The stone steps leading up to the antechamber loom higher than Violet expects, each one uneven beneath her boots. Mira walks beside her, close enough that Violet can feel the tension radiating off her in sharp, warning pulses. The roar of the wind beyond the parapet echoes faintly through the stone, a reminder of what waits ahead.

“Focus,” Mira snaps, and Violet jerks her attention forward. “This might sound harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”

Violet nods, fingers tightening around the straps of her pack. She’s barely breathing as they move with the line, closer and closer to the waiting room that precedes the parapet itself.

There are only a handful of candidates ahead of them now. Violet’s gaze drifts despite herself. One woman stands out immediately—dark skin, high cheekbones, and an oval face so striking it looks sculpted rather than born. Her hair is braided in tight rows that brush the back of her neck, and she stands with the calm confidence of someone who already knows she’ll survive.

Beside her is a broad-shouldered blond man, muscles straining under the weight of an oversized rucksack while a woman clings to him, sobbing quietly.

Violet looks past them toward the roll-keeping desk—and freezes.

Her eyes widen.

“Is he…?” she whispers.

Mira follows her gaze and curses under her breath. “A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that shimmering mark that starts at the top of his wrist? That’s a rebellion relic.”

Violet swallows. She’s seen dragon marks before—symbols of honor, power, belonging. But these marks are different. Swirls. Slashes. Warnings etched into skin.

“A dragon did that?” Violet murmurs.

Mira nods. “General Melgren’s dragon. Did it when he executed their parents. Punished the kids to make a point.”

Violet’s stomach twists. It feels cruel—monstrous—but questioning dragons at Basgiath is a fast way to die.

Mira keeps talking as they shuffle forward, but then her grip tightens suddenly on Violet’s pack straps. She turns Violet to face her, fear stark in her eyes.

“I just remembered,” Mira whispers urgently. “Stay the hell away from Xaden Riorson.”

The name hits Violet like a blow to the chest.

“That Xaden Riorson?” Violet asks softly. “The Great Betrayer’s son?”

Mira nods. “Third-year. Wingleader. And if he finds out who you are, he won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Violet clenches her jaw. “That’s bullshit.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mira says. “Once his dragon chose him, the rules stopped applying. Find Dain after you cross. Stay far away from Riorson.”

Violet nods. “Noted.”

“Next,” a voice calls.

They enter the waiting chamber.

Violet barely has time to register the benches before she’s guided to an open seat—and then she stops short.

Because seated directly beside her is a cluster of riders already wearing rebellion relics.

One of them—a tall, dark-haired man with a lazy posture and sharp eyes—glances her way and smirks. Bodhi, she’ll learn later.

Another—a woman with cropped hair and a predator’s smile—leans back with her arms crossed, gaze assessing and unapologetic. Imogen.

And then there’s him.

{{user}} Riorson.