Onyx Storm: Chapter 1

I will save him.

—Violet Sorrengail’s personal addendum to the Book of Brennan Two weeks later Flying in January should be a violation of the Codex. Between the howling storm and the incessant fog in my goggles, I can’t see shit as we cut through the blustering snow squall above the mountains near Basgiath. Hoping we’re almost through the worst of it, I grip the pommels of my saddle with gloved hands and hold tight.

“Dying today would be inconvenient,” I say down the mental pathway connecting me to Tairn and Andarna. “Unless you’re trying to keep me away from the Senarium this afternoon?” I’ve waited more than a week for the invitation-disguised order to come from the king’s council, but the delay is understandable given they’re on the fourth day of unprecedented peace talks happening on campus. Poromiel has publicly declared they’ll walk after the seventh day if terms can’t be reached, and it isn’t looking good. I only hope that they’ll be in an agreeable mood when I arrive.

“Want to make your meeting? Don’t fall off this time,” Tairn retorts.

“For the last time, I didn’t fall off,” I argue. “I jumped off to help Sawyer—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You can’t keep leaving me off patrols,” Andarna interrupts from the warmth and protection of the Vale.

“It isn’t safe,” Tairn reminds her for what has to be the hundredth time. “Weather aside, we’re hunting dark wielders, not out for a pleasure flight.”

“You shouldn’t fly in this,” I agree, looking for any sign of Ridoc and Aotrom, but there’s only walls of white. My chest tightens. How are any of us supposed to see topography or our squadmates, let alone spot a dark wielder hundreds of feet below in this mess? I can’t remember a more brutal series of storms than the ones that have battered the war college in the last two weeks, but without—

Mom. Grief sinks the tips of her razor-sharp claws into my chest, and I lift my face to feel the stinging bite of snow against the tops of my cheeks, focusing on anything else to keep breathing, keep moving. I’ll mourn later, always later.

“It’s just a quick patrol,” Andarna whines, jarring me from my thoughts. “I need the practice. Who knows what weather we’ll encounter on the search for my kind?”

“Quick patrols” have proven deadly, and I’m not looking for reasons to test Andarna’s fire theory. Dark wielders may have limited power within the wards, but they’re still lethal fighters. The ones who didn’t escape post-battle have used the element of surprise to add multiple names to the death roll. First Wing, Third Wing, and our own Claw Section have suffered losses.

“Then practice evenly dispersing enough magic to keep all your extremities warm during flight, because your wings won’t hold the weight of this ice,” Tairn growls into the falling snow.

“‘Your wings won’t hold the weight of this ice,’” Andarna blatantly mocks him. “And yet yours miraculously carry the burden of your ego.”

“Go find a sheep and let the adults work.” Tairn’s muscles shift slightly beneath me in a familiar pattern, and I lean forward as far as the saddle will allow, preparing for a dive.

My stomach lurches into my throat as his wings snap closed and we pitch downward, slicing through the storm. Wind tears at my winter flight hood, and the leather strap of my saddle bites into my frozen thighs as I pray to Zihnal there isn’t a mountain peak directly beneath us.

Tairn levels out, and my stomach settles as I tug my goggles up to my forehead and blink quickly, looking right. The drop in altitude has lessened the intensity of the storm, improving visibility enough to see the rocky ridgeline just above the flight field.

“Looks clear.” My eyes tear up, assaulted by both wind and snow that feels more like tiny projectiles of ice than flakes. I clean my lenses using the suede tips of my gloves before snapping them over my eyes again.

“Agreed. Once we hear the same from Feirge and Cruth, we’ll end today’s endeavors,” he grumbles.

“You sound like making it three straight days without encountering the enemy is a bad thing.” Maybe we’ve really caught and killed them all. As cadets, we’ve slain thirty-one venin in the area surrounding Basgiath while our professors work to clear the rest of the province. It would be thirty-two if anyone suspected one of them was living among us, though—even if he’s credited with seventeen of the kills.

“I am not comforted by the quiet—” Wind whips overhead with a crack, and Tairn’s head jerks upward. Mine immediately follows suit.

Oh no.

Not wind. Wings.

Aotrom’s claws consume my vision, and my heart seizes with panic. He’s dropping out of the storm directly on top of us.

“Tairn!” I shout, but he’s already rolling left, hurling us from our course.

The world rotates, sky and land exchanging places twice in a nauseating dance before Tairn flares his wings in a jarring snap. The movement cracks the inch-thick layer of ice along the front ridges of his wings, and chunks fall away.

I draw a full but shaky breath as Tairn pumps his wings with maximum effort, gaining a hundred feet of altitude in a matter of seconds and barreling straight toward the Brown Swordtail bonded to Ridoc.

Wrath scalds the air in my lungs, Tairn’s emotions flooding my system for a heartbeat before I can slam my mental shields down to muffle the worst of what streams in through the bond.

“Don’t!” I shout into the wind as we come up on Aotrom’s left, but as always, Tairn does whatever he wants and full-on crunches his jaws within what looks like inches of Aotrom’s head. “It was clearly an accident!” One that would usually be avoided by dragons communicating.

The smaller Brown Swordtail squawks as Tairn repeats the warning, then Aotrom exposes his throat in a gesture of submission.

Ridoc looks my way through the band of snow and throws up his hands, but I doubt he sees my shrug of apology before Aotrom falls away, heading south to the flight field.

Guess Feirge and Rhi reported in.

“Was that really necessary?” I drop my shields, and Tairn’s and Andarna’s bonds come flooding back at full strength, but the shimmering pathway that leads to Xaden is still blocked, dimmed to an echo of its usual presence. The loss of constant connection sucks, but he doesn’t trust himself—or what he thinks he’ll become—to keep it open yet.

“Yes,” Tairn answers, declaring the single word sufficient.

“You’re almost twice his size and it was obviously an accident,” I repeat as we descend rapidly to the flight field. The snow on the ground of the box canyon has been trampled into a muddy series of paths from the constant patrols second- and third-years are flying.

“It was negligent, and a twenty-two-year-old dragon should know better than to close himself off from his riot simply because he’s arguing with his rider,” Tairn grumbles, his anger lowering to a simmer as Aotrom lands beside Rhi’s Green Daggertail, Feirge.

Tairn’s claws impact the frozen ground to Aotrom’s left, and the sudden landing vibrates every bone in my body like a rung bell. Pain explodes along my spine, my lower back taking the brunt of the insult. I breathe through the worst of it, then accept the rest and move on. “Well, that was graceful.” I jerk my goggles to my forehead.

“You fly next time.” He shakes like a wet hound, and I block my face with my hands as ice and snow fly off his scales.

I tug at the leather strap of my saddle when he stills, but the buckle catches along the jagged, shitty line of stitches I put in after the battle, and one of them pops. “Damn it. That wouldn’t have happened if you’d let Xaden fix it.” I force my body out of the saddle, ignoring the aching protest of my cold-cramped joints as I make my way across the icy pattern of spikes and scales I know as well as my own hand.

“The Dark One didn’t cut it in the first place,” Tairn responds.

“Stop calling him that.” My knee collapses, and I throw my arms out to steady my balance, cursing my joints as I reach Tairn’s shoulder. After an hour in the saddle at these temperatures, a pissed-off knee is nothing; I’m lucky my hips still rotate.

“Stop denying the truth.” Tairn enunciates every word of the damning order as I avoid a patch of ice and prepare to dismount. “His soul is no longer his own.”

“That’s a little dramatic.” I’m not getting into this argument again. “His eyes are back to normal—”

“That kind of power is addictive. You know it, or you wouldn’t be pretending to sleep at night.” He twists his neck in a way that reminds me of a snake and levels a golden glare on me.

“I’m sleeping.” It’s not entirely a lie, but definitely time to change the subject. “Did you make me repair my saddle to teach me a lesson?” My ass protests every scale on Tairn’s leg as I slide, then land in a fresh foot of snow. “Or because you don’t trust Xaden with my gear anymore?”

“Yes.” Tairn lifts his head far over mine and blasts a torrent of fire along his wing, melting off the residual ice, and I turn away from the surge of heat that painfully contrasts my body temperature.

“Tairn…” I struggle for words and look up at him. “I need to know where you stand before this meeting. With or without Empyrean approval, I can’t do any of this without you.”

“Meaning, will I support the myriad of ways you plan to court death in the name of curing one who is beyond redemption?” He swivels his head in my direction again.

Tension crackles along Andarna’s bond.

“He’s not—” I cut off that particular argument, since the rest is sound. “Basically, yes.”

He grumbles deep within his chest. “I fly without warming my wings in preparation for carrying heavier weight for longer distances. Does that not answer your question?”

Meaning Andarna. Relief gusts through my lips on a swift exhale. “Thank you.”

Steam rolls in billowing clouds from his nostrils. “But do not mistake my unflinching support of you, my mate, and Andarna for any form of faith in him.” Tairn lifts his head, cueing the end of the conversation.

“Heard.” On that note, I trudge toward the trampled path where Rhi and Quinn wait. Ridoc gives Tairn a wide berth as he does the same to my right. My nearly numb, gloved fingers fumble with the three buttons on the side of my winter flight hood, and the fur-lined fabric falls away from my nose and mouth as I reach them. “Everything good on your route?”

Rhi and Quinn look cold but uninjured, thank gods.

“Still…alarmingly routine. We didn’t see anything of concern. Wyvern burn pit is still just ash and bone, too.” Rhi picks a clump of snow from the lining of her hood, then pulls it back up over her shoulder-length black braids.

“We didn’t see shit for those last ten minutes, period.” Ridoc shoves his gloved hand into his hair, snowflakes slipping off his brown cheeks without melting.

“At least you’re an ice wielder.” I gesture to his annoyingly flake-free face.

Quinn pulls her blond curls into a quick bun. “Wielding can help keep you warm, too.”

“I’m not chancing it when I can’t see what I might strike.” Especially having lost my only conduit in the battle. I glance at Ridoc as a line of our Tail Section’s dragons launch for their patrol behind him. “What were you arguing with Aotrom about, anyway?”

“Sorry about that.” Ridoc cringes and lowers his voice. “He wants to go home—back to Aretia. Says we can launch the search for the seventh breed from there.”

Rhi nods, and Quinn presses her lips in a firm line.

“Yeah, I get that,” I say—it’s a common sentiment among the riot. We’re not exactly welcome here. The unity between Navarrian and Aretian riders crumbled within hours of the battle’s end. “But the only path for an alliance that can save Poromish civilians requires us to be here. At least for now.”

Not to mention, Xaden insists we stay.

“He remains because Navarre’s wards protect you from him.” Tairn blasts another stream of fire when I ignore him, heating his left wing, then crouches before launching skyward with the others.

The courtyard is nearly empty when we enter through the tunnel that runs under the ridgeline separating it from the training grounds. In front of us, snow tops the dormitory wing, the centered rotunda that links the quadrant’s structures, and all but the southernmost roofline of the academic wing ahead to our left, where Malek’s fire burns bright in the highest turret, consuming the belongings of our dead as he requires.

Maybe the god of death will curse me for keeping my mother’s personal journals, but it’s not like I wouldn’t have a few choice words for him should we meet, anyway.

“Report,” Aura Beinhaven orders from the dais at our left, where she stands with Ewan Faber—the stocky, sour-faced wingleader of what little remains of Navarre’s Fourth Wing.

“Oh, good, you all made it back.” Ewan’s voice drips with sarcasm as he folds his arms, snow falling on his broad shoulders. “We were so worried.”

“Prick was barely a squad leader in Claw when we left,” Ridoc mutters.

“Nothing this morning,” Rhiannon replies, and Aura nods but doesn’t deign to say anything. “Any news from the front?”

My stomach knots. The lack of information is agonizing.

“Nothing I’d be willing to share with a bunch of deserters,” Aura answers.

Oh, screw her.

“A bunch of deserters who saved your ass!” Quinn offers a middle finger as we continue past, our boots crunching on the snow-covered gravel. “Navarrian riders, Aretian riders… We can’t function like this,” she says to the group quietly. “If they won’t accept us, the fliers don’t have a prayer.”

I nod in agreement. Mira’s working on that particular issue—not that leadership knows or will allow the use of whatever she’s learned, even if it saves the negotiations. Pompous assholes.

“Devera and Kaori will be back any day. They’ll sort out command structure as soon as the royals ink a treaty that hopefully pardons us for leaving in the first place.” Rhi cocks her head as Imogen walks out of the rotunda in front of us, her pink hair skimming her cheekbone as she descends the stone steps. “Cardulo, you missed patrol.”

“I was assigned elsewhere by Lieutenant Tavis,” Imogen explains, not missing a beat as she comes our way. Her gaze jumps toward me. “Sorrengail, I need a word.”

I nod. She was on Xaden duty.

“See that you’re present tomorrow.” Rhi walks past Imogen with the other two, then pauses halfway up the steps and glances over her shoulder as the others head inside. “Wait. Is Mira due back today?”

“Tomorrow.” Anxiety ties a pretty little bow around my throat and tugs. It’s one thing to form a plan and quite another to carry it out, especially when the consequences could involve the people I love becoming traitors…again.

“Every possible path,” Andarna reminds me.

“Every possible path,” I repeat like a mantra and straighten my shoulders.

“Good.” A slow smile spreads across Rhi’s face. “We’ll be in the infirmary when you’re done,” she promises, then walks up the remaining steps to the rotunda.

“You told the second-years what Mira’s up to?” Imogen whispers with a sharp bite of accusation.

“Only the riders,” I retort just as quietly. “If we get caught, it’s treason, but if the fliers do—”

“It’s war,” Imogen finishes.

“Ridoc, did you freeze this door shut?” Rhi shouts from the top of the steps, yanking on the door handle of the rotunda with her full body weight before marching through its counterpart to her left. “Get back here and fix it, now!”

“Right. Telling them was a solid choice.” Imogen rubs the bridge of her nose as Ridoc laughs hysterically from inside the rotunda. “The four of you are a fucking nuisance. It’s going to be a miracle if we pull this off without getting ourselves executed.”

“You don’t have to be involved.” I stare her down in a way I never would have dreamed of eighteen months ago. “I’ll do it with or without your help.”

“Feeling snarky, are we?” A corner of her mouth tugs upward. “Relax. As long as Mira figures out a plan, of course I’m in.”

“She doesn’t know how to fail.”

“I can see that.” Snow blows across our faces as Imogen’s eyes harden. “But please say you didn’t tell your fearsome foursome everything about why we’re doing this.”

“Of course not.” I shove my gloves into my pocket. “He’s still pissed at me for ‘burdening you’ with the knowledge.”

“Then he should stop doing stupid shit that needs to be covered up.” She rubs her hands together in the cold and follows me up the steps. “Look, I needed you alone because Garrick, Bodhi, and I talked—”

“Without me?” My spine stiffens.

“About you,” she clarifies unapologetically.

“Even better.” I reach for the door.

“We’ve decided you need to rethink your sleeping arrangements.”

My grip tightens on the handle and I contemplate slamming the door in her face. “I’ve decided you can all go fuck yourselves. I’m not running from him. Even in the moments he’s lost control, he’s never hurt me. He never will.”

“That’s what I told them you’d say, but don’t be surprised if they keep asking. Good to know you’re still predictable even if Riorson isn’t.”

“How was he this morning?” Heat rushes over my face as we walk into the empty rotunda, and I push back my hood. Without classes, formation, or any sense of order, the academic wing might sit abandoned, but commons and the gathering hall are congested with aimless, worried, agitated cadets hoping to survive the next patrol and looking to take their frustrations out on someone else. Every single one of us would kill for a Battle Brief.

“Surly and stubborn as always,” Imogen answers when we cross into the dormitory, quieting as we pass a group of glaring second-years from First Wing, including Caroline Ashton, which means the truth-sayers cleared her. Lucky for us, the steps leading down to the Healer Quadrant are blessedly empty. “You consider telling him what we’re up to?”

“He’s aware we’ll be sent to find Andarna’s kind. As for the rest? He doesn’t want to know.” I nod at a pair of approaching Aretian riders out of Third Wing when we reach the tunnels but wait to speak until we’re out of earshot. “He’s worried about being an unintentional leak—which is ridiculous, but I’m respecting his wishes.”

“I can’t wait for him to discover you’re leading your own rebellion.” She grins as we walk across the enclosed bridge to the Healer Quadrant.

“It’s not a rebellion, and I’m not…leading.” Xaden, Dain, Rhi—they’re leaders. They inspire and command for the good of the unit. I’m just doing whatever it takes to save Xaden.

“Including the mission to find Andarna’s kind?” She throws open the door to the Healer Quadrant, and I follow her in.

“That’s different, and I’m not leading as much as I am selecting a leader. Hopefully.” I glance down the cluttered tunnel, past the quietly sleeping patients dressed mostly in infantry blue, and spot a group of hooded scribes moving among them, no doubt still working to get accurate accounts of the battle. “Sounds the same, but it’s not.”

“Right.” The word drips with sarcasm. “Well, message delivered, so I’m done with this conversation. Let me know when Mira gets back.” She walks off toward main campus. “Give Sawyer my best, and good luck this afternoon!”

“Thanks,” I call after her, then turn toward the infirmary. The scents of herbs and metal hit my lungs as I enter through the double doors. I wave at Trager on my right, who’s among the healing-trained fliers doing their best to help where they can.

He nods back from a patient’s bedside, then reaches for a needle and thread.

I continue quickly to the nearest corner, moving from the healers’ paths as they scurry in and out of the curtain-lined bays where rows of the injured rest.

Ridoc’s laugh sounds from the last bay as I approach. The pale blue curtains are tied back, revealing a pile of discarded winter flight jackets in the corner and every other second-year in our squad crammed around Sawyer’s bed.

“Stop exaggerating,” Rhiannon says from the wooden chair near Sawyer’s head, shaking her finger at Ridoc, who’s sitting on the bed, right where our squadmate’s lower leg used to be. “I simply told them that it was our squad’s table and they needed to—”

“Take their cowardly asses back to the First Wing section where they belonged,” Ridoc finishes for her with another laugh.

“You didn’t really say that.” A corner of Sawyer’s mouth quirks upward, but it’s far from a true smile.

“She did.” I’m careful not to step on Cat’s outstretched legs on the floor beside Maren as I move into the cramped space, unbuttoning my flight jacket and tossing it onto the pile.

“Riders get offended by the weirdest things.” Cat arches a dark brow and flips through Markham’s history textbook. “We have far bigger issues than tables.”

“True.” Maren nods, plaiting her dark-brown hair into a four-strand braid.

“How was patrol, anyway?” Sawyer scoots to a more upright position without any help.

“Quiet,” Ridoc answers. “I’m starting to think we’ve gotten them all.”

“Or they’ve managed to flee,” Sawyer muses, the light fading from his eyes. “You’ll be chasing them down soon.”

“Not until we graduate.” Rhi crosses her legs. “They’re not sending cadets beyond the borders.”

“Except Violet, of course, who will be off seeking the seventh breed so we can win this war.” Ridoc glances my way with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her safe.”

I can’t quite tell if he’s teasing or serious.

Cat snorts and flips another page. “Like they’re going to let you go? Guarantee it’ll be officers only.”

“No way.” Ridoc shakes his head. “It’s her dragon, her rules. Right, Vi?”

Every head turns in my direction. “Assuming they put us on orders, I’ll provide a list of people I trust to go.” A list that’s been through so many drafts, I’m not even sure I’m carrying the right one.

“You should take the squad,” Sawyer suggests. “We work best as a team.” He scoffs. “Who am I kidding. You’ll work best as a team. I’m barely climbing stairs.” He nods to the crutches beside his bed.

“You’re still on the team. Hydrate.” Rhi reaches across the bedside table and over a note that looks to be in Jesinia’s handwriting to grab a pewter mug.

“Water’s not going to grow my leg back.” Sawyer takes it, and the metal handle hisses, forming to his grip. He looks up at me. “I know that’s a shitty thing to say after you lost your mother—”

“Pain isn’t a competition,” I assure him. “There’s always enough to go around.”

He sighs. “I got a visit from Colonel Chandlyr.”

My stomach hollows. “The commander of the retired riders?”

Sawyer nods.

“What?” Ridoc folds his arms. “Second-years don’t retire. Die? Yes. Retire? No.”

“I get that,” Sawyer starts. “I just—”

A shrill scream echoes throughout the infirmary in a knee-wavering pitch that’s reserved for something far worse than pain—terror. The silence that follows chills me to the bone, apprehension lifting the hair on the back of my neck as I unsheathe two of my daggers and turn to face the threat.

“What was that?” Ridoc slides off Sawyer’s bed, and the others move behind me as I step outside the bay and pivot toward the open infirmary doors.

“She’s dead!” A cadet in infantry blue stumbles in and falls to his hands and knees. “They’re all dead!”

There’s no mistaking the gray handprint marking the side of his neck.

Venin.

My heart seizes. We haven’t found them out on patrol—because they’re already inside.