I nod, my tongue tying. I can’t think of the right words to say about how sorry I am for her loss. Anything that comes to mind isn’t enough.
Her expression shifts, and something that looks a lot like hatred fills her eyes as she leans down, her voice quieting so that I’m the only one who hears her say, “I know what really happened. You got my brother killed. He died for you.”
I can actually feel the blood drain from my face as I blink away the memory of Deigh crashing into the wyvern who’d come for Tairn, sending Liam flying across my saddle. He’d been so heavy that my shoulders had almost dislocated trying to keep him from falling.
“Yes.” I can’t deny it and I don’t look away. “I’m so sorry—”
“Go straight to hell,” she whispers. “And I really mean that. I hope no one commends your soul to Malek. I hope he rejects it. Liam was worth a dozen of your kind, and I hope you spend eternity paying for what you cost me, what you cost all of us.”
Yep, that look in her eyes is definitely hatred.
My heart abandons my body and lands somewhere in the vicinity of her recommendation.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Tairn says.
“It was.” And if I don’t pull my shit together right now, I’ll fail Liam all over again. “Feel free to hate me,” I say to Sloane, stepping aside and clearing the way to the parapet. “Just do me a favor and put your fucking arms out so you don’t see Liam before I do. Do it for him. Not me.” So much for the caring, gentle mentor I’d hoped to be for her.
She jerks her gaze from mine and steps up.
The wind kicks up and she wobbles, sending my heart rate spiking.
“What in the angry-Mairi was that about?” Rhiannon asks.
I shake my head. I just…can’t.
Then the stubborn girl finally extends her arms and starts walking. I don’t look away. I watch every damned step she takes like my future is tied to hers. My breath freezes when she stumbles halfway across, and my lungs don’t fully expand until I see her reach the other side.
“She made it,” I whisper up to Liam.
Then I take the next name.
Seventy-one candidates fall from the parapet, according to the rolls. That’s four more than our year.
An hour after the numbers are calculated, the quadrant assembles in typical formation—three columns per wing—and the roll keeper calls name after name, dividing the first-years into squads.
Our squad is nearly full and there’s still no sign of Sloane.
I looked for her in the courtyard earlier, but either she’s hiding from me… or she’s hiding from me. That’s the only logical answer.
Nadine, Ridoc, and I wait behind eight first-years shifting their weight, the living embodiment of anxiety. Aaric stands with impossibly perfect posture but keeps his head down next to a red-haired girl whose complexion is full-on green in the row ahead.
The fear radiating off them is palpable. It’s in every drop of sweat sliding down the stocky guy’s neck two rows ahead, in every bitten nail the brunette spits out onto the gravel next to him. It’s coming out of their pores.
“Is it me, or is this fucking weird?” Ridoc asks from my right.
“Fucking weird,” Nadine agrees. “I kind of want to tell them that it’s going to be okay—”
“It’s not polite to lie,” Imogen says from behind us, where she stands with Quinn, who looks downright bored as she trims the ends of her blond curls with a dagger. “Don’t get attached. They’re all dragon fodder until Threshing.”
The stocky-looking guy with deep umber skin looks over his shoulder, shooting a wide-eyed look at Imogen.
She stares him down and makes a circle with her forefinger, wordlessly telling him to turn around. He does.
“Be nice,” I whisper at her.
“I’ll be nice once I think they might stick around,” she replies.
“I thought you said it’s not polite to lie,” Ridoc counters with a grin, shaking his head in a way that makes the collar of his uniform move, but not the tall spikes he’s somehow gelled his dark hair into today.
I blink, then lean closer to him, staring at the side of his neck. “What is… Did you get a tattoo?”
He smiles and pulls at his collar, showing off the inked tip of a swordtail on the warm brown skin of his neck, ending near the base of his collar. “It wraps to my shoulder, to Aotrom’s relic. Badass, right?”
“Badass.” Nadine nods in appreciation.
“Absolutely,” I agree.
Visia Hawelynn is called to our squad. Her name is oddly familiar, and when she appears, moving into formation two rows ahead, I remember why. A burn scar sprawls from her collar to her hairline, curving along the right side of her face. She’s a repeat. She survived angering an Orange Daggertail at Threshing last year, but barely.
Sloane is called to First Wing.
“Shit,” I mutter. How the hell am I supposed to help her in an entirely different wing?
“I’d consider that a blessing,” Nadine says quietly. “She didn’t seem to be a fan.”
Dain steps forward on the dais to talk to Aura Beinhaven, the senior wingleader, and the daggers she has strapped to her upper arms glimmer in the sunlight as she nods her head in response. He glances my way, then crosses over to the roll-keeper at the edge of the dais and she pauses, lifting her pen to scribble something on the roll.
“Correction!” she calls out over the crowd. “Sloane Mairi to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”
Yes! My shoulders dip in pure relief.
Dain walks back to his position, ignoring the reproachful stare from Vice Commandant Varrish, and his composure slips for the second it takes for him to shoot me an indecipherable look. What? Is Sloane supposed to be some kind of peace offering?
The roll-keeper moves on, placing the first-years in their squads.
Sloane appears a minute or two later, and my relief is short-lived when she opens her mouth. “No. I refuse. Any squad but this one.”
Ouch.
Rhiannon moves from her place at the front of our squad and gives Sloane a look that makes me glad I’m never on Rhi’s bad side. “Does it look like I give a shit what you want, Mairi?”
“Mairi?” Sawyer looks back through the lines of first-years that separate us, and a new patch on his shoulder makes me smile. He’s a fantastic choice for Rhi’s executive officer.
“Liam’s sister,” I tell him.
His jaw slackens.
“No shit?” Ridoc glances between Sloane and me.
“No shit,” I respond. “Oh, and if you haven’t noticed, she already hates me.”
“I cannot be in the same squad as her!” Sloane glares at me with pure hate-fire in her eyes, but hey, her hair is still braided, so I’m calling that a win. She might loathe me, but maybe she’ll listen at least enough to stay alive.
“Stop disrespecting your squad leader and get in formation, Sloane,” Imogen hisses. “You’re acting like a spoiled aristocrat.”
“Imogen?” Sloane startles.
“Get. In. Formation,” Rhiannon orders. “I’m not asking, cadet.”
Sloane pales and steps into line in front of Nadine, taking our last first-year slot.