“Don’t even think about it,” Jax warned, but there was laughter behind it.
One by one, they all gave small shows of their gifts, light sparking from fingertips, vines erupting from the grass wrapping around boots, wind curling through hair like whispers.
They were radiant. Connected.
Whole.
I sat quietly at the edge of the group, legs pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my knees. Kaelith rested high above on a cliff ledge, wings folded in, watching like she was part of the world but untouched by it.
They didn’t notice I hadn’t joined in.
Didn’t see the way my jaw tightened when Jax spoke of redirecting energy, or how my chest ached when Naia described Temil’s constant presence.
I didn’t offer to demonstrate my power.
Because I didn’t want to call on Kaelith foranything.
And I didn’t say why.
I just smiled. Nodded. Let them shine.
And stayed very, very still.
I glanced toward the other squads gathered across the Ascension Grounds. The newer cadets were scattered in tight clusters, mimicking what they saw from us, small demonstrations of fledgling power, sparks of fire, gusts of wind, a few shaky illusions. Their dragons watched from the cliffs behind Warriath like proud parents, the air charged with possibility.
But mine remained distant. Still. Perched near Hein.
My gaze swept the field, catching on Major Ledor near the command platform. He was watching me.
Not the others.Me.
His arms were folded, posture tight, brows furrowed with something that wasn’t quite distrust, but wasn’t far from it either.
Wary.
Heshouldbe. I didn’t even trust myself right now.
But I was too tired to care.
And then the horn blared, echoing like a warning through the field.
The crowd shifted as everyone turned toward the castle.
Theron emerged, cloaked in his usual arrogance, the sun catching on the embroidery of his coat as if the fabric itself had been stitched with gold. Behind him, his entourage trailed like shadows, guards, advisors, sycophants.
But not Inderia.
I was grateful for that mercy.
Theron ascended the podium with the grace of someone who’d already decided the ground was his to command. His voice rang out across the training fields, polished and cold.
“By decree of the crown,” he called, “I will act as heir and Regent of Warriath until Prince Dorian returns from his campaign in the outer kingdoms.”
A hush fell.
Until Zander stepped forward from Crownwatch’s ranks, breaking from his squad like a lightning bolt of defiance.
“You can’t justclaimthe regency,” he said, loud enough for every rider, every dragon,every nobleto hear. “Father may be ill, but the throne still stands. And Dorian is not dead.”
