The tap of Scorius’ cane echoes around his chambers. He leads Broggen and I into a room of deep magic reminiscent of the Sept. Iron columns embedded within the stone walls stretch high to the ceiling, reinforcing cracked foundations like a broken Seal. This isn’t an unused pristine hall like most of the other Elshard sections. It’s a place of torture, by the looks of it.

  A cube of bubbling liquid stands in the corner of the lair, not held up by any physical construction I can see. It’s just invisibly confined with a giant bubble floating oddly in the center.

  “I was once like you, Riderborn,” Scorius’ scratchy voice scrapes through the air. “Battling the fire of an unstable bond. An enemy of myself.”

  Broggen winces as if the very words activate Noctus inside him.

  Of course he’s bonded. Why else would they pair only the two of us with him?

  “This one has faint scents of the afterlife.” Boeru emerges in my mind, clawing onto my shoulders and curving his neck to better sniff out the war-tutor. “Something is not quite right.”

  Scorius turns near the cube, his hawkish, golden eyes looking beyond me. “Put him away, Dragonborn, or I will.”

  My breath hitches.

  “He can see you, even in my mind?”

  Boeru huffs. “Apparently so.”

  Their eyes lock, and I’m stunned. Boeru isn’t a manifested shadow right now… how can he…?

  Scorius slams down his cane, sending a whirlwind of black slivers cycling up from his cloak. “Dare to test your Prominent?”

  I nod for Boeru to disappear, and he reluctantly does. We’re both trying to gain power, and this might be our first chance to start. Better not screw it up.

  “And you, rider. Hold still.” Scorius thrusts his cane forward, sending a black pulse that immediately makes me curl over, ears ringing. Broggen’s pushed two steps back as the wave washes over him, eradicating the warring dark from his body. I don’t feel anything emanating from him now.

  Broggen draws his sword foolishly. This man is obviously beyond our power and skill. We have to submit if we’re going to get anywhere. Can’t you see that, Gen?

  Uncovering my ears and straightening to better scan Gen, I realize he’s not the same man I met in the Sept chamber, nor the one who shot the arrow to help Jurso. He was all militaristic calculation then. Now he seems… rash.

  “Has the Storm Lance already invaded your faculty, prized child of Valor?” Scorius asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do you dare attack your Prominent on your very first day?” He steps forward, challenging Broggen to try.

  Gen heaves his blade into ready position, and to my surprise, the warring dark already rumbles back to life around his legs, his arms. Black cyclones culminate into the angry spearman spirit growing high over his shoulders.

  My mind is on fire. What was Scorius’ warring dark spell supposed to do to Gen? Snuff out his magic? If so, it didn’t work. But then, why does the prospect of Gen’s anger amuse him? That wry smirk plastered on his face makes me think twice.

  “You goad us,” Gen’s voice flares with hints of Noctus, his grip tightening around the hilt, spirit shadow falling over him like unstable armor. “Even the Sept had more respect than you.”

  Scorius raises his chin. “You are not deserving of respect, Riderborn. In fact, you are a disgrace to your family’s name. Lor’fyre. Hah. I would never have guessed it in a thousand years.”

  The armor rumbles around Gen’s body, arms shaking with fury.

  “I fought alongside your father. There is not an ounce of him in you.” Scorius’ smirk widens, and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You might as well be a Koad.”

  Uh oh. That’s a family name of jesters.

  With an unhinged shout, Gen charges him.

  “Gen, no!” I bellow, not sure why. The prick deserves what’s coming to him.

  Then again, the war-tutor seems right—he’s not in control…

  Woosh!

  Gen swings high overhead with intention to cut our war-tutor in half. Had Scorius not pinpointed Boeru in my mind, I might’ve been worried Gen’s agility would overcome whatever old power the tutor possesses. But his confidence is something else.

  Gen’s shadow armor bends unnaturally to keep up with him. It feigns movements in an attempt to sway Scorius’ eye. No use. Our tutor’s cane guides the sword away as if swatting a fly. Despite Gen’s perfect form—a trained stance of strong left-leaning swings and quick-thrusting recovery—Scorius reads the trajectory of each swipe before it comes. His cane guides the enchanted blade faster off course, causing overextension and loss of balance. What’s more, Scorius’ eyes only face forward as his body moves into perfect evasive stances.

  It’s as if Scorius’ warring dark is puppeteering Gen’s.

  He’s taunting the most powerful fighter of the sub-tier… like he’s nothing. And when Gen uses his warring dark how I know him to—evoking a magical shield out of the shadow of his sword—Scorius summons a feathery black wing that swats the conjuring away.

  Noctus rears out of Gen’s shoulders like he’s backing up to hurl a spear at a faraway enemy, but with a grunt, Scorius thrusts his cane high and lunges for the first time, ignoring Gen and piercing Noctus to the floor by the neck.

  The spirit riles uncontrollably, losing its shape and reforming as it stretches to avoid separating from its vessel. Gen turns with an overhead slash, only to be smacked by the same wing, sending him and his sword flying in opposite directions.

  Holy shit.

  “I have watched the two of you from mage windows since you were children. You think I don’t know your capabilities?” Scorius says cryptically, then turns to the spirit under his cane. “There you are, Noctus… following the tail of your enemy.” He rubs his chin, pressing his cane harder on its neck. “A part of me believes you bonded just to cut Boeru’s spirit loose. Obviously, Miria cannot afford that.” Scorius lifts his cane high, causing Noctus’ armored silhouette to rip wildly at the weapon, somehow tethering him.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The spirit flexes to fight Scorius’ hold.

  “What is your intention, Noctus?” his voice reverberates loudly.

  After reclaiming his blade, Gen weakly turns his head to watch, one hand on the hilt holding him up. “We are one, tutor.”

  “Fool!” Scorius thrusts his cane once more, breaking Noctus apart into black slivers that rewind back into Gen’s skin. “You are addicted to power, that is all, Riderborn. Your body craves it like a brute craves spice. Look at you,” he seethes. “Suffering withdrawals on your fourth bonded day. Unable to retain control in your own body. How can I ever send you to war? To your father?”

  “Curse my father, and curse you. My loyalty is to none.”

  “Such is the danger of tempering blood in the sub-tier.” Scorius folds his hands over the top of his cane. “Technically your attack on me is high treason punishable by execution.”

  “If that’s how it must be.” Gen straightens, finding stability now that Noctus swirls inside him.

  What would happen to me if Boeru was extracted? Would my Arkitus come roaring back?

  “I only say it so you don’t act rashly in another class. It would be a terrible reflection on me.”

  Gen huffs, cleaning his sword and stuffing it back in its sheath. “After all the Sept’s babbling, you think I don’t know my worth? The realm cannot afford to lose a bond, even if it may be a treasonous one.”

  Scorius grins. He likes the fire in Gen.

  I don’t know what I expected when walking into this chamber, but it certainly wasn’t this. It’s cause for reflection. My life changed dramatically since Arkitus left my body. I can breathe for the first time. In a lot of ways, I’m noticed for the first time. I don’t have to fight for every sliver of attention I get, warranted or not. What’s it doing to me? Is it for the better?

  Is the Torn Wing’s spirit making my blood run hot?

  “Rise and stand straight, both of you.” He taps his cane, hunching forward. “You will henceforth address me as Prominent for your duration, as I will be responsible for making you rats suitable for war.”

  “Permission to speak, Prominent.” I raise my chin.

  He grunts, waving his hand in response.

  “What is your bond, sir?”

  Scorius bares his teeth. “You are not privy to that information. Though the halls will soon tell you, I’m sure.” With a wave of his hand, firelight sconces bloom to life, illuminating a wall-sized map splayed on the stone wall.

  My eyes light up at the sight. All I’ve ever seen is the sparse sub-tier map—mostly flatland and barren patches. Four sky-high towers. But this? This is something else entirely. Fixtures and plot marks everywhere. Symbols I’ve never seen and houses I’ve never heard of exist to the east and west of Elshard, as well as other sanctums. Massive bridges draped across giant mountains. This is old-time mythos come to life.

  “For five years, not one new bonded reared from the sub-tier.” Scorius taps his cane against the foot of the map. “Throughout all of the houses and all the sanctums, they come up empty. Truth be told, Elshard was close to scrapping current tempering practices altogether. The war simply couldn’t afford another declining generation, while Lacor gains.”

  With a twist of his finger, two miniature tower pieces tremble on a nearby table before zooming onto the map—one landing in House Valor, the other in House Sivus. “Now our sanctum possesses the only ones, yet again.”

  That must mean our relationship with the warring dark is better understood than the rest of the foreign houses. Interesting.

  “However.” He twists his wrist, pulling six white-colored pieces and flinging them to the map like daggers. “Wolcrux Sanctum contains five of eight myth weavers from this year’s batch, leaving them in a high position of ascendance compared to ours.”

  “Aren’t we all fighting on the same side?” I ask.

  Scorius turns with a snarl. “Fool. Do you think the houses will share equally when this war ends? Miria must be governed by the warriors who win it.” He scratches his cane against the stone. “Those faux tomes you’ve been given, they speak of old kingdomonia and the generals that rode them to victory. You see how easily text can be swayed one way or the other. The ruling class is who writes them.”

  This man is obsessed with legacy and war. It makes me wonder why he’s down here, so far away from it.

  He taps his cane again against the map. “The war-tier would grant favor to Wolcrux on the sheer basis of inheriting five omegas versus our four. Something I vehemently disagree with.”

  “Because of the marked,” Broggen surmises. “We who are bonded, together, make fourteen omegas to Wolcrux’s five.”

  “Precisely.” Scorius narrows his eyes, seeming impressed for the first time. “A controlled bond and cohesive marked can conjure powerful auras. You are the potential the war-tier fails to acknowledge.”

  “So we are to be built up solely as tools for war?” I ask with an even voice, confirming all of the bloodshed and torture to this point.

  To be frank, I’m conflicted. So long as the mythos in the Sivus library isn’t full of lies, being trained up for Miria works for me, at least for now. That means I’ll be able to help Kane and protect my friends.

  More flashes of the Sept dungeon massacre send a shiver down my spine. The screams, the blood…

  letting the enticement of Elshard draw me in isn’t without an ever-slicing dose of guilt.

  Scorius puckers his lips. “Not solely. No. Some of you will be molded as future leaders in the image of your house, leaning heavily on the intellectual focus.”

  “And if I decide to go that route?”

  “You will not,” he assures.

  “Oh?”

  “Being cleared of affliction opens possibilities sought after since your first stable beating, Dragonborn. It is in your nature to explore it. However, you will not be a direct combatant either. Curiosity will lead you down both paths, as is the same for Lor’fyre, assuming he retains sanity.”

  Broggen and I exchange a glance.

  “We lose cadets often, as is the case in times of war. Do not become one of them.” A red drip of blood becomes obvious on Scorius’ finger when he points. It leaks around a ring, and he notices my eyes shift. “Hmph.” He scans me. “Your siblings intentionally keep warring dark secrets from you because they are afraid.”

  “I’m sorry?” My brow furrows.

  “Everyone with attunement knows.” He hobbles over to Broggen, invading his personal space, forcing him to lean back. “Either by their house parent bending the rules, or by trial and error.” He then yanks Gen’s hand to show a similar scratch around his finger.

  My eyes widen as Relias’ words come to play again in my head. The warring dark is deaf, dumb, and blind without bloodshed.

  “Don’t you wonder why the pressure builds and builds inside you, yet never releases?” Scorius asks.

  He’s right. I always feel like I’m going to explode whenever it’s evoked. The only time that level of energy released was when I was stabbed through the heart and brought back by Boeru. Bloodshed. That’s the trigger.

  “Tempered blood,” I say.

  “It is the most efficient way to the warring dark. Much more so than syphoning sea-snake or draining wyvern. Here.” Scorius hobbles over to one of his tables, ducking to rustle through some items in a box. He flicks me a ring that I catch, cupped in both hands. “The contraption will prick you, and bring the warring dark to fruition. Let it be your first lesson in a world of truth.”

  “Thank you, Prominent.” I bow.

  “Mm.” He groans, then walks to the magical liquid tank. “Come, both of you. I only have a few more minutes before classes begin.”

  Broggen and I line up beside one another.

  “What house are you, Prominent?” Gen asks.

  “I’ve been traded between all in Elshard,” he says.

  “Which do you favor?” I prod.

  “Elshard,” he says matter-of-factly. “Though if you asked me during my war days, I would’ve answered differently. Now, so long as our sanctum retains favor all the way up to the war-tier, I will be content.”

  “You do not fear losing the war?” I go for one more.

  He turns his head, eyeing me up and down. “I am almost certain we will.”

  My jaw tightens as a grim cloud wafts over me. Born on the wrong side, apparently.

  “No point to dwell,” Scorius says. “We have shaped this sanctum adequately since the beginning.”

  We?

  “Head Magus Foren was recruited to replace Javar Don’isus. A war-tutor in exchange for a pot-bellied politician. Such was the need when Lacor attacked. Foren then recruited me and others from the war-tier, once our time serving proved complete. Hmph. Some of the old tutors still remain, soft as they may be. But they know who’s in charge.” He straightens as best he can, staring at the magical liquid. “You two will be molded into military leaders when I’m done with you. Either that, or you’ll be dead.”