Every year, hundreds die within the walls of Basgiath War College. It's no surprise that many are those who choose the Riders Quadrant. Dragons do not tolerate much, but neither do the ruthless gryphons on the outside of the wards.
At least...
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Samara is definitely best described as 'different'. Yet, despite the unfriendly nature of it to Xaden, the Esben is as close to home as I'll ever get, with pink-hued mountains so tall, their snowy tips have compacted into ice. We're also shockingly close to Poromiel, which is, in a strange way, nice. I don't know that I could say it's any better than Navarre, not when drifts apparently know who I am, but I feel like it'd be easier to find sympathetic refuge across the border. Better yet if we could get to the east side, where there might be a few people I once knew that are still alive.
"Be careful," Tairn warns, crumbling the ground beneath his talons when he lands. "It's known to be... brutal as a first assignment." I nod, quickly untying my pack but leaving the other two intact. "I'll be alright," I tell him. I secure my glaive across my chest and throw the bag onto my back while I move to his shoulder. "Keep your shields strong." I nod again, knowing they are by how scratchy his voice feels in my head. It's not even that much—not nearly as much as it was in Resson, or even as strange as Andarna's voice felt—but it's noticeable, especially when I talk to him at least once daily.
The stone that makes up Samara is a strangely dark red one, giving it an eerie cast like an underworld fortress. If Malek were to take residence in our world, I think he'd choose Samara as his palace. It's also absolutely giant, towering well into the mountains and easily twice the size of Montserrat or Athebyne. Some of its size makes sense, with it being over a thirty-minute flight on dragonback away from anything that's not an old battlefield, but most of it doesn't.
Something sways high above on the wall and I turn my head to look at it as I approach the entrance. A man in infantry blue is sitting in a cage suspended from the top maybe four stories above me. Okay then, I think to myself, pointedly looking away. Something is disturbed in my stomach, though. Is that a punishment of some sort, or a lookout? And if it's a lookout, why is he in bars? It's not like dragons can only kill by eating—it doesn't even seem to be their preferred method.
I shake my head, glancing back as I get onto the stone pathway leading into the courtyard and under the portcullis. There's a platoon out on a jog, all notably giving Tairn a very wide berth. "You don't have to watch my back," I tell him. "There's a drift on the other side of the mountains, a mile beyond the border. Sgaeyl just told me." "Oh, so you say her name," I tease as I throw my brows up.
"You're not safe until you're behind the walls or with the wingleader," he tells me. I don't bother to remind him that Xaden isn't a wingleader anymore. "A friendly drift?" I ask. "Define 'friendly'."
Unfortunately, I have to give him that. I can't fathom how those fliers knew my hair had gone white, but they do. I can't be sure that any flier is unaware, but I can be sure they all have grudges.
