Tristan forgot his disappointment at once. His father was about to go to battle. Tristan had been barely a year old the last time his father had been in combat, and the reality of the situation hit him in a way it hadn’t yet. For the commander to get personally involved . . . things must be truly dire.
His father hailed Beryk and gave him instructions. With a nod, his second-in-command hurried back to the Eyrie with the other Riders from their patrol in tow. The swell of energy within the complex changed, anticipation crackling in the air. The commander was about to fly out to meet raiders, preparing for the first aerial battle since the Blood War.
The Phoenix Riders were truly back.
His father turned to him. “Tristan, you will be in charge in my stead,” he said.
The breath caught in Tristan’s throat. “Me?” he asked faintly. The world seemed to shrink around them, until it was just Tristan and his father. A tingling, weightless sensation swept through his body. “But—you just said I wasn’t ready, and after last night . . .”
The corner of the commander’s lips quirked ever so slightly. “I asked you to show me your leadership skills, and you did. I respect your conviction and your willingness to sacrifice your own ambition for what you believe is right. Just because I don’t want you flying blind into a dangerous situation for your very first patrol does not mean I don’t think you a worthy leader and a valuable asset to the Phoenix Riders.”
Tristan swallowed thickly, and to his intense embarrassment, the back of his eyes pricked with coming tears.
His father’s amusement shifted and his expression turned soft. “You’ll do well, Son,” he said at last.
“Thank you, Father,” Tristan said, his voice as steady as he could make it. He raised his chin and straightened his spine.
His father nodded in approval. “You will work closely with Captain Flynn, and send a pigeon immediately if anything should change here. If all else fails, light the beacon.”
He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, gripping it tightly for a moment, before following his patrol to the Eyrie.
Tristan watched in stunned silence as, several long minutes later, the Riders flew from beyond the archway, leaving a blazing trail across the cloudy sky.
“Tristan,” said a voice near his elbow, and Tristan turned to find Nyk standing there. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said at once, arranging his face in his best approximation of calm self-assuredness. “Of course.”
Nyk lifted a brow at him, and Tristan knew his efforts at bravado were wasted. He glanced around, looking for something matter-of-fact to do or say, but he was distinctly overwhelmed. Guards were rushing back and forth across the courtyard, their weapons clinking together and their boots thudding on stone as they called out reports and took up new positions. Servants continued about their work, though they watched the commotion with wary stares.
Tristan faltered; what did someone do when they were in charge?
The question was soon answered for him when a guard summoned Tristan to the top of the wall.
Happy to have something to do, he mounted the steps near the front gate, and Nyk followed. The guard pointed to the edge of the field, at the top of the steps to the way station.
A ragged figure was visible, helped by a guard across the grassy plain toward the village gates. As they watched, three more guards poured from the village to meet them. They surrounded the newcomer just as he fell to his knees, a bulky satchel weighing him down.
Tristan frowned. He looked like a raider.
As the raider and his guard escort made their way through the village, Tristan barreled down the staircase, where more guards and servants milled around the entrance to the stronghold. He forced his way through, Nyk close to his back.
The boy was being helped through the double doors. His clothes were ripped and sweat-soaked, his skin bruised and smeared with dirt. His eyes were hooded—not exactly closed, but unaware of his surroundings. His skin was ashen around the shadows of his eyes, and his breath rattled unevenly—probably thanks to the arrow protruding from his shoulder. He was unarmed, and yet his leather-padded tunic, tall boots, and weapons belt marked him for what he was: a fighter. Given that he wore no uniform or crest indicating an employer, Tristan could only assume he was a raider.
A small crowd gathered to have a look, and Nyk stood among them, staring down at the raider with surprising intensity.
Tristan turned to the nearest guard, the one who had helped the boy from the top of the way station stairs. “Why did we just take the enemy into our protection?” he asked.
The guard wiped his sweaty brow and straightened. “Says he has information about the attacks.” He waved at the arrow wound. “I don’t think he parted with his comrades on good terms.”
Tristan had to agree—the raider was in rough shape. His tunic was so bloodied it appeared dark brown in color, when the hemline told Tristan it had once been closer to white. A satchel hung loosely off his good arm, and red lacerations from the strap crisscrossed the exposed skin of his neck. Whatever burden he bore, it was heavy.
Still, Tristan didn’t want to take any chances, and he waved for several guards to keep their spears trained on the raider as Tristan knelt before him. A healer approached, and Tristan nodded, allowing her to press a skin of water to the boy’s lips. Drinking seemed to bring him somewhat back to life, even though it was clear that every swallow caused him pain. As he drank, the healer examined his wound.
“What’s your name?” Tristan asked, drawing the boy’s attention. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blinking as he tried to focus.
Tristan scanned the crowd, then spotted Ian, a wizened old guard. At a word from Tristan, the man produced a small flask. As soon as Tristan unscrewed the lid, the pungent stink of liquor singed his nostrils. It was petravin or “rockwine,” a distilled Pyraean liquor aged with a blend of local herbs and flowers, and made only in Petratec, the small village’s claim to fame.
“Try this,” he said to the boy, despite the healer’s objection.
The smell alone made him sit straighter, and he choked a mouthful down. He muttered darkly, but when he handed the flask back, his eyes were clearer. He nodded his thanks to Tristan.
“Your name?” Tristan prodded.
“Sev,” the boy said, his voice rough and thin. “I’ve . . . come . . . to warn you,” he said, gasping as he fought to say the words. “There are soldiers . . . coming up the mountain, and—”
He stopped abruptly, clutching at his shoulder while the healer peeled aside the stiff, blood-soaked fabric that stuck to his skin.
“We know about the raiders,” Tristan said, drawing Sev’s attention back to their conversation. “They’ve struck two villages, and our best Riders have flown out to meet them.”
“No,” Sev said, eyes widened in alarm. “They’re not raiders—they’re soldiers, sent by the empire.”
Silence met his words. Tristan was oddly frozen, unable to react. Soldiers sent by the empire . . .
“They’re coming here,” Sev continued through a grimace. “Those others—they must be traps. Tricks or decoys.”