Chapter 2.
The barracks weren't quiet.
Even as Vessa pushed open the heavy blackstone door and led them inside, voices echoed down the corridor — muffled, overlapping, full of tension and nerves. The air was warm with body heat and the scent of old stone, sweat, and soap.
"Second Squad, far room on the left," Vessa called over her shoulder. "Top or bottom bunk — your choice. No fighting over it."
The room they entered was broad and low-ceilinged, carved directly into the fortress wall. At least twenty bunks stood in clean lines, metal-framed with thin, tightly rolled sleeping pads. A few cadets from other squads had already claimed spots. No walls. No privacy. No shadows to hide in.
Aeliana moved without pause toward the deepest corner bunk, the one with both back and side protected by solid stone. A place where no one could approach unseen. A place that had only one direction to defend.
She dropped her bag and claimed the lower bunk. The mattress dipped slightly.
A second later, someone tossed their bag onto the bed beside hers.
Liam.
"Figures you'd pick the same spot I was eyeing," he said, grinning as he dropped onto the mattress.
"You hesitated," she replied, not looking at him.
"Remind me never to play cards with you."
She didn't answer, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
Each bunk had a folded stack of uniforms waiting — soft black trousers, two sets of long-sleeved shirts in black, and a pair of reinforced boots. Aeliana picked up one shirt and turned it over. The fabric was basic but sturdy.
No thumb holes.
She flexed her gloved hand absently, then rolled the shirt and set it aside. Her sleeves would ride up during drills. That couldn't happen.
Vessa entered the room, tapping something against her slate board as she counted the bunks filled.
Aeliana stood and approached her.
"Something wrong?" Vessa asked, brow raised.
"I need two things," Aeliana said. "Combat wraps. And long sleeves with thumb holes."
Vessa blinked. "That... is specific."
"I've trained in them for years. I'm faster with wraps than gloves, and sleeves that anchor don't slide during ground work."
Vessa studied her for a moment — then nodded. "I'll see what I can do. No promises."
Aeliana inclined her head and turned back to her bunk.
Behind her, Liam leaned back on his elbows and muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, "Do you sleep in your gloves too?"
She shot him a dry look over her shoulder. "Only when someone talks too much."
He held up both hands in surrender. "Noted."
~
Aeliana was up before the first boot hit the floor.
The barracks had still been dark, lit only by the faint orange of the predawn sky leaking through a high slit in the stone wall. She'd already checked her gear, already pulled on her uniform, already seen what had been left at the foot of her bed the night before.
Folded cleanly. Tucked without a word.
Two long-sleeved shirts — both with thumbholes stitched into the cuffs — and a pair of wrapped training bandages, tightly coiled.
Vessa hadn't said anything at dinner. She hadn't needed to.
Aeliana had risen quietly, unwrapped her gloves, and bound her hands with practiced ease — knuckles to wrist, each loop even and snug. The muscle memory of years. The fabric moved like part of her skin.
No one else stirred.
Now, an hour later, she stood in formation under the early sun, the courtyard stone already radiating warmth through the soles of her boots.
Second Squad, Tail Section, Fourth Wing — all lined up in clean rows on the same open field where they'd gathered after crossing the Parapet.
Everyone wore the same black summer-weight tunics and regulation pants.
The silver star of a first-year marked each collar.
The Fourth Wing patch stood stark on their shoulders.
Captain Fitzgibbons stepped up to the dais, scroll in hand, flanked by two scribes.
The courtyard stilled.
"Elena Sosa. Brayden Blackburn."
His voice was flat, not cold, but practiced — a man who had done this more times than he could count.
The sun inched higher, casting long shadows across the rows of cadets. Somewhere to her right, someone shifted. A breath caught. A fist clenched.
"Dylan Kye."
That one made someone in front of her flinch.
Aeliana didn't move.
She kept her posture loose, but alert — hands wrapped, thumbs locked into the cuffs of her shirt. She blinked slowly against the glare. The names kept coming.
This was it. This was all they'd get. No burial. No stone. Just a name called into a warm wind and forgotten by next week.
"Jace Sutherland. Dougal Luperco."
Her muscles ached beneath her sleeves, but she didn't shift. Didn't scratch. Didn't adjust.
She had bound herself before sunrise for exactly this reason — so she wouldn't have to show weakness now.
"Simone Casteneda."
A pause.
"We commend their souls to Malek," Fitzgibbons said.
Nothing followed. There was no closing statement. No applause. Just the scrape of boots as squad leaders turned and barked instructions. The courtyard dissolved from orderly lines into clusters of shifting movement.
Vessa raised her voice over the noise. "Second Squad — first-years, gather left! You're not dismissed."
Aeliana turned on instinct, Liam falling into step beside her like it was automatic. He didn't say anything at first, but she could feel his glance.
A tall cadet stepped forward to meet them — lean, light-skinned, freckles scattered across his nose and jaw like ash from an old fire. His uniform bore the same silver first-year star, but his eyes carried something the others didn't.
Experience.
"You're Thorne, right?" someone behind her asked.
The cadet de gave a short nod. "Yeah. Didn't bond last year."
That explained the sharpness in his jaw, the quiet fire behind his posture. Starting over had to be a special kind of hell.
"Fourth floor, academic wing," Thorne said. "Second room on the left. That's history. You've got twenty minutes. Don't be late, or the instructors will make an example out of you."
He didn't wait for a response. Just turned and started walking.
Aeliana followed, Liam at her side.
"You think they are always this intense?" Liam asked under his breath.
"Only when they like you," she replied.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Good. I'd hate to see them when they're mad."
The path back toward the dormitory wing was crowded, cadets threading through bottlenecks and narrow halls. Aeliana kept her eyes forward, not because she was nervous — but because the architecture mattered. Every step revealed something new: blind corners, exit routes, weaknesses in structure.
Liam noticed her scanning.
"You always memorize buildings this fast?"
"Just the ones that could kill me."
He raised a brow. "That's optimistic."
"That's practical."
Ahead, Thorne slowed long enough for the group to catch up at the base of the stairs leading to the academic wing. He pointed upward. "Fourth floor's a long haul. If you can't make it up a few flights, you won't last the week."
Someone behind them groaned, already regretting breakfast.
Aeliana moved easily up the steps, falling into pace beside Thorne. "You came back," she said quietly.
"Could've quit," he said. "Could've transferred to another quadrant."
"But?"
"I want a dragon."
She nodded once. No judgment. No praise. Just understanding.
They reached the fourth floor with time to spare. Thorne pointed again. "That one."
Second room on the left. Heavy double doors. No sound from inside.
The group clustered outside, uncertain.
Liam leaned toward her. "Bet they're waiting to see who hesitates first."
Aeliana didn't hesitate.
She stepped through the doors.
The classroom was cold.
Not physically — the sunlight from the high, narrow windows warmed the floor where it touched — but the air still felt sharp. Restrained. Like the walls had ears, and even your thoughts might echo louder than you wanted.
Aeliana took a seat in the third row from the back, left side.
Liam dropped into the desk next to hers, stretching his legs out in front of him like this was just another drill. She didn't say anything, but her fingers curled lightly beneath the edge of the stone desk.
By the time the rest of Fourth Wing's first-years had filed in the room had filled with the quiet scrape of boots, the occasional cough, and the soft creak of uniforms against wood.
The seating wasn't divided by squad anymore.
It was a sea of black tunics and silver first-year stars, all pressed into the same narrow rows.
The room fell into stillness as the heavy door at the front slammed open.
Professor Irielle entered like a blade — tall, sharp-boned, robed in muted brown, and moving with the authority of someone who didn't need to shout to be obeyed. She held no books, only a rolled scroll and a short steel pen.
"History of Navarre," she said without preamble. "Also known as the study of how we survived while others burned."
Professor Irielle paced the front once, then turned to face the full room.
"This quadrant does not produce heroes. It produces survivors. And if you want to live past your first year, you will learn the context that built this war college, this kingdom, and every blade you'll one day carry."
The scroll snapped open with a flick of her wrist.
"We begin with Year 0 — the First Bond."
She unrolled the scroll slowly as she spoke.
"A single woman. General Melgren's great-grandmother, if you've done your reading. Her name was lost to time — but she was the first human to bond with a dragon willingly. That moment marked the beginning of Navarre's rise."
The class stayed silent.
"In the decades that followed, bonding remained rare. Dangerous. Rituals were formalized. Threshing was created to give dragons the ability to test cadets for worthiness, and the first quadrant was established to train them. This war college came next."
Aeliana didn't move. Her pen rested untouched on the desk.
"From there," Irielle continued, "we expanded. The twenty-six provinces of Navarre were unified by force, strategy, and fire. Flight formations were born. Political alliances with Poromiel and Braevick took shape. And for a while, we knew peace."
The word peace hung in the air like a dare.
"Until the Tyrish Rebellion."
There it was.
A faint stir rolled through the room. Not loud. Not spoken.
But a few cadets shifted in their seats — subtle movements, the way someone might tuck in their elbows or lower their gaze. Their sleeves rode up slightly with the motion, exposing faint, inked markings.
Aeliana didn't look directly at any of them.
But she noticed.
Professor Irielle didn't acknowledge the shift.
"Six years ago," Irielle said, "citizens from the Tyrrendor province rose in open revolt against Navarre. It began as resistance to conscription. But it grew — into fire, sabotage, and betrayal. Entire outposts were leveled. Riders were killed. Dragons disappeared."
Her tone sharpened.
"We don't forget that. Neither do the dragons. In response, the quadrant adopted new internal protocols. Stricter entrance screening. Tactical training prior to bonding. Threshing remained — but the expectation shifted: no longer just selection, but purification. We do not carry weakness forward."
She paused, eyes sweeping the cadets.
"You are here because you passed. But that does not mean you are safe."
Silence.
The only sound was the low scrape of a boot heel across stone.
"We will begin this week with the rise of the Raedin Order and the early political alignment of Braevick," Irielle finished. "Class dismissed."
Chairs scraped as cadets stood.
Aeliana rose with the rest, smooth and silent. She didn't glance at the marked ones — not directly. But she noted who had moved. Who hadn't. Who had frozen like she did.
She didn't know their names.
Yet.
~
The corridor leading to the Battle Brief classroom was a maze of stone and shadows, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and the distant clang of weapons. Aeliana walked beside Liam, their footsteps echoing softly.
Liam glanced at her, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "So, do you always wrap your hands before sunrise, or is that a special occasion thing?"
Aeliana raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Only when I anticipate dealing with chatty squadmates."
He chuckled, the sound lightening the heavy atmosphere. "Fair enough. But in my defense, I was trying to break the ice."
She shot him a sidelong glance. "Mission accomplished. Ice broken."
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the tension from earlier easing.
Liam nudged her gently. "You know, you're hard to read. Most people wear their nerves on their sleeves here."
Aeliana shrugged. "I've found that composure is often mistaken for confidence."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Smart. Keeps the vultures at bay."
They reached the classroom door, the muffled sounds of cadets inside filtering through.
Liam paused, looking at her with a genuine smile. "Glad we're in the same squad, Aeliana."
She met his gaze, a rare warmth in her eyes. "Me too, Liam."
The lecture hall was massive.
Circular, tiered, and deeper than it was wide, with rows of creaking wooden seats arranged like a descending spiral around a recessed stone floor. A massive map of the Continent covered the far wall — labeled, pinned, and ringed with mage lights that flickered as more students filed in.
They weren't early.
Every seat was already full.
Third-years lined the walls, arms crossed. Second-years had claimed most of the mid-tier rows. The only open section was near the bottom — where the first-years were expected to sit.
Aeliana found a seat near the edge of their squad's cluster, halfway down. Liam sat beside her, dropping into the chair with a soft exhale.
"I'll give it three minutes before someone tries to be clever," he said, glancing over the sea of cadets.
Aeliana's eyes scanned the room.
Her gaze caught on the black-haired boy in the front row — cocky posture, sharp smirk, already whispering to someone beside him. She didn't know his name yet, but something about him set her nerves on edge.
Liam noticed her looking and leaned in. "That's Jack Barlowe," he said quietly. "Grade-A asshole. If you get paired with him, duck."
She didn't smile. But she remembered the name.
The room dimmed slightly as more mage lights flared into place. A hush fell over the hall.
A woman stepped out onto the floor below — compact, muscular, with a cropped shock of purple hair that matched the Flame Section patch on her uniform. Her black tunic bore medals on one side, a longsword on her back.
"Welcome to your first Battle Brief," she said, voice carrying through the hall without amplification. "I'm Captain Devera."
She paced once in front of the map, then stopped and scanned the room. Her presence was immediate. Final. Like stone locking into place.
"In the past, riders weren't sent to the front until graduation. That changed three years ago."
Liam leaned forward, notebook open. Aeliana's hands stayed folded in her lap.
"You'll study border defenses, strategic theory, real-time troop deployments. This is the only class you'll have every day. Because it's the only one that might keep you alive."
Liam exhaled next to her, soft but audible. "No pressure."
Aeliana didn't respond, but she filed away every word.
"This class is co-taught," Devera continued. "Your second instructor is Colonel Markham."
The scribe stepped forward, his cream-colored tunic stark against her black uniform. He adjusted his spectacles and gave a weary sigh — not theatrical, just old and tired and full of quiet disappointment.
"The duty of scribes," he said, "is to master the past and record the present. Strategy without accuracy is chaos. History without truth is collapse."
His eyes landed on someone across the room. Aeliana didn't follow his gaze.
She already knew how people looked when expectations turned to regret.
Then Devera lifted her hand.
A sphere of light floated above the eastern border, settling over the Esben mountain range near a small village labeled Chakir.
"The Eastern Wing experienced an attack near Chakir last night," she said. "A drift of Braevi gryphons and riders breached our borders."
A loud murmur rippled through the hall.
Aeliana's stomach tensed — not fear. Focus. Her gaze sharpened on the map.
That altitude made no sense.
"Some information is redacted for security purposes," Devera continued, "but this much we can share: the wards faltered at the Esben range, allowing the enemy riders to channel inside Navarre. Thirty-seven civilians were killed before our wing arrived."
The murmuring turned to silence.
Aeliana's thoughts raced.
The wards aren't supposed to break. Especially not at high elevation. Gryphons can't even sustain flight well above ten thousand feet — too thin, too cold, too unpredictable.
She leaned slightly forward, tracking distances between Chakir and the nearest outpost on the map. Even at full speed, it shouldn't have taken less than—
"How did they get there so fast?" she whispered to herself.
Liam turned slightly. "You see something?"
She shook her head, just once.
Devera folded her arms. "Let's start with questions. First-years only."
The room stayed silent. "Come on, first-years, show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the ciritcal-thinking skills to be here," Professor Devera demands. "It's more important than ever that you're ready for what's beyond our borders."
Someone two rows ahead speaks up. "Is this the first time the wards have faltered?"
Professor Markham and Devera exchanged a glance.
"No," she answered simply.
The room stilled.
The same cadet clears her troat, "And how...often are they faltering?"
Markham's eyes narrowed. "That's above your pay grade, cadet."
Liam let out a breath. "Love how 'classified' always means 'don't panic.'"
Aeliana smirked, just barely.
Markham turns away from the cadet. "Next relevant question to the attack we're discussing?"
A boy across the row spoke next. "How many casualties did the wing suffer?"
"One injured dragon," Devera said. "One dead rider."
The quiet stretched.
"That's not good," Liam murmured. "For our side or theirs."
"Why would you ask that particular question?" Devera asked the cadet.
"To know how many reinforcements they'll need." he answers.
Devera nods.
A boy raised his hand. Started to speak. Stopped. Another cadet mocked him for it — a girl with too-shiny hair and an attitude that Aeliana could already feel growing old.
"You'd think we were selecting dance partners," Liam muttered.
"If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asked, her tone sharp as steel.
In the row ahead, a first-year with dark braids and quick eyes lifted her hand.
"What altitude is the village at?"
Aeliana's ears sharpened.
Professor Devera turned. "Markham?"
"A little less than ten thousand feet," he answered.
"Why?" Devera asked, eyes narrowing.
The girl hesitated, then said, "Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."
Aeliana's lips pressed into a line.
Exactly.
It didn't make sense. Gryphons were powerful, but altitude weakened them — and their channeling. It was a poor tactical choice unless they knew something the quadrant didn't. Unless they were counting on the wards to fall.
"It is a little high for a planned attack," Devera says. "Why don't you tell me why that's bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out." She levels a stare on the girl near the middle tier — the one next to the one who had spoken up.
Every head in the room turns.
Her eyes track the interaction, not just the words. Devera's tone isn't dismissive — it's deliberate. She's drawing out the thought, testing it.
"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel," the cadet says.
"It's an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about what.
..an hour's flight from the nearest outpost?
" She glances at the map. "That is Chakir right there, isn't it? "
It is. Aeliana had already calculated the distance when the light first lit up the Esben range.
"It is." A corner of Devera's mouth lifts into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."
The cadet's brow furrows. "Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?"
"I did." Devera's expression sharpens with expectation.
"Then they were already on their way," the cadet blurts.
Aeliana sees it before it happens — the ripple of laughter, the tightening of shoulders.
"Yeah, because that makes sense," Jack Barlowe says, twisting around in his seat with a sneer. "General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know when it will happen, dumbass."
Laughter rises around the hall. Aeliana doesn't flinch — but her hand curls slightly on the edge of the desk.
Next to her, Liam leans in and mutters just loud enough, "Barlowe's a godsdamned asshole."
Aeliana's lips press into the faintest line of agreement.
"Fuck off, Barlowe," the first girl snaps.
"I'm not the one who thinks precognition is a thing," he retorts, the sneer deepening. "Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon."
Another wave of laughter. Aeliana's stomach knots — not from shame, but secondhand fury.
"Why do you think that, Violet—" Markham winces mid-sentence. "Cadet Sorrengail?"
The cadet in the center row lifted her chin.
"Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way," she said, shooting a glare at Jack.
"It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around just waiting to be needed.
More than half those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way. "
Aeliana didn't need the map anymore. She'd already memorized the positions — the village, the ridge, the nearest patrol routes. She knew the cadet was right.
"And why would they already be on their way?" Devera prodded, eyes glittering.
The girl exhaled, voice tightening. "Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking."
Aeliana felt the shift — tension cresting. A beat of silence.
"That's the most—" Jack started.
"She's right," Professor Devera cut in.
The air changed.
"One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward," she said. "And the wing flew. Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher and the destruction of the village much worse."
Aeliana's pen tapped softly against the wood of her desk. Not from nerves. From calculation.
Another truth.
Another missing piece, revealed.
"Second- and third-years, take over," Devera ordered. "Let's see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets."
She arched a brow at Jack.
Good.
Aeliana listened as questions started to fly from the upper tiers — voices sharper, more technical, more experienced.
How many riders were deployed to the site?
What killed the lone fatality?
How long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons?
Were any left alive for questioning?
She wrote down every single one — not for the professors, not for credit, but out of habit. Her mind ordered them like a report. Which answers mattered. Which details built a pattern. Which gaps remained.
Then it came.
A voice from the top row — deep, calm, utterly unbothered by the silence that followed.
"What was the condition of the village?"
Aeliana's entire spine straightened.
She didn't even have to turn.
She knew the weight of that voice. The presence it brought. The authority behind the calm.
Her skin prickled.
"Riorson?" Markham asked, shielding his eyes from the mage lights.
"The village," Xaden repeated. "Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition?
Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn't demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack. "
Professor Devera smiled.
Approval. Genuine.
"The buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived."
A pause.
"They were looking for something," Xaden said, with the kind of conviction that didn't need support.
He wasn't guessing. He knew.
"And it wasn't riches. That's not a gem mining district. Which begs the question—what do we have that they want so badly?"
"Exactly. That's the question." Devera scanned the room. "And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider."
A cadet to Aeliana's left raised their hand.
"So... what's the answer?"
"We don't know," Devera replied simply, with a shrug. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering?"
She paused.
"Tomorrow, next week, next month—there will be another attack. And maybe we'll get another clue. Go to history if you're looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations."
Devera scanned the entire room one more time.
"In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask so all of you have a chance at coming home alive."
Aeliana didn't move.
But the chill that coiled in her spine told her she wouldn't forget that line.
Not for a long time.