We’re in the air less than an hour later, flying south in the biggest riot I’ve ever seen: two hundred dragons and a hundred and one riders—nearly half the quadrant—strong. And more are coming, taking a slower route with hatchlings.
Tairn had lain in front of the dais and begrudgingly allowed Xaden to help me into the saddle, but we made it. He hooked onto Andarna, the smaller black dragon’s body frighteningly limp with sleep, and now we’re flying. I sleep most of the trip, too, draped across the front of my saddle, my body claiming the rest it sorely needs to knit itself back together.
It was too hectic to catch every face, but I’m proud that every single member of my squad is with us, even the first-years who are still fighting to keep their seats. They hold them into the morning and all throughout the next day, the riot pushing itself to the limit.
Marked ones take position at the edges of the flight formation, hiding us from Melgren’s sight should he decide to battle us, and we fly the least populated route possible, but it’s hard to disguise a veritable cloud of dragons, even at this altitude.
It must not have been just leadership that were pulled to the border. We don’t encounter a single patrol as we cross into Tyrrendor, flying high over the Cliffs of Dralor onto the plateau.
“We’re almost there,” Tairn tells me as we pass over the crystal waters of the Beatha River.
“I’m all right.”
“Don’t bother lying to me. I can feel it all. The exhaustion. The pain. The crackling of unset bone in your left arm. The chapped wounds on your face. The throbbing in your left knee that only eases—”
“Point made.” I shift in the saddle, trying to alleviate some of it. “You’re the one who hasn’t stopped for water in twelve hours.”
“And I could fly another twelve if need be. You’re an incredibly needy species compared to ours.”
By the time we approach Aretia, I’m all but dead in the saddle.
Tairn and Sgaeyl fly ahead, breaking from formation as we fly over the town, heading for Riorson House while the rest of the riot flies for the valley high above.
“You cannot make the hike down in your condition,” Tairn decrees.
I’m too fucking tired to fight him.
My body jolts in protest when Tairn flares his wings, the change in momentum sending me deeper into the seat as he lands gently in consideration of Andarna in the middle of the courtyard in front of Riorson House.
Tairn’s head turns toward the door as it’s thrown open, and mine follows, slow from weakness and lack of sleep.
“Violet!” Brennan shouts, running down the marble steps.
I undo the buckle of my saddle and force myself to dismount, despite the agony of feeling my bones grate against one another. Cradling my splinted arm, I slide down Tairn’s foreleg, right into Xaden’s arms, and nearly crumple on the spot.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against my hair, supporting me against his side as we turn to face Riorson House and the rapidly approaching furious face of my brother.
Tairn launches behind me before I can turn to see Andarna.
“What the fuck did you get her into this time?” Brennan shouts at Xaden.
“He got me out,” I promise.
“Oh? Then why is it she’s half dead every time you bring her to me?” The look Brennan levels on Xaden makes me reconsider which of them might be the more violent one. Brennan reaches for my face but stops just short of touching me. “Oh gods. Violet, you’re… What did they do to you?”
“I’m all right,” I say once more. I step forward, and Brennan hugs me carefully. “I could probably use some mending.”
His head tilts as the sound of the wind approaches a dull roar, and I follow his line of sight as the massive riot approaches the town, en route to the valley. “What have you two done?”
“Ask your sister,” Xaden responds.
Brennan looks down at me, his eyes wide with shock and a touch of fear.
“I mean…” I try to force a smile, but it only splits my lip yet again. “You did say that you needed riders.”
PART TWO
Half palace, half barracks, but entirely a fortress, Riorson House has never been breached by army. It survived countless sieges and three full-out assaults before falling under the flame of the very dragons it existed to serve.
—ON TYRRISH HISTORY, A COMPLETE ACCOUNTING, THIRD EDITION BY CAPTAIN FITZGIBBONS
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Bold choice to move so far from what you perceive as the safety of the wards,” the Sage says, holding me immobile, my feet just inches from the frozen ground of my own personal torture chamber.
I’m trapped in this fucking nightmare again, but at least I made it farther across the sunburned field this time.
“Of course, again,” the dark wielder hisses, his face contorting into a sneer. “You will never be free of me. I will hunt you to the ends of the Continent and beyond.”
Throat working, I struggle to relax, to calm my heart and change my breathing in hopes of waking myself up. But it’s only my mind that knows this isn’t real. My body is very much locked into the illusion.
“You can only hunt me to the wards,” I croak.
“Yet you sleep beyond them.” A grotesque smile tilts his cracked mouth. “And the longest night has yet to pass.” He reaches for a poison-tipped dagger—
I blink, my heart slamming against my ribs for the second it takes for me to shed the vivid nightmare and recognize my surroundings.
This isn’t a wind-torn field or a cold, blood-soaked cell in Basgiath—it’s Xaden’s light-filled bedroom in Aretia. Big windows, thick velvet drapes, wall-to-wall bookshelves, massive bed. I’m safe. Varrish isn’t waiting on the other side of the door to break me again because he’s dead. I killed him.
I’m still alive.
For the first time in days, there’s no pain when I breathe in, or when I stretch under the thick down comforter, or even when I twist away from the sun-drenched window to face Xaden.
Now, this is a view I could be more than happy to wake up to for the rest of my life.
He’s asleep on his stomach, his arms folded under his pillow, his hair falling over his forehead, his perfectly sculpted lips parted slightly. The covers only rise to the small of his back, leaving me with miles of inked skin to admire. I almost never get to see him like this, never get to simply look at him, and I take advantage of every single second, studying the angles of his muscled arm, up to his rounded shoulder, and across the faint silver of the lines that mark his back. He’s always more than enough to elevate my pulse, but asleep and fully unguarded, he steals my breath.
Gods is he beautiful.
And he loves me.
The black fabric of my thin-strapped nightgown bunches slightly as I shift up onto my knees, and the comforter falls away when I reach for him. I trace the silver scars with my fingertips and don’t bother counting the lines. There are a hundred and seven of them, representative of the marked ones he took responsibility for to give them a chance at life in the quadrant.
For all that he says he isn’t soft, isn’t kind, he’s also the only man I know whose back is covered in promises made for other people. Even if his reasoning was preparing for this war we’re about to wage, he still risked his own life by vouching for them.