He shouldn’t have lived.
Thaelyn’s stomach tightened. She’d seen him from afar, bound in flame and fury, a living inferno before Vornokh’s massive wings. He would need several weeks before he was healed from the injuries he endured during the Kaelthir. And yet here he was, unbroken.
He sat near the front. The light from the stained glass painting his shoulders in red and gold. Around him gathered the others, the infamous and highly skilled Dragon Riders’ Circle. They were being whispered about from most of the first-year cadets since the morning drills had began.
The largest among them, Brynnek Duran, was built like a fortress, with broad shoulders, gray eyes, and hands that looked as if they’d been carved to wield war itself. Beside him, Garric Winters sat straight-backed and still, streaks of silver glinting through his dark hair. His expression didn’t change when he spoke, though others leaned in to hear him. Rowan Kestrel, quiet and sharp-eyed, watched the room as though measuring it, calculating distances, exits, and threats. Rory Avenlock, a third-year, sat relaxed with her boots propped up on one of the empty chairs. She had just come infrom flying patrol by the looks of her tousled hair and dragon rider leathers. Sorren Vex was barely visible at all, his face half-shadowed beneath a fall of black hair. Thaelyn had to blink to be sure he was even there due to his amazing cloaking magic abilities.
Then there was Darian Vale. He was nothing like the others. Sunlit skin, an easy smile, and a kind of effortless grace that didn’t belong in a room made of stone. His laughter carried, low and warm, a sound that made heads turn for reasons that had nothing to do with rank.
Thaelyn’s gaze lingered longer than she meant to. And he noticed.
“Oh Gods,” Feyra whispered. “You got caught staring.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” Vaeryn confirmed, smirking.
Before Thaelyn could argue, Iri lifted her hand high and called across the room, “Darian, come here!”
Thaelyn choked on her drink. “Iri, what are you doing?”
Too late. Darian stood, with his roguish grin deepening. “Excuse me, boys and Rory,” he said to his table, and sauntered toward them as if the entire hall belonged to him.
Thaelyn’s hand slipped. Water splashed down her front. Perfect.
Darian’s grin widened. “Making an impression, are we?”
Heat rose along Thaelyn’s neck. She opened her mouth, but Iri beat her to it.
“Thaelyn, this is my brother Darian. Don’t let the smirk fool you, he’s insufferable.”
“That’s slander Iri,” Darian said, flashing a grin. “I’m the family favorite.” His gaze flicked back to Thaelyn. “So, Thaelyn, what’s your plan for surviving the trials?”
“I plan to pass them,” Thaelyn said evenly.
He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious. I like it.” His grin turned teasing. “There’s a second and third-year gathering tonight in the East Tower Field. Music, drinks, maybe a few dares. You should come. Bring your friends. I could give you some pointers about the trials.”
Before she could answer, another voice cut through the noise. It was cool, sharp, and commanding.
“They’ve barely been here a week, and you’re already dragging her into your idiocy?” Thaelyn turned. Thorne stood a few paces away, arms crossed, with the faintest sheen of anger in his eyes. The bruises along his jaw darkened in the candlelight. He looked like something forged of shadow and restraint.
“You don’t want to go,” he said to Thaelyn. His tone was quiet but firm.
Thaelyn’s pulse jumped. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s training. You’ll be useless if you’re half-dead from exhaustion. You’re just an initiate.”
“So noble, Thorne,” Darian muttered.
Thaelyn lifted her chin. “I can decide where I belong.”
Something flickered in his expression. It was gone as quickly as it came. “Suit yourself.” He turned on his heel, his dark coat shifting around him like smoke.
Iri exhaled softly. “Thorne’s definitely in a mood.”
Thaelyn frowned, still watching him go. “What did I do?”
Darian leaned closer, his grin easy again. “You challenged him. That’s a rare talent.”
