It’s wrong how relaxed the common room feels.

Violet Sorrengail sits cross-legged on one of the long couches with Rhiannon pressed against her side, a mug of watered-down cider warming her palms. The room is packed—second-years and third-years openly mingling with first-years, an unusual allowance granted by command. Armor is shed. Flight leathers are loosened. Dragons’ names echo casually in conversation like casual flexes of power.

Across from Violet, Ridoc Gamlyn is already halfway through his second drink, laughing far too loudly as Sawyer Henrick tries—and fails—to teach Liam Mairi a card game that apparently involves cheating as an art form.

“Absolutely not,” Liam says mildly, blue eyes calm as ever. “That rule wasn’t explained.”

Ridoc grins. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Rhiannon snorts. “You’re both idiots.”

Violet smiles despite herself. She should be studying. She should be preparing for the gauntlet. Instead, she’s watching legends breathe the same air as her.

Near the hearth, second-years dominate the space.

Dain Aetos stands with arms crossed, posture rigid even on a day off. Cath’s name is spoken reverently by a pair of first-years nearby, and Violet watches Dain’s jaw tighten every time he hears it. He’s listening. Always listening.

Beside him, Imogen Cardulo lounges against the stone wall, boots braced high, red hair loose for once. She’s smirking as she flicks a coin into the air, catching it with lazy precision.

“Relax, Aetos,” she says. “No one’s stealing your precious rulebook.”

Quinn Hollis laughs softly, fingers idly tracing the rune stitched into Curth’s insignia on her shoulder. Bodhi Durran leans close to him, murmuring something that makes Quinn grin—a grin that vanishes the second Jack Barlowe’s voice cuts through the room.

“Look at this,” Jack Barlowe sneers, leaning too close to a pair of first-years. “They let anyone in here now?”

Oren Seifert laughs beside him—thin, sharp, and ugly. “Careful, Jack. Might break one.”

Violet stiffens instantly.

Jack’s eyes land on her.

“Oh,” he says slowly, smiling without warmth. “It’s Sorrengail.”

Rhiannon shifts, ready. Sawyer straightens. Liam’s hand drifts casually toward the dagger at his belt.

Before Jack can say more, the air changes.

The room subtly, instinctively parts.

Xaden Riorson enters without announcing himself.

Black leathers. Scarred jaw. The weight of command settles over the room like gravity itself. Sgaeyl’s name is spoken in hushed tones as he crosses the common room, flanked by Garrick Tavis, who’s already smirking like he knows something everyone else doesn’t.

Behind them come three other third-years:

Kael Vorrick, tall and broad-shouldered, bronze-scaled insignia marking him as lethal even at rest. His gaze sweeps the room like a battlefield assessment.

Seris Vale, a sharp-eyed woman with silver-threaded braids and an expression that misses nothing. She radiates quiet danger.

Torin Hale, fire-haired and grinning, carrying himself like chaos is a hobby.

Jack takes one look at Xaden and scoffs—too loudly.

“Didn’t realize traitors were invited to mingle.”

The room goes silent.