A few hours later, I’m pretty sure this has been the longest day of my entire life. The gathering hall is less than a quarter full and the perfect place to wait for news, so that’s what the three of us do while Sawyer naps and the first-years tour with the fliers: sit—with our backs to the wall in case some Navarrian rider decides they want to make a point—and wait for Brennan and Mira to bring news.
Xaden hasn’t returned, either.
Not knowing if more venin could be running around campus is terrifying, but at least if there are, Xaden will sense them. The thought is oddly comforting.
“That venin by Jack’s cell had silver hair,” I mutter, setting my dagger to an apple and peeling it in one long ribbon. “That’s weird, right?”
“Everyone’s hair eventually turns gray. That’s the least weird thing about yesterday’s attack. How long are we supposed to wait to see if they charge us with treason?” Ridoc drums his fingers on the thick oak table. “Let’s just go with plan B already before another group of scarily coordinated dark wielders tries to break Barlowe out again.”
“It’s called plan A for a reason. Be patient,” Rhi lectures from Ridoc’s right, skimming through the book of Tyrrish knotwork Xaden gave me back before I knew it was meant to prepare me for runes. “I highly doubt the Treaty of Aretia was written in a matter of hours.”
“The initial phase was thirteen days of negotiation.” I finish peeling the apple as a first-year comes running through the arched double doors, then set my blade down as the gangly guy makes a beeline to a full table in First Wing’s section, immediately spreading what appears to be a tasty bit of gossip. “When are the first-years going to be done?” I ask.
Whatever rumor First Wing has caught wind of spreads quickly, rippling outward from the center table down the line in a fascinating display of turning heads and scrambling cadets.
“No clue,” Rhi says, turning a page. “I’m just hoping it’s a peaceful bonding experience, since I’m fairly certain there’s some kind of love triangle going on between Avalynn, Baylor, and Kai. Which I normally wouldn’t stress about; it’s not like Aetos cared who any of us were fucking last year—”
“So not true.” Ridoc snorts and shoulder bumps me.
I glance over at the next table to make sure Dain didn’t hear, but he’s clearly engrossed in conversation with a group of third-years, including Imogen and Quinn.
“—but they keep…” Rhi wrinkles her nose. “Squabbling. It isn’t helping integrate the fliers in this hostile environment, and it’s screwing with their interpersonal dynamics.”
Ridoc’s fingers pause, and he takes note of the pattern I’ve been watching. News spreads from person to person, and riders start scurrying out of the hall. “You seeing this?”
I nod and sheathe my dagger, leaving my apple uneaten. “Rhi.”
She closes the book and looks up.
“You think they’ll win?” a brunette in Third Wing asks excitedly, slamming her pewter mug down on the table across from us.
“No fucking way. It’ll be a bloodbath,” the guy next to her replies, catching my gaze and quickly averting his as he gets up from the table, grabbing his flight jacket and abandoning his drink.
“Something’s happening.” A quick glance down the tables makes my skin crawl. The only riders left in the gathering hall are Aretian.
All three of us rise as a stocky cadet barrels through the double doors, and I spot first-year rank and his name tag, Norris, a second before he throws his hood back, revealing his familiar face.
“Baylor?” Apprehension slithers between my shoulder blades at the panic in our squadmate’s brown eyes, the worry creasing the dark-brown skin of his forehead.
“They’re here!” he shouts over his shoulder, and Sloane races in behind him.
I grab my jacket and slip out from behind the table to meet the first-years in the middle of the gathering hall. “What’s wrong?”
“You have to do something.” Sloane stares past me to Rhiannon. She hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since she siphoned the life out of my mother. “First Wing grabbed one of Tail Section’s fliers in the courtyard, and they’re forcing a challenge.”
My stomach hurtles to the floor. If so much as a drop of flier blood is shed, it could end the peace talks.
“Beinhaven’s insisting at knifepoint,” Baylor all but growls.
A wingleader is orchestrating this? There aren’t enough four-letter words in the world. Article Four, Section Four…we need another wingleader.
“Let’s move,” Rhiannon orders, and they sprint toward the door, Ridoc sliding past me as I turn back to the third-years.
“Dain!” I shout, and his head jerks up, his familiar brown eyes finding me instantly. “We need you.” Without waiting for his response, I take off after my squad, shoving my arms into my coat.
Dain catches up before we hit the far side of commons, and the rest of the Aretian riders aren’t far behind him.
We burst through the doorway of the rotunda into the courtyard, and my gaze sweeps over the crowd, taking stock of the situation. There’s a clear division in the mass gathered in front of the dais, with most Navarrian riders standing to the left, at least half of them wearing sickening smirks while Caroline Ashton appears to take bets near the far staircase. The rest hold back the angry crowd of Aretian riders and fliers arguing directly in front of—
My heart lurches into my throat.
Aura Beinhaven stands centered in front of the crowd, holding one of the daggers she usually keeps strapped to her upper arms against the tan neck of a terrified first-year flier.
And there’s no leadership in sight.
“Find your squads and de-escalate at all costs,” Dain orders over his shoulder as we race down the steps and into the swarm.
“If only we were taught those techniques,” Ridoc mutters.
“They’re at the front. Follow me,” Baylor tells us, then pushes through the crush like it’s nothing, leaving us an easy wake to follow in. The snow has stopped, only to be replaced by a bitter chill as the sun sinks behind the mountains.
“Let him go!” Cat’s voice rises above the others as we reach the front of the crowd, and when Baylor steps aside, I spot Maren holding Cat back from the line of Navarrian riders guarding Aura, her arms hooked around her best friend’s waist.
“Feel free to accept the challenge, since he won’t.” A third-year out of Second Wing holds the tip of her sword less than a foot from Cat’s stomach.
“Happy to!” she shouts.
Holy shit, this place is a tinderbox just waiting for a single flame to set it ablaze.
Palming a dagger, I move before my common sense can get the better of me and put myself in front of Cat, lifting my chin at the third-year. “This isn’t how we treat our fellow cadets.”
“They’re not cadets!” she sneers.
“I didn’t hear you complaining when they were carting your little sister to the infirmary during the battle.” Imogen’s shoulder rubs against mine as she edges in, urging me back. “But if you’re going to raise blades”—she draws her sword—“then you’ll do so against someone your own year, Kaveh.”
Quinn pushes through on my other side, forcing Neve—one of our third-year fliers—behind her and setting the head of her labrys on the ground, squaring off against a guy out of First Wing who seems twice her height. “I kicked your ass our first year, and I don’t mind doing it again, Hedley.”
I take the opportunity and spin, putting my forearm at Cat’s collarbone and forcing her back into the safety of our squad.
“I’ll fight!” she shri
