“Step up,” Dain orders. “Once you’re on the other side, you’ll give your name to the roll keeper.”
The girl nods as Rhiannon jots her name down in the first slot.
All of the advice Mira gave me last year races through my mind, but I’m not allowed to give it. This is a whole other kind of challenge, to stand by and do nothing while these candidates risk their lives trying to become…us.
For many of them, we’ll be the last faces they see.
“Good luck.” That’s all I’m allowed to say.
She starts across the parapet, and the next candidate steps up to take her place. Rhiannon takes down his name, and Dain waits until Jory is a third of the way across before letting the boy start.
I watch the first few candidates, my heart in my throat as I remember the terror and uncertainty of this day last year. When a candidate slips at the quarter mark and falls, the ravine below swallowing the last of his screams, I stop watching to see if they make it to the other side. My heart can’t take it.
Two hours in, I’m asking their names with zero intention of remembering them, but I take note of the especially aggressive ones, like the bull of a guy with a deeply cleft chin who charges across, tossing the scrawny red-haired candidate struggling at the midway point without hesitation.
A little piece of me dies watching the cruelty of it, and it’s a struggle to remember that every single candidate is here by their own choice. They’re all volunteers, unlike the other quadrants, which take conscripts who pass the entrance exam.
“Jack Barlowe Junior,” Rhiannon notes under her breath.
I don’t miss the way Dain flinches and looks my way.
Blowing out a slow breath, I turn toward the next in line, trying to forget how Barlowe put me into the infirmary last year. I shiver at the memory of the way he forced pure energy into me through his hands that day on the mat, rattling my bones.
“Nam—” I start, but the word dies on my tongue as I stare in shock at the candidate standing far above me. He’s taller than Dain but shorter than Xaden, with a muscular build and strong chin, and though his sandy-brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, I’d recognize those features, those eyes, anywhere. “Cam?”
What the hell is he doing here?
His green eyes flare with surprise, then blink with recognition. “Aaric… Graycastle.”
His middle name I recognize, but the last? “Did you just make that up?” I whisper at him. “Because it’s awful.”
“Aaric. Graycastle,” he repeats, his jaw flexing. He lifts his chin with the same arrogance I’ve seen in every single one of his brothers and especially his father. Even if I didn’t recognize him from the dozens of times our parents’ lives have tossed us into the same room, those startling green eyes mark him the same way my hair does me. He’s not going to fool anyone who’s ever met his father or any of his brothers.
I glance over at Dain, who openly stares at Cam—Aaric.
“You sure about this?” Dain asks, and the concern in his eyes gives me a glimpse of my Dain again, but it’s short-lived. That version of Dain, the one I could always depend on, died the day he stole my memories and set us on a collision course with venin. “You cross that parapet, and there’s no going back.”
Aaric nods.
“Aaric Graycastle,” I repeat to Rhiannon, who writes it down but clearly knows something is up.
“Does your father know?” Dain murmurs to Aaric.
“It’s none of his business,” he replies, stepping up to the parapet and rolling his shoulders. “I’m twenty.”
“Right, because that’s going to make a difference when he realizes what you’re doing,” Dain retorts, ripping his hand through his hair. “He’ll kill us all.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Aaric asks.
Dain shakes his head and looks to me like I have an answer for any of this when he’s the fucking wingleader.
“Good, then do me a favor and ignore me,” he says to Dain.
But not me.
“We’re Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing,” I tell Aaric. Maybe I can convince the others to keep it to themselves if they recognize him.
Dain opens his mouth.
“Not today,” I tell him, shaking my head.
He snaps his mouth shut.
Aaric adjusts his pack and starts across the parapet, and I can’t bring myself to watch.
“Who was that?” Rhiannon asks.
“Officially? Aaric Graycastle,” I tell her.
She lifts a brow, and guilt settles in my stomach.
There are too many secrets between us already, and this is something I can give her. Something she deserves to know, since I just directed him to our squad. “Between us?” I whisper, and she looks over at me with an arched brow. “King Tauri’s third son.”
“Oh shit.” She looks over her shoulder at the parapet.
“Pretty much. And I can guarantee his father doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Not with how he felt after Aaric’s older brother died during his Threshing three years ago.
“Should make for an easy year,” Rhiannon says sarcastically, then beckons the next person without missing a beat. “Name?”
“Sloane Mairi.”
My head whips in her direction, and my heart jumps into my throat. Same blond hair, though it’s currently tangling in the breeze past her shoulders. Same sky-blue eyes. Same rebellion relic winding around her arm. Liam’s little sister.
Rhiannon stares.
Dain looks like he’s seen a specter.
“With an ‘e’ on the end,” Sloane says, moving toward the steps and tucking her hair behind her ears nervously. It’s going to blow right back in her face with the next gust of wind, temporarily blinding her on the parapet, and I can’t let that happen.
I promised Liam I’d watch out for her.
“Stop.” I jump off the wall, then yank out the small leather band I keep in the front pocket of my uniform and hand it to her. “Tie your hair back first. Braid is best.”
Sloane startles.
“Vi—” Dain begins.
I glare over my shoulder at him. He’s the reason Liam isn’t here to protect Sloane himself. Rage courses through my veins, heating my skin. “Don’t you dare say another word, or I’ll blast you off this turret, Aetos.” Power crackles through my hands without being called and erupts overhead, streaking across the sky horizontally.
Oops.
He sits, muttering something about losing every fight today.
Sloane takes the leather from me slowly, then braids her hair—simple and quick—tying it with the band and eyeing me the entire time with the three inches she has on me.
“Arms out for balance,” I tell her, nausea rolling through me at the risk she’s about to take. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.” They were Mira’s words, and now they’re mine. “Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down. If the pack slips, ditch it. Better you lose it than your life.”
She glances up at my hair, then down at the two patches sewn onto my summer uniform right above my heart. One is the Second Squad patch we won during the Squad Battle last year and the other is a bolt of lightning that branches off in four different directions. “You’re Violet Sorrengail.”