Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
The majority of the crowd moves to line up at the base of the northern turret—the entrance to the Infantry Quadrant. Some of the mass heads toward the gate behind us—the Healer Quadrant that consumes the southern end of the college. Envy clenches my chest when I spot a few taking the central tunnel into the archives below the fortress to join the Scribe Quadrant.
The entrance to the Riders Quadrant is nothing more than a fortified door at the base of the tower, just like the infantry entrance to the north. But while the infantry candidates can walk straight into their ground-level quadrant, we rider candidates will climb.
Mira and I join the riders’ line, waiting to sign in, and I make the mistake of glancing up.
High above us, crossing the river-bottomed valley that divides the main college from the even higher, looming citadel of the Riders Quadrant on the southern ridgeline, is the parapet, the stone bridge that’s about to separate rider candidates from the cadets over the next few hours.
I can’t believe I’m about to cross that thing.
“And to think, I’ve been preparing for the scribe’s written exam all these years.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “I should have been playing on a balance beam.”
Mira ignores me as the line moves forward and candidates disappear through the door. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.”
Two candidates ahead of us, a woman sobs as her partner rips her away from a young man, the couple breaking from the line, retreating in tears down the hillside toward the crowd of loved ones lining the roads. There are no other parents ahead of us, only a few dozen candidates moving toward the roll-keepers.
“Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down,” Mira says, the lines of her face tightening. “Arms out for balance. If the pack slips, drop it. Better it falls than you.”
I look behind us, where it seems hundreds have filed in within the span of minutes. “Maybe I should let them go first,” I whisper as panic fists my heart. What the hell am I doing?
“No,” Mira answers. “The longer you wait on those steps”—she motions toward the tower—“the greater your fear has a chance to grow. Cross the parapet before the terror owns you.”
The line moves, and the bell chimes again. It’s eight o’clock.
Sure enough, the crowd of thousands behind us has separated fully into their chosen quadrants, all lined up to sign the roll and begin their service.
“Focus,” Mira snaps, and I whip my head forward. “This might sound harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”
There are only two ahead of us now—a woman with a full pack, whose high cheekbones and oval face remind me of renderings of Amari, the queen of the gods. Her dark brown hair is worn in several rows of short braids that just touch the equally dark skin of her neck. The second is the muscular blond man with the woman crying over him. He’s carrying an even bigger rucksack.
I look around the pair toward the roll-keeping desk, and my eyes widen. “Is he…?” I whisper.
Mira glances and mutters a curse. “A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that shimmering mark that starts on the top of his wrist? It’s a relic from the rebellion.”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. The only relics I’ve ever heard of are when a dragon uses magic to mark the skin of their bonded rider. But those relics are a symbol of honor and power and generally in the shape of the dragon who gifted them. These marks are swirls and slashes that feel more like a warning than a claiming.
“A dragon did that?” I whisper.
She nods. “Mom says General Melgren’s dragon did it to all of them when he executed their parents, but she wasn’t exactly open to further discussion on the topic. Nothing like punishing the kids to deter more parents from committing treason.”
It seems…cruel, but the first rule of living at Basgiath is never question a dragon. They tend to cremate anyone they find rude.
“Most of the marked kids who carry rebellion relics are from Tyrrendor, of course, but there are a few whose parents turned traitor from the other provinces—” The blood drains from her face, and she grips the straps of my pack, turning me to face her. “I just remembered.” Her voice drops, and I lean in, my heart jumping at the urgency in her tone. “Stay the hell away from Xaden Riorson.”
The air rushes from my lungs. That name…
“That Xaden Riorson,” she confirms, fear lacing her gaze. “He’s a third-year, and he will kill you the second he finds out who you are.”
“His father was the Great Betrayer. He led the rebellion,” I say quietly. “What is Xaden doing here?”
“All the children of the leaders were conscripted as punishment for their parents’ crimes,” Mira whispers as we shuffle sideways, moving with the line. “Mom told me they never expected Riorson to make it past the parapet. Then they figured a cadet would kill him, but once his dragon chose him…” She shakes her head. “Well, there’s nothing much that can be done then. He’s risen to the rank of wingleader.”