32. CHAPTER 32
The wings closed around us, blotting out the sky.
Lili screamed, and my own voice ripped raw as we were dragged off the ground.
The field was gone. Stone scraped my back.
Chains locked around my wrists, pulling my arms until my shoulders burned.
My throat was dry, choked with the stink of smoke and blood.
“Don’t bother,” a voice hissed in my ear. Sour breath, hot against my skin. “No one’s coming for you.”
Another voice answered, colder. “She’ll fetch more than her father ever did. His blood built this. Hers will finish it.”
I thrashed, kicking, but hands slammed me down. Rope bit my skin, then shifted to iron. My knees buckled as weight crashed across me. My breath strangled.
“You thought you were strong?” The words twisted through the dark. “You’re nothing without him. Without us.”
Lili’s cry broke through, but when I turned my head, it wasn’t her tied beside me. It was me. My own face, bruised and bleeding, staring back with hollow eyes.
“No,” I rasped, straining against the chains. “No, this isn’t—”
Fingers tangled in my hair, yanked my head back. A mouth brushed my ear. “Stronger. Faster. Hungrier. That’s what you’ll be.”
I screamed—
—and the sound broke into a gasp.
The chains, the blood, the cold stone—gone. Linen sheets clung to my damp skin. My lungs dragged in too much air, too fast .
Zane’s arms were around me, his voice steady at my ear. “It’s me. You’re safe. It’s just me.”
I clutched his shirt with shaking hands, the phantom sting of iron still burning my wrists. My heart hadn’t slowed. It felt like it never would.
Zane’s warmth steadied me long after my chamber walls came back into focus. My pulse still thrashed, wrists aching as if the chains were real. He brushed a strand of damp hair from my face, searching my eyes.
“You’re safe,” he whispered again, as though saying it enough times would make it true.
But the voices from the dark clung to me. His blood built this. Hers will finish it.
I carried them into the lecture hall hours later, sliding into my seat as if my body weren’t still trembling. Professor Melamora stood in the center tier, hands folded neatly behind her back. Above her, the map of Yebel shimmered to life. A dark mark pulsed on the western edge.
“Lakish Outpost was attacked two nights ago,” she said, her voice echoing sharp in the amphitheater. “Four Riders and their fliers fell. Three Drusearons. One Shapeshifter. All burned where they stood.”
The room went silent.
“They were veterans,” Melamora continued. “Not cadets. Not green soldiers. Veterans. If you think being a fourth-year here makes you invincible, take this as proof otherwise.”
A hand shot up from the row ahead. “By humans?”
“Yes,” she said, “by humans.”
Murmurs swelled.
“That’s impossible,” Jeremy muttered.
From across the hall, Asmoth’s voice cut through, dripping with disdain. “If they fell, it’s because they were careless. No human outmatches a shifter, let alone the others.”
The air tensed.
Melamora’s gaze snapped to him. “Carelessness? These were seasoned warriors. One rode into two wars before you were even born.” Her voice hardened, slicing the silence. “Never confuse arrogance for strength. It is the fastest way to die.”
The cadets shifted uneasily.
I stared at the mark glowing on the map. Lakish Outpost. My stomach twisted, the nightmare’s whispers echoing through my bones. Stronger. Faster. Hungrier. Was that what they were making? Was that what killed eight veterans in a single night?
And why did it feel like my father already knew?
Melamora let the silence stretch until the whispers died down. Then she turned sharply. “We will not simply mourn. We will learn. Tell me—why was Lakish Outpost vulnerable?”
Hands hesitated in the air. Finally, a Historian cadet spoke. “It’s on the western ridge. Limited visibility if the enemy came from the sea.”
“Correct,” Melamora said. “But visibility alone does not explain eight seasoned warriors dead. Pascal?”
Pascal’s boots echoed as he crossed the front tier.
His gaze swept the cadets, hard enough to cut.
“They were flanked. Simple as that. Riders can’t fight if their fliers are crippled first. Humans aren’t fools—they targeted the beasts, not the warriors.
Always remember—take down the wings, and the Rider falls. The same goes for Drusearons.”
Uneasy murmurs spread.
Professor Fogg cleared his throat. “Reports suggest coordinated volleys. Arrows laced with a substance that burned through scale and hide. Likely alchemical in nature. Not like fire-oil but refined. The humans adapt faster than you give them credit for.”
A cadet from the Infantry rows raised his hand. “Then what should have been done differently?”
“Good question,” Melamora said. “What do you think?”
“More scouts in the air,” Laderra said.
Pascal barked a short laugh. “Scouts don’t matter if you don’t know what you’re looking for. The bastards hid their ships under heavy cloud banks. By the time the Drusearons scented them, it was too late. ”
“Then the answer is retaliation. Strike the coast, burn their fleets before they launch,” Michalova said.
“Revenge without strategy is suicide,” Melamora snapped. “You cannot burn every ship. And for everyone destroyed, two more will be built.”
Fogg raised a finger, his tone calmer. “A layered defense is the only viable answer. Ground wards to shield the outposts, fliers rotating in tighter intervals, Infantry ready to intercept once the enemy makes landfall. We must treat them as an organized army, not as pests.”
Pascal folded his arms. “And never underestimate desperation. Humans fight like cornered dogs. That makes them twice as dangerous.”
I sat rigid, heart pounding against my ribs. The nightmare whispers crawled back— stronger, faster, hungrier. If this was desperation, why did it feel like something worse was coming?
***
We all piled into the sparing gym with Professor Gile, in which we had the largest mix of branches together.
Everyone was still calling out grudges, which took up the first part.
If you didn’t get called out, you were matched up randomly with another cadet.
Everyone sparred at least once during class. A lot of anger was released in here.
“No surprise… Elslurs calls Blackcreek,” Gile said.
This mother fucker. He already stabbed me once, beat me on the match another time. Determination hit me, I had to win. There wasn’t an option, humbling this cocky bastard was what he needed. I let the anger surged through my body, I checked all my daggers in place.
We both stepped onto the mat, Zane and my platoon posted at the edge, eyes locked on us. Noise swirled from the other bouts—blades clashing, cadets grunting, instructors shouting corrections—but the circle around us felt too sharp, too bright.
Asmoth grinned, rolling his shoulders as if he had already won. “Third time’s the charm, Blackcreek. Or third time’s the shame. ”
“Go!”
He came at me hard, all muscle and speed, his blade swinging in a brutal arc meant to rattle me early. I caught it, steel jolting up my arm, but I held ground. The small crowd around us roared louder, sensing the grudge.
I ducked under his next strike and drove in low, slashing for his ribs. He twisted away, fast, shoving his shoulder into me and knocking me back a step. The mat thudded under my boots as I steadied.
“Come on,” he taunted, eyes glinting. “I thought you wanted this.”
I forced air through my nose, anger sharpening into focus. No wild swings. No losing control. He wanted me reckless. Not this time.
We circled, blades flashing. He feinted high, came in low—I caught it, sparks biting from steel. My knee shot up, clipping his thigh, and he hissed.
“Better,” he muttered, low enough only I heard. Then his blade snapped forward, nicking across my arm. The sting burned, shallow but humiliating.
“Stay tight!” Lili shouted from the edge.
I tightened my stance, parried another strike, then lunged. My blade caught his side—shallow, but enough to leave a mark. His grin faltered.
The crowd noise swelled. Even Gile had leaned forward slightly, arms crossed.
Asmoth snarled, shoving harder, his strikes faster, heavier. My arms shook under the force, but I met him blow for blow, refusing to give ground. My pulse thundered, every ounce of me screaming that I couldn’t lose again. Not here. Not to him.
We locked blades, faces inches apart, breath harsh. His voice dropped, venom low. “You’ll never belong here, Blackcreek. You’re just blood with a name.”
Rage flared white-hot. I twisted hard, ripping my blade free, and slammed my elbow into his chest. He stumbled, hit the mat, and I went with him, pinning his wrist with my knee and pressing the edge of my blade across his throat.
The gym roared around us, but all I saw was his face, twisted with fury.
“Tap,” I snarled .
For a breath, he didn’t. His muscles bunched under me, teeth clenched, eyes daring me to push harder. Then, with a hiss, his hand slapped the mat.
I shoved off him, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. The crowd’s noise surged into a roar. Asmoth sat up, rubbing his throat, smirk crawling back onto his face though it looked thinner now.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he muttered, low enough only I caught.
Not just a rematch. Not just a fight. A warning.
“Next call—Braegon. Match—Arkwright,” Gile announced, his voice cutting over the noise of the gym.
A ripple of energy went through the mats. Beau was an Infantry first-year cadet, who also helped save my life, carrying me down the mountain. And everyone knew Zane—tall, dangerous, his temper a blade in itself.
The two stepped forward, blades in hand, facing each other across the mat.
Beau dipped his head once. Respect, not mockery. “Let’s see what the infamous Braegon can do.”
Zane’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Try to keep up.”
“Go!” One of Gile’s assistants announced.