The scribe in oversized robes rushes to the podium twenty feet in front of us, on the edge of the Elden construction, in front of thousands of elite spectators who descended from the sky.

  “Ahem. This year’s Call to Arms will be carried out by first years who’ve met the eligibility thresholds, and who desire to eventually ascend to war-tier. All others will be escorted to the cadet spectator section beside you. Please be kind. War is not for everybody.”

  The spectators chuckle at that, some even making crude gestures. But that’s all in my periphery. It’s impossible for me to look anywhere but to my supposed lineage. Jurso’s right—my father is gods-damn regal up there. His hair blows like the drawn legends in mythos, and his dragon might even be one from ancient times. It rivals the size of Boeru.

  None of that matters though. I want to strangle the life out of him. His smug expression… Like he has the right to look down upon us who’ve been lied to and beaten.

  And Kane… has he reconciled with them? Or are they using him as a weapon like Scorius suggested?

  As soon as I think of my Prominent, I’m plagued with Boeru’s disdain. My dragon still doesn’t trust him…

  “This year’s Call to Arms will contain two kingdomnia, each of which will be headquartered at the opposite ends of the stage. Squads will be up to ten, as is meant to match elite war-tier operations. The objective is to conquer and hold the other’s kingdomonia for a duration of two minutes, unimpeded, or all of your enemies are incapacitated.”

  A horrible feeling of dread washes over me as Boeru returns to my shoulder. He starts sniffing wildly to my left.

  “The enemy is here, mortal,” Boeru chuffs. “They conspire around us.”

  “Where?” I try to follow.

  “Argh. It fades. Whoever it is, they know I can sense them.”

  My first instinct is Scorius. He’s the only one who’s ever been able to see right through me. But his history speaks volumes. Foren would never have invited him to the sanctum otherwise.

  As I look over both shoulders, I notice Ren smiling wide, out of character. Her eyes are honed like I imagine mine were on my lineage. Trying to trace her line of sight, I notice a man in decrepit robes, with long hair and a shaggy beard.

  “What’s with you?” I ask.

  She fights to move her gaze to me. “Hm? Oh, it’s just I haven’t seen my house father in the flesh for some time.”

  My brow furrows. “What? They let our foster parents out for this? That seems ridiculous.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe I’m just important to him.”

  “I’d be damned if House Mother came,” Lay scoffs.

  “Not in a million years,” I scoff right back.

  “You must’ve really made an impression on him,” I say.

  “Get the hell out of here.” Jurso pokes his head in. “He’s here for me.”

  “In your dreams,” Ren laughs. “He’s come to see his daughter ascend.”

  “Yeah, skipping half your classes is going to earn you a ripe spot in the war-tier. Sure,” Jurs says.

  Ren’s eyes dart to mine. There’s a bit of disdain in them since I forced her to skip days just to bypass Relias’ ward. I owe her for that.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but are you guys even listening to the rules?” Rogo points toward the scribe.

  “Take out their legs and stand on the castle.” Misty shrugs. “Easy as cake.”

  “This year’s Call to Arms will contain a different twist,” the scribe says with a particular satisfaction. “Aerial combat will be available, if the squad so chooses to use it.”

  “Gods. That’s the last rumor I expected to be true.” Jurso snaps his tongue. “Shit. Riding activates Arkitus pretty bad for me.”

  “Relax. Anyone who takes flight will be an easy target. Look at all the nooks and crannies in that landscape,” Misty tries to comfort him.

  “If you’ll kindly look to your left.” The scribe presents Tutor Mathis and a few others escorting families of familiar gryphons and wyverns to the event. “We present our prized training mounts for the cadets to choose.”

  Even though I should be analyzing every nook and cranny of the Elden conjuring, I can’t help but keep my eyes on the crowd. Relias stands in the center of the Danes, bringing me right back to my Sept awakening. He locks eyes with me beneath his cowl. White and glowing, I wonder if he’ll slap a wind whip to my face just to remind me of the hold he once had. I keep scanning—noting the regal war heroes and heroines, the politicians, castle lords. This is what Miria is. And there’s nothing warm about it.

  My heart sinks into my belly considering it.

  “The winner of Call to Arms will have an opportunity to face the crowd and win you over.” Foren leisurely steps beside his scribe. “These cadets in particular yearn for a station in the war-tier. But I’ll let them show you that for themselves.”

  What do you fight for, brother? My gaze lands again on his distorted face. Eyebrows are angry and his jaw is so misshapen I hardly recognize him. Through the snaking warring black polluting his face, one of his eyes is still his. He’s not entirely lost.

  Are you like them, Kane? Do you want a seat at the table if Miria prevails over Lacor? Or are you just a weapon, as Scorius says?

  Doesn’t matter. I’ll ask you personally after I win.

  “The first two teams will be at a stark disadvantage. They will undoubtedly be the least informed on the most advantageous ways to proceed. Yet they will also be the boldest.” Foren turns on his heel, icy robes flowing, orb intact. He scans us, perhaps thinking who to pick first. Of course he’d choose an awakened. We have an unfair advantage as it is. Why not knock us down a peg? “Who among you is foolish enough?”

  My eyes widen. He’s giving us the choice? I mean, I was hoping for it, but damn. The way he phrased it makes us all pause. No one wants to appear a fool in front of the most decorated audience in history.

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  But this is a sure way to make a name for ourselves.

  “We will heed the call!” Broggen shouts with such ferocity my hair stands on the back of my neck.

  It would be easy to watch Gen and analyze his weaknesses, while simultaneously learning of the Elden arena. That’s what a Miria general would do if given the opportunity.

  Or… would they show their confidence in their capabilities?

  I look to my team, who all peer right back to me.

  “I know that look.” Layla smiles. “I don’t like it.”

  “The fuck you are, Hale.” Jurs grabs my arm and wriggles it.

  I peer over at Gen, who unfalteringly stares forward with his gigantic brutes all banging their weapons, daring anyone else to challenge. He’s the prized House Valor champion. Even suffering loss at mine and Layla’s hands, he still has enough challenge wins to prove his prowess.

  But this isn’t about him.

  My marked have trained, and trained, and trained for this moment. Who am I to deny them?

  And I’m the dragonborn… I was reborn for this.

  “We will fight!” I roar, jarring the other cadets.

  It’s immediately obvious that Mistress Asentres is angered no one from Rhylock heeded the call. That’s a sharp blow to the house of glory.

  Blood pumps hard through my veins as thousands of sets of eyes focus in my direction. I can’t imagine their power, truly. If they’re all in the realm of Scorius or Foren, they could probably destroy us with a blink, or find out that I have a small roost living in my head.

  No one can know.

  As pumped as I am to show off all of my accumulated power from each of the spirits… no one can know.

  Rogoshel’s roar to appease the crowd of cadets behind us breaks me from my spell.

  “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Layla grabs my shoulder.

  “Damn right. Guide and guard.” I hold up my fist.

  “Always.”

  “Winbridge! Winbridge!”

  A chant breaks out at our backs, competing with “Fyre! Fyre!”

  The moment is surreal. I wonder what my father thinks out there in the crowd, hearing our surname, despite having discarded me to hell. Screw him.

  “Cadets! Step up to the podium!” Head Magus creates two ice sculptures beside him—one high-pointed crown for Valor and one armored hand holding a scale for Sivus. We strut confidently to our stations. “Lor’fyre. Riderborn. You will occupy the western bastion. In summary, you must maintain claim of your bastion plus that of your enemy’s for two minutes to declare victory. Tell the crowd before you that you accept the terms of Call to Arms, and understand the risk of death is high.”

  “We are born to rule.” Broggen slams a fist to his chest, unleashing a starburst of warring dark to show his strength. “Send us to glory.”

  His brutes smash their chests in echo.

  “Winbridge. Dragonborn. You will occupy the eastern bastion. In summary, you must maintain claim of your bastion plus that of your enemy’s for two minutes to declare victory. Tell the crowd before you that you accept the terms of Call to Arms, and dare not try to squirm your way out of this one.”

  The cadets “Oooh” at Head Magus’ words. They cut deep, speaking to a disdain not forgotten. The crowd looks curiously at me, awaiting my response.

  “I’ll earn my freedom, in this tier or the next.” I flex my fists, calling for Boeru to extend his dragon wing at my back.

  My father nods his approval. The Danes begin the clap, and throughout it all, my silent, expressionless brother stares on with not a hint of recognition.

  Misty swings one of her shortswords to bolster my claim—blowing our hair back with a smidge of high magic.

  “Hmph. We will see,” Foren replies, shooting me a look from the corner of his eye. “Cadets, to your bastions.”

  I should be used to this by now. Performing with a crowd of people judging my every move. But this time, it feels way different. These warriors could’ve descended from the heavens for all I know, fighting a battle of angels versus demons like in ancient mythos. I’ve been lied to before…

  “You don’t think Head Magus…” Jurso says with hesitation.

  “Sabotage? Nah. That’d be ugly, even for him.” Misty smacks the air.

  “He’s just trying to get in our heads,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter. This is going to be the most important day of our lives.” Renesta smiles, still unable to take her eyes off one section of the crowd.

  Strange seeing her so happy.

  Whatever… that’s enough. Time to focus. Kane is literally in my grasp.

  “Was it wise to let an unmarked into our circle?” Rogo growls at Tesstalia.

  “Once flying mounts were announced, yes. She’s the best rider amongst us.”

  “I’d like to put that to the test.” Misty sharpens her blades.

  “Being fearless and skilled are sometimes two different things.” I wink at Misty.

  “As if!”

  “You’ll be wind countermeasures on defense,” I declare.

  “Twice screwed!” Misty protests. “You know I was born to play offense, Hale.”

  “And the only one with true wind high magic amid our marked. Your wind will give us the critical moments we need to get back to our bastion if need be.”

  “You’re thinking heavy offensive play, then?” Rogo asks.

  “Gen would least expect it,” Jurso says. “Based on the last time they clashed in the arena, he’d expect a cooperative defend-and-advance tactic, like in the Grigen Stronghold assault of old mythos.”

  “I was thinking more of Treesparrow Valley, but same outcome.” I nod at Jurso. “Gen thinks himself a war general, and has been touted such since he ascended here. To outmatch him, we have to shove him off his footing.”

  “So only Misty will stay behind?” Tess asks.

  “And part of Renesta,” I say. “Shadows and shades will be our defense. Gen doesn’t know she can shadow snap, so we’ll use that to our advantage. Ren… can you do it at a mile’s length?”

  “Hm?” She’s back to focus. “No. Probably about half that. Maybe less.”

  “Alright, so Ren will be our halfway scout. She travels with us into the valley and through the canal. Her sword skills should more than make up for her lack of brute strength.”

  “Let me lead the charge, Hale.” Rogo slaps his fists together. “I’ve got a bone to pick with those fuckers.”

  “Actually, you’re going to be the bait.”

  The winds test our balance at these heights. Had I not spent most of the year learning to fly—and nearly falling to my death on more than one occasion—I’d probably be cowering right now. Instead, I don’t even feel it.

  “You’re going to sprint over the bridge in plain sight. They’ll think you’re the only one we’re sending. And when you get either onto their bastion or close enough where you have more than two brutes chasing you… cut away and lead them astray.”

  “Oh, I fucking like that.” Rogo shows his teeth. “I’ll leave three corpses never to be found.”

  “Hey, brute, if you can remember, they’re our Miria brothers and sisters,” I say.

  “Not today they aren’t.”

  I could keep fighting him, but why challenge his spirit? I need him flying with adrenaline if we have any shot of winning.

  Getting to our east-side bastion, mounds of snow scrunch beneath our boots. It makes me uneasy to have Foren’s native element at play. I wonder if he’ll shift it to ice at a moment’s notice to give us a false start.

  “Find dry spots,” I coach. “Keep in mind the Head Magus isn’t our biggest fan.”

  “Always the underdog.” Lay reaches for her shield.

  “Amen to that.” Jurso laughs.

  “Tess, go get your wyvern. One of his brutes just descended the back ladder to get his,” I say.

  “You can see that far?” Jurso squints.

  “Dragon’s intuition,” I say.

  Boeru pops his head out in my mind’s eye, swinging his long neck in dismay. “The scent grows stronger. In the stands…”

  “We’ve existed this long with Lacor keeping an eye, Boe. What’s another hour?”

  Boe chuffs. “I don’t like this.”

  “I need you to focus on keeping our marked alive. This is my chance to address Kane, and after that, it’s all Elden from here on out, as promised.” I gaze up at him.

  He gives me a lingering side-eye, which I take as approval.

  As Tess descends the ladder, I face forward to recall all of Broggen’s brutes. “Grondus retained only warring dark. He’s teeming with it. And is likely the most dangerous. Horo has become proficient with spear and sword, and exudes some high-magic ice. Selevance has abandoned his dark and adopted high-magic fire.”

  “Yeah, I remember him on one of the challenges,” Jurso says. “Weak projectiles from his fist, but attached to his sword it may as well be a ballista bolt.”

  “Indeed. That’s a good note for all of them. Disarm. Disarm. Disarm. Without their arsenal, they stand no chance against us.”

  “Hm. There are crevices in this conjuring where the audience will be blind,” Boeru says.

  “What are you suggesting?” I furrow my brow.

  “Perhaps unleashing some of my brothers’ strengths when none are the wiser,” Boe suggests.

  “If I do, it will be from afar. Keep them circling high above,” I say.

  “Caution while locked in battle is assured death, mortal,” Boe hisses.

  I grit my teeth, unable to risk the secret.

  “Cadets. Ready!” Foren calls from the podium, just in time for Tesstalia’s wyvern to ascend up to the bastion, opposite Broggen’s angry-looking black gryphon. “Duration will be one hour. Give it your all. Show the audience what Elshard is made of!”