Chapter Text
Conscription Day. I fucking hate Conscription Day.
Mind you, this is only my third up-close and personal experience with the complete tragedy and utter waste of life that defines this day. But, my two previous experiences were plenty enough for me to have formed this elaborate and immutable opinion: Conscription Day can bite my ass.
Heaton and Emery have elected to take the long way around – all the way down to the tunnels underneath the Riders Quadrant which will spit them out at the entrance of the archives. Then they’ll head back up the stairs to the central courtyard of the main college, and finally up another 250 steps to the southern turret.
Maybe because I am irrational, or maybe because I just don’t fear Malek anymore, or maybe because I crave this moment of quiet solitude, I have elected to walk across the parapet to reach the top of the tower where we will take the names of those who are likely to die falling from this very spot I am standing.
It’s peaceful here. Well…right now, anyway.
I’ve wrapped my shadows around the circumference of the mid-point of this death bridge and turned to face outward, away from the college. I feel…nothing.
No. I momentarily and fleetingly feel…centered. There are no voices here. No shouting in my head. The wind is slightly biting, but my flight leathers keep me warm. The view is spectacular. The sun is rising, pink and orange, over the lush, green valley ahead. Behind me, the Ikabos River cascades down from Basgiath Mountain. I’m close enough that I can faintly hear the roar of the water falling. And if the breeze were coming from the opposite direction, I might even feel it’s spray on the back of my neck.
I close my eyes and breathe. I don’t think about my first year, or the candidate that was 20 feet ahead of me, or the wind that came up so suddenly that morning. I don’t think of her as she slipped off the edge of the parapet, or her scream of desperation carrying all the way down to the river below. I don’t think about the countless men and women whose names I try to forget after Garrick and I wrote them down last year, standing next to our Wingleader, just as Emery and Heaton will soon be standing next to me. I don’t think about the sadistic list of dedications to Malek that those names became. A list of young people whose dream of being bonded to a dragon was cut short by this senseless 18-inch wide life-stealing bridge.
And I certainly don’t think about the man that I was before making this crossing for the first time…a man that no longer exists.
That man, though down-trodden and depressed, somehow also felt hopeful. That man thought that maybe he could make a difference here. That maybe he could convince the powers-that-be that the cause of his father was righteous and worthy and his father’s execution unjust. That maybe he could help them to see the changes that needed to be made and the hard things that needed to be done.
That man was a fool.
That man should sharpen his bloody knives and move faster. That man should focus on influencing the odds to be in his favor. That man should stop thinking about himself in the fucking third-person.
Leave it to Sgaeyl to pull me out of my melancholy.
Eyes now open, I stare blankly out at the valley. The leadership here are almost exclusively completely obtuse and the only thing I feel hopeful about anymore is that I will try and take as many of them down with me when I go. But first, I need to get Garrick, Bodhi, Mason, Soleil, Eya, Ciara, Imogen, and soon Liam and the other seventeen first-years with rebellion relics to safety, assuming they make it across this ridiculous parapet. Oh, and somehow find and gather the additional eighty-two rebel kids scattered across Hedotis-knows-where-Navarre, before burning this place down.
Well, not literally. We still need their godsforsaken wards. So, yeah… Simple. Easy.
I am so screwed.
You’re going to be if you don’t get your head out of your ass.
“Hey Dragon Dick, what’s taking you so long?”
I look over to the turret where Heaton and Emery have arrived. So much for quiet time.
“That’s Wingleader Dragon Dick to you, Emery” I shout ahead, enjoying the sound of the new title that has come with my promotion in third year. I make my way easily and quickly across the rest of the parapet to the turret. It’s comical how simple a thing it is for me now. I can’t believe I was ever concerned about this stupid bridge.
Emery and Heaton, well…okay, they are good people. After nearly every cadet in our first year tried to either kill me with a dagger, a sword, their hands, or their words, just because of my rebellion relic, Emery and Heaton emerged as two people I felt I could trust. I might’ve maybe killed a stuck up prick of a first-year that tried to hurt Garrick during Threshing, and although Emery witnessed it, he never spoke a word to anyone about it. And Heaton...Heaton was the only person, besides Garrick, who ever came anywhere close to beating me on the mat. But when they lost, they lost graciously. And then they continued to challenge me so that we could both improve our skills.
Unfortunately, Emery has yet to maintain a good shield. As I approach, I can practically hear his intentions. He’s trying to make Heaton laugh. Actually, he’s very nearly desperate to get any kind of reaction out of Heaton that he can.
Heaton is quiet. They’re the kind of person that hardly ever talks, but when they do, you should listen, because they probably have something important or profound to say. I can see why Emery wants to impress them. But, Emery should relax. Although Heaton’s shields are much better now, I know from last year that they find Emery to be just about the hottest person to exist. I would feel offended, but despite their prowess on the mat and their ability to be something akin to a friend, my rebellion relic still makes me off-limits to them.
Honestly, that’s fine by me. I have serious trust issues. And their lack of a rebellion relic of their own makes them a no-go for me… well, that and they’re just not my type. I tend to go for curvy brunettes with an attitude. My ex, Cat, was not a brunette, but she did have a lot of attitude. Too bad she was also just foul – she never really knew me or even tried to. All she ever wanted to do was scheme about the future and get herself a throne.
I’m going to give you something to scheme about if you don’t stop this sappy shit and start focusing on getting through this damn day so we can make a delivery tonight. Tairn says it’s supposed to be a beautiful night and wants to join us this time.
Join us? Ha, that’s a good one. He wants to spread his wings and fly across the continent with Sgaeyl so they can get it on with a new view. Great. I’ll have to remember to pack my churam and a good book so I’ll have something to distract me when they drop my ass off on the side of a mountain. I can’t believe she just called me sappy, when she’s likely thinking about a waxing crescent moon and the warm summer air and a good pouncing by her mate. Ugh. And now I can't believe I’m thinking about it.
Then stop.
The problem is, I haven’t taken anyone to bed since Cat. I’m not hung up on her. Far from it. But, I think that after breaking off that toxicity, I’ve realized that I’m not good for anyone. I have nothing to give to a relationship. I’m completely focused on arming the flyers and keeping them from being destroyed by both Navarre and the venin. And if I can survive this shitting death college, I would like to continue to rebuild Aretia. A dream so far-fetched, it’s practically laughable. I know that this rebellion will require me to sacrifice everything that I haven’t already. Aretia is just one more thing on that list. And that means, there is nothing left for someone else… Also, let’s be honest, I have no fucking clue how to be a good partner. My parents were the worst examples of how to love someone. Everything I know about relationships is what not to do.
Still… sex would be nice occasionally. If only I could find someone who wasn’t needy, or using me, or trying to kill me afterwards.
Before Sgaeyl can say some additional snarky thing about the number of times that has happened, the pounding of feet on the stairs reaches our ears.
“You both ready for the onslaught?” I ask.
I think you meant, “on-slaughter,” replies Emery.
I give Emery a practiced smirk. I wish I could find that funny. I don’t know what it says about me that despite the amount of killing I have done and witnessed; that despite the death that constantly surrounds us all, I do not and cannot find it funny. I guess humour is not my coping mechanism. All this day brings to me is sadness. And a deep longing to be able to talk to my father.
The first candidate bursts through the entrance, then quickly takes a step back. I can hear clearly in their thoughts that they did not intend to come flying out that way and now they are embarrassed. They want nothing more than to seem like they are badass… you know, like a dragon rider. And they are about to work themselves up into such a freaking tizzy that they’re not going to be able to concentrate while crossing the parapet, so I interrupt their train of thought.
“Name?”
Unlike last year, I don’t listen to their answer. It doesn’t matter. Emery or Heaton will have written it down. And if they happen to make it to the other side, and then they happen to end up in my wing, and they happen to make it past the gauntlet, and then they happen to bond a dragon, well…then I might just happen to make the effort to learn their name. But, not till then.
Thirty more candidates appear from the stairwell. Thirty more candidates give their names. Thirty more candidates attempt to make it across the parapet. But, only twenty-three more candidates actually make it to the other side to become cadets.
In the distance, clouds begin to form and darken. Great. Just what this depressing day needs – rain. At least I have my shadows to keep me dry.
The line continues to wind from the stairwell around the side of the turret and then over to where we stand at the entrance to the parapet. My shadows stay to the edge of the tower, but I am aware of the conversations buzzing in the back of my brain, always on alert for threats. You never know when one of these wankers was paid to attempt to murder me or another relic-laden cadet before or after crossing the parapet.
My attention wanders to the entrance as there’s a small break in the line where no one exits from the stairwell. But then two candidates appear, the first is hopping on one foot, clearly trying to fix her boot. The other, behind her, is too short to see. The taller woman struggles awkwardly, but eventually springs forward. Now I have a view of the shorter woman. She’s facing away from me while bending down to fix her own boot. She’s wearing tight leather pants. And she has a very nice ass.
Okay, now I know I’m going to have to find a new bedmate. First, I'm reminiscing about Cat, then I’m thinking about Tairn and Sgaeyl and their…activities, and now I’m oggling the ass of a first-year. I quickly turn away. This has to stop.
Scáth, you asshole, not a first-year. You don’t want to add that to the list of complications in your life.
No shit, Sgaeyl. You think I’d be dumb enough to sleep with a first-year? Not only would that be fucking awkward as a wingleader, it would also just increase the likelihood of one more person using me.
What do you care if she’d be using you? Wouldn’t you just be using her?
Fuck, but she’s right. Why do I care? Apparently, I don’t want to be used anymore? Shit. Second year really fucked with my brain.
I focus once again on simultaneously staying aware of threats while also trying to block the loud thoughts coming from nearly every candidate on this turret and remind them to say their name as they get to the entrance. Occasionally one will ask an asinine question like, “Should I put my arms out while crossing?” To which I want to answer, “Only if you want to live, Dumbass,” but instead I say, “Do whatever gets you to the other side.” (Like ditching the heavy rucksack, Dumbass.)
But now there is one person in my head louder than all of the others. It feels like she is practically shouting into my brain. Her thoughts are many and varied and they switch quickly. It’s… intriguing? I focus solely on her while pretending to watch the next candidate on the parapet. I block out the other less-loud, but no-less intrusive thoughts of all of the candidates here.
One moment, it seems like she’s angry. She’s seething about someone behind her. I have no idea who this woman is, but somehow I get the sense that, coming from her, her outrage is… a bit absurd. Like, there’s no way she could hope to defend herself against whomever is behind her. And damn, if that doesn’t both amuse and enrage me. Does she know what happens after crossing this bridge?
But, the next moment she’s thinking about living and dying and…the number of body-collection wagons? Huh. Maybe she does know a bit about this death bridge. But then she’s already pivoted. It seems like she may be in pain – from her bag? No, from climbing the stairs. Yikes, she is going to have a rough go of it, if those stairs gave her trouble. But she’s already setting aside that pain and is thinking about… the history of bricks? What. The. Hell. I cannot keep up. It’s all a lot. But, compared to the thoughts of the average first-year, it’s so much more complicated. I have to know who this is.
I turn slightly to try and see out of the corner of my eye which woman has captured my attention so thoroughly and find that she’s staring straight at me. It’s the shorter of the two who didn’t immediately emerge from the stairwell as they both fussed with their boots. And short is an understatement. She’s tiny. But, she’s staring intensely at my face while a picture forms of what I know to be myself in her thoughts. And I appear… attractive to her. Witnessing this is always discomfiting for me, so I cross my arms in an effort to be more intimidating. It’s the only impression I care to give to a first-year, even an intriguing one. But…nope. Somehow that has not worked. Instead, she now appears to be thinking about my…lips? Fuck. I scowl harder.
But, as she looks at me, I’m also surreptitiously looking at her, my shadows moving closer. Why does she seem familiar? Have I met her before? She’s wearing what could almost be described as rider black. Her tight leather pants hug every curve, while what appears to be a corset is formed about her midsection and chest. It’s decorated like dragon scales. Her hair is wrapped around her head in a braid that almost makes it look like she’s wearing a crown. And damn, that does something to me. And even more so, is the color. The center of her scalp is covered in dark brown, almost black, hair. But as her braid wraps around her head, it turns into a silvery grey.
This woman is fucking hot. I can’t help it. I want to push her up against the turret wall, pull all of the hair out of that braid and see just exactly what it looks like covering her naked breasts. I want to know, if I pulled gently on just one of the nipples underneath that corset, would her brain quiet down? Would she melt into my arms? Or would she push back on me, her thoughts screaming in my head louder now to fuck her senseless?
“See you two on the other side!” the next man in line shouts, all smiles, as he steps up to the parapet. His words pull me out of my reverie.
I breathe in deeply. Slowly close my eyes. All I can see is what she’s thinking about. She thinks I could get her into trouble…and…shit, she wants that. One second passes. Two.
“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” Emery asks.
Dunne no, I am not ready. I do not want this beautiful woman even one step closer to that death bridge.
But then the taller, dark-skinned woman in front of her says, “You ready for this, Sorrengail?” My eyes snap open.
Fuck my life.
Sorrengail. My brain glitches and it’s all I can think as I turn to look right at her. (Sorrengail.)
For her part, her eyes have locked onto my rebellion relic. Fucking finally. She’s properly intimidated. I wish I felt some relief.
“Oh shit,” she whispers. I glare down at what I now know to be the daughter of my enemy, the sister of my friend, the woman I’m supposedly sworn to protect.
Oh hell no.
Sgaeyl’s words form succinctly in my head.
“Sorrengail?” I take a slow step towards her. It’s not my fault if that action makes me seem taller and more threatening. I think about my father and the role her family played in his death. In the continued role her family plays in threatening my home. About her mother slashing at my back. I think about how easy it would be to end her life right here, right now, and all of the reasons that I should.
But, her thoughts are loud in my head and they have finally, at long last, narrowed down into one immediate concern. Me.
Good. She deserves every ounce of fear coursing through her miniscule body.
And although she’s trying hard not to, she’s shaking slightly as she looks up at me, and inclines her head once in response to my question. My eyes narrow and my entire body tightens as I prepare to end her life.
“Violet?” the taller woman asks, distracting me.
Has this tiny woman somehow already formed a friendship with someone just standing in this line? At Basgiath that’s a recipe for a good old back-stabbing. It takes most cadets all year to trust another cadet and only after they’ve been through hell together. (Sorrengail.)
“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.” I find myself stupidly stating.
“You’re Fen Riorson’s son,” she comes back immediately, tit-for-tat.
Throw her off the parapet and be done with it.
Sgaeyl, patient as always. I look over the side of the turret and then back at her again. Take another deep breath. (Sorrengail.)
“Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”
Wow, way to go with the profound statements, Captain Obvious.
Her face tightens. “Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we’re even.”
Pfft. “Hardly,” I respond. If only she knew.
Her brother currently resides in my house. Eating my food. Overseeing my army with my permission. All while I’m stuck in this death trap of a college having to prove myself constantly to these waste-of-space people who can’t tell a threat from a hole in the wall.
And now I’m truly angry. How the hell is she a Sorrengail?
But then I look her over again. She’s all of five feet tall. She’s hiding it well, but every muscle in her body is protesting the climb up those stairs, the pack on her back, the thought of walking across that parapet. (But fuck, if she doesn’t still look amazing while doing it.) Sorrengail!
“Your sister is a rider. Guess that explains the leathers.” I sound like a two-year old.
“Guess so,” she replies, also sounding like a toddler, but holding my gaze the entire time. I itch to smile, but thankfully hold my glare steady. She actually thinks she’s being intimidating. She’s going to get herself in immense trouble with this attitude. How am I ever going to be able to protect her, if she has no sense of self-preservation?
Oh, so we’re protecting her now, are we?
I clench my fists. Truly, I am so very fucked. (Sorrengail.)
The woman in front of her is concerned now, “You all right?” she asks the daughter of the General, looking back-and-forth between us and I realize that neither of us has stopped staring at the other. So I glance quickly at this woman. She’s concerned for her…friend?
“You’re friends?” voice incredulous. No one starts their first year with friends. Especially not one they met on the way up to the tower. Well, except those of us with a rebellion relic. We are immediately and solely loyal to one another. At my behest. And if not…well, then they’ll find out what my shadows taste like.
“We met on the stairs,” the General’s daughter states, squaring her shoulders to me, daring me to say otherwise. Holy shit. I can’t remember the last time someone attempted to contradict me, let alone defy me. Does she know who she’s talking to? My shadows jump in response to the chaos warring inside of me. (Sorrengail!)
But then I remember her earlier actions and look down at her feet. She’s wearing mismatched boots. The one on her right foot is a riding boot and the one on the left, an equestrian. Interesting.
“Interesting.” I say in a demonstration of the profound mental acuity I possess.
Burn me to a crisp now. Please tell me this is not how this year is going to go.
If Sgaeyl had hands she would be palming her forehead. Or possibly strangling me.
“Are you going to kill me?” She asks, lifting her chin. The sass. I’m starting to think this woman could benefit from some…creative instruction.
And you want to be the one to give it to her?
Oh shit. I like that way too much. Too many ideas are forming in my head.
Out Sgaeyl. Now.
I slam my shields shut. Entertainment time is over. Not that she can’t break right through them if she wants to.
The dark clouds finally loosen their weight, rain quickly soaking everything…including the parapet.
A scream comes from behind me. I don’t look. Won’t look. But, Sorrengail and the other woman turn to gape over the edge. I don’t need to be able to read either of their thoughts to know that the man who was in line in front of them is dangling from the side of the parapet.
“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” the “friend” screams.
“Oh gods!” the General’s daughter breathes, her hand over her mouth.
I watch their eyes as they track the man’s body when it falls down, down, down, to the river below. Though it’s so far away that there is no sound when he finally crashes into the rushing water, despite the silence, I hear her anguished whimper.
And…holy fuck, what is this feeling? My heart. It’s beating rapidly. My eyes, they can’t look away from her. I feel lost. Or, like I’m in pain? It makes no sense. I’m perfectly healthy. I kick Garrick’s ass daily, and he’s arguably bigger than me. I am the reigning champion on the mat two years running. No one can beat me with swords or daggers. I’m bonded to the biggest and most vicious dragon in this school.
So act like it, you damn fool.
Sgaeyl punches through my shields like they’re paper and I come back to myself.
I gather all the loathing I can muster, continue looking straight into her glorious, terrible eyes and say, “Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?” and smile my creepiest smile. “Your turn.”