head Magus where he stands. He’s deceitful and obsessed with power. How many before me met an untimely end on his account?

  Karloth shakes his head. “I will not go along.”

  “Nor I.” Baenar drops the scythe over his shoulder. “I understand the situation must be dealt with swiftly, but the wrongful execution of one of our own is not on the side of House Valor.”

  “An awakened is too valuable to lose.” Lordess Rayne gently taps her long fingernails at her waist.

  Foren turns to face the lords. “Not if there are more on the way.”

  Asentra gasps, and the others remain silent.

  What does he mean, more?

  “I’ve received word from the Danes. After the perishing of two batches at the cracked Seal anomaly, batch thirty-one managed to awaken the Seal once more.”

  “By the gods!” Baenar shakes Asentres’ shoulders.

  “Two more bonds ascend the spire as we speak,” Foren replies. “A ghoulborn and a seederborn. Both up for grabs.”

  Lordess Rayne steps forward, staring me in the eye as she caresses my frozen face. “Head Magus. Use the Rite of Ascension to sweep this mishap under the rug. Batch thirty-one will become a loud distraction for all the sanctum to gawk. In the interim, let Karloth manage his house and the consequences therein. The facts can be pieced together in silence before we decide the fate of the dragonborn.”

  My eyes scan Foren. Perhaps Rayne’s persuasion may be sinking in, judging by the look on his face. Or…

  “Vigil Izendwarf has been an upstanding bliss user since his arrival at the sanctum four years ago. His ferocity against the dragonborn does not go unnoticed. That, coupled with Winbridge’s deceptive attire proves that he tried to upend a powerful cadet’s budding ascendence to the war-tier. It is clear to me what must be done to appease our donors, despite the potential power we may be forfeiting.”

  “Head Magus…” Rayne winces.

  “You are rationalizing a conclusion you made as soon as you stepped foot in this chamber!” Karloth protests.

  Head Magus stands tall, the defiance of the house lords washing over him like rain. “The dragonborn will die. And he will make room for the coming awakened to take his place.”

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Frantic smacking against the door annoys Foren away from me.

  “What do these insolent caretakers not understand about my orders?” Foren rolls the door open with a swipe of his hand—ice chips cracking all over the place. A frantic healer who lost all the color in her face stands before her Head Magus.

  “What is it?” he roars.

  “T—the servant. Tesstalia. She rushed out of our care and onto the grounds.” She swallows past a lump. “She—tells of Haledyn withstanding Izfael’s murderous blade and striking him down with lightning worthy of a steel rank. She shouts it as loud as she can, over and over.”

  That’s when I hear it. Chanting from the grounds. It echoes so loud it beats through the cracked skylight.

  “Dragonborn! Dragonborn!”