•𝟔.𝟖𝐤•

꧁•𖢻•༻*✽*༺•𖢻•꧂

꧁•𖢻•༻*✽*༺•𖢻•꧂

𝕬fter being issued their leathers from central issue, all the first-years were led to a three story building housing the barracks, although only the first and third floors house first-years. The men were led to the third floor whilst the women remained on the first floor.

ℜeserras notes they were not flight leathers. No first-year would be given those until after Threshing—the day the dragons choose those they deem worthy of a bond—well, those who survive 'till then, that is.

𝔗hey were standard uniforms; summer-weight tight fitted tunics and pants, with few accessories, namely patches and sheaths.

𝔒ver nearly a hundred-and-fifty cadets fill the third-floor barracks, the beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Across the walls, scones were evenly spread out, the mage-lights currently snuffed out in favor of the golden sunlight pouring in through the curved windows.

   𝔓rivate rooms were just like flight leathers—the cadets don't receive one until after Threshing when they become a dragon-rider.

ℭlaiming a bunk shouldering Liam's own, Reserras drops his light-weighted pack, halfway filled with few of the things he did not wish to part with, unto his bunk.

𝔏ooking at the uniform in his arms, he decides in that moment he'll never remove his dragonscale armor, for it is Reserras Atonal's most valuable possession... for numerous reasons. Nor would he ever remove his daggers from their sheaths.

𝐴𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝐼 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛... 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠. Reserras huffs beneath his breath. 𝑆ℎ𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑝, 𝑅𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑠.

𝔄fter changing into the uniform—a single, silver four-point star on his collarbone and a Fourth Wing patch on his shoulder; a flame shaped patch with the emblem for Fourth Wing and a cantered reddish number two—Resseras and Liam sit on their bunks, facing each other. The muffled chatter of all the other cadets filters throughout the barracks as some lounge on their bunks while others gather in groups. 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠, 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑡.

   "So," Liam sighs, "same Wing, different Squad." He leans forward as he rests his elbows on his knees.

ℜeserras hums, "I'm not so surprised." His lips curl with a smirk. "Wouldn't want more than three Marked Ones together, now would they? Lest we get any... rebellious ideas." Liam snickers.

"The Sorrengail twins with the Atonal brothers? Now, I can't wait to see how that goes."

"As does half the quadrant, I'm sure." Reserras chuckles.

𝔗he pair fall into a soft-spoken conversation as the golden light of day fades into the pitch darkness of the night, the pale blue mage-lights flickering to life and illuminating the barracks. Discussing their squads, Reserras knows not all fifteen to sixteen members will survive 'til Threshing, and decides to himself he won't make the effort to get to know every member of his squad before then.

𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

ℌe'd never initiate, not until after Threshing... but, if one of them comes to him, and he finds they don't irritate him, he wouldn't be opposed to establishing companionships. 𝐼𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒.

𝔍ust before the bells toll for 7 o'clock—dinner, an hour before curfew—all the first-years' schedules are handed out by senior riders. And they quickly compare their classes to see which they would have together, like everyone else in the barracks.

𝔑ot many, Reserras notes without much surprise—only Gym, Dragon Lecture, and Battle Brief. 'Tis no coincidence, he's certain. Navarre fears another rebellion... 𝑖𝑓 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤.

𝔗he ringing of the bells resounds across the citadel shortly after, and the cadets file out into the stone halls, making their way to the Gathering Hall for a long awaited meal after the emotional exhaustion of the day.

𝔓assing through the massive arched doors into the Dragon Rotunda—echoed by the same across, leading to the academic wing—Reserras admires the beauty of the room. It stands three stories tall, from its polished marble floors to the domed glass ceiling that filters in the soft moonlight. Up a half-dozen steps, opening into the Gathering Hall, is four doorways across the entry doors from the courtyard. But the most exquisite piece of the rotunda were the seven daunting marble pillars carved into dragons. Equally spaced around the room, shimmering in their various colors of red, green, brown, orange, blue, black, and white, they stood as if they'd come crashing down from the ceiling above.

ℑt was glorious, breathtaking. No artist, nor painting, could ever capture how overwhelming the space was. How intricate every detail is. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑙, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝐵𝑎𝑠𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑡ℎ.

𝔗he soles of his leather boots click against the marble floors, when the shadows beneath his feet begin swirling, slithering up to curl around his ankles. They slightly tug in the direction of their awaiting wielder.

ℜeserras wets his bottom lip to withhold his rising smirk, turning to Liam. "I'll catch up." The light-blonde doesn't get to question Reserras before the man walks off.

𝔗he shadows enclose Reserras in an eerie cocoon of darkness the second he steps into the claws of the blue marble dragon. His lips quirk with an amused grin, "Hiding in the claws of the blue dragon. Fitting."

   𝔄 smirk curls lips Reserras swears had been sculpted by the most skilled artist. To Reserras, every feature of Xaden Riorson were crafted by the most experienced hand. Chiseled with lethality, yet soft with ethereal beauty.

   "You and Liam — "

   "Are bunked beside each other." Reserras intercepts, knowing what Xaden would ask. He smirks, "Good."

   𝔛aden's onyx eyes dance with Reserras'—one pale blue like the Iakobus River, the other milky and lifeless—and his perfect lips part as his heart sings for him to speak...but no words come.

   𝔄 crease forms between Reserras' dark brows, tilting his head curiously. A rather adorable movement that has Xaden's heart fluttering madly. "What?"

   "I just..." His shoulders rise with an intake of breath. "I missed you, Reserras."

   𝔗he younger man's features soften, the corners of his soft lips tilting with a lopsided grin. "I missed you, too, Xaden."

   𝔗here, concealed in the shadows, a single moment in time's endless cycle that feels like forever passes them as the two young men—burdened by all they have seen and the weight of the entire world weighing on their shoulders—loose themselves in their eyes.

   ℑn this timeless moment, they feel at peace. Gazing into the starry blackness of night and the pale blue of all the serene waters in this world, they find respite midst the chaos of this world.

   𝔗hen the moment shatters when Xaden blinks. "We should go." Still he speaks softly, not wanting the moment to end but knowing it must.

   ℜeserras' long lashes flutter as that tranquil fog lifts from his mind. "Yeah," he mutters.

   𝔏eaving the shadows, the pair walk alongside one another into the Gathering Hall, where Xaden leaves Reserras' side with a caress of velvety shadows on his wrist. Ignoring the fluttering of his heart, Reserras joins Liam in the dinner line.

   𝔏iam greets Reserras with a mischievous, all knowing, smirk. Reserras lifts a confused brow, slightly shaking his head. "What?" But Liam only snickers. "Nothing."

༻*✽*༺

     —"Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn." Captian Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll the next morn, flanked by two other scribes on the dais, as the entire quadrant stands in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.

   "Jace Sutherland." The scribe assigned to the Riders Quadrant, responsible for reading the death roll every morning at formation, continues to read. "Dougal Luperco."

𝔚ith his arms crossed behind his back, Reserras shifts his weight. Trickles of perspiration trail down his spine underneath his tunic- and-dragonscale armor as the harsh glare of the sun pierces into him.

"Simone Casteneda." After the name of the last candidate who fell from the parapet the day before is spoken, Fitzgibbons closes the roll. "We commend their souls to Malek."

ℑt would be the fallen candidates' only acknowledgment before all their belongings were burned and their names carved into stones outside the walls of Basgiath—an eerie graveyard that grew with every year that came and went.

ℑt never struck the right cord within Reserras—the "tradition" of burning all that a deceased person owned and merely forgetting about them. He will never forget his parents. His stern yet loving, in his own way, father who put a sword in his hand the day he learned to walk and told him all about the ancient dragons. His mother who sang to him those sweet lullabies and guided him through all the terrors of his younger world. Nor his oldest brother, as doting as he was rambunctious.

   ℌis eldest sister, Nesaerya—the eldest of the Atonal siblings—had managed to steal their parents' daggers before everything that was theirs were burned after their execution. 𝑀𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒.

   𝔑essy kept their father's dagger, but Reserras had been given their mother's, which he kept close to him, always—sheathed now in his left boot. It was a beautiful topaz-hilted dagger.

   ℌow she managed to steal them from the generals, he'd never know.

   𝔗here's no formal conclusion to the formation, no last moment of silence. The names on the scroll leave the dais with the scribes, and the silence is broken as the squad leaders turn and begin addressing their squads.

   "Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you're not going to get another chance before lunch." Dain Aetos says, the sun playing in his sandy-brown hair. When he turns his head, Reserras notices a scar peeking from his beard along his chin.

   ℌe shortly wonders what scars he will leave Basgiath with... 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒. He huffs beneath his breath. 𝑆ℎ𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑝, 𝑅𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑠.

   "Second- and third-years, I'm assuming you know where to go." Dain continues. A mutter of agreement rises from the senior cadets ahead of the new blood—first-years stand in the back two rows of the little square that makes up Second Squad.

   𝔇ain turns his gaze to the newlings, "First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday." The squad leader's voice booms over his squad as Dain addresses them with a stern tone—he doesn't want to loose any of them so quickly, especially on their first day. "Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym."

   ℜeserras remembers Second Squad will only have the gym twice a week before his entire year will have to handle the Gauntlet—the vertical obstacle course the leaders told them they'll have to master when the leaves turn color in two months. If they are capable of completing the Gauntlet, they'll walk through the natural box canyon above it that leads to the flight field for Presentation, where the dragons willing to bond will get their first look at the remaining cadets. Two days after that, Threshing will occur in the valley beneath the citadel.

   𝔖paring a quick glance around at his squadmates, Reserras finds himself wondering who will make it past the Gauntlet, and into that valley.

   "And if we're not?" The smart-ass first-year beside him asks. Ridoc is his name, Reserras remembers from the brief introductions his squad went through at dinner the night prior.

   𝔚hilst Violet Sorrengail, her uniform hugging every curve of her small body, doesn't bother looking back at Ridoc, the beautiful dark skin paired with brown eyes girl, Rhiannon Matthias, does with a glare before rolling her eyes as she turns forward again.

   ℌer high cheekbones and oval face reminds Reserras of the beauty of Amari, the Queen of the Gods, as her shoulder-length dark brown hair in several rows of short braids shimmers beneath the soft morning sunlight.

   "Then I won't have to be concerned with learning your name, since it will be read off tomorrow morning." Dain answers with a shrug.

𝔄 second-year ahead of the second to youngest Sorrengail snorts a laugh, the movement jangling two small hoop earrings in her left lobe, but the pink-haired one remains silent.

𝔗he latter seemed oddly familiar to Reserras, but he couldn't quite place a name to her as she remained facing forward.

"Sawyer?" Dain looks at the tall, wiry first-year whose light complexion is covered with a smattering of freckles stood to Violet's left. "I'll get them there." The cadet answers with a tight nod. His freckled jaw ticks, and Reserras realizes he's one of the repeats—a cadet who didn't bond during Threshing the year prior and now has to start the entire year over.

"Get going." Dain orders, and Second Squad breaks apart just as the others do. The courtyard morphs from an orderly formation to a crowd of chatting cadets. The second- and-third years walk off in another direction from the rotunda, Reserras notes.

"We have about twenty minutes to get to class." Sawyer shouts at the nine first-years once the seniors have gone. "Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit and don't be late." He doesn't bother waiting to confirm they've heard him before he saunters off toward the dormitory.

"That has to be hard." Rhiannon says as all nine merge with the crowd toward the dorms. "Being set back and having to do this all over again."

"Better than being dead." Ridoc says as he passes the Sorrengail and Matthias, his dark brown hair flopping against the brown skin of his forehead with every step the cadet takes.

"That's true." Violet replies as they step into the bottleneck that's formed at the door.

"I overheard a third-year say when a first-year survives Threshing unbounded, the quadrant lets them repeat the year and try again if they want." Rhiannon adds.

𝔗here was a sudden bird whistle to the left, inside the rotunda, that catches Reserras' ear. Sorrengail seemed to have heard it, as well. Not only that, but seems to have spotted the source. "I'll be — " She begins saying to Rhiannon, but the woman's already followed her line of sight.

"I'll grab your stuff and meet you there. It's under your bunk, right?" She asks.

"You don't mind?"

"Your bunk is next to mine, Violet. It's not a hassle. Go!" The Matthias gives the Sorrengail a conspiratorial smile and shoulder bumps her. Violet's lips bloom into an appreciative smile then she wades across the crowd where Reserras looses sight of her when she breaks free at the edge.

ℌe just curiously hums to himself as he trails behind his squad toward the dorms.

𝔄fter gathering his dark brown leather satchel that contains all of his books, notebooks, a portable inkpot and quill, among other things, and slinging the strap around his trim torso, Reserras rejoins the crowd making their way to the academic wing.

𝔄 presence suddenly comes up on his right side. "You have a brother here, right, Reserras?" Rhiannon asks, shouldering both her and Violet's packs, though the weight doesn't seem to bother her.

"Yes. He's a Squad Leader in First Wing."

ℜhiannon thoughtfully hums. "It must be nice having family so close. Even though I wouldn't want my twin, Raegan, anywhere near Basgiath, it'd be nice to have her here."

𝔄lthough he loves his brother very dearly, and had missed him these past years, Reserras cannot stand the thought of Raelon getting injured, or dying, in these walls with him here now.

   𝔗he guilt would eat him alive. He can't loose another brother, he just can't.

   𝔄nd Rhiannon notices the ghosts of his haunted past lingering in his eyes, wondering who those ghosts had been to him. But she doesn't ask.

   𝔚alking through the spacious Dragon Rotunda, Reserras feels the shadows curl around his ankles and tug in the direction of the steps leading to the Gathering Hall.

   "I'll meet you in class." Formal and short, then he is gone like the sun disappearing behind the clouds. As voices swirl around him, Reserras weaves expertly through the crowd akin to feline stealth and is ascending the steps in near no time.

   𝔗he sleeves of Xaden's uniform are rolled up his massive arms folded across his chest, his relic-covered arm on full display. He observes the cadets/riders like some kind of guardian angel—the messenger of the Queen of the Gods.

   𝔗he tilt of a grin blooms across his lips, 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, and butterflies swarm Reserras' belly as he stands across from the man he's always known.

   𝔗he one whose changed so much yet not at all these past two years.

   "Reserras."

   "Observing the new blood, were you?" Reserras smirks. Xaden chuckles, merely lifting his scarred brow in response with a devious smirk. Reserras snickers.

   𝔅ut the amusement fades, "No one tried anything last night?" 'Twas against the Codex to kill a cadet in their sleep, but rebellion relics tended to blind people to reason. Xaden knows this from personal experience. Concern creases his forehead, and Reserras folds his arms to keep from soothing the lines with his fingers. Xaden's worry sits on his chest like a stone, and he can't catch his breath.

   "No one tried to kill me or Liam last night. And yes, before you ask, I slept with this — " He gestures to the navy-blue dragonscale armor hugging his torso under his long-sleeved tunic, " — on."

   𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡.

   𝔛aden lifts his hand from his crossed arms to twirl a pearlescent strand of Reserras' long hair between his fingers—the molten silver was softer than the most expensive silk.

   ℜeserras ignores the shiver that racks his body at the touch.

   "I know there is slim chance of ever convincing you to cut it, so will you, at the very least, put it up during sparring?"

   ℌe nods, "I will."

   "You better." He heartily rolls his eyes, shoving Xaden's broad shoulder.

   𝔗he bells ring, breaking the spell of the moment. Reserras sighs, "I have to get to class. I'll see you in the sparring gym?"

   "Yeah," Xaden nods.

   ℜeserras glances around the semi-crowded rotunda. Only a dozen cadets remain, walking from one building to another. He spots the academic doors between the orange and black pillars, though, just as he goes to step down the stairs, Xaden's hand latches around his wrist to keep him in his place at his side.

   ℌe looks at him, scarred brow lifted, but Xaden isn't looking at him. He follows his narrowed eyes and sees none other than Violet Sorrengail amidst the center of the spacious rotunda with few cadets moving around her.

   𝔗here's maybe twenty feet between her and them, and Reserras notices her fingers twitch—as if prepared to grab one of the blades sheathed at her ribs.

   𝔒bviously wondering if this is where Xaden'll do it. Kill her in the middle of the rotunda. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑓𝑓 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡.

   𝔛aden tilts his head, and studies her with those impossibly dark eyes—like he's deciding where she's most vulnerable. Reserras doesn't acknowledge the slight curl of something ugly in his chest, instead he focuses on Dain Aetos when he emerges from behind the chiseled dark-red marble pillar.

   𝔛aden lifts a single brow, sharing a swift, mischievous, glance with Reserras.

   "What are you —" Dain starts as he reaches Violet, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Top of the steps. Fourth door." She hisses, interrupting him. Dain's gaze snaps up to them as the crowd thins out and he mutters a curse, not-so-subtly stepping closer to her.

   "You should be in class, Cadet Atonal."

   "As should Cadet Sorrengail, Aetos." Xaden fucking growls, his protectiveness over Reserras Atonal blazing like a fire in the night. It stokes its own kindling fire within Reserras' lower belly. But just as quick as emotion flares, Xaden distinguishes it.

   ℌe doesn't need to shout to the whole damn college his one weakness—the one he'd do anything for—and put an even bigger target on Reserras.

   "I already knew your parents are tight." Xaden calls out, a cruel smile tilting his lips. "But do you two have to be so fucking obvious?" The few cadets remaining in the rotunda turn to look at the four. "Let me guess," He continues, glancing between Dain and Violet. "Childhood friends? First loves, even?"

   "He can't hurt you without cause, right?" Violet whispers yet Reserras heard. "Without cause and calling a quorum of wingleaders because you're a squad leader. Article Four, Section Three."

   "Correct." Dain answers, not bothering to lower his voice. "But you're not."

   "I expected you to do a better job of hiding where your affections lie, Aetos." Xaden moves, walking down the steps.

   "Run, Violet." Dain orders her. "Now."

   𝔖he bolts. Reserras scoffs.

༻*✽*༺

     —"Welcome to your first Battle Brief." Professor Devera says from the recessed floor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, the sun perching high within its sky-realm above Basgiath, a bright purple Flame Section patch on her shoulder matching her short hair perfectly.

𝔗he class were held in the circular, tiered, room that curves the entire end of the academic hall. 'Tis one of only two rooms in the entire citadel capable of fitting every cadet—the other being the Gathering Hall—though, the senior third-years have to stand against the walls while the rest of the cadets fill the creaky, wooden seats. A twenty-foot tall map of the Continent is mounted to the back wall—intricately labeled with defensive outposts along the borders of every province and illuminated by dozens of mage-lights standing in for the lack of windows.

'𝔗is a far cry from history the last hour, Reserras thought with a glance around the room, where there had only been three squads of first-years.

𝔗he first-years of Second Squad are all seated together near the middle of the circular rows, with Reserras beside Ridoc—who cracked wise-ass comments all through history—and Violet sat in the wooden seat in front of him, Rhiannon beside her.

"In the past, riders have seldom been called into service before graduation." The Professor continues, her mouth tensing as she paces slowly in front of the map, the mage-lights reflecting off the longsword she kept strapped to her back. Professor Devera struck Reserras as the "doesn't take shit from anyone" type. "And if they were, they were always third-years who'd spent time shadowing forward wings, but we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we're up against. It's not about just knowing where every wing is stationed, either."

𝔖he takes her time making eye contact with every first-year she sees, her gaze intense with stringency. The rank on the Professor's shoulder says captain, but the medals pinned to her chest scream she'll become a major before she leaves her rotation teaching at Basgiath.

ℜeserras doesn't doubt it, Professor Devera's presence commands instant respect amongst all the cadets/riders, even himself.

"You need to understand the politics of our enemies, the strategies of defending our outposts from constant attack, and have a thorough knowledge of both recent and current battles." She arches a black brow only a few shades darker than her deep-brown skin. "If you cannot grasp these basic topics, then you have no business on the back of a dragon."

"No pressure." Rhiannon mutters, furiously taking notes at Devera's every word. "We'll be fine." Violet promises her in a whisper, more languid in her note-taking. "Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front."

"This is the only class you will have every day, because it's the only class that will matter if you're called into service early." The Professor's cold gaze sweeps across the entire hall until it halts on the young woman before the Atonal. Her harsh eyes flare wide for the heartbeat of a second, then she gives the second to youngest Sorrengail an approving smile followed by a nod before she moves on.

ℑt were painstakingly obvious to the younger Atonal brother none but General Lilith fucking Sorrengail expected to see Violet in the Riders Quadrant. As if Reserras needed yet another reason to loathe the bitch who had a part to play in the murder of his parents. Not only that, but forcing him and his siblings to fucking watch.

"Because this class is taught every day and relies on the most current information, you will also answer to Professor Markham, who deserves nothing but your utmost respect." Devera waves the scribe forward, and the Curator of the Scribe Quadrant moves to stand beside her. The cream color of his uniform a stark contrast with her black one.

𝔓rofessor Markham leans in when she whispers something to him, and his thick eyebrows skyrocket as he whips his gaze in the young Sorrengail's direction.

𝔅ut there is no approving smile when the Colonel's weary eyes find Violet, only a deep sigh and Reserras watches as Violet's shoulders droop with the sorrow that fills her chest.

𝔄 bout of sympathy fills his chest at the sight. He knows what it is to be forced into something you never had any say in.

"It is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present." Markham says, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose after tearing his disappointed gaze away from Violet. "Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and–most importantly–veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we're doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society."

"First topic of the day." Professor Devera moves toward the map and flicks her hand, bringing a mage-light directly over the eastern border with the Poromiel province of Braevick. "The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders."

𝔗he hall ripples with the murmurs of the cadets as Reserras dips his quill into the inkpot on the desk in front of him to, albeit begrudgingly, write down notes. It'd be nice to channel so he can power those coveted pens he sees Raelon using from across the hall.

   𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟.

   "Naturally, some information is redacted for security purposes — " Reserras lifts his eyes into a subtle roll, 𝑡𝑦𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑁𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒, 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠. " — but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains." Devera pulls her hands apart and the light expands, illuminating the mountains that form Navarre's borders with Braevick. "Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight."

   𝔄nother murmur rises from the cadets, especially the first-years, but Reserras is not among those who were surprised at the news. He's known for years now that dragons were not the only creatures whom possessed the ability to channel power to their riders. The gryphons from Poromiel mirror that ability, but dragons were the only ones capable of powering the wards that make all other magic but their own impossible within Navarre's borders. They're the reason Navarre's borders are somewhat circular—their power radiates from the Vale but can only extend so far, even with squads stationed at every outpost.

   𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠, 𝑁𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑙. 𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑑. It would be a bloodbath for the arrogant kingdom's villages when the true enemy inevitably descends. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑.

   𝔚hilst Reserras Atonal does not care for the Navarrian leadership, nor even the land itself, he does feel for the innocents whom would suffer the most beneath the flames of war.

   𝑀𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑑.

   "Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive, but the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift." Professor Devera finishes, folding her arms over her chest. "Based on that information, what questions would you ask?" She holds up a finger, "I only want answers from first-years to start."

   𝔖ilence overcomes the hall, the first-years either too timid to speak up or studying the map in hopes it will shout out good questions to them. Reserras' chest rises with a breath, tapping his finger atop the desk as his gaze roams across the high map. Although he knows he could accurately depict the honest truth of the attack, he conjures up a few innocent questions only in the chance he were called upon.

   ℌe has to play his part, after all.

   𝔗he Esben Mountain Range is the highest along Navarre's eastern border with Braevick, which makes it the least likely place for an attack from grypons—for they don't tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons due to the fact that they're half-lion, half-eagle and can't handle the thinner air at higher altitudes. There's a distinct reason behind Navarre's capability to fend off every major assault on their territory for the past six centuries, successfully defending their land in the never ending four-hundred-year-long war; their abilities, both lesser and signet, are superior because the dragons can channel more power than gryphons.

   𝔖o why attack that mountain range? Why did the wards falter? 'Tis clear as a fucking crystal to Reserras. Desperation. But he won't say anything. He has a will to live.

   "Come on, first-years, show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical thinking skills to be here." Devera demands, breaking the silence. "It's more important than ever that you're ready for what's beyond our borders."

   "Is this the first time the wards have faltered?" A first-year a couple of rows ahead of Second Squad asks.

   𝔗he professors share a look before Devera turns to the cadet. "No." And the spacious room falls pin-drop silent not a second after. Realization donning upon all the cadets and riders. 𝑂ℎ 𝑠𝑜 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑁𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒.

   𝔗he girl clears her throat. "And how... often are they faltering?"

   𝔓rofessor Markham's shrewd eyebrows narrow on her. "That's above your pay grade, cadet." Then he turns his attention to Second Squad's section. "Next relevant question to the attack we're discussing?"

   ℜeserras lifts his eyes into an irritated roll, scoffing beneath his breath. 𝑇𝑦𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑁𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟. 𝐴𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑖𝑛. ( idiots ) 

   "How many casualties did the wing suffer?" A first-year down the row to Sorrengail's right asks.

   "One injured dragon. One dead rider."

   𝔄nd yet another murmur rises from the hall, this one more anxious than the last. Surviving graduation did not mean the riders will survive service. Statistics tell that most riders die before retirement age, especially at the rate they have been falling over the last two years. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑤.

   "Why would you ask that particular question?" Professor Devera asks the cadet. "To know how many reinforcements they'll need." He answers. Devera nods approvingly, then, turns toward Pryor—the meekest first-year in Second Squad—who has his hand up, but he lowers it quickly, scrunching his dark eyebrows. "Did you want to ask a question?"

   "Yes." He nods, sending a few locks of black hair into his eyes, then shakes his head. "No. Never mind."

   "So decisive." Luca—the catty first-year in Second Squad whose just mere fucking presence is like nails on a chalkboard to Reserras, and he grimaces at the sound of her voice—mocks from next to Pryor, tilting her head as cadets laugh around them.

   𝔄 corner of her mouth tilts up into a smirk, and she flips her long brown hair over her shoulder in a move that's anything but causal. Like the Atonal brothers and the Sorrengail twins, she's one of the few in the quadrant confident enough not to cut their hair.

   𝔄lthough having only known her for less than a day, Reserras finds the bitch intolerable. 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 —

   "He's in our squad." Aurelie Donans chastises, her no-nonsense black eyes narrowing on Luca. "Show some loyalty."

   "Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can't even decide if he wants to ask a question. And did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held the entire line because he couldn't choose between bacon or sausage." Luca rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes.

   "If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asks coolly, lifting a brow, yet the undertone of sternness in her voice has all of them falling quiet. 𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦.

   "Ask what altitude the village is at." Reserras hears Violet whisper to Rhiannon. Close friends already, it seems. "What?" Her brows furrow. "Just ask."

   "What altitude is the village at?" Rhiannon asks. Devera's eyebrows rise as she turns to Rhiannon. "Markham?"

   "A little less than ten-thousand feet." He answers. "Why?"

   ℜhiannon darts a dose of side-eye at Violet that has Reserras snickering beneath his breath and clears her throat. "Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."

   "Good job." Violet whispers with a soft grin.

   "It is a little high for a planned attack." Devera responds. "Why don't you tell me why that's bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail?" She levels a stare on Violet Sorrengail that has her squirming in her seat, every head in the room turning in her direction. "And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out."

   "Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel." Violet begins. "It's an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about what... an hour's flight from the nearest outpost?" She glances at the map, as if to assure she isn't making a fool of herself. "That is Chakir right there, isn't it?"

   "It is." A corner of Professor Devera's mouth lifts into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."

   "Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?"

   "I did." She looks at her with expectation. "Then they were already on their way." The once scribe-in-training now cadet blurts, and blood rushes to her cheeks as a mumble of laughter echoes around her.

   "Yeah, because that makes sense." Jack Barlowe—a hateful blonde with piercing, glacial blue eyes—turns around in his seat from the front row, openly laughing at Violet. "General Melgren — " Reserras grimaces at the name. " — knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know when it will happen, dumbass."

   𝔘pon noticing the shrinking of Violet's shoulders at the ringing sound of chuckles of sheer mockery all aimed at her—as if wanting for nothing more in that moment than to crawl under her desk and disappear—a sudden intense spark of sympathy strikes Reserras' chest. He doesn't tolerate bullies.

   ℌe glares at the jackass. "Shut your fucking mouth, and fuck off, Barlowe." Reserras growls. He surprises not only himself but the entire hall, even the professors were taken aback for a split second. But Reserras does not miss the shine of respect in Professor Devera's eyes.

   𝔅arlowe, although caught entirely off guard, meets the Atonal's glare. "I'm not the one who thinks precognition is a thing." He retorts with a sneer. "Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon." Another round of laughter sounds, and Reserras' glare hardens, sending a shiver down Jack's spine. "Right-the-fuck-back at you, Barlowe."

"Why do you think that, Violet — " Markham winces. " — Cadet Sorrengail?"

"Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way." Violet defends herself, shooting a glare at Jack.

𝔖he might be weaker than him, but she's a hell of a lot more smarter.

"It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around just waiting to be needed. More than half those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way."

"And why would they already be on their way?" Professor Devera prods, and the approving light in her eyes gives the young Sorrengail the confidence to take her train of thought a step further. "Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking."

"That's the most — " Jack starts. "She's right." Devera intercepts, and a hush falls over the room. "One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering wards, and the wing flew. Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher and the destruction of the village much worse." She, then, commands, "Second- and-third-years, take over. Let's see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets." She arches a brow at Jack as questions begin to fire off from the riders behind the first-years.

ℌow many riders were deployed to the site?

𝔚hat killed the lone fatality?

ℌow long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons?

𝔚ere any left alive for questioning?

ℜeserras writes down every question and its answer, figuring he may very well need it for future reference. Whatever few truths and many lies Navarre spoke with a snake's forked tongue, he still needs to learn the art of war and strategy.

"What was the condition of the village?" A deep voice asks from the back of the lecture hall, directly across from Reserras Atonal. And his heart flutters.

"Riorson?" Markham asks, shielding his eyes from the mage-light as he looks toward the top of the hall.

"The village." Xaden restates. "Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn't demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack."

𝔓rofessor Devera's smile is full of approval. "The buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived."

"They were looking for something." Xaden says with complete conviction. "And it wasn't riches. That's not a gem mining district. Which begs the question; what do we have that they want so badly?"

"Exactly. That's the question." Devera glances around the room. "And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider."

Reserras looks up at his wingleader. And there Xaden Riorson stands, leant against the stone wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. And his eyes lift into a roll, lips quirking with an amused grin, at the prideful smirk Xaden stares at him with, winking one of those magnificent gold-specked eyes at him.

𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑔 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑. Xaden's smirk grows as if having read his thoughts.

"So what's the answer?" A first-year to Reserras' left asks.

"We don't know." Professor Devera answers with a shrug. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering? Tomorrow, next week, next month, there will be another attack, and maybe we'll get another clue. Go to history if you're looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask so all of you have a chance at coming home alive."

𝔖omething in Devera's foreboding tone makes the cadets/riders think it may not just be third-years who might be called into service this year.

__________•༻*✽*༺•__________

༻ 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆 ༺

It took forever, but its finally here! Another chapter, 🥳. Resden are my beloveds, 🤧.

And since there isn't a formal translation for Tyrrish in the books, I'm using Gaelic as Tyrrish for now until Rebecca or maybe the FW show comes up with it, 🥴. And Nesaerya is pronounced nes-ar-i-ah, for any who were wondering.

Anyway, I hope this sudden surge lasts, 😆, because I can't wait to write more of this. Especially since Onyx Storm's due date is approaching!!