Table of ContentsCoverMapONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN | EIGHT | NINE |TEN | ELEVEN | TWELVE | THIRTEEN | FOURTEEN | FIFTEEN |SIXTEEN | SEVENTEEN | EIGHTEEN | NINETEEN | TWENTY |TWENTY-ONE | TWENTY-TWO | TWENTY-THREE | TWENTY-FOUR| TWENTY-FIVE | TWENTY-SIX | TWENTY-SEVEN | TWENTY-EIGHT| TWENTY-NINE | THIRTY | THIRTY-ONE | THIRTY-TWO | THIRTY-THREE | THIRTY-FOUR | THIRTY-FIVE | THIRTY-SIX | THIRTY-SEVEN | THIRTY-EIGHT | THIRTY-NINEAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorOceanofPDF.com A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without theirdragon is dead.—ARTICLE ONE, SECTION ONETHE DRAGON RIDER’S CODEXCHAPTERONEConscription Day is always the deadliest. Maybe that’s why the sunrise isespecially beautiful this morning—because I know it might be my last.I tighten the straps of my heavy canvas rucksack and trudge up the widestaircase of the stone fortress I call home. My chest heaves with exertion,my lungs burning by the time I reach the stone corridor leading to GeneralSorrengail’s office. This is what six months of intense physical training hasgiven me—the ability to barely climb six flights of stairs with a thirty-pound pack.I’m so fucked.The thousands of twenty-year-olds waiting outside the gate to enter theirchosen quadrant for service are the smartest and strongest in Navarre.Hundreds of them have been preparing for the Riders Quadrant, the chanceto become one of the elite, since birth. I’ve had exactly six months.The expressionless guards lining the wide hallway at the top of thelanding avoid my eyes as I pass, but that’s nothing new. Besides, beingignored is the best possible scenario for me.Basgiath War College isn’t known for being kind to…well, anyone, eventhose of us whose mothers are in command.Every Navarrian officer, whether they choose to be schooled as healers,scribes, infantry, or riders, is molded within these cruel walls over three years, honed into weapons to secure our mountainous borders from theviolent invasion attempts of the kingdom of Poromiel and their gryphonriders. The weak don’t survive here, especially not in the Riders Quadrant.The dragons make sure of that.“You’re sending her to die!” a familiar voice thunders through thegeneral’s thick wooden door, and I gasp. There’s only one woman on theContinent foolish enough to raise her voice to the general, but she’ssupposed to be on the border with the Eastern Wing. Mira.There’s a muffled response from the office, and I reach for the doorhandle.“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Mira shouts as I force the heavy door openand the weight of my pack shifts forward, nearly taking me down. Shit.The general curses from behind her desk, and I grab onto the back of thecrimson-upholstered couch to catch my balance.“Damn it, Mom, she can’t even handle her rucksack,” Mira snaps,rushing to my side.“I’m fine!” My cheeks heat with mortification, and I force myselfupright. She’s been back for five minutes and is already trying to save me.Because you need saving, you fool.I don’t want this. I don’t want any part of this Riders Quadrant shit. It’snot like I have a death wish. I would have been better off failing theadmission test to Basgiath and going straight to the army with the majorityof conscripts. But I can handle my rucksack, and I will handle myself.“Oh, Violet.” Worried brown eyes look down at me as strong hands bracemy shoulders.“Hi, Mira.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She might be hereto say her goodbyes, but I’m just glad to see my sister for the first time inyears.Her eyes soften, and her fingers flex on my shoulders like she might pullme into a hug, but she steps back and turns to stand at my side, facing our mother. “You can’t do this.”“It’s already done.” Mom shrugs, the lines of her fitted black uniformrising and falling with the motion.I scoff. So much for the hope of a reprieve. Not that I ever should haveexpected, or even hoped for, an ounce of mercy from a woman who’s beenmade famous for her lack of it.“Then undo it,” Mira seethes. “She’s spent her whole life training tobecome a scribe. She wasn’t raised to be a rider.”“Well, she certainly isn’t you, is she, Lieutenant Sorrengail?” Mombraces her hands on the immaculate surface of her desk and leans in slightlyas she stands, looking us over with narrowed, appraising eyes that mirrorthe dragons’ carved into the furniture’s massive legs. I don’t need theprohibited power of mind reading to know exactly what she sees.At twenty-six years old, Mira’s a younger version of our mother. She’stall, with strong, powerful muscles toned from years of sparring andhundreds of hours spent on the back of her dragon. Her skin practicallyglows with health, and her golden-brown hair is sheared short for combat inthe same style as Mom’s. But more than looks, she carries the samearrogance, the unwavering conviction that she belongs in the sky. She’s arider through and through.She’s everything I’m not, and the disapproving shake of Mom’s head saysshe agrees. I’m too short. Too frail. What curves I do have should bemuscle, and my traitorous body makes me embarrassingly vulnerable.Mom walks toward us, her polished black boots gleaming in the magelights that flicker from the sconces. She picks up the end of my long braid,scoffs at the section just above my shoulders where the brown strands startto lose their warmth of color and slowly fade to a steely, metallic silver bythe ends, and then drops it. “Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair.” Her gazesiphons every ounce of my confidence down to the marrow in my bones.“It’s like that fever stole all your coloring along with your strength.” Grief flashes through her eyes and her brows furrow. “I told him not to keep youin that library.”It’s not the first time I’ve heard her curse the sickness that nearly killedher while she was pregnant with me or the library Dad made my secondhome once she’d been stationed here at Basgiath as an instructor and he as ascribe.“I love that library,” I counter. It’s been more than a year since his heartfinally failed, and the Archives are still the only place that feels like homein this giant fortress, the only place where I still feel my father’s presence.“Spoken like the daughter of a scribe,” Mom says quietly, and I see it—the woman she was while Dad was alive. Softer. Kinder…at least for herfamily.“I am the daughter of a scribe.” My back screams at me, so I let my packslip from my shoulders, guiding it to the floor, and take my first full breathsince leaving my room.Mom blinks, and that softer woman is gone, leaving only the general.“You’re the daughter of a rider, you are twenty years old, and today isConscription Day. I let you finish your tutoring, but like I told you lastspring, I will not watch one of my children enter the Scribe Quadrant,Violet.”“Because scribes are so far beneath riders?” I grumble, knowing perfectlywell that riders are the top of the social and military hierarchy. It helps thattheir bonded dragons roast people for fun.“Yes!” Her customary composure slips. “And if you dare walk into thetunnel toward the Scribe Quadrant today, I will rip you out by thatridiculous braid and put you on the parapet myself.”My stomach turns over.“Dad wouldn’t want this!” Mira argues, color flushing up her neck.“I loved your father, but he’s dead,” Mom says, as if giving the weatherreport. “I doubt he wants much these days.” I suck in a breath but keep my mouth shut. Arguing will get me nowhere.She’s never listened to a damned thing I’ve had to say before, and today isno different.“Sending Violet into the Riders Quadrant is tantamount to a deathsentence.” Guess Mira isn’t done arguing. Mira’s never done arguing withMom, and the frustrating thing about it is that Mom has always respectedher for it. Double standard for the win. “She’s not strong enough, Mom!She’s already broken her arm this year, she sprains some joint every otherweek, and she’s not tall enough to mount any dragon big enough to keep heralive in a battle.”“Seriously, Mira?” What. The. Hell. My fingernails bite into my palms asI curl my hands into fists. Knowing my chances of survival are minimal isone thing. Having my sister throw my inadequacies in my face is another.“Are you calling me weak?”“No.” Mira squeezes my hand. “Just…fragile.”“That’s not any better.” Dragons don’t bond fragile women. Theyincinerate them.“So she’s small.” Mom scans me up and down, taking in the generous fitof the cream belted tunic and pants I selected this morning for my potentialexecution.I snort. “Are we just listing my faults now?”“I never said it was a fault.” Mom turns to my sister. “Mira, Violet dealswith more pain before lunch than you do in an entire week. If any of mychildren is capable of surviving the Riders Quadrant, it’s her.”My eyebrows rise. That sounded an awful lot like a compliment, but withMom, I’m never quite sure.“How many rider candidates die on Conscription Day, Mom? Forty?Fifty? Are you that eager to bury another child?” Mira seethes.I cringe as the temperature in the room plummets, courtesy of Mom’sstorm-wielding signet power she channels through her dragon, Aimsir. My chest tightens at the memory of my brother. No one has dared tomention Brennan or his dragon in the five years since they died fighting theTyrrish rebellion in the south. Mom tolerates me and respects Mira, but sheloved Brennan.Dad did, too. His chest pains started right after Brennan’s death.Mom’s jaw tightens and her eyes threaten retribution as she glares atMira.My sister swallows but holds her own in the staring competition.“Mom,” I start. “She didn’t mean—”“Get. Out. Lieutenant.” Mom’s words are soft puffs of steam in the frigidoffice. “Before I report you absent from your unit without leave.”Mira straightens her posture, nods once, and pivots with militaryprecision, then strides for the door without another word, grabbing a smallrucksack on the way out.It’s the first time Mom and I have been alone in months.Her eyes meet mine, and the temperature rises as she takes a deep breath.“You scored in the top quarter for speed and agility during the entranceexam. You’ll do just fine. All Sorrengails do just fine.” She skims the backsof her fingers down my cheek, barely grazing my skin. “So much like yourfather,” she whispers before clearing her throat and backing up a few steps.Guess there are no meritorious service awards for emotional availability.“I won’t be able to acknowledge you for the next three years,” she says,sitting back on the edge of her desk. “Since, as commanding general ofBasgiath, I’ll be your far superior officer.”“I know.” It’s the least of my concerns, considering she barelyacknowledges me now.“You won’t get any special treatment just because you’re my daughter,either. If anything, they’ll come after you harder to make you proveyourself.” She arches an eyebrow.“Well aware.” Good thing I’ve been training with Major Gillstead for the last several months since Mom made her decree.She sighs and forces a smile. “Then I guess I’ll see you in the valley atThreshing, candidate. Though you’ll be a cadet by sunset, I suppose.”Or dead.Neither of us says it.“Good luck, Candidate Sorrengail.” She moves back behind her desk,effectively dismissing me.“Thank you, General.” I heft my pack onto my shoulders and walk out ofher office. A guard closes the door behind me.“She’s batshit crazy,” Mira says from the center of the hallway, rightbetween where two guards are positioned.“They’ll tell her you said that.”“Like they don’t already know,” she grinds out through clenched teeth.“Let’s go. We only have an hour before all candidates have to report, and Isaw thousands waiting outside the gates when I flew over.” She startswalking, leading me down the stone staircase and through the hallways tomy room.Well…it was my room.In the thirty minutes I’ve been gone, all my personal items have beenpacked into crates that now sit stacked in the corner. My stomach sinks tothe hardwood floor. She had my entire life boxed.“She’s fucking efficient, I’ll give you that,” Mira mutters before turningmy way, her gaze passing over me in open assessment. “I was hoping I’d beable to talk her out of it. You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant.”“So you’ve mentioned.” I lift an eyebrow at her. “Repeatedly.”“Sorry.” She winces, dropping to the ground and emptying her pack.“What are you doing?”“What Brennan did for me,” she says softly, and grief lodges in mythroat. “Can you use a sword?”I shake my head. “Too heavy. I’m pretty quick with daggers, though.” Really damned quick. Lightning quick. What I lack in strength, I make upfor in speed.“I figured. Good. Now, drop your pack and take off those horrible boots.”She sorts through the items she’s brought, handing me new boots and ablack uniform. “Put these on.”“What’s wrong with my pack?” I ask but drop my rucksack anyway. Sheimmediately opens it, ripping out everything I’d carefully packed. “Mira!That took me all night!”“You’re carrying way too much, and your boots are a death trap. You’llslip right off the parapet with those smooth soles. I had a set of rubber-bottomed rider boots made for you just in case, and this, my dear Violet, isthe worst case.” Books start flying, landing in the vicinity of the crate.“Hey, I can only take what I can carry, and I want those!” I lunge for thenext book before she has a chance to toss it, barely managing to save myfavorite collection of dark fables.“Are you willing to die for it?” she asks, her eyes turning hard.“I can carry it!” This is all wrong. I’m supposed to be dedicating my lifeto books, not throwing them in the corner to lighten my rucksack.“No. You can’t. You’re barely thrice the weight of the pack, the parapet isroughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground, and last timeI looked, those were rain clouds moving in. They’re not going to give you arain delay just because the bridge might get a little slick, sis. You’ll fall.You’ll die. Now, are you going to listen to me? Or are you going to join theother dead candidates at tomorrow morning’s roll call?” There’s no trace ofmy older sister in the rider before me. This woman is shrewd, cunning, anda touch cruel. This is the woman who survived all three years with only onescar, the one her own dragon gave her during Threshing. “Because that’s allyou’ll be. Another tombstone. Another name scorched in stone. Ditch thebooks.”“Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest.