Elara doodled at the bottom of her paper to look busy.“Summoners can only call on their own ancestors for help. Faron’s unique in that she can call on the gods, but she can’t summon or see other people’s astrals.”
“A vessel, then. The Gray Saint is using the likeness of my ancestor to manipulate us into trusting him.”
“Signey,” Elara sent as gently as she could, “the Gray Saint died centuries ago. No one would blame your family for his crimes if they knew—”
“You don’t know that.”Signey slammed her book shut and stood. “I’m going to look for a different one. I’ll be back.”
She stalked off with the determination of someone who would not be right back. Elara let her go, sitting back in her chair with a sigh. It was possible that Gael Soto was just a projection the GraySaint was using to obscure his true motives. But it was equally possible that they were one and the same, another alias for the same man-turned-god who had started this mess. It made more sense to her, given what Signey had shared about her family history. How else could a Langlish dragon-riding dynasty have originated from Isalina, unless the line went so far back that neither country had existed?
But Signey was understandably sensitive about her family and their reputation.
“My race came to your world so long ago that few of us were alive to remember it. You were so small, so weak, that we took no notice of you as we laid claim to these lands. You rallied and began to hunt us in turn, leading to the Draconian Wars,” Zephyra said. Elara felt the brief sensation of cool water over hot skin. Her dragon was swimming around the bay again, creating lazy circles as she told her bloody bedtime story.“The fighting might have continued until both species were extinct if the boy that the Langlish refer to as the Gray Saint hadn’t faced down the First Dragon and treated him with kindness rather than violence. But nowhere in the legends does it say that the First Dragon or the Gray Saint died.”
“Then what happ—”
A tower of her books clattered to the floor. She jolted back to the present.
“If it isn’t our newest student,” said a boy, standing over her with a small pack of friends. He was square jawed, peach skinned, and dark haired, with narrow sea-green eyes. His red shirt and collars marked him as a carmine Rider. “I thought that was you hiding back here.”
“I’m not hiding,” Elara replied, trying to keep her tone polite and nonthreatening. Sometimes, when she got angry and lashed out, her bullies would shout for a professor and accuseherofharassingthem. Depending on the professor, she might actually get in trouble, and detention made it hard to keep up with the schoolwork. “Have we met?”
“I’m Marius Lynwood,” said the boy. He pointed at another pale boy in the same uniform, with amber eyes and close-cropped brown hair. “That’s my cousin and Wingleader, Nichol Thompson.” Behind them was a third boy, blond haired, dark skinned, and wearing the sky-blue shirt of an ultramarine Rider, and the sole girl of the group, a copper-skinned redhead in the same blue, who introduced herself as his Wingleader.
Elara remained on her guard. Their smiles were bladed, and she didn’t want to give them the opportunity to draw blood. “It’s… nice to meet you?”
“Is it?” Marius put a hand on the back of her chair and leaned down so they were almost at eye level. “Because I can’t say I’m especially happy to have an Iryan here spying on us.”
Elara kept her expression mild. “I’m here because I’m a Rider—”
“A Rider? You’re a grub who got lucky.”
She was on her feet before she could stop herself. It was the first time she’d ever heard the slur for Iryan people before, though she’d heardofit. Her aunts had sometimes whispered about it before they’d gone off to war. It implied that Iryans were no better than insects, worker ants who had rebelled against the queen, and the unexpected and harsh sound of it was like a punch to the face.
“Fuck you,” Elara said, shaking. “Howdareyou?”
“I’m just telling the truth,” Marius said. “You know you don’t belong here. AndIknow you’re probably just looking for information to use against us in the next war.”
“There isn’t going to be a next war. Our countries are atpeace.”
“I love that you’re still calling that union of provincial idiots acountry. It’s a social experiment that’s basically failing.”
Elara shoved him.
Immediately, she regretted it. Faron was the one who sometimes tussled with the other children in the schoolyard. Elara’s fights were always spars arranged by both parties. But the petty satisfaction she got from watching Marius Lynwood stumble backward was undeniable. Punching him in his stupid square jaw would have been even better, but Elara hated facing an opponent she wasn’t sure she could beat.
The poisonous look in his eyes was a warning sign that she may have already done so. “If you’re going to be a child about it, then face me properly. I challenge you to an incendio.”
She had no idea what that was, which gave him an advantage that she wasn’t comfortable with. “I’d rather just fight you. Unless, of course, you don’t think you could take me in a combat class.”
It was the only other class that she was excelling in. Elara was pretty sure she was already Professor Petra Rowland’s favorite student, if the harsh woman was the type to name favorites. Five minutes with Marius in a partner session, and she was sure she could make him cry.
“Combat,” Marius snorted, “is for the battlefield. The incendio is for personal grievances—and, believe me, this is personal.”
Before Elara could decline a second time, someone new joined the crowd. “She accepts.”
Marius’s friends parted to reveal Signey striding through with a book in her hand. Her wavy ponytail swished back and forth from the force of her steps as she marched up to Marius to jab a finger against his chest. Even though she had to glare up at him, her anger made her seem ten times taller than he was.
“Challenging my Wingleader to an incendio without me present, Lynwood?” she snarled. “I didn’t take you for a coward.”
