Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Guess there are no meritorious service awards for emotional availability.
“I won’t be able to acknowledge you for the next three years,” she says, sitting back on the edge of her desk. “Since, as commanding general of Basgiath, I’ll be your far superior officer.”
“I know.” It’s the least of my concerns, considering she barely acknowledges me now.
“You won’t get any special treatment just because you’re my daughter, either. If anything, they’ll come after you harder to make you prove yourself.” She arches an eyebrow.
“Well aware.” Good thing I’ve been training with Major Gillstead for the last several months since Mom made her decree.
She sighs and forces a smile. “Then I guess I’ll see you in the valley at Threshing, candidate. Though you’ll be a cadet by sunset, I suppose.”
Or dead.
Neither of us says it.
“Good luck, Candidate Sorrengail.” She moves back behind her desk, effectively dismissing me.
“Thank you, General.” I heft my pack onto my shoulders and walk out of her office. A guard closes the door behind me.
“She’s batshit crazy,” Mira says from the center of the hallway, right between where two guards are positioned.
“They’ll tell her you said that.”
“Like they don’t already know,” she grinds out through clenched teeth. “Let’s go. We only have an hour before all candidates have to report, and I saw thousands waiting outside the gates when I flew over.” She starts walking, leading me down the stone staircase and through the hallways to my room.
Well…it was my room.
In the thirty minutes I’ve been gone, all my personal items have been packed into crates that now sit stacked in the corner. My stomach sinks to the hardwood floor. She had my entire life boxed.
“She’s fucking efficient, I’ll give you that,” Mira mutters before turning my way, her gaze passing over me in open assessment. “I was hoping I’d be able to talk her out of it. You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant.”
“So you’ve mentioned.” I lift an eyebrow at her. “Repeatedly.”
“Sorry.” She winces, dropping to the ground and emptying her pack.
“What are you doing?”
“What Brennan did for me,” she says softly, and grief lodges in my throat. “Can you use a sword?”
I shake my head. “Too heavy. I’m pretty quick with daggers, though.” Really damned quick. Lightning quick. What I lack in strength, I make up for in speed.
“I figured. Good. Now, drop your pack and take off those horrible boots.” She sorts through the items she’s brought, handing me new boots and a black uniform. “Put these on.”
“What’s wrong with my pack?” I ask but drop my rucksack anyway. She immediately opens it, ripping out everything I’d carefully packed. “Mira! That took me all night!”
“You’re carrying way too much, and your boots are a death trap. You’ll slip right off the parapet with those smooth soles. I had a set of rubber-bottomed rider boots made for you just in case, and this, my dear Violet, is the worst case.” Books start flying, landing in the vicinity of the crate.
“Hey, I can only take what I can carry, and I want those!” I lunge for the next book before she has a chance to toss it, barely managing to save my favorite collection of dark fables.
“Are you willing to die for it?” she asks, her eyes turning hard.
“I can carry it!” This is all wrong. I’m supposed to be dedicating my life to books, not throwing them in the corner to lighten my rucksack.
“No. You can’t. You’re barely thrice the weight of the pack, the parapet is roughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground, and last time I looked, those were rain clouds moving in. They’re not going to give you a rain delay just because the bridge might get a little slick, sis. You’ll fall. You’ll die. Now, are you going to listen to me? Or are you going to join the other dead candidates at tomorrow morning’s roll call?” There’s no trace of my older sister in the rider before me. This woman is shrewd, cunning, and a touch cruel. This is the woman who survived all three years with only one scar, the one her own dragon gave her during Threshing. “Because that’s all you’ll be. Another tombstone. Another name scorched in stone. Ditch the books.”
“Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest. Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left.
She sighs. “Is it that old book of folklore about dark-wielding vermin and their wyvern? Haven’t you read it a thousand times already?”
“Probably more,” I admit. “And they’re venin, not vermin.”
“Dad and his allegories,” she says. “Just don’t try to channel power without being a bonded rider and red-eyed monsters won’t hide under your bed, waiting to snatch you away on their two-legged dragons to join their dark army.” She retrieves the last book I packed from the rucksack and hands it to me. “Ditch the books. Dad can’t save you. He tried. I tried. Decide, Violet. Are you going to die a scribe? Or live as a rider?”