“One second.” I pull Warrick’s journal from the protective leather pouch inside my flight jacket and flip to the translated parchment I left at the passage before glancing up at the stone to compare the drawings. The symbol Warrick drew isn’t identical, but it has the runes in the same positions, so that’s a good sign. “Here we go. ‘And we gathered the six most powerful riders in residence,’” I read from the parchment, “‘and the blood of the six and the one combined and set the stone ablaze in an iron rain.’” I glance around the line. “Six”—I point to the stone—“and the one.”
“You want us to bleed on the wardstone?” Felix asks, his silver brows rising.
“I’m just telling you how Warrick and the First Six did it.” I hold the journal up. “Unless there’s someone here more capable of translating Old Lucerish?”
No one speaks.
“Right.” I dip my chin and study the rest of the translation.
“By our best calculations,” Brennan says, rubbing his hands together to keep warm, “the six most powerful riders currently in Aretia are Xaden, Felix, Suri, Bodhi, Violet, and me.”
“Looks like there’s something to be said for family lines,” Suri notes.
“According to Warrick, the First Six bled their life—” I start.
Every head swivels my direction.
“I don’t think it means to death,” I quickly clarify. “Clearly the six lived on after they constructed Basgiath’s wards.” There’s a definite sigh of relief around me. “With any luck, it’ll be a quick cut across the palm, place our hands on the wardstone, and we should have wards.”
“In an iron rain,” Bodhi says slowly.
Suri draws a knife from her side. “Let’s get this done.”
The six of us move to the wardstone, and I tuck the journal into my flight jacket.
“Anywhere?” Bodhi asks, lowering his own knife to just above his palm.
“The journal didn’t specify.” Brennan draws his dagger over his palm, then presses his hand to the wardstone, and we all follow.
Hope swells in my chest, rising with my pulse, and I hiss through my teeth at the bite of pain as I slice. Blood wells, and I push my cut palm against the stone in line with the others. It’s colder than I expect, warmth quickly leaching from my hand as blood drips down the shimmering black surface.
The stone feels frozen. Lifeless. But not for long.
I glance down the line to be sure everyone has their palms flat against the stone and see six narrow streams of blood snaking their way down the iron.
“Is it working?” Bodhi asks, bleeding a couple of feet away.
My mouth opens, but I quickly shut it.
No one answers.
Come on, I beg the stone, like I can will the damn thing to life.
There’s no hum, no sense of power—nothing but cold, black stone. It’s nothing like the awareness that comes from being close to the wards at the outposts or even holding the alloy-hilted dagger in my hand.
There’s… nothing.
My stomach falls first, then my heart, and finally my shoulders as my head droops.
“I’m done.” Suri pulls her hand off the stone. “The rest of you can sit here and bleed all night, but this clearly isn’t working.”
No, no, no.
Felix, Brennan, and Bodhi drop their hands.
Failure clogs my throat, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I did everything right. I researched, and read, and stole a primary source. I translated and double-checked. This is supposed to be the solution. It’s everything I’ve been working on for months, the key to keeping everyone safe.
Did we bleed the wrong six riders? Is there an element of magic I missed? Something more to the blood? What did I miss?
“Violence,” Xaden says quietly.
Slowly, I turn my head to look up at him, expecting disappointment or censure but finding none in his eyes. But there’s no pity, either.
“I failed,” I whisper, my hand falling away.
He watches me for a heartbeat, then two before dropping his own. “You’ll try again.”
It isn’t an order, though, just a fact.
“Violet, I can—” Brennan starts, reaching for my hand.
I shake my head, then stare down at the blood welling in the cup of my palm.
If he mends a cut this fresh, I doubt it will leave a scar. I won’t even have that to show for the last three months.
The sound of tearing fills the space, and Xaden tightly wraps a cut piece of his uniform around my palm to stanch the bleeding. “Thank you.”
“You’ll try again,” he repeats, wrapping another strip of fabric around his own hand.
I nod, and he turns to talk to Kylynn, keeping his voice low.
“Now can we please discuss how we plan to actually acquire that luminary?” Suri’s tone rises with annoyance.
I stare up at the blood-marked stone, searching for answers it won’t give me.
“It’s a lost magic,” Bodhi says softly, appearing at my side. He rubs his thumb over his newly mended, scarless palm. “Maybe there’s a reason this stone never worked. It might be broken.”
I nod again, incapable of speech. Bodhi. Xaden. Mira. Rhi. Brennan. Ridoc. Sawyer. Imogen… The list of people I’ve failed goes on and on. We’re only here because I made my friends steal the journal in the first place, and then… nothing? Anger sparks in my chest, and power rushes in, heating my skin.
I don’t fail. I’ve never failed anything in my life. Well, that first RSC land navigation, but that doesn’t count. That was everyone. This is me.
“Offer the viscount twice the number of weapons he asked for,” Ulices says, his voice fading with his footsteps.
“I’ll send a missive tomorrow,” Brennan promises as the others walk out of the chamber.
We have no wards. No weapons. Almost no experienced riders. All because I acted recklessly.
Power builds, vibrating my fingertips.
Felix moves to my side, his somber gaze studying me before he holds out his hand.
I blink, glancing at his palm, then up to his face.
“Your hand.” He lifts his brow.
I hold my uninjured one out, and instead of touching me, he tilts his head and watches the slight trembling of my fingers.
“I suppose we’d better start tomorrow.” He sighs. “Skip the run. We’ll be training your signet.” His bootsteps echo in the chamber, and I turn, watching him walk out, my gaze catching on the tight lines of Xaden’s mouth as Kylynn lectures him with quiet words, the mage lights reflecting on the steel of her battle-ax strapped to her back.
Xaden was right. War requires weapons.
“Take me to Tecarus,” I demand.
His gaze flies to mine and his jaw flexes. “I would rather die.”
“We all will if you don’t.”
“Not going to happen. Subject closed.” He folds his arms across his chest and goes back to his discussion with Kylynn.
Fuck this.
I walk straight past him, taking the path out of the chamber. There’s no way I’m going to leave my friends defenseless when I’m the reason they got dragged into this.
“Violet!” Brennan shouts, running to catch up with me.
“Go away,” I snap at my brother.
“With that look on your face? I don’t think so.”
“What look?” I shoot a glare in his direction, even though I know this isn’t his fault.
“The same one you had at eight years old, when you stared Mom down over a plate of squash for twelve straight hours.”
“I’m sorry?” Rocks crunch underfoot as we make our way down the path to Riorson House.
“Twelve. Hours.” He nods. “Dad said to let you go to bed, that you weren’t going to eat them, and Mom said you weren’t going to sleep until you did.”
“What’s your point?”
“When I got up the next morning, Mom and Dad were both asleep at the table, and you were snacking on bread and cheese. I know that face, Violet. When you dig in about something, you’re more tenacious than all of us put together, so no, I won’t be going away.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “You can be the tagalong sibling for once.” Within minutes, we’re in through the guarded back door of Riorson House, walking through the network of hallways to the main corridor. “Tairn.”
“Oh, this should be fun,” Andarna answers.
I feel Tairn’s sigh long before I hear it.
“You know it’s the only way.” Another turn later, we walk into the overwhelming noise of the great hall. Long trestle tables line the space, and my gaze skips over each one, bypassing the one where my squad sits and locking onto the table of new riders who arrived today.
“I will consider it,” Tairn begrudgingly agrees.
“Thank you.” I move through the sea of black with Brennan on my heels, locking eyes with Mira as I approach where she sits at the end of her table with her friends.
“Violet?” Her gaze narrows on my bandaged hand before she sets her pewter mug down.
“I need your help.”