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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・・・ ・・・ ・・・
A putrid, sharp scent stings my nose, forcing me to jolt awake. My hand snaps out in front of me and smacks away something. "They're up," a woman says. I don't recognize the voice, as I start blinking in the harsh bright light, a hand hovering over my face, I realize I don't recognize her face either. However, the man next to her I do: Professor Grady.
My head sings as I sit further up and hang my head out of the direct sunlight. "What's going on?" I ask Tairn. I'm sitting on some patchy grass I also don't recognize and my skin sizzles underneath the light. "The course humans wouldn't have to take if they would simply stay seated," he growls like that's an answer. He's pissy.
I pick up my head, finding the other second-years of my squad to my right. Only Rhiannon has gotten to a stand, though Sawyer and Violet are pushing themselves up. I take the lead to do the same. "At least it wasn't an assassination attempt." We'd almost certainly be dead if it was. I've been getting lazy watching my surroundings. "It will be if we aren't back at Basgiath when Sgaeyl arrives tomorrow."
"Shit," I grumble. She's permitted to come to our location, so if we're not at the school, she won't be either. That's going to be a problem if Xaden has chores again, which I guarantee he does. "If that happens, and we're still out here somehow, fly back without me." "And leave you to fend for yourself?" he snarls. "Yes. You've seen my memories, you know I'll be fine. I'm safer out here than I ever am in that place." I grab my glaive from the floor, slinging it over my chest by its strap, then glance around. To my left is Tomas' squad. They're our partner squad, being the same order and section in the other even-numbered wing. Second Squad, Flame Section, Second and Fourth.
Across from us is the real surprise. Two groups of eight cadets in pristine navy uniforms that tell me they're infantry. They're as ironed as Varrish, each seam fold pressed neatly. There's no sheaths, no belt loops, no variation in their outfits with the small exception of the names engraved into the metal pins on their chest. There's one that has an extra feature, being a squad leader designation patch just underneath his nametag.
Compared to them, all of us riders look like we've already been chewed up and spat out by war. Various rips and raw edges line our clothes from Ridoc's torn-off sleeves to the stab mark through the pantleg over Sawyer's calf. When he shifts, I can see the edge of a fading pink scar. Half of the infantry are staring at me like the ugly stepchild. I couldn't blame them. I look like an idiot, wearing a sagging leather jacket and loose clothes that blow in the gentle breeze. Not to mention my stark white hair and the massive glaive that hangs off my back that I know people find odd if Sahalie's words are anything to go by.
