Total pages in book: 295
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
My stomach churns with nausea like I’m the one who’s going to be summoned to the mat. Fuck, I’d actually feel better if it was my name I knew they were going to call instead of Sloane’s.
“She’ll win,” I answer truthfully.
I pocket the latest letter Xaden left me on my bed—I’ve already read it four times—as Aaric takes his place on the mat. I glance around and see Eya waiting with First Squad and offer a fast smile, which she returns. Ever since she helped me after my near burnout, we’ve developed a weird sort of relationship. We’re friendly, if not friends, at least.
Turns out Xaden has known Eya since they were ten, according to the letter. Her mother was active in the government of Tyrrendor, holding a council seat even though she was a rider, which is uncommon. In fact, most of the aristocracy chooses to serve in the infantry, just like Xaden’s father, because riders are discouraged from holding their family’s seats. Not only are our commissions lifelong instead of the few years an infantry officer can agree to, but too much power in one person terrifies any king.
“You forgive him yet for whatever it is he lied to you about?” Rhi darts a meaningful look at my pocket, then folds her arms and glares at a pair of first-years shoving each other near the edge of the mat. “Stop fucking around!”
They instantly halt.
“Impressive.” I grin, but it falls quickly. “And it’s hard to talk something out with him when we only see each other once a week.”
“Fucking first-years,” she mutters, then glances over at me. “That’s a good point. But you should get some time this weekend. Hey, did Ridoc tell you he saw Nolon yesterday?”
“He just said he had to take one of the first-years to the infirmary,” I say, raising one eyebrow in question.
“Trysten.” She nods. “He’s the one with the floppy hair that never quite stays out of his eyes.”
“Whatever his name is. The guy who shattered his forearm.” I don’t want to know his name. I already feel responsible for Sloane—who is currently swaying back and forth nervously across the mat. Emotionally attaching to any more first-years is just reckless. “Ridoc said that Nolon couldn’t even see them until after dinner, and there were only a handful of other cadets in the infirmary.”
“And when he walked out of that secretive room he’s got with Varrish in the back of the infirmary, he was with an air wielder who looked just as haggard,” Ridoc chimes in as he sidles up between us. “So clearly Nolon isn’t doing his best work. Guy needs a month off.”
Aaric delivers a punch to his opponent’s jaw that makes the guy’s head snap back.
“I give that a seven,” Ridoc heckles from the sidelines.
“Out of ten? Solid eight,” Sawyer counters from the other side of Rhiannon. “Perfect form.” Then he lowers his voice and adds just for the four of us, “And I’m still going with the torture theory. I bet they’ve got gryphon riders in there or something.”
“You think he’s really torturing people back there?” Rhiannon says, lowering her voice even more.
“I have no clue.” I blink as Aaric elbows his opponent in the throat with a quick jab that even Xaden would respect. “I would think they’d use the main interrogation chambers if they were doing something like that. The ones beneath the school.”
“That’s a fucking nine,” Sawyer calls out.
“Nine!” Ridoc agrees, throwing up his hands with all of his fingers spread out except a thumb.
I laugh, then gasp as Aaric breaks his opponent’s nose with the heel of his hand, ending the match. Emetterio declares him the winner, and the first-year has the decency to make it off the mat before dropping his hand away from his gushing nose.
That’s a lot of blood.
Sawyer and Ridoc break out in applause, both shouting scores.
“Gods, can that one fight.” Rhi nods slowly in approval as Aaric takes his place in the squad.
“Well, when you’ve had the best tutors,” I whisper, grateful he’s one secret she knows about.
“Daddy hasn’t come looking for him?” She glances my way.
“Apparently not.”
Challenges around us come to an end, and the professors call out the next batch.
“Sloane Mairi and Dasha Fabrren,” Emetterio calls out.
“Hey, Rhi?” I swallow. Squads shift, but ours keeps our mat. That’s the benefit of holding the reigning Iron Squad patch from last year.
“Hmm?”
“Remember how I said Sloane was going to win?”
“Yes, I remember a comment from ten minutes ago,” she teases. A couple of our first-years pat Sloane on the back and offer what I hope are words of encouragement as she walks out onto the mat in front of us.
“Right. Well…” Shit, if I tell her, will she feel honor-bound to report me? She wouldn’t, and that’s the problem. She’d help me break into the fucking Archives if I wanted.