His gaze lingered on my shoulder, where the faint silver line still shimmered like some cursed brand. But he didn’t press, just pulled me closer.
A courier emerged from the castle’s arched entrance, the bright royal crest stamped across his chest. He moved with urgency, crossing the grounds with eyes lowered in reverence or fear as Kaelith and Hein watched him approach.
Without a word, the young man extended a scroll toward Zander and then bowed before hurrying back the way he came.
Zander’s jaw tightened as he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning the contents.
“What is it?” I asked, already bracing.
“Theron’s called a war council,” he said flatly. “Iron Fang and Thrall Squad are to attend.”
My stomach dropped.
Did he want to incite another fight?
Chapter
Thirty-One
The sun sat low in the sky, casting a pale amber hue across the training grounds as our squads moved in synchronized rhythm, the sharp clink of steel and the low grunts of exertion filling the silence we all seemed to wear like armor.
We trained with Warborn Squad today. There was tension, unspoken and thick, but the major barked orders with clipped indifference, keeping us busy with the excuse of refining formation work—simple maneuvers, easy to mask as mindless repetition, but we all knew what this was.
Distraction. Or maybe preparation.
I paired with Riven for sparring, both of us grateful to take our frustrations out on something that wouldn’t splinter from the weight of our emotions. She circled me, eyes sharp and calculating, her stance loose but ready.
“Try not to cry when I knock you on your ass.” She smirked.
I grinned. “I’ll cry when your dragon actually follows a command.”
Her laugh was short-lived, I struck. She blocked, barely. We moved fast, blades crossing, feet shifting, the clash and hiss ofsteel ringing out as we matched blow for blow. Riven was faster, but I was more ruthless, and that made us a good match.
“Still letting Zander sleep in your bed?” she whispered between clashes, smug.
I twisted around her blade and hooked her elbow, spinning her off balance. “I’m letting him dream there. There’s a difference.”
We both grunted as she recovered and launched back at me, this time striking low, and I vaulted back, flipping once before landing hard.
I laughed. She scowled.
But as we reset for another pass, something prickled along the back of my neck. I turned my head and saw him.
Cade.
He stood with Iron Fang, arms crossed over his chest, his posture sharp and rigid—but it was his eyes that caught me. They weren’t on me. They were locked on Zander, across the field, as if he were a viper coiled for a strike. And the expression—hatred, cold and etched deep—shocked me.
What had Zander done? Or... what had Cade been told?
Remy stood farther off, saying nothing, watching the same moment unfold with tight lips and unreadable eyes. I looked away before Riven could ask what I was thinking, before the truth of it could splinter me mid-battle.
We were being divided. Subtly. Quietly. From the inside.
We trained until the sun sat high overhead, its heat baking the sweat into our clothes and turning the field to dust beneath our boots. Ferrula ran drills with mechanical precision, rotating us through partners with the detachment of a commander assessing her legion, but it wasn’t cruelty. It was discipline.
She corrected Naia’s footwork with a firm tap of her own boot. She showed Cordelle how to pivot his blade on a tighter arc to use his smaller frame to his advantage. Even when shetook me down, a sweep of her leg and a roll I didn’t see coming, she offered her hand and said, “You left your left side open. You always do that when you’re distracted.”
I nodded, brushing dirt from my hip. “I was thinking about Cade.”
