Chapter Text
Exhaustion buries itself in the marrow of her bones, bogging down the blood pulsing through her veins and hitching its barbed claws into her soul. She’s been exhausted for the past six months, every waking second spent preparing for one of the five hells right here on earth.
She misses Mira, and her father, and Brennan. She misses the woman she used to be before her own mother doomed her future and plucked her dreams from her too-soft grip.
The usual pang of longing, sorrow, grief, and anger grips her throat, like the pit of a peach has gotten stuck in her esophagus. It’s been six months since her mother ordered her to abandon her years of preparation for the Scribe Quadrant in favor of the Rider Quadrant.
All Sorrengails are Riders, her mother had sniffed. You’ll do fine.
And with that, Violet Sorrengail’s fate was etched in stone.
Never mind the fact that she’s been studying advanced topics ever since she was old enough to enter the Library by herself, never mind the fact that her father—gods rest his soul—had provided tutors for her in every subject imaginable once she demonstrated an aptitude for academics at an incredibly early age, never mind the fact that it was both her father’s dream and her own to see her enter the Scribe Quadrant when she reached the age of majority just as he once did. Never mind the fact that Violet has no desire to risk life and limb to become a dragon rider.
Never mind the fact that her own body would certainly betray her if she ever even attempted such a dangerous task.
Violet Sorrengail is no stranger to pain. It has been her constant companion, the shadow dogging her footsteps, ever since she was small. Too small to fully grasp why she hurt, only understanding that she did hurt, and that nothing ever made it go away.
She is also no stranger to her mother’s disappointment in having a cripple for a daughter. But despite her mother’s disinterest in Violet, she never thought she would do something so cruel.
The esteemed and honorable General Lilith Sorrengail declared that Violet would complete the trial for the Rider Quadrant instead of the Scribe Quadrant, and in doing so, the General may as well have signed a certificate of execution for her third and last child.
Violet has been living with dread curling in her gut for the past six months as she frantically prepared as much as she possibly could. It’s a paltry effort when compared with her older siblings’ decades of training before their entries into the Rider Quadrant. But Mira had tasked her close friend with training Violet in the months leading up to Conscription Day, and had even faced off against their mother numerous times, getting into screaming matches with her superior officer on behalf of her younger sister. It warmed Violet’s heart, how much Mira cared, even if that warmth did little to thaw the icy fear constantly coating her veins. Still, Violet filled her days with training and exercising and running over logistics and strategies and fighting styles.
She knows her chances aren’t good, but there is a chance. A very slim one.
She clings to that meager hope with every fiber of her being, even as fear takes root deep in her soul.
If Brennan were still alive, Violet has no doubt he’d be able to dissuade their mother. He was her favorite, after all. Her pride and joy, her firstborn son—a perfect officer in every way. The posterboy for the army of Navarre.
Mira is too much like the General herself, as fiery and acerbic as their dragons, and they clash often. Mostly when it comes to Violet.
Violet may be a woman grown now, but her mother has never respected her voice nor her input, despite Violet being a known academic prodigy among the walls of Ba Sgiath War College.
Her canvas rucksack thumps against her back with every stair she climbs. The brace traversing the length of her spine provides a barrier between the rucksack and her skin, but Violet can already tell it will bruise. Her fair skin is unfortunately quite delicate, and over twenty-three years it has remained a constantly shifting patchwork quilt of shiny pink scars and mottled purple and yellow bruises, all woven together and stretched taut over brittle bones and loose ligaments.
Violet inhales deeply, her lungs hurting as her ribcage expands, and continues trudging up the wide staircase leading to the top level of the fortress. The stone beneath her feet jars her body with each step, hard and unforgiving even in the face of her ankle and knee braces. Pain radiates up her legs. Climbing six flights of stairs is no easy feat.
And yet her mother wants her to become a dragon rider. Violet would laugh if terror and exhaustion weren’t currently smothering all other emotions.
She really hates going to her mother’s office.
The guards posted along the top level don’t spare Violet a second glance. Actually, they avoid her eyes as she passes, her gait slow and favoring her left leg, her breathing heavy. Those placid expressions are a small mercy. At least they’re not laughing at her.
Ba Sgiath is not known for being kind to anyone, regardless of status, wealth, or connections. All that matters is one’s capability to serve Navarre. Whether that’s by joining the scribes, healers, infantry, or the riders. Violet assumed her capability as a scribe and strategist would be enough, and would show that she can serve, just with her mind rather than her body. But apparently that is nowhere near enough in the eyes of Ba Sgiath’s commanding officer.
“You’re sending her to die!” A familiar voice comes from behind the General’s thick wooden door, muffled but clear enough to Violet. She would recognize that voice anywhere.
There’s only one woman on the entire island of Navarre that has the gall to raise her voice at the General. Something loosens in Violet’s chest at the realization that her older sister, who’s supposed to be hundreds of miles away among the Esben Mountains, is here on Conscription Day.
Violet can’t make out their mother’s response, so she reaches for the handle to let herself inside.
“She doesn’t stand a chance! Why would you force her into this?” Mira rages.
The General’s eyes flick to her other daughter as Violet enters the room, the door thudding shut behind her. Violet leans heavily on the back of the couch situated to the right of the door, her wrists twinging as she shifts her weight. The rucksack pulls down on her shoulders, rubbing harshly along the support straps of her back brace.
“Damn it, Mother, she’s struggling to even handle the rucksack!” Mira strides over to Violet, her expression fierce though her hands are gentle as she swipes her knuckles over Violet’s cheek in silent greeting, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and reaching behind her neck to lift the handle of the rucksack, easily taking on its entire weight with one arm. Violet shrugs off the rucksack, the stark relief a heady sensation. But she can’t revel in it because she has to abruptly rebalance herself to keep from toppling over the back of the couch.
Mira lets the heavy pack drop to the floor and embraces Violet, her bigger frame enveloping her younger sister, uncaring of propriety even in the presence of the General. Violet isn’t that much shorter than Mira—they both inherited their mother’s considerable height—but Violet would never be as muscular as her family members. She’s always been leaner, lighter, not as solid. Her body is too pliable, too unsteady. Like her limbs weren’t fastened correctly when she was created. A marionette with no links or strings.
Violet hugs Mira back with as much strength as she can muster. Even after six months of training, it isn’t much. She has to resist the urge to bury her face in her sister’s broad shoulder.
After a moment, Mira leans back, turning to face their mother again. She stands in front of Violet protectively.
“She’s spent her entire life training to become a scribe,” Mira says testily. It’s obvious this argument is one they’ve had many times before. “And she’s good at it. Violet is the smartest person I know! She doesn’t need to be a rider—she’s not fit for it anyway!”
Despite the situation, Mira’s praise of her intelligence has warmth diffusing throughout Violet’s chest.
“It’s already done,” their mother shrugs. “I won’t go back on my word.”
“Is your word worth her life?” Mira seethes, and Violet can see their mother’s jaw clench, just for a moment.
Violet already knows the answer to Mira’s question. Their mother’s silence confirms it.
Mira scoffs. “Unbelievable. You are sending your daughter to her death. She was meant to be a scribe!”
“She is the daughter of a rider,” the General insists hotly, her hands splaying atop the surface of her desk as she leans forward, her eyes narrowed and appraising the two women in front of her. “She is the daughter of a rider, she is already twenty-three years old, and it is Conscription Day.”
To Violet, she says, “I let you finish all your extra tutoring, even with all the time off you took.”
Violet’s eyes dart to the ground for a moment at the passive-aggressive reminder of how long it took. She had to take breaks often due to constant injuries and bouts of pain and fatigue that rendered her immobile, which meant she is now three years older than the typical entrant at Ba Sgiath. But conscripts can apply for any of the quadrants any time between the ages of twenty and twenty-five and not be at risk of imprisonment, and it’s not unheard of for people to come in late. However, the Rider Quadrant is at the top of the social and military hierarchy, so conscripts are typically younger due to eagerness. After all, everyone wants a dragon.
Everyone except Violet.
The General continues speaking. “But I will not let one of my children enter the Scribe Quadrant.”
“Being a scribe is still an advantageous position,” Violet argues. She’s never hesitated to give her opinion, even if their mother never listens. “I will still be able to serve Navarre and help with the war. Scribes and riders may have different duties but they’re both important! Scribes are not beneath riders—”
“Yes, they are!” Their mother exclaims, her composure slipping. Mira tenses in front of Violet, and Violet blinks at the sudden anger evident in their mother’s face. “And if you dare to walk into that tunnel leading to the Scribe Quadrant today, I will rip you out by the hair and drag you to the Parapet myself.”
Violet’s stomach sinks, and her hands begin to tremble. In front of her, Mira trembles with a different emotion altogether.
“Dad wouldn’t want this!” Mira practically shrieks, her fists clenched tightly at her sides and her face flushing with anger.
“Your father is dead.” The General’s voice is back to its usual cool, unmoved tone, as if she’s simply reading the daily weather report. Grief spears Violet’s chest. “I doubt he wants much these days.”
Indignation, desperation, frustration—all of them boil within her. Violet knows their mother is infamous for her lack of mercy, and yet for some reason it still takes her by surprise whenever that ruthlessness is aimed toward her own children.
“Sending Violet into the Rider Quadrant is not logical,” Mira continues arguing. She’s never done arguing with their mother, and the infuriating thing about it is that their mother has always respected Mira because of her unwillingness to concede. It just proves that their mother is a hypocrite, and a small part of Violet hates her for it.
“She’s too susceptible to injuries. She’s already broken her arm this year, and she sprains some joint every other week! The Rider Quadrant will be too harsh on her!”
It’s never enjoyable to have her body’s fragility highlighted, but Violet can’t deny that Mira has a point. Dragons don’t bond with fragile people. They incinerate them.
“Mira, Violet deals with more pain before lunch than you do in an entire week. If any of my children is capable of surviving the Rider Quadrant, it’s her.”
“She shouldn’t have to live in pain to prove herself worthy!” Mira bites back. “We should be trying to ease her pain, not force her to endure more! How many rider candidates die on Conscription Day, Mother? Forty? Fifty? Are you that eager to bury another child?”
The accusation clangs around the General’s office like the ringing of a death knell. The temperature plummets, the air pressure in the room dropping with it, and every joint in Violet’s body suddenly aches. Her lungs constrict as she wobbles on her feet, her muscles seizing and vehemently protesting the situation.
How ironic, that their mother’s signet—the specialized power every rider receives when they bond with their dragon—is controlling storms. Storms, which are one of the most detrimental things to Violet’s health.
She chokes on a gasp, her breath rattling, and Mira whips around at the strangled noise coming from her sister. She reaches for Violet, slipping strong arms beneath her armpits and bracing her up, and then Mira turns back to glare at their mother.
“Enough,” she demands, and miraculously, the air pressure in the room returns to normal, though the temperature remains frigid.
Violet sags in her sister’s arms, and after a minute somehow manages to get her feet back under her, though her muscles feel shakier and her ankles crack loudly. Mira doesn’t move her arms, letting Violet ease out of her grip slowly, standing at the ready in case Violet falters again. She gives the General an insolent look, as if to say “see?” but the General doesn’t acknowledge it.
She waits until Violet is standing on her own before addressing Mira.
“Get out, Lieutenant. Before I report you absent from your unit without leave.”
Mira’s jaw clenches, the exact same way their mother’s jaw did only minutes ago. She doesn’t say anything else, simply turning sharply and striding for the door. She grabs Violet’s rucksack along with her own smaller one on her way out.
It’s the first time Violet has been alone with her mother in months.
She wishes she could’ve walked out behind Mira.
“You scored in the top quarter for speed and agility during the initial exam,” the General rounds her desk to approach Violet.
Violet had taken the initial exam six months ago, alongside all the other conscripts for this year. It’s a more general aptitude exam, testing both physical and mental capabilities, and helps determine what quadrants each conscript could apply to. Each person receives a letter with their results, and on Conscription Day they choose what quadrant they want to join. The Rider Quadrant is the only one to have an additional test before entry—surviving the Parapet.
“You’ll do just fine. All Sorrengails do just fine.” She brushes her fingers over Violet’s temple, along her hairline, but Violet has to steel herself to keep from recoiling. She doesn’t want to be touched by her mother.
She doesn’t want any sort of false comfort from the General.
“I won’t be able to acknowledge you for the duration of your time in the quadrant.” Her mother backs up a few steps, sitting on the edge of her desk and folding her arms. “I’m sure you’re already aware of the reason: as the commanding general of Ba Sgiath, I will significantly outrank you.”
“Yes, I know.” Violet answers. It wouldn’t change anything, seeing as her mother barely acknowledges her now.
“You won’t receive any special treatment simply for being my daughter. If anything, they’ll come after you harder to make you prove yourself.”
“Well aware.”
“Then I’ll see you in the valley at Threshing, candidate. Though you’ll be a cadet by sunset, I suppose.”
Or dead.
Violet doesn’t voice this thought.
“Good luck, Candidate Sorrengail.” Her mother straightens and moves back behind her desk again. Violet recognizes the wordless dismissal.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t address her mother by her title. It’s a miniscule act of rebellion, but it’s all she can do.
Violet doesn’t relax until the door is firmly shut behind her, placing a barrier between herself and her mother.
“She’s insane.” Mira says, revealing her position further down the hall, leaning against a shadowed alcove. The guard nearby doesn’t even blink.
“They’ll tell her you said that,” Violet responds, walking over to her sister. Her heavy rucksack is resting on Mira’s back now.
“Good. Everyone should know.” She ticks her head toward the staircase. “Let’s go, we don’t have much time. There’s only about an hour and a half left before all the candidates have to report to their chosen quadrants.”
They descend the stairs as fast as Violet can manage, and go down several flights until they reach the family quarters for the administrative officers onsite. Violet leads the way to her assigned bedroom.
Or, what used to be her bedroom.
In the thirty minutes it had taken for her to climb six flights of stairs and say her goodbyes to their mother, all her personal items had been packed away into crates that now sit in the corner of the empty room. Granted, she doesn’t have a lot of stuff due to moving around so often—Ba Sgiath was the longest they’d ever been stationed somewhere, almost five years this upcoming spring—but Violet prays that they didn’t damage her extra braces when they packed them up.
“She’s efficient, I’ll give you that,” Mira mutters darkly. She turns to look at Violet with an apologetic gaze. “I was hoping I could finally talk her out of it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Violet tries to smile, but it falls far too quickly to be convincing. “I appreciate you trying so hard. And sending Asha to help me train.”
“You were never meant for the Rider Quadrant,” Mira says, placing gentle hands on Violet’s shoulders. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit by and watch you die in there.”
She drops the rucksacks on the floor and crouches down, quickly emptying both.
“What are you doing?”
“What Brennan did for me.”
Another spear of grief shoots through Violet’s heart.
“Asha kept me updated all throughout your training. You’re fast, which means daggers will be more useful than a sword.” She pulls out several items and hands Violet a black uniform and matching boots. “Put these on. The uniform is meant to fit snug, so put your braces on over it.”
Violet doesn’t argue, carefully disrobing and taking a seat on the bare mattress so she can undo all her braces and put on the new pants and shirt. Mira helps her put her knee braces back on and get the boots situated on her feet. The boots come up high on her shins, and they have internal reinforcements focused around her ankles and toes.
“The uniform and boots are custom. The boots have braces inside them to stabilize your ankles and protect your toes. The soles are rubber and have grooves—this will help you keep your footing on the Parapet. Too tight?” She tugs at the laces, and Violet shakes her head in the negative. “Good. The Parapet is roughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground. It’s not usually slippery, but I noticed storm clouds moving in while I was outside Mother’s office.”
“Lovely,” Violet swallows harshly. “I’m assuming they won’t give us a rain delay.”
Mira gives her a humorless smile. “You’ve always been a good guesser.” She helps Violet back into her back brace and fastens the vest on over top of it. The material of the vest is stiffer, with diagonal boning along the ribs that actually disguises multiple sheaths for daggers. Once it’s fastened, it fits snugly along Violet’s torso and over her shoulders, also ensuring that her back brace doesn’t move from its proper position. It’s only after she sees it up close that Violet realizes the vest is made out of dragon scales.
“How does it feel?” Mira checks. “Anything too tight? Can you take a deep breath?”
Violet inhales deeply, contemplating the new materials covering her skin. “It all feels good. Really supportive, actually.”
“Good, that’s what we want.” Mira starts rearranging Violet’s rucksack, taking some items out and adding things from her own rucksack. Violet watches curiously as she puts her hand braces back on. The finger and wrist braces are connected with metal chains to keep everything positioned correctly, so it looks like she’s wearing a strange type of exoskeletal gauntlets. All her metal and leather braces look like parts of some bizarre exoskeleton, which is why she usually wears loose clothing to hide them. But Asha had told Violet months ago when she first started training her that in the Rider Quadrant, loose clothing and long hair were both liabilities. So Violet has since conditioned herself to be more comfortable with tighter clothes. Her braces would be both her biggest risk and her biggest asset within the quadrant—they’ll paint an obvious target on her back, but they’re absolutely necessary to keep her joints in the right places and allow her to function semi-normally.
Mira hands Violet a set of six daggers. Four Violet already owned, and two new ones to fill each sheath along her ribs. Violet slides the daggers into place.
“There are two thigh sheaths in here as well,” Mira tells her, patting the repacked rucksack. “The rest of your clothes and personal belongings will be sent over sometime later this week, after they’ve confirmed all the new cadets. So don’t worry about your other braces—I’ll pack them all together and have Asha deliver those to the Citadel personally. And if something happens and one of the braces gets damaged or broken, go see the head blacksmith in the armory. His name is Aengus. I’ve already contacted him about you, so just say you’re my sister and he’ll get you fixed up. Did Director Markham tell you about the class he teaches?”
Violet nods. “I saw him yesterday and we talked about it. He…he wants me to continue my studies with him, as a sort of unofficial apprenticeship.”
Interest and eagerness flares in Mira’s gray eyes. The same eyes Violet herself sees in the mirror every day. “Did you accept?”
“Yes. I think it’ll give me an advantage.”
Mira grins, “It will, definitely. You’re the smartest person I know, Vi, it would be a damn shame to let all that intelligence go to waste. Director Markham is the best of the best—that’s why he’s still teaching in the quadrant. I’m glad he’s keeping you under his wing. Plus, having him as your mentor will mean you’ve got another ally in there.”
Violet bites her lip, worry nagging at her. “Mira…isn’t this considered cheating? Or, I don’t know, nepotism?”
Mira sobers and stands up. She places her hands on Violet’s shoulders, holding her gaze. “No, Violet. It’s not cheating—it’s working the system to our advantage. I am not about to watch you get seriously hurt or worse because our mother is too damned proud. We’re family, and family looks out for each other. You’re a scribe, you always have been, but if Mother insists on sending you into the Rider Quadrant, I’m going to pull every string I can to get you as many advantages as possible. I don’t give a rat’s ass about any accusations of nepotism! And I don’t give a fuck about whatever rank or merit awards or grades you achieve either—the only thing that matters is you survive.”
Violet’s eyes sting with oncoming tears at her older sister’s declaration. Mira hugs her again, her hand cradling the back of Violet’s head. This time, Violet does bury her face in Mira’s shoulder, breathing deeply to memorize Mira’s scent as well as the comfort of her embrace.
“We’re going to be okay,” Mira says, but her voice comes out suspiciously hoarse. She clears her throat and the two sisters separate. “You’re going to be okay.”
Violet nods, pressing her lips together to keep her expression from crumpling.
“Here, sit down, let me do your hair.”
Mira kneels on the bare mattress while Violet takes a seat on the edge. Her sister combs her fingers through Violet’s long, brown hair and begins to weave. They both have the same dark, wavy hair their father did, but Violet’s started fading to silver when she turned eighteen. Her roots are all completely silver by now, and silver has begun to bleed down the strands even farther. She’ll most likely be fully gray by thirty.
If she survives that long.
Having Mira braid her hair makes Violet feel like a child again, but she doesn’t complain. Not when this is the longest amount of time she’s spent with Mira in almost a year. Violet relishes in the feeling of Mira’s fingers in her hair, savoring the moment of tenderness between them. Her heart already twinges at the idea of being so isolated from her last family member. Three years is a long time.
“I’ll miss you.” Violet whispers. She’s not in the habit of being so vulnerable with others, hasn’t opened herself up to anyone other than Director Markham after her father’s death, but if this is to be the final time her and Mira see each other—whether it’s for three years or forever—she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid.
The last time she was so vulnerable with Mira was six months ago, when she sent her sister a tear-stained and rambling letter about the General’s unexpected decree regarding her conscription, begging desperately for help. Mira had shown up at Ba Sgiath two days later, still in full riding gear and spitting mad. That had been the first of many fights between the General and her Lieutenant.
But Mira’s formidable wrath had proven futile against their mother’s unwavering apathy.
Mira’s hands pause momentarily in Violet’s hair. Her older sister takes a deep breath.
“I’ll miss you too,” her voice is equally as soft, and laced with pain. “You can—” Mira swallows, and her voice steadies. “You can write to me as often as you’d like. First year cadets can only send one letter a week, but I’m sure Director Markham will deliver any extras you give him. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to write back all the time, but I always look forward to your letters.”
“You do?” Violet asks, shocked. Not once had Mira ever admitted that to Violet, and there were times when she had thought Mira might prefer to not hear from her at all.
“Of course, I keep every letter you send me. You’re a much better writer than I am.”
The revelation almost bowls Violet over. Love blossoms in her chest, so strong and ardent it leaves her practically breathless. She had felt so alone in the years after their father’s death, with Brennan already in the ground and Mira thousands of miles away. She knew better than to seek the General out for comfort, so she had confided in her mentor, Director Markham, who had taken over her tutoring after her father’s death. He advised her to write to Mira more often, but Mira wasn’t much of a writer, and her responses always lacked length and depth. Violet had just assumed Mira was too busy to really engage with her younger sister. But apparently she assumed incorrectly.
“I keep every letter you send me too.” Violet says. And it’s the truth. Even though the letters are all short and not overly emotive, they’re still proof Violet has someone out there who cares for her, who she doesn’t have to prove her usefulness too. Mira is the only real family she has left, and Violet kept all those missives as a reminder.
Mira doesn’t respond, simply tying off the braid and winding it into a bun at the nape of Violet’s neck. She pins it in place securely.
“If you won’t cut your hair, wear it like this or in similar styles every day, alright?”
Violet nods, gently running her fingers over the braids running along either side of her head. They both clamber back to their feet and Mira attempts to summarize eight years of knowledge into the little time they have left together.
“It goes without saying, but be observant. Quiet is fine, but make sure you notice everything and everyone around you. Your brain is your greatest weapon—outsmart them. Have you read the Codex?”
“Yes, I memorized it.”
“Good. Other cadets can attack you at any time when you’re not in the presence of superiors, and they will try. As long as they don’t get caught, they can get away with literal murder. Fewer cadets means better odds at Threshing. And anyone stupid enough to get caught unaware and killed by a fellow cadet isn’t worthy of a dragon anyway.”
“The Codex does say dragon scale armor is supposed to be earned.” Violet taps a finger against the unique material of her vest. “Someone’s going to say I didn’t earn it.”
“You’re a Sorrengail,” Mira smirks. “Fuck what they say.”
The warning bell goes off, ringing loudly throughout the entire building and shattering the tension within the room. Thirty minutes left.
Violet can feel the color draining from her face as reality sets in. Mira, too, looks a little paler.
“It’s almost time. Are you ready?”
“No,” Violet answers.
“Neither was I.”
The admission makes Violet feel the tiniest bit better. She reaches for her rucksack, carefully pulling it on and letting out a sigh of relief. Mira had somehow managed to lighten it and pack it so nothing jostles around whenever Violet moves. The dragon scales protecting Violet’s shoulders mean the rucksack no longer digs into her skin and rubs uncomfortably against her back brace straps. It’s infinitely more manageable.
“Thank you.”
Mira nods, sweeping an assessing gaze over Violet one last time before turning and leading the way out of the room.
The halls of the administrative section of Ba Sgiath are empty, silent and eerie even with the late morning sun streaming in the multitude of large windows. Mira and Violet wind their way down halls and staircases, and the lower they descend the louder the outside of the college becomes. Through the windows, Violet notes the thousands of entrants and their families in the grassy fields beyond the college’s main gate. Candidates hug their loved ones and make their goodbyes before heading up to join the lines for each quadrant. Most families won’t separate until the very last bell.
The roads leading to Ba Sgiath are all clogged with horses and wagons from each and every province. But it’s the empty wagons waiting at the edge of the fields that turn Violet’s stomach.
Those are for the bodies.
Mira and Violet venture out into the crowded courtyard outside the main doors to Ba Sgiath. Instructors, commanding officers, administrative staff, and even the General are gathered informally by the steps leading to the main doors, waiting for the chaos outside Ba Sgiath’s gates to become the order within. No candidates will enter the main doors to Ba Sgiath today—each quadrant has its own entrance and facilities within Ba Sgiath’s walls. Except for the Rider Quadrant, which has an entire citadel located just across the ravine to the right of Ba Sgiath’s main building.
“Find Dain Aetos,” Mira says as they cross the courtyard, making their way to the marked entrance for the Rider Quadrant.
Violet blinks at the mention of her old friend. Dain had joined the Rider Quadrant last year, after much nagging from his father, since he had waited two years after turning twenty to finally join a quadrant. She’s a year older than him, but they spent a lot of time together when they were younger, their parents often being stationed at the same location since his father was her mother’s closest advisor. Violet always secretly thought the reason he waited so long to enter a quadrant was to keep her company longer as she struggled to complete her tutoring. But she never asked him about it and he never offered a reason.
“From what I hear, he’s doing well, and he can be another ally.” Mira explains. “He’ll be a second-year. Oh, and that reminds me—don’t mess around with any of the upper years.” She points her finger at Violet, who can’t help but let out a sudden laugh. “I’m serious! If you want to get laid—and you should, often, considering you never know what the next day will bring—then screw around in your own year. Nothing is worse than cadets gossiping that you slept your way to safety.”
Violet grins, grateful for Mira’s bluntness and its inadvertent way of bringing some levity to her situation. “Duly noted.”
They take the winding cobblestone path toward the southern turret of Ba Sgiath’s main building, and Violet internally marvels at the support from her new boots. Cobblestones are always awful to walk on, her ankles catching or even sometimes twisting on the uneven ground, but these boots keep her gait quite steady.
Ba Sgiath War College is built at the base of the Ba Sgiath Mountain, facing northward and emerging from the stone as a goliath structure complete with battlements and defensive turrets, meant to withstand any sort of attack imaginable. Rolling fields sprawl out in front of the college, allowing the inhabitants to see anyone approaching from leagues away in all three directions. To the east of the main fortress, the Iakobos River begins in the south, beyond Ba Sgiath Mountain, and then slices up and over the side of the mountain, continuing further north into the Morraine Province and out to the Emerald Sea. The water eroded away the earth millenia ago to form a steep waterfall giving way to a ravine in the ridgeline. It is that very ravine over which the infamous Parapet arcs in a southeast curve, stretching over to the looming Citadel.
Every candidate wanting to join the Rider Quadrant must successfully cross the Parapet before they’re considered a cadet.
As Mira mentioned to their mother, about fifteen percent of today’s candidates will not survive the Parapet. Violet prays she does not end up as one of those bodies at the bottom of the ravine. Some of the bodies get swept away in the Iakobos River, and the only thing left of the candidate is a name on a list that’s eventually etched into a small, plain tombstone.
The line for the Rider Quadrant snakes out from the base of the southern turret, where a registration table has been set up so candidates can provide their name and what province they’re from. The two Sorrengail sisters come to a stop at the end of the line.
Violet observes other candidates striding past the Rider Quadrant line in the directions of the remaining three quadrants—her heart squeezes with envy as she watches two candidates enter the tunnel leading below ground, where the Scribe Quadrant and the legendary Archives are located.
Violet’s face isn’t turned toward Mira, so she doesn’t see the heart-wrenching regret that briefly overtakes Mira’s face when she notices what her younger sister is looking at.
The line moves forward a few paces, and Violet’s attention snaps back to the present.
“Don’t let the wind sway your steps,” Mira relays to her. “Keep your center of gravity low, and use your arms for balance. If you need to stop and rebalance, crouch down and grip the Parapet with your hands—you can crawl forward if you need to, but try to ease back up into a standing position as soon as possible. Someone is going to be behind you, so you can’t stay still for very long.”
Two spots ahead of them, a woman sobs as she's led away from a young man by her partner, the couple retreating in tears to the main gate. A teeming crowd of tearful families and loved ones congregates just outside of the college walls, preparing to take the long roads back to their provinces.
“Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you—do not look down.”
Violet nods, swallowing and fisting her hands to keep them from shaking.
“If your pack slips, drop it. Everything in there can be replaced. Better it falls than you.”
The line moves forward again, and the final bell chimes. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and some of the people in the Rider Quadrant line murmur worriedly.
They’re close to the registration table now, and Violet recognizes the scribe who’s taking down names. It’s Professor Latharnach, and when it’s finally Violet’s turn to register, he gives her a knowing, saddened look.
Violet haunted the Library at Ba Sgiath for the past four years, and her father and Director Markham used to boast to anyone who would listen about how she would be the crown jewel of the Scribe Quadrant one day. The professors and advisors overseeing the quadrant were always tolerant of Strategist Sorrengail’s daughter, and many had offered their condolences after her father’s death. It was an open secret among the quadrant that Director Markham had been furious after her mother prohibited Violet from becoming a scribe, and he had even vocalized his disagreement with the General.
“Hello, Professor,” Violet greets him, taking the offered quill to sign her name.
“Fortune favors the brave,” Professor Latharnach whispers as she bends down over the table. It’s an old blessing, told to soldiers before they head off to war, and Violet fights to keep her expression calm. She glances up at the professor, and their eyes meet. His gaze is full of sympathy. Violet dips her head ever so slightly and hands back the quill.
“By the gods,” the rider sitting next to Professor Latharnach suddenly pipes up, his eyes wide. “You’re Lieutenant Sorrengail!”
Mira smiles tightly, and places a hand on Violet’s shoulder, ready to walk away from the table before anyone else overhears. The professor eyes the rider next to him with disdain.
“I am.” Mira acknowledges, nodding at the rider.
“You know the way,” the professor gestures to the doorway opening into the turret.
Mira directs Violet toward the turret. “One last thing: Xaden Riorson is currently a third-year rider.”
If Violet had been valiantly attempting to ignore the panic slowly building in her gut for the past half an hour, she certainly isn’t able to ignore it now. It surges forward and grabs hold of every muscle in her body.
“I know,” Mira says in response to her horrified expression. “You know the history there. Stay the hell away from him. He will also try to kill you the second he finds out who you are. He’s a wingleader, though, which means he can’t harm or punish a cadet without legitimate cause. Just keep your head down and follow the Codex. Don’t give him any reason to get near you.”
Great, just wonderful, another powerful enemy to watch. Violet hasn’t even made it past the Parapet, and she’s already drained. Why in the five hells does anyone do this voluntarily?
The two sisters pause in the doorway. It’s much darker inside the turret, and Violet dreads climbing up more stairs.
For a brief second, Mira looks like she might cry. Violet has never seen such a distraught expression on her older sister’s face, but it’s gone so quickly she isn’t quite sure she saw it in the first place.
Mira reaches out to brush her knuckles against Violet’s cheek. She hugs Violet one last time and drops a kiss on her forehead.
“Be brave,” Mira whispers into her hair. “You’re not going to die today.”
“I will not die today,” Violet murmurs back.
Mira steps away from her, and Violet watches as her older sister transforms into the imposing Lieutenant. Mira turns on her heel and walks away without another word. It hurts more than Violet is willing to admit.
She enters the turret.