By the time it’s our squad’s turn to descend the stone steps of the Infantry Quadrant’s outdoor amphitheater on Friday, it’s been another four days since I’ve seen Xaden, and he keeps his shields up so frequently that we may as well just start writing letters again.
Carved into a northern ridgeline just west of the Infantry Quadrant, the half-dome arena is more fighting pit than lecture hall. It’s capable of seating all thousand-plus infantry cadets, but this afternoon the magically warmed space only holds our squad, Caroline Ashton’s from First Wing, and the devastatingly beautiful man standing in the middle of the flat base of the amphitheater, impatience carved on every line of his face. I’ve always loved him in uniform, but there’s something about seeing him in tight-fitted sparring gear, swords strapped across his back, that makes me instantly wish this was a private teaching session.
“This is incredible,” Sloane says ahead of me. “The snow is piled up along the edges, but it feels like summer in here.”
“Weather ward?” Lynx guesses, ruffling the melting snow off his short black hair.
“I’d guess there’s a little more to it than that.” Given the way the magic pulled at me like a sticky piece of toffee while walking through, I’m sure weather isn’t the only thing we’re keeping out.
Shadows brush against my shields as I strip out of my winter flight jacket midway down the steps, and I crack open just enough of my defenses to let Xaden in.
“I’ve missed you.” His gaze devours me, but he does a good job of quickly looking away.
“Same.” I lay my jacket on the first row of stone seats beside my classmates, leaving me in traditional sparring gear. “Is this where you’ve been hiding out?”
“Welcome to your first session of Signet Sparring, in what I like to call the pit,” he announces as we reach the base of the steps. The floor is laid in an arched cobblestone pattern of various shades, but only five or so feet are visible before the mat begins. “Those who can wield, keep your feet on the rock but—and I cannot stress this enough—off the mat. Those who cannot, take a seat in the first row.” He gestures to the terraced stone behind us, and cadets move. “If by hiding out, you mean constructing incredibly complex wards that might make even your sister proud, then yes. And it’s not like you’ve been accessible. Bodhi says you’re either reading with Andarna as a backrest or wielding alone in the range.”
An hour a day, that’s what I’ve promised myself. No matter how cold it is or how tired I am, I’m on the ridgeline with Tairn, practicing smaller, more concise strikes until my arms feel like jelly.
“I spend a lot of time in the library, too.” I roll my shoulders, then take my place between Ridoc and Rhiannon, keeping two rows back from the mat as I secure the strap of the conduit through the loop on the left side of my waist. “Quest squad may be headed north, but I’m still reading everything I can find on Deverelli, which isn’t nearly enough.” And the tomes on dark wielders both Queen Maraya and Tecarus have sent, though there’s been no hint of a cure or mention of a dragon ever torching a venin like Andarna did. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t spend all my nighttime hours with Xaden, or I wouldn’t be flying through books like I am.
“Let’s go. It shouldn’t be this hard to sort yourselves out.” His gaze wanders to mine. “Quest squad?”
“Ridoc gave it a nickname and it stuck.” I shrug as the other squad fills in to the right of our third-years, standing in our mirror image, oldest at the center of the arc. “Aetos leaves for his trip to Calldyr soon, so we’ve been preparing to get into my parents’—” I wince. “His quarters.”
“Need my help?” He scans over our line, no doubt assessing strengths and weaknesses.
“No, but I’ll let you know if that changes.” I bend my left knee, testing to be sure the wrap is still in place. Doesn’t matter how often Brennan mends me, that particular joint never stays healed for long. “Any chance you can sneak away to Chantara this weekend? We’re dragging Sawyer out.”
“I hope you have a great time, but watching you across the pub sounds like torture.” His jaw ticks. “I think we had more time together when I was stationed at Samara.”
“Agreed, but you’re safe here.” I take stock of who we have on the floor. On Rhiannon’s right, Bragen and Neve—the third-year fliers—stand with Imogen and Quinn, and to Ridoc’s left are Trager, Cat, Maren, Baylor, Avalynn, Sloane, and Kai. Aaric and Lynx are seated behind us, and it catches me off guard to realize that all four of the first-years in the First Wing squad are sitting, too.
Dragons are taking their time when it comes to channeling.
“Safe is starting to feel overrated.” He looks toward First Wing. “You done gossiping among yourselves?”
“We were just saying that we’re not sure someone who graduated less than a year ago makes the best teacher.” Loran Yashil folds his arms. The cocky third-year with bright-purple locs is one of the best fighters in their wing.
“Oh shit,” Rhiannon whispers.
A corner of my lips rises. They’ve earned whatever Xaden is about to dish out.
“Let’s see if you can take me down and settle that worry right now.” Xaden crooks his fingers. “You’re a metallurgist, right?”
My heart twinges. “Sawyer should be here, too,” I whisper to Rhi.
“Yeah, well, everything I’ve tried to convince him has failed.” Her mouth tenses.
Shit. “You’re doing your best. I didn’t mean—”
Her shoulders dip. “I know.”
“Metallurgist.” Loran nods. “So these are nice and sharp.” He walks onto the mat, drawing the sword from his hip and a dagger from his waist.
“Good for you.” Xaden claps twice but keeps his feet planted apart on the mat. “I hope they help.”
Loran lifts his sword and circles Xaden to the left. “Are you going to draw a weapon?”
“We’ll see.” Xaden shrugs, his eyes tracking Loran’s movements. “Now do us both a favor and don’t hold back. Begin.”
Loran charges, and my ribs tighten like a vise around my lungs.
Xaden doesn’t move.
Loran runs until he’s three feet from Xaden, then thrusts his sword forward, keeping his dagger tucked at his side.
My breath catches as Xaden lets the blade come within inches of his chest, then sidesteps and slams his left fist on top of Loran’s wrist. Loran shouts as the sword falls, but he’s already pivoting toward Xaden before the blade hits the mat, his left arm swinging in an arc that’s aimed at slicing open Xaden’s jugular.
Xaden grabs hold of Loran’s forearm and spins, yanking the appendage behind Loran’s back and driving his elbow upward until Loran cries out in painful frustration. Then he plucks the dagger from Loran’s hand and releases him with a shove forward.
“The fucking nerve on that one,” Ridoc mutters, shaking his head. “If he’d waited a second later…”
But he didn’t, because he knew exactly what Loran intended.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I’ve always loved watching you on the mat.”
“I know.” Xaden rolls his neck. “I’ve used it to my advantage a few times.”
Of course he has.
Loran stumbles but, to his credit, immediately turns to face Xaden again.
Xaden flicks the dagger, and it lodges in the mat between Loran’s feet. “You threw too much energy into the charge. Using brute force instead of finesse is a first-year tactic.” He cocks his head to the side and studies Loran with a look that’s almost bored. “Now that we’ve proven I’m capable of kicking your ass without breaking a sweat or holding steel, what do you say we get to the point of the class and wield?” Xaden lifts his arms at a ninety-degree angle, palms up.
Loran swallows and keeps both eyes on Xaden as he retrieves his weapons.
“Begin,” Xaden orders.
Loran shifts his weight, and there’s a definite sheen of panic in his eyes as he circles Xaden again. To my utter consternation, the man I love doesn’t even look as Loran creeps around his back. No, instead of following his opponent’s moves, Xaden looks my way and fucking winks as Loran attacks from behind, the sword transforming, lengthening as he strikes.
In fact, he holds my gaze unflinchingly until Loran raises his blade a few feet from his neck.
Then Xaden glances down at his left, where the blade’s shadow stretches past his boot, elongated by the afternoon sun, and lifts a single finger.
The shadow rushes back on Loran and within a heartbeat wraps around his throat and arm.
Xaden steps to the side as Loran falls to his knees in the very space Xaden had stood, and the sword falls, too, abandoned as Loran grabs for the shadows tightening around his throat. His face blotches, and the other squad starts to shift uncomfortably before Xaden drops his hands.
The shadow falls back into position, and Loran gasps for air.
“I’m either completely in love with your boyfriend or utterly terrified of him,” Ridoc says under his breath. “Not sure at the moment.”
“Both,” Cat answers from his left. “You can be both. Trust me.”
“You shouldn’t be either,” Trager mutters.
Ridoc glances my way and rolls his eyes.
I bite back my smile. “I’m never scared of him.” Xaden’s eyes find mine, and my pulse skips. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
Rhi snorts and Ridoc offers me a sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Agreed,” Xaden says. “That’s far too casual a term for what we are.” His gaze drops to Loran, who’s still heaving for breath on the mat. “Get up.”
