Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
“Happy to be your entertainment. I’m going to bed.” Spinning on my heel, I head toward the entrance to the barracks, but he’s right behind me, close enough that the door would slam in his face if he wasn’t so unnaturally fast at catching it.
“Maybe if you stopped sulking in your self-pity, you’d see that you have everything you need to scale the Gauntlet,” he calls after me, his voice echoing down the hallway.
“My self-what?” I turn around, my jaw dropping.
“People die,” he says slowly, his jaw ticking before he drags in a deep breath. “It’s going to happen over and over again. It’s the nature of what happens here. What makes you a rider is what you do after people die. You want to know why you’re still alive? Because you’re the scale I currently judge myself against every night. Every day I let you live, I get to convince myself that there’s still a part of me that’s a decent person. So if you want to quit, then please, spare me the temptation and fucking quit. But if you want to do something, then do it.”
“I’m too short to span the distance!” I hiss, uncaring that anyone could hear us.
“The right way isn’t the only way. Figure it out.” Then he turns and walks away.
Fuck. Him.
It is a grave offense against Malek to keep the belongings of a dead loved one. They belong in the beyond with the god of death and the departed. In the absence of a proper temple, any fire will do. He who does not burn for Malek will be burned by Malek.
—Major Rorilee’s Guide to Appeasing the Gods,
Second Edition
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The next practice sessions of the Gauntlet are no more successful than my first, but at least we don’t lose another squadmate. Tynan has quit running his mouth, since he can’t seem to make it up fully, either.
The buoy balls are his downfall.
The chimney is mine.
By the ninth—and next-to-last—session, I’m ready to set the entire obstacle course on fire. The section of the course that’s my downfall is meant to simulate the strength and agility it takes to mount a dragon, and it’s becoming clear that my size is going to fuck me.
“Maybe you can climb up onto my shoulders and then…” Rhiannon shakes her head as we study the crevice that’s become my nemesis.
“Then I’m still stuck halfway up,” I answer, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
“Doesn’t matter. You can’t touch another cadet on the route.” Sawyer folds his arms beside me, the tip of his nose now bright red from the high sun.
“Are you here to squash hopes and dreams, or do you have a suggestion?” Rhiannon retorts. “Because Presentation is tomorrow, so if you’ve got any bright ideas, now is the time.”
If I’m going to run to the Scribe Quadrant, then tonight is the night. My heart clenches against the thought. It’s the logical choice. The safe choice.
There are only two thoughts stopping me.
One, there’s no guarantee my mother won’t find out. Just because Markham would keep quiet doesn’t mean the instructors there will.
But most importantly, if I go, if I hide…I’ll never know if I’m good enough to make it here. And while I might not survive if I stay, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I leave.
…
“Doria Merrill,” Captain Fitzgibbons says from the dais. Every one of his features is crystal clear, not only because the sun is behind the shade of the clouds but because I’m closer. Our formation gets tighter with every cadet who falls.
According to Brennan and statistics, today will be one of the deadliest for first-years.
It’s Presentation Day, and in order to get to the flight field, we’ll have to climb the Gauntlet first. Everything about the Riders Quadrant is designed to weed out the weak, and today is no exception.
“Kamryn Dyre.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read from the roll.
I flinch. His seat was across from mine in Dragonkind.
“Arvel Pelipa.”
Imogen and Quinn—both second-years—suck in a breath ahead of me. First-years aren’t the only ones at risk; we’re just the most likely to die.
“Michel Iverem.” Captain Fitzgibbons closes the roll. “We commend their souls to Malek.” And with that final word, formation breaks.
“Second- and third-years, unless you’re on Gauntlet duty, head to class. First-years, it’s time to show us what you’ve got.” Dain forces a smile and skips right over me as he looks at our squad.
“Good luck today.” Imogen tucks an errant strand of pink hair behind her ear and aims a sickly-sweet smile right at me. “Hopefully you won’t fall…short.”
“See you later,” I reply, lifting my chin.
She stares at me with complete loathing for a second, then walks off with Quinn and Cianna, our executive officer, her shoulder-length blond curls bouncing.
“Best of luck.” Heaton—the thickest third-year in our squad, with red flames cut and dyed into their hair—taps their heart, right over two of their patches, and offers us all a genuine but flat-lipped smile before heading to class.