“A what?” I stare at the box and the knives within it, my mind struggling to process the implications of what she’s saying.
“Mating present. Drakes leave them for their intended mate,” Ziggy says with a squeal that matches Lily’s excitement, and now Thorne joins in. The three of them are bouncing around the interior of the suite like excited children. I’m standing here staring at half a dozen perfectly balanced blades, feeling like the world has suddenly shifted beneath my feet.
“A mating present?” I parrot, staring at them, the words tasting strange on my tongue. It’s not something I would have picked for myself, beautiful though they are.
“You don’t like it?” Ziggy asks as he moves to look into the box, concern replacing his earlier excitement.
“I appreciate it. But it’s not something I would have picked for myself,” I say honestly, looking up at Ziggy with a mixture of gratitude and confusion.
“What would you have picked for yourself?” Ziggy sits on the bed, looking up at me with genuine curiosity, his expression gentle and understanding.
“Sea glass, beautiful shells, my favorite chocolates, a new book—those are the things I like most in the world.” My fingers trace the metal of the blades up to the bone hilt, feeling the smooth surface and intricate carving. These are a gift and a trophy, a display of sorts, speaking more to the giver’s understanding of what I am rather than who I am. “Tell him thank you for me. If I make it to Shadowcarve, I will use them in the gauntlet.”
I look up and lean over to kiss Ziggy on the cheek, tasting the salt of his skin and breathing in his familiar scent. He leaves without a word, understanding my need to process this revelation alone. For once in twenty years, my sisters don’t start their usual teasing, sensing the gravity of the moment. Testing starts tomorrow, and I wonder where I’ll end up, but right now, all I can think about is the fact that somewhere out there, someone has already decided I’m theirs.
Chapter 3
Raven
Bang...Bang... Bang...
“First years, time to go...” Balor’s voice echoes in the hallway like thunder rolling through stone corridors, and I slide off the bed quickly, my feet hitting the cold floor with barely a whisper of sound.
Today is assessment day, and we can wear whatever we want today for the last time. The freedom feels both liberating and terrifying, knowing that after today, our paths will be chosen for us. I choose the black basilisk leathers with the matching hood, the material supple as silk beneath my fingers and smelling faintly of the oils used to preserve the scales. The leather fits like a second skin, molding to my body with the precision that speaks of master craftsmanship. The mask, however, is different—also covered in basilisk scale but edged with green that gleams like poison in the morning light. The mark of a poisoner trained in the Sovereign nest, a heritage that runs in my blood like liquid fire.
Little does the population know, Mom trained her progeny to be Shadowblades, each of us more deadly than any other dragon on the continent. The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, a secret that couldchange everything if the wrong people discovered it. My hood rests on my shoulders, the weight familiar and comforting, and my mask hangs loosely around my neck, the scales cool against my throat. I take the new blades and slide them into the sheaths on my ribs, feeling the perfect balance of steel and bone. If I get assigned to Shadowcarve, their gauntlet is this afternoon. I’ll need to be ready just in case, every muscle and reflex honed to deadly perfection.
Carefully, I strap the twin blades down my spine, positioning them so they won’t inhibit my wing movement, the leather straps secure but not restrictive. With every movement I make, I swear I hear my mother’s voice walking me through the preparation, her instructions as clear as if she were standing beside me. I glance over at Thorne and move to help her wrap her horns with the black tape, my fingers working with practiced efficiency. “I’ve got you,” I smile as I help her, the gesture born of twenty years of watching out for each other.
The sound of the tape unrolling is the only thing we hear, a soft ripping noise that seems unnaturally loud in the quiet of our suite. When we’re finished, we hug Lily, her arms warm and familiar around me, before stepping out into the hallway where destiny waits.
Daddy Balor stands there with his sunglasses sitting low on his nose, revealing eyes that gleam with predatory satisfaction and a smirk on his face that promises trouble. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say there’s a pair of assassins in the dorm,” he observes, his voice carrying approval and pride in equal measure. He turns and starts leading us downstairs, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.
“Anything we need to know?” Thorne asks as she tilts her head, looking around as we step outside into the crisp mountain air that carries the scent of pine and the promise of snow.
“Your brothers survived the gauntlet this morning. They opted to go first. Sick bastards were waiting for the instructors to arrive.” Balor laughs a little to himself, the sound rich with paternal pride andamusement. “They flipped a coin over who would go first.” He shakes his head and huffs out a laugh that makes his shoulders shake.
“Who was faster?” I just have to know, curiosity burning in my chest like dragon fire.
“Orpheus.” Balor beams when mentioning his son’s success, his entire posture straightening with pride that makes my heart warm with affection for both of them.
“We’ve been working hard on the new obstacles,” I mention as we head inside the Arcanum Campus, our footsteps muffled by thick carpets that smell of age and accumulated wisdom. Balor leads us through hallways lined with portraits of past graduates, their painted eyes seeming to follow our progress.
“Everyone, take your seats, please.” A woman who’s half serpent says, her voice carrying the authority that makes spines straighten automatically. She wears an ornate head wrap on her head, and I swear it moves, the fabric shifting in ways that suggest something alive beneath. She’s a gorgon—Samara, if I remember correctly—her presence commanding the room with an intensity that makes the air itself feel charged.
My eyes drift around the interior of the room, automatically marking the exits and where the windows are, cataloging escape routes with the thoroughness Mother drilled into all of us. Next, I mark where the instructors and teachers are positioned as the assistants pass out the test booklets, their footsteps soft on the carpet as they move between rows.
“The rules are simple. Complete the test and bring it to me as soon as you’re done.” She motions to the empty rows on the right of the auditorium with a gesture that makes her jewelry chime softly. “Once I have the booklet, take a seat over there and wait for the time to be up.” When the last booklet is placed, she smiles, revealing teeth that gleam like pearls. “Begin.”
I use my pencil to break the wax seal, the red material cracking under pressure with a satisfying snap, and turn to the first page. Standard stuff—name, species, surname—all quickly filled out with strokes that flow like water across the paper. On the next page, the test begins. Math, to be exact. Rolling my eyes, I fire through the questions one after the other, the numbers, and equations as familiar as breathing. Forty minutes into the hour-long test, I put my pencil down, the soft click echoing in the sudden silence, and I hear three more within seconds of mine—the sound of my siblings finishing with the same ruthless efficiency.
I stand and walk down the stairs, my footsteps silent on the carpet, and head toward Samara. I offer her my booklet and drop my pencil into the basket with a soft clink of wood against wicker.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see my siblings—all four of us are done within minutes of each other, our synchronized completion a testament to our shared upbringing. We head over to the seats and take up the four chairs in the front row, the leather cushions creaking softly under our weight. We use the hand signals our mother and Balor taught us to talk while we wait, our fingers moving in the complex patterns that look like casual gestures to anyone who doesn’t know better.
Allister is complaining about several of the politics questions being wrong, his hands sharp with indignation. Orpheus and I complain about a poison being incorrectly identified, our shared expertise making the error glaringly obvious. Thorne brings up that one math problem didn’t have a correct answer listed, her movements precise with frustrated accuracy.
We were so engrossed in our conversations that the last twenty minutes flew by like minutes. “Allister Ragnar.” We stop talking and realize Samara has called names, her voice cutting through the murmur of nervous students like a blade through silk. Allister heads up and gets his envelope, the paper crisp in his hands, and we alreadyagreed to meet outside of the auditorium to open the envelopes together.
