The five of us linger at a crossroads as we wait for Jurso to make his move.

  Strangling mist swirls at our feet, picking up speed like a gaining tornado. And above… a wind whip of dangerous magical forces waits to propel us who knows where.

  “You got this, runt.” Rogoshel slaps the marble. “Go!”

  Jurso grits his teeth, reaching for the edge of the magical conjuring. The gales wail louder the closer his fingers move, then crack! Like thunder, the conjuring snaps with such ferocity, Jurso’s foot slips out of the groove.

  We all gasp, but he quickly catches himself.

  He shivers in place from the close call. I don’t blame him. He nearly fell for the second time toward an endless death.

  Up close, the whip is nothing like what we experienced in the Sept chambers. Just being near it sucks away all sound. It’s exponentially more powerful than Relias’ magic, and it riles perpetually in its confined space like an inverted hourglass—wisps of white wind swirling upward.

  Jurso takes another deep breath, readying himself to try again. There’re no more grooves above him. If this is going to work, he has to propel himself into the whip.

  “Trust us, Jurso. We’ll catch you again if it comes to it!” I shout, my voice barely audible.

  The mist accumulates like a vertical sandstorm now to swallow us.

  “Jurso!” Layla yells. “Go!”

  He’s whispering something to himself—a prayer—reminding me of his hesitation back in his duel. Now’s not the time, friend.

  As he peels back readying to leap high, a coughing fit breaks out, holding him in place.

  “C’mon, runt! Otherwise you’ll kill us all,” Rogo snarls, glancing beyond his feet.

  “You can do this, Jurs,” Misty shouts.

  “Jursento Astervon the Third!” I call his full name. “Answers await you! Your parentage, a new world. Fight past the pain!”

  He nods through another cough, tightening his grip around the grooves, adjusting his footing.

  C’mon…

  With a deep breath, he launches himself high, abandoning the safety of the inlets.

  I hold my breath, watching him reach high as his fingers cross the threshold.

  His arm stretches as the magical barrier pulls him in.

  Shloo!

  His body is a blur. The scream of his voice disappears with him as he’s launched to heaven.

  My eyes light up. That kind of propelling force will carry him far…

  “Next, go!” I call.

  Misty climbs into the same position, mimicking Jurso’s movements since they worked. “See you up there, team! Dragonborn, hooa!” she yells, and in that brief instant I think I found my new favorite person.

  Shlooooo!

  She flies.

  Renesta, then Rogo both effortlessly follow suit. And as the mist’s expansive mouth rears dangerously close, Layla and I lock eyes.

  “Guide and guard, Lay. Always.” I nod.

  Shlooo!

  Once I’m alone, I wonder a great many things in a short span. We haven’t seen or heard a body falling for nearly a day. Is this our exit out of ignorance? Is this it?

  Excitement stirs within me. My body is too strong to fall to the mist. I’m ready. I can feel it. Boeru riles inside me too.

  My fingers grip hard inside the grooves as I duck down, stretching my arms straight, readying to catapult upward and release my inhibitions. There’s no one to catch me if the whip decides to let me fall.

  But that’s not going to happen.

  “Rrr!” I launch skyward, both hands breaking the windy plain. I’m then tugged by a thousand invisible wraps as I cross the threshold. Air swirls around my body, drying out my eyes, funneling up my nose like plugs. The pressure is immense as I zoom toward the sky at ungodly speeds.

  My periphery distorts, coves whooshing in my ears as they pass.

  Such power shouldn’t be allowed.

  I’m taking in whatever I can amidst blotchy vision. Every detail of this impossibly long spire becomes more intricate the higher I travel. Designs of old Miria sketched in mythos isn’t lost on me. Shields, crests of each mage warrium. Sigils of great generals. We’re climbing to the truth. A smile fights to form on my face the higher I go.

  No more scaling…

  The sky is imminent.

  Lightning illuminates a halo toward the top of the spire. Or at least I think it’s lightning. And before I can gape any further, I’m launched even faster, blinding me completely. The last thing I see is a tunnel before…

  Shhwoooo!

  The wind releases me into open air. I’m flailing in free fall, running in place at the peak of being launched. There’s an echo around me. Voices. I recognize some of them.

  As I gain back my senses one by one, a beige-tiled floor rushes into view. My feet hit the ground hard, eyes adjusting.

  Impossible.

  Was that a portal I just went through? I’m not really sure. But this immense structure I landed in is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. My eyes pull up to overlaid stone walls far in the distance and raised statues of prominent dragon riders of mythos. A knight dual wielding swords protrudes from the farthest ceiling, arms crossed like he’s about to chop off someone’s head, helmet stacked with a lined eye-visor. And above him, the crest of Miria. All my old tomes come to life.

  Bright yellow light slices through slits in the massive hall. I’ve never…

  The golden sun shines somewhere far outside. It’s real…

  There’s no more darkness in the sky.

  Once I realize the truth of it, my gaze finally lowers to the others lined up on the outskirts of a circular design etched into the floor, one which I’m in the center of. Looks to be an alchemist’s scheme. Is this the designated end of the wind whip?

  In front of me is a line of robed men and women—some wrapped in flamboyant colors, others dark like the Sept. And far off to the side is the one Dane I hoped not to see again. Relias.

  “The last of batch twenty-eight. The dragonborn.” A man with a jet-black warrior’s knot and flowing locks carefully steps in front of the other robed watchers. His blue-gold sleeves slither with ancient embroiders, and his hand leisurely holds an icy ball of mist levitating inches above. His eyes are half-closed, judging me.

  “Be on guard, mortal. This place radiates all sorts of deep magi. And hints of foul play among them,” Boeru hisses on my shoulders.

  I hold my hand over my brow to protect from such brightness. Having a hearth light a room is one thing, but this? It’s like the whole world is on fire.

  “Less impressive than the riderborn.” The man arches one of his thick eyebrows.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “But of course. Broggen Lor’fyre ascends the pits of House Valor.” Another man armed to the teeth with swords and a scythe adjusts his cloak.

  “A house that has been out of favor for seven years!” A woman beside him scoffs. The stitched cloth overlapping her voluptuous breasts shines gold in the light.

  “Careful, Mistress Asentres. You’re wearing that heinous envy on your sleeve. It cannot be helped that Rhylock has fallen out of favor yet again,” the swordsman snaps back.

  “And how many aimless children will you torture to get your way I wonder, Baenar?” she snaps back.

  “House lords, enough.” The man with the icy orb approaches. He plays with the conjuring by twitching the palm of his hand, making the ice spin mist off of it.

  In the distant balconies, I see others gathering. Men and women a similar age to me, all whispering to one another. They look nothing like my lot. Some don prim cloth robes and others leather-stitched jerkins. None have the tattered rags representing the pits of Miria. It’s like we’ve ascended from hell to be judged in new clothes.

  The closer this mage gets, the more uneasy Boeru becomes. He evokes the warring dark harsher than even the Danes.

  “Haledyn Winbridge.” The man paces into the alchemist circle, causing the etched lines to fill with blue mist at his feet. A shiver crawls from my toes all the way up to the base of my skull. “You have stirred quite the commotion amongst the houses.”

  Boeru swims through the air in my mind, grunting and flexing his wing.

  I glance at my crew—Rogo, Renesta, Misty, Jurso, and finally, Layla. They all reassure me that they’ll have my back in whatever’s to come.

  “The houses sent me to die, sir.” Cold breath escapes my mouth. I appear weak, despite trying to be strong.

  “Your parents made that decision.” His steps are slow and menacing.

  I don’t know whether to turn my head or face forward as he inspects me. More people pile into the grand hall, all shapes and colors, with one differentiator over all—they’re showered.

  “Why, sir?” I decide to face straight, recalling all military protocol I read about growing up. If I turned to face a superior, he could take it as a sign of disrespect and keep me away from the answers I seek. Do they seem like an army? No. However, their emanating essence may very well make them that. I have to be careful in my demeanor. At least for now.

  “The bold dragonborn asks a pertinent question. I ask you lot, grown under the black sky…” he spins, sending a wave of frosty mist clawing in a circle around him. “Why would your parents make the ultimate sacrifice?”

  The crowd is silent. It gives me a chance to eye them all. Broggen, you prick. His hand twitches from the unstable bond, teeth baring now and again. I don’t forgive you.

  Relias stands at odds with all the others. He doesn’t belong, like we don’t belong. The space between him and them says it all. Makes me wonder if he activated an aura that keeps the distance.

  “To temper our blood,” one of the Rhylock siblings dares.

  “Too granular,” the man’s voice deepens. “Think outside of your small world, to the grandiose of mythos itself.”

  Jurso looks like he’s about to speak, but the man keeps on.

  “We are at war, foolish children. Your parentage hope for a chance to save Miria, of course.” He swings around, robes sweeping the floor. “None of you asked for this responsibility, yet you all certainly bear it. And now with an awakening in our grasp, the future tides turn. Roll call,” his voice echoes amongst the colossal hall, and out rushes a lanky scribe with parchment.

  The scribe holds his robes up embarrassingly so he doesn’t trip while scurrying to a podium behind the row of robed men and women. Once the parchment is flattened on the desk, he taps his throat to test the magical amplification.

  “Ahem,” he clears his throat. With a long face of smooth skin and chewed-up lips, his nervous energy makes him appear younger than all of us. “One hundred and nine orphans of the four houses marched to the Sept dungeon three nights ago, representing batch twenty-eight of thirty. Of them, thirty-six were deemed ascendants by way of earned victory or awakened redemption. Since then, nine have perished, leaving twenty-seven standing before us. Two awakened are bonded and true, as well as one deserter and one… rescued.”

  Chatter breaks out everywhere. I send wide eyes Jurso’s way. A deserter? That must be… Horo. And rescued? Could it be Jenny survived?

  “You telling me the sub-tier rodents actually turned out to be useful today?” a young man calls from a faraway balcony, earning an auditorium worth of laughter. He folds his arms arrogantly and shrugs his guardian cloak off one shoulder. Golden eyebrows are twirled into devilish ends, clashing with a mop of black hair.

  “Thank you for your valued, uninvited contribution, Malik Harenhal. May your ancestors’ donations get you out of many more lashings.” The scribe scoffs, looking up toward the disturbance. “Head Magus Foren Torell, I hand the stage back to you.” The scribe bows and exits as fast as he came.

  “A curious batch, indeed.” Head Magus rotates his orb like a crystal ball, trying to spin information out of it. “Escort the deserter out, and the rescued.”

  Kercht!

  A latch unfastening reverberates throughout the space, calling all eyes to my right. A thirty-foot door bellows open, and in walks the first true warrior decked in thin plate armor. She looks as though she just dismounted a dragon. A blue sash is pulled tight around her breastplate, feathered tails from her helmet waving with every step, and her enchanted spear tip smolders like a flame.

  Behind her, two beaten-down siblings hobble in. I tilt my head for a better look. Gods! It’s Horo helping Jenny limp into the hall. I take my first step forward before catching myself.

  They made it.

  “Read the magi of the room, Haledyn. The rules of war may have tampered this faction’s spirit.” Boeru huffs as his silhouette grows out of my mind and onto my shoulders. “They will be sacrificed as examples. The shift in this mage’s aura tells a dangerous story.”

  “No,” I say in finality. “My actions won’t be in vain, Boeru. I didn’t save her so she could die for ceremony. We’re done with all that.”

  We all gape as the two are marched in.

  “Students of Elshard Sanctum, bear witness to two sacks of tempered blood who failed to ascend, yet also… failed to die. They exist in a stratum between worthiness and afterlife, and may need a push in either direction.”

  My blood boils where I stand. The elitism of this man is infuriating. The dragon spirit riles in me, almost coercing me into action against all that I was prior to suffering the Sept.

  “It is not every day a deserter and a rescued face the first tier of Miria.” Head Magus waves the warrior aside—who marches in militaristic fashion with perfect posture, leaving the two who can barely stand. “I ought to burn whoever aided you for interfering with the Sept’s design.”

  No. Nirele…

  Foren narrows his eyes. “But I will leave that up to the Danes. You, on the other hand.” A wind whip sends the two of them scrambling forward, past me, to the hole I shot out of. Below it is a swarm of black matter and bolting electricity—which makes me wonder if that’s a portal directly to the black sky I lived beneath.

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t release you to your death?”

  Horo winces, holding his throat as he tries to speak. No words come out. Did the strangling mist get to him?

  “We do not support weakness at this academy, deserter. Speak up.” He crushes the orb to icy bits that rush to orbit him like a shattered moon.

  This is it. I’m the one too rare to sacrifice… I have to step in. They’re part of my crew now, after all. My responsibility.

  “I will speak for them.” I step forward.

  Head Magus turns abruptly. “Haven’t you done enough, Dragonborn?”

  Apparently not, if you still want them dead. I bite my tongue.

  When his brown eyes flash gold, my whole body freezes. I’m not sure from fear, or what, but this man has a nefarious presence about him. Boeru counteracts the strain on my body, and in this moment I love having a dragon’s spirit to back me.

  “Sir,” I say. “They are part of my group.”

  His eyes flash brighter, and the Torn Wing mark roars to life on my skin, as well as the others standing to Foren’s left.

  “I beg to differ, Dragonborn. You chose your marked. These two pathetic souls are not among them.” Foren faces me fully, rewinding the shattered orb back into his hand. “They disobeyed the rules of ascendance and should be barred to exile, or dropped from the spire for the tourists’ amusement.”

  This is a ruthless place.

  Say what you will about House Mother, but at least she had compassion after her lashings.

  “Head Magus,” one of the robed men interrupts. His crimson cowl extends as a long scarf draped over his shoulders with a crisscross yellow-stitched cuirass peeking between, extending all the way down to his rope belt. “This batch has been through enough, I think.”

  Head Magus sneers, “I fear you have gone soft since your promotion to Lord of House Sivus, Karloth.”

  “I’d like to hear the boy out. He speaks with the tongue of a dragon, after all.” Karloth puts his hands on his hips.

  “Very well.” Head Magus turns to stare me down. “Humor me, Dragonborn. State your case for these… unworthy.”

  I’m starting to see why that golden eyebrowed brat in desperate need of a tweezer speaks so brazenly. It’s revered to be an asshole here. I’m starting to think the Danes had a more humane approach to things.

  “Head Magus, we packed for a month-long journey, sir,” I say.

  The man smirks. “Are you complaining about the whip we put in place to aid you? I assure you, it wasn’t my vote, and I’d be glad to shove you back where you started.”

  I stand there, letting the Head Magus boil himself to a puddle of water.

  “We are maintaining an army, Dragonborn. There should be no coddling about that prospect. And by the gods, have we fallen so far from the generations of old.”

  Every generation believes that of their successor, once they become grumpy enough.

  Boeru cackles. He likes that thought.

  “My point is, Head Magus, that we of the sub-tier have been lied to at every turn, for our entire lives.” I speak with my chest while doing my best to remain respectful. It doesn’t matter how arrogant or unbearable these people are—they’re the key to answers.

  “For your own good. You packed for that journey because you had to believe the task before you was impossible. Only those with the heart to race headfirst into death despite the odds have the strength to represent Miria. She is our hearth and our home, young man, and does not tolerate house deserters, nor weak.”

  “Have mercy,” I beg. “How is he, or any of us, supposed to trust our superiors if we cannot rely on their direction? The practice of tempering our blood has consequences.”

  “And results.” Foren laughs. “You are walking evidence of the tradeoff. Boeru, the Torn Wing, and Noctus, the Storm Lance, come to bless Miria with their spirits. We will make that war trade any hour of the moon.”

  I set my jaw, recalling a quote of old mythos that seems extremely relevant right about now. I’m pushing my luck, but I hope I’m valuable enough to live through my next act. “In the Battle of Harvic Valley, Stel-worth Faction learned the price of a slave army, versus one defending their home. A thousand for one.”

  Head Magus’ orb spins violently as my voice echoes around the space.

  Dead silence remains afterword.

  Relias lifts his chin in his corner, hiding a smirk. Jurso swallows past a lump in his throat. Did I just sign my own death warrant? Did I disrespect the entire academy I just flew into?

  “Let us learn to love this empire, sir, so we too can care enough to defend it.” I straighten in militaristic fashion, hoping it’s enough to redeem my brazenness. “That’s all a rodent of the sub-tier can ask.”