I hand her the journal. “Then maybe it’s not a seven. Maybe you mistranslated?”
She shakes her head, flipping to the very first page of the journal, then gives it back. “Here.” She taps the symbols, then lifts her hands. “‘Here is recorded the story of Lyra of the First Six.’” She taps the six, then turns the pages to the previous spot in the middle. “Seven.”
My lips part. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“They’re close,” she signs. “But that’s a seven. And there are seven circles on the wardstone in Aretia. Seven runes. Seven,” she repeats that last word, as if I could have possibly misunderstood.
Seven. Thoughts spin in my head too quickly to grab ahold of just one. “This journal has to be…wrong,” she signs when I remain silent.
I close the book and hand it to her. “Thank you. You should go to the infirmary. Sawyer is there, and if we—”
She shoves the journal into her robes and begins signing before I finish. “Why is Sawyer in the infirmary?” Her eyes fly wide.
“A wyvern took his leg.”
She inhales swiftly.
“Go. If we evacuate the wounded, Maren said she’d watch over him, so if we evacuate, that’s the safest place for you to be. She’ll get you both out.”
Jesinia nods. “Be safe.”
“You, too.”
She picks up her robes and sprints across the courtyard, cutting toward the southernmost door.
My head swims as I turn toward leadership gathered at the end of the archway and begin walking.
Could it mean a gryphon? Is that what it meant by six and the one? No. If a gryphon contributed to the wards, flier magic would work within the boundaries. But there aren’t seven breeds of dragon—
I stumble, catching myself with a hand along the stone wall, while my brain trips down the path that makes the only sense. Even if that path is ludicrous.
But…
Holy shit.
I immediately shut the thoughts down before anyone connected to me can break through my shields and catch me thinking them.
“Absolutely not,” Xaden snaps at Melgren, who stands between two of his aides.
I put myself in the middle of my mother and Xaden.
“You think cadets will be able to defend all this?” Colonel Panchek gesticulates wildly at the air as a Green Clubtail—
My heart seizes as Teine takes down the last remaining wyvern in their sector. The gray carcass tumbles from the sky and lands somewhere to the northeast, behind the line of dragons.
“What are you doing here?” Mom asks me as my gaze drifts upward to the line of wyvern hovering in the distance. Up until now, we’ve been wounded, but they’re undeniably the kill shot, and in the center of their line rests a gaping hole, as if they’re waiting for someone.
“She’s never far from him,” Melgren quips.
Those wyvern are waiting just like the dark wielder implied, and my stomach churns at the thought of who they’re waiting for.
“We’re not taking Tairn and Sgaeyl to defend the Vale,” Xaden announces, folding his arms over his chest. “They already have First and Second Wings, plus every unbonded dragon.”
Sgaeyl and Tairn land to the right, near the tower that leads to Parapet, and all I can do is hope Andarna isn’t hiding over there with them, since I don’t dare lower my shields to check. For the first time, I’m the one holding what might be the ultimate secret.
“You’re the reason I can’t plan effectively,” General Melgren snaps at Xaden. “You’re the reason I didn’t even see this battle occurring.” He tries to look down his hawkish nose at Xaden, but he’s at least an inch shorter.
“You’re welcome for flying to your aid,” Xaden replies, earning a sneer.
“The Vale is the only thing that matters,” Mom interrupts, shifting slightly so her shoulder is between Melgren and me. “The Archives are already sealed. The rest of the fortress can be rebuilt.”
“You’re going to abandon it,” Xaden says softly, using that cold, menacing tone that used to scare the shit out of me. From the way Panchek steps back, it hasn’t lost its edge.
Their silence is damning. My gaze jumps from face to face, looking for someone—anyone—to argue.
“They can launch that line at any moment.” Melgren points to the waiting horde. “We have over sixty injured pairs, be it dragon or rider that’s wounded. That horde right there will take us as spread out as we are now.”
“Then why not move every cadet to the Vale?” Xaden challenges.
Melgren narrows his beady eyes. “You might lead a revolution, Riorson, but you know nothing about winning a war.”
At least he called it a revolution and not a rebellion.
“You’re using them as a distraction.” Xaden drops his arms. “A delaying tactic. They’ll die while those in the Vale have time to prepare. Prepare for what, exactly?”
My jaw drops. “You can’t do that.” I pivot, putting myself in front of Mom. “You won’t need to. Brennan has mended the wardstone.”
“Even Brennan can’t mend magic, Cadet Sorrengail.” There’s no give, no room to stray from the course in her eyes.
“No,” I admit. “But he doesn’t have to. If the stone is mended, it could hold power. We could still raise the wards. I know how.”
A curious caress of shimmering shadow slides down my shields, but I don’t let him in.
“You weren’t entirely successful in Aretia, were you?” she asks, lowering her voice so only I hear. “‘Could’ isn’t good enough.” That part is for a wider audience, and the rebuke heats my cheeks.
“I can do it,” I whisper back just as quietly, then raise my voice to be heard. “If you put Xaden and me in the Vale, you leave the wardstone unprotected, and that is the only solution to keep everyone on this field alive today.”
“You don’t know if it works after being mended,” she says slowly, like there’s any chance I might misunderstand her. “And even if it did—”
“Their leader has arrived,” Tairn tells me, and by the way every rider’s face pivots skyward—including mine—he’s not the only dragon who’s noticed.
There, in the center of the horde, now flies a wyvern slightly larger than the others, bearing a rider in royal blue. The pitch of my stomach says that if he comes closer, I’ll recognize his dark, thinning hair and the annoyed purse of his lips, even if logic argues that I won’t, that it’s just a fucking dream.
My heart rate soars as fear soaks into my skin, colder than the rain and melting snow around us.
“As you can see,” Mom says, tearing her gaze from the horde. “It’s too late for wards now.”
“It’s not!” I argue.
“Cadet—” Mom starts.
“I can get them up,” I promise, putting myself in her way when she tries to sidestep me. “If they can hold power, then I can get the wards up!”
“Cadet,” Mom snaps, her cheeks turning ruddy.
“At least see if the stone can hold power before you sentence all of us to death!” I push.
“Violet!” Mom shouts.