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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I'm far too tired to bother listening to Professor Grady's whining about us failing. Worse is the fact that I'm the least tired of us riders, being the only one who's used to eating only meat and wild grasses while hiking all day. The rest of my squad can hardly hold their backs straight, and Tomas' squad is, rightfully, a wreck. They watched him die, and as I'd been filled in later, he'd died because one of the infantry girls couldn't keep her cool and sprinted off. I don't know that that link between us and infantry is ever going to get better if they constantly need our safeguarding from the dragons. Especially knowing now that it's not just our dragons they need to be worried about.
I'm sore all over from sleeping on the dirt for two days and very possibly developing a cold for the same reason. Infantry said they didn't have the tent space for us and the grass beds we tried to make for ourselves did little to help. Thankfully, it's all over, and a convoy of wagons and horses arrives soon enough to take us back.
Tairn isn't at Basgiath but home in the Vale. They wouldn't let us ride the dragons back, considering our state and lack of flight leathers. That meant only two good things were awaiting me at that damn place: a bathtub and another letter from Xaden. The instant I'm clean, I lay down to read it. It's multiple pages like the last two had been, left neatly on my bed along with two ribbons: one white and one red. They were loosely twisted together and formed into a half-circle above the letter itself, both the perfect length to lace up the grommets on my glaive's holder.
By the time challenges officially kick off the next evening, I've read it three times over and skimmed a few of my favorite parts. I win my fight pretty fast now that I'm back to wearing all leathers—all mine, as well. She was short but bulky, which made her slow but powerful. She's a good fighter, but she should've said 'no weapons' if she wanted to win a sparring match. Now I stand almost anxiously behind Violet and Rhiannon. Imogen has saddled up to my side after her own match that she also wins. The worry is Sloane, who is not projected to do the same. I'm hoping to every god that Violet has accepted my request to do something to make Sloane's opponent sick so she has even a chance at winning this.
Aaric punches with ferocity into his opponent's jaw. The (E/C) eyes of my mother flash in my vision and it feels like I'm stuck back in that armoire as I hold my dragged-in breath. I've realized I hate watching good fighters because that particular move is a favorite precisely for its strength. Sawyer offers me a playful slap on the back to bring me into whatever he and Ridoc are laughing about. Aaric throws an elbow into the guy's throat and I find myself thinking Xaden would like to watch him.
"That's a fucking nine," Sawyer asserts with a grinning nod. "Nine!" Ridoc calls out with his hands cupping his mouth so Aaric hears, then throws his arms in the air with all fingers splayed except his left thumb. I can't help chuckling at them, then pausing when Aaric throws the heel of his hand up into the man's face. His nose crunches as blood sprays across the mat. "Woah!" Ridoc huffs. "Yeah! Good job!" I find myself shouting. "That's a nine, too, for sure," I say. Sawyer bobs his head and crosses his arms from beside me. "Reminds you of your first fight, huh, (Y/N)?" he laughs. I lick the underside of my teeth as I try to wrangle down my smile. Though I don't want to admit it, I'm a bit proud of myself for that. I sometimes forget I'm good at hunting more than just bunnies.
