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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
・・・ ・・・ ・・・
I'm still a jittery mess when we land just outside of Samara. I'd barely managed to convince Tairn to not just drop me in the grass and only by reminding him about how last time went. I waste no time standing, bypassing the magic shackles he holds around my thighs before we even land. The second he settles from hitting the ground, I race to his shoulder and drop down it. He's back in the sky in less than half a minute, and I'm on a dead sprint to the gates.
My breaths are harsh as I wait impatiently for the portcullis to be raised. They'd usually keep it open by a couple of feet, but not after an attack. Tairn makes a lap around the courtyard, only increasing the eagerness I feel to get inside as his emotions bleed further over mine. Logically, I know Xaden must be alive at the very least. Tairn wouldn't have wasted the time to land and let me go if Xaden was dead. Sgaeyl would be worse for wear, too, even if she survived it. But logic rarely dictates emotion, especially when it's mine fighting Tairn's.
The moment there's enough room under the metal gate for me to fit in a crouch, I duck under it and scramble inside. The chains creek as they turn the gate to go back down, only adding the chaos within. Zihnal really had his way with this place. Chunks of masonry litter the courtyard, ranging from three-foot tall boulders to ten-foot tall slabs. To match, the northern wall is ripped to shreds at the top and pockmarked with char from a dragon's fire.
They've set up a triage station on the southern end on the internal atrium, but its only a sea of blues. A swathe of black off the side makes my heart sputter but ripping my flight goggles off reveals that it's only some shade.
"(Y/N)?" I whip my head over, despite knowing the slightly-feminine voice definitely isn't Xaden's. Mira steps out of the northwestern tower. My eyes scan her for injuries like she does to me so often. She walks straight, bears no sling or cast, wears no blood that I can see. Devera said only one was hurt, and it's not Mira. "Where is he?" I don't break my stride, but do angle it so I'll meet her somewhere in between our current positions.
"What are you doing here?" she questions. As soon as she's close enough, she grabs ahold of my shoulders and completely stops me in my tracks. "You're not supposed to arrive until Saturday." "Are you unharmed?" I ask. My frantic gaze swings to the side at the sound of a deep-voiced man clearing his throat, but it's just a healer. "Yes," she confirms. "I wasn't here. I was out on patrol."
"Good." My tone is sharper than I would normally use with Mira. That coupled with me pushing myself out of her hands earns me a furrowed stare I can't blame her for. "Tell me where he is." I glance at her only for a moment before I go back to searching every crevice in eyesight for the purple sheen of his tattoo or a shadow that looks too dark to be natural. "You don't have leave, do you? Gods, you're going to be so fucked when you get back." I shoot her hurried glare. She sighs, but I know she won't fight a battle she can't win. "He's in the sparring gym. From what I hear, your man is the reason we still have an outpost."
