1
1
Basgiath War College didn't bother with grand entrances. You showed up. You climbed. You earned your place... or you didn't.
I tightened the straps on my rucksack, feeling the familiar weight settle against my back. The tattoo on my neck prickled beneath my collar, reminding me who I was, and why I couldn't afford to fail.
The registration was quick. Just a name. No questions. No smiles.
When my turn came, I stepped up to the official behind the table. His eyes flicked to my mark and back to the parchment in front of him. " Name"
" Kaelith Serran ," I said, voice steady.
He nodded once. " Next ." No one else looked at me. Good. I didn't want their pity or suspicion.
Ahead, the stairs stretched impossibly high, hundreds of steps, jagged stone with no railing, no breaks. Just a steep climb from hell.
I started up, slow and steady. The air thinned with every step, but I didn't care. This was what I came for.
About halfway up, I caught movement to the side, a kid not much older than me, panting, trying to keep pace.
" You new too?" he asked, voice rough.
I didn't stop. " Yeah ." He gave a short laugh. " This is brutal ."
We climbed in silence after that, both fighting the burn in our legs.
When we reached the top, the wind hit us hard, cold and sharp.
The parapet sprawled out before us, stone and sky, nothing between you and falling except the strength of your grip. The boy from the stairs stopped beside me, glanced over, but I kept my eyes fixed ahead. I didn't know his name. I didn't care.
Not yet.
There was more to prove. More walls to hold up.
The rain hadn't stopped since I reached the parapet, cold droplets soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone. The narrow stone bridge leading to the Riders' Citadel stretched out before me, slick and treacherous underfoot.
My eyes caught movement ahead—a figure standing near the edge, jaw clenched tight as if holding back some storm inside. It took me a moment to register who it was.
Xaden .
He was unmistakable, even after six years. Taller than I remembered, well over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of a war. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, rain streaking down the sharp angles of his tawny skin. His eyes—deep onyx flecked with gold—were locked on something just beyond the parapet, watching with a fierce focus that made my chest tighten.
I glanced where he was looking but couldn't make out more than a shadow, blurred by rain and distance.
I hadn't seen him in six years—not since the rebellion tore our lives apart, not since our parents were taken from us. He was a third year now, a fighter marked by scars I could almost feel from here—the dragon relic of Sgaeyl stretched across his back, the dark rebellion mark curling around his left arm, and the slash across his left eyebrow, a reminder of battles I could only imagine.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped forward, careful not to break the silence between us.
Xaden didn't turn at first. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, distant and unreadable.
"Xaden." My voice was low, steady.
His jaw shifted but he said nothing.
"I'm here."
At last, he glanced my way. The onyx flecks in his eyes softened just a fraction.
"You made it," he said quietly.
I nodded, though it felt like years since he'd last spoken to me.
"Twenty years old," I said. "Able to enter the Riders' Quadrant."
He gave a short nod. "About time."
The wind picked up, rain pelting us harder. We stood side by side, two souls shaped by the same broken past—he, the fierce protector marked by scars and duty; me, the girl who never stopped climbing.
"Six years," he finally said, voice rough. "Since it happened."
I met his gaze, steady. "I haven't forgotten."
He looked away, jaw tightening again. "You shouldn't."
And for a moment, the years between us felt both a lifetime and nothing at all.
I let out a shuddered breath before nodding, the weight of everything still hanging between us. Without looking back, I turned toward the narrow parapet.
"Wait," Xaden's voice cut through the rain.
I paused, the cold air prickling at my skin as he stepped beside me.
"Keep your hands up while you walk," he said quietly, voice steady but without any show. "Helps with balance. The wind is strong here, and the stone's slick."
I glanced at him, surprised by the concern behind his calm tone.
"And don't look down," he added, eyes locking onto mine. "Never look down. It'll throw you off faster than the rain."
Before I could say anything, the boy I'd been climbing with earlier stepped onto the parapet. He moved carefully, but the stone was treacherous.
Halfway across, a slip, a sudden flash... and then he was gone.
A gasp caught in my throat. The rain seemed louder, the cold sharper. My heart pounded as the silence pressed down.
Xaden's voice came low, almost gentle, "Don't die."
The words hit me harder than I expected, simple, but it left my breath shaky and my hands trembling.
I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the path ahead.
"He's gone," I whispered.
Xaden didn't answer. He just stood there, steady, a solid presence against the storm.
"You'll make it," he said finally, voice calm like the weight of certainty itself.
I nodded, drawing strength from his quiet conviction.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my foot onto the edge of the parapet, hands raised, eyes forward, and started across.
I stepped up to the edge.
The wind hit harder up here. It howled past my ears, tearing at my soaked hair and slamming rain against my face like tiny knives. The stone under my boots was slick and narrow, and the drop on either side was... yeah. Not something I needed to look at.
Just keep your hands up. Don't look down.
My fingers trembled slightly as I raised my arms for balance, like Xaden said. Gods, I hated that they trembled.
One step. Another.
It was just a bridge. That's what I kept telling myself. Just a long, thin bridge without any railings, suspended hundreds of feet in the air during a storm where some poor idiot just plummeted to his death. No big deal.
I swallowed, chest tight.
Somewhere behind me, I could still feel Xaden watching. That grounded me more than I'd admit. He was always the one who didn't flinch when the world burned.
Focus.
Halfway across now. I kept my eyes forward, watching the shimmer of torches burning at the Riders' entrance, their glow barely visible through the curtain of rain.
Then a gust of wind slammed into me from the left, hard enough to knock me off balance. My boots scraped on the stone, one foot slipping for just a second. My arms flailed.
I nearly went over.
My heart shot up into my throat as I caught myself, both feet skidding to stay centered on the slick surface. I bent my knees, held my breath, hands high like a wirewalker, praying the stone would hold and the wind would calm.
It didn't.
But I did. Somehow.
I clenched my jaw, blinking rain out of my eyes. " Nope ," I muttered to myself. " Not dying today ."
Step. Step. Breathe.
Don't die.
The last few feet felt longer than the whole climb up to this godsdamned death bridge. But finally, the stone widened. I crossed the threshold and stepped into the entrance of the Riders' quadrant, boots hitting solid ground like it was sacred.
I didn't collapse—but I wanted to. Instead, I shoved the wet hair out of my face and kept walking like I hadn't nearly been swept off a sky bridge to my death.
A bored-looking third-year based on the 3 star patch on her jacket, sat behind a narrow wooden table just past the entrance, one leg up on the bench, twirling a pen between her fingers like it offended her. Her hair, dyed or maybe naturally that flaming red, was buzzed short, the way most of the girls here wore it.
She didn't even glance up when she spoke. " Name ."
" Kaelith Serran ," I said, voice steadier than I felt.
She scratched it down without fanfare. " You're lucky. Half the people on the list are already crossed out, and the day just started."
I didn't respond. Mostly because there wasn't anything to say to that. What was I supposed to do, apologize for being alive?
She finally looked up, eyes flicking over me, then lingering on my hair. Still long. Still soaked and sticking to my face, but definitely still there.
Her brow lifted, but she didn't comment.
Instead, she jerked her thumb toward the open doors behind her. " Courtyard is just straight ahead. Try not to die before the actual training starts."
" Thanks ," I muttered, walking past her before she could throw another gem of wisdom at me.
The air in the corridor was warmer, but it didn't help much. My boots squelched on the stone as I followed the rest of the half-drenched, half-traumatized first-years funneling toward the main courtyard.
The building opened up into a wide, square space lined with slick stone and arched walkways. The massive courtyard, which could easily fit a thousand riders, is just like the map in the archives recorded. Shaped like an angular teardrop, the rounded end is formed by a giant outer wall at least ten feet thick. Statues of dragon riders loomed overhead, watching us like they were already disappointed. The courtyard floor was flooded with other first-years, most of them still dripping wet, half of them shaking, and all of us trying to act like we hadn't almost died fifteen minutes ago.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my soaked uniform pants and scanned the crowd.
Now came the part where we got sorted or yelled at or whatever came next. I didn't really know how this worked. No one did. That was the whole point.
But whatever it was, I was here for it.
And so was the asshole who just slammed his shoulder into me like we were playing war games already.
I staggered a step to the side but didn't fall. He didn't even glance back.
I let out a slow breath, then turned toward him. " Hey ."
He stopped, turning only his head. " What?"
The guy was big. Taller than me by a solid foot. Heavy muscle. Buzzed dark hair. And that cocky look in his eyes like he hadn't earned a damn thing in his life but still thought he was better than everyone else.
" You should apologize," I said, calm and even.
He blinked. " For walking?"
" No ," I said. " For thinking you could go through me."
That earned a few murmurs. People around us were starting to slow, paying attention.
His eyes dropped... there. To my left shoulder. The mark.
The rebellion relic that marked my skin, swirling up my shoulder and just visible under my wet collar. I saw the second he recognized it.
" You're one of them," he said, voice laced with disgust.
I smiled. " Took you long enough ."
" Should've been executed with the rest of your traitor parents."
And there it was.
The kind of venom they never said out loud until they thought the crowd would agree with them.
The kind that made your blood freeze.
And yet, I laughed.
Not loud. Not forced. Just quiet and real enough that it made people shift uncomfortably.
" You think I'm dangerous because of my parents?" I said, voice still light, still razor-sharp. " You haven't met me yet."
He stepped forward, broad shoulders squared. " Say that again." He said with a tone so cocky as if that would intimidate me
I held his stare as I reached up, peeled the wet collar off my skin, and pulled it down enough to show the full rebellion mark that curled over my collarbone.
The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
Someone actually whispered, " Shit ."
"I am Kaelith Serran ," I said, voice clear. " Daughter of Daryon and Elyra Serran . One of the 107. And if you think that mark makes me weak, then step the fuck up."
He didn't.
He just stood there, fists clenched, jaw grinding.
" You won't last a week ," he spat, turning away.
" Then that'll make it a week longer than your spine did ," I muttered.
He stormed off. But the damage was already done.
Now every cadet around me knew who I was. What I was.
I rolled my shoulders, the weight of a hundred new stares burning into my skin as I turned back toward the forming crowd.
Let them look. Let them talk. I didn't come here to be liked. I came to survive.
An hour passes. Then another.
I count them by the tolling bells echoing across Basgiath, muffled but still clear enough to mark the time. The rain's slowed to a steady mist, and eventually it stops altogether, leaving behind that damp heaviness that clings to everything. My uniform's mostly dry now, but my boots are still soaked through, and I can't feel my toes.
The courtyard slowly fills, a hundred conversations blurring into each other. No one really talks loudly. Some sit, some pace, others try to look braver than they probably feel. The adrenaline's fading, and what's left behind is exhaustion and the kind of silence that settles when everyone knows they're not out of danger yet.
Then the last of the cadets enter, two of them helping a third who's limping hard on one leg, face pale and scraped to hell. The crowd shifts, making space.
And then the riders arrive.
Three of them step out from the opposite turret, their black uniforms crisp, their presence like a blade sliding through the air. They move with that easy, lethal kind of confidence that only the upper years seem to have.
Xaden Riorson is one of them.
He's impossible to miss. Not just because he's tall, well over six feet, but because the crowd parts for him like instinct. Like prey reacting to a predator. There's something in the way he carries himself, solid, deliberate, like every step has weight. His broad shoulders, the dark glint of the rebellion relic spiraling up his arm, the black hair tousled just enough to look unbothered, the onyx eyes catching flecks of gold in the light.
I wonder if he knows they all move around him like he's a storm.
And I wonder if he likes it.
He doesn't look at me.
He hasn't, not once since the parapet.
The last time I saw him, I was fourteen. He was seventeen and being hauled away from the only place we ever called home, blood still drying on his knuckles. We were just kids then, with too much grief and nowhere to put it. I haven't heard from him since.
But gods, he's different now.
Harder. Sharper. Every bit of softness stripped away.
Ten riders take their place on the dais, one for each flight. None of them look friendly. They don't have to.
Then one of them steps forward to speak. I don't know his name, and honestly, I don't care. He's tall, loud, and already has that smug officer tone that makes my molars ache.
" Three hundred and one of you survived the parapet to become cadets today," he calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear. " Sixty-seven did not."
The courtyard stills.
Not like it wasn't already quiet, but this is different. This is the kind of stillness that hits your gut. That number... it hangs in the air like smoke, seeping into the cracks.
Sixty-seven. Gone .
I glance around and see the way some people shift, their expressions going tight. Someone sucks in a sharp breath. A girl two spots down blinks fast, like she's trying not to cry.
Me? I already knew what this place was.
Basgiath doesn't soften its teeth for anyone.
Still. That number lodges somewhere behind my ribs.
I flick my eyes back up to the dais, to the shadow he casts over the riders standing beside him.
Xaden doesn't flinch.
Of course he doesn't.
He just stands there, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the crowd like he's already sorting us into useful and dead.
And maybe he is.
I wonder what his signet is. What power someone like him was given when he bonded. Whatever it is, the others are clearly aware of it. Even the other third-years keep a step back from him.
I don't hear a damn thing Panchek says after that body count.
He's still talking, probably about glory and honor and how lucky we are to serve. My attention drifts, and I don't even try to pull it back. It's locked on Xaden, like it has a mind of its own.
He hasn't moved. Still standing like stone at the far end of the dais, arms crossed, head slightly tilted. Watching everything. Everyone.
He doesn't look like the boy who used to patch up my scraped knees or rip apples out of the market stalls just to make me laugh. That version of him is long gone, burned away in the fire of a rebellion that stole everything from us.
And I hate that I'm still looking for him in the way he stands.
"...don't die."
The Dais' voice who I learned to be Panchek snaps me out of it just in time to hear his closing remark, which earns a soft scoff from someone to my left. I blink, realizing he's leaving the dais with the executive commandant, striding away like he just gave a motivational speech and not a death toll.
Good riddance.
Then she steps forward.
Nyra .
That name carries weight. Even before I stepped foot on Basgiath, I heard her name spoken like a warning. One of the nobles I was placed with, Baroness Velra, stiff as her furniture, once mentioned her over tea, said Nyra broke a cadet's collarbone for disobeying a single order. I don't know if that's true, but judging by the way her boots slam against the stone, I'm not about to test it.
She's wide-shouldered, brown-skinned with a face carved in permanent scorn, and there's a scar that cuts through her bottom lip like it dared to cross her. Silver spikes gleam from the shoulders of her uniform, senior wingleader rank.
" I'm Nyra , senior wingleader of the quadrant and head of the First Wing," she announces, voice sharp enough to draw blood. " Section leaders and squad leaders, take your positions now."
I jolt forward slightly as someone bumps my shoulder, cutting through the line. A few others follow, lining up in precise rows ahead of us until the front of the courtyard is filled with about fifty cadets in formation.
" Sections and squads," someone mutters beside me. I glance over and catch a girl with brown eyes and auburn ringlet curls that bounce off her forehead when she moves her head. Her eyes flick to mine. " You know the layout?" She ask nervously
" Three squads per section. Three sections per wing. Four wings total," I recite automatically. " Sixteen per squad."
She exhales in relief. " Thanks. Trina."
" Kaelith ."
She smiles, tight, nervous, and then goes back to watching the front.
I keep my eyes on Nyra.
" First Squad! Claw Section! First Wing!" she barks.
A guy near the front, blond and cocky-looking, raises his hand.
" Cadets, when your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader," Nyra instructs.
The redhead with the roll of parchment and a crossbow slung across her back steps forward and starts calling names. One by one, names echo across the courtyard. Cadets peel off and walk forward, slotting in behind their squad leaders. I count automatically. Fifteen... sixteen... next squad. It's like watching a game board assemble itself, except everyone on it might die.
I feel my spine lock straight.
I'm not afraid of being sorted. I'm not afraid of fighting. I've lived through worse than whatever this quadrant thinks it can throw at me.
But if anyone tries to stick me in a squad with someone who thinks my mark makes me expendable, we're going to have a serious problem.
"Second Squad! Flame Section! Second Wing!" Nyra barked out.
Names started rolling off the redhead's tongue. One by one, people stepped forward, falling into line.
" Kaelith Serran ."
I moved without thinking, the world already narrowing to the sound of my name. Trina followed close behind me, quiet and steady.
We lined up, waiting for the next name.
Then it hit me.
"Violet Sorrengail."
My breath caught. My heart didn't just pound, it hammered, like a fist trying to break free from my chest.
Violet. Violet.
The name carried everything I wanted to shove away. The one whose mother pulled the strings that ended my family's life.
For a moment, I stood frozen, rage simmering just beneath my skin. It wasn't the screaming, wild kind of anger. It was slow, sharp, like cold metal pressing against my throat.
I turned my head slightly and caught her, calm, untouched, like she had no idea what she represented to me.
My eyes locked onto hers. Not a word, just a look. Eyes dark and hard enough to cut through steel.
She doesn't flinch.
Of course she doesn't. She probably doesn't even recognize me. Just another cadet in a line of names she doesn't care to remember.
But I remember everything.
The way my mother's name was announced like it meant nothing. The way the crowd cheered as they burned the brave and selfless warriors they called traitors. The way her mother stood there, stone-faced, as if ending people's lives was just part of the job.
I force my eyes off Violet before I do something stupid. Before I let this rage boil over and cost me everything on day one.
Instead, I turn back to Xaden.
He hasn't moved. Still standing on the dais like he owns the entire goddamned quadrant. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his stance. He saw her too.
And he's holding it in. Like me.
Our eyes meet. Just for a second.
And that's all it takes.
There's no smile. No nod. Just a flash of recognition.
You saw her, too.
You feel it, too.
Then someone behind me clears their throat, and the moment breaks. Violet's still standing in line like she belongs here. Like the Riders Quadrant wasn't built by the blood of people her mother helped erase.
Trina nudges me lightly. " You good?"
I nod once. " Yeah ."
But I'm not.
Because I'm standing in the same squad as Violet Sorrengail.
And I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to survive that.