“All squads are to report for full hand-to-hand combat training,” he announced, his voice carrying across the field. “Blunted weapons only. No dragon interference. This is mandatory.”
A collective groan rolled through the ranks. I glanced toward Zander, who was already frowning.
“That’s not all,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on Crownwatch’s banner. “Crownwatch has submitted a petition.”
“What kind of petition?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
“They’ve requested conscript rights.”
My brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Zander’s lips flattened into a grim line. “It means they get first crack at powerful commoners. First refusal rights to anyone from the outer kingdoms who shows potential.”
“But they didn’t even want us in the guild,” I said, my voice rising. “Most of Crownwatch still looks at me like I tracked dirt onto their legacy.”
Zander nodded once, bitterly. “Yeah, but now you’re riding the Sentinel, and Tae has the power of influence. They’re starting to realize powers might outweigh bloodlines.” His jaw tensed. “They’re reevaluating the value of magic… versus nobility.”
Across the field, the Warborn banner fluttered, its leader, Captain Beradin, stepping forward. “Warborn will not be participating in today’s trial,” she announced loudly enough for every squad to hear. “We do not support this selective conscription agenda.”
Gasps rippled through the grounds. Major Ledor turned on her like a striking adder. “You’re refusing a direct order, Captain?”
Warborn’s leader stood tall, unmoved. “No, sir. I’m refusing an unethical one.”
“Did they just… refuse an order?” I asked under my breath, staring at the standoff.
Riven let out a low whistle. “Shit’s about to get fun.”
The squads were shifting now, restlessness spreading like wildfire. This wasn’t just about training anymore. This was about loyalty, and whether it belonged to a king, a regent, or to a righteous older son.
Iron Fang was the first to snap.
“You Warborn bastards are pathetic,” one of their riders sneered, stepping forward with a lazy twirl of his sword. “Refusing orders like cowards. Maybe you should go back to guarding fields and sheep instead of pretending you’re soldiers.”
Captain Beradin didn’t flinch, but the twitch in her jaw spoke volumes. “We don’t answer to zealots playing king. We answer to the treaty. To the dragons.”
Another Iron Fang rider stepped up, the tension as thick as smoke. “The dragons follow us.”
“Funny,” Ferrula drawled from behind me. “They didn’t seem too eager to follow Iron Fang during the last trial.”
Jax chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I remember.”
Before fists could fly, Stormforge moved.
Their banner split down the center as half the squad stepped between Warborn and Iron Fang, hands raised—but not to fight. They were talking, urgently, among themselves. A few glances toward Crownwatch. A few nods.
Teren returned a moment later, his expression unreadable until he reached us.
“Stormforge is forming its own council,” he said flatly. “They’re stepping out of the guild structure.”
“What?” Naia’s voice cracked with disbelief.
“They’re claiming neutrality for now,” he added. “But if the fracture continues, they’ll pick a side.”
Zander muttered a curse and turned away from us briefly, one hand gripping the hilt of his blade like it was the only thing keeping him from storming into the castle and stabbing Theron.
“This is bad,” he growled. “Theron is an idiot. It’s like he wants the guilds to implode.”
“The question is why?” I asked quietly, eyes flicking to the tower window where Theron’s silhouette still lingered in shadowed glass.
