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And snuffed out my magic in a tight fist.

Then I left the house.

And said nothing of it to anyone.

I couldn’t sleep or eat, my training was a constant voice in my head, bashing me, that I couldn’t escape. It was the Dragunhead’s words, ironically, that helped. Dig deep in the heart, rely on what I know, and trust it.

Memories come in a flood. Diminishing Beaulah’s ranks at the inn last night. Attacking my own men. Cheating, lying, stealing for my brother when we were little because that’s what it took to protect him.

Disloyalty.

And yet, it feels…good.

More tears come as I glare at the spot on my chest where my Dragunheart pendant used to rest. It was all meaningless. The Dragunhead’s position, his expertise, his experience—none of it made him worthy of magic. His betrayal today proved that. And the brotherhood. Most of them are just more pawns on a chessboard.

The Order is a game of power. One I never wanted to play.

None of the titles I’ve earned make me worthy of magic. My choices prove who I am. It is a seed of a thought I had so long ago, an inkling I dared not fully feel. But it’s as true as the bleeding Sphere.

Magic could do so much good in the world if it weren’t so feared. I think of Quell and Knox. I’m not sure what the answer is anymore. But forcing people to erase parts of themselves isn’t it.

Magic deserves to be preserved. It’s part of who we are as Marked people.

But the Order can burn.

I try again to stand, putting the brunt of my weight on the headstone. But it’s no use. I lie on my side that doesn’t ache, trying to stomach the pain. I need to get to Quell. I have to know if she’s okay. A horse whinnies. Pounding hooves come to a screeching halt right before me. I blink, trying to make sense of the rider’s face. And a person with windblown red hair who I’ve never seen before stares back at me.

Fifty-Eight

Nore

The gentleman’s robes suggested he had quite a high station in the Order. But the fine handle of the dagger protruding from his chest bore a coat of arms with each House sigil and a Dragun talon. Commotion roared in the distance; she gazed over her shoulder in the direction of the graveyard where she had just fled the confrontation with her brother. After gaping at the Sphere and the fight ensuing beneath it, Nore fled. Staying as far from the chaos as she could, she followed trails around to the opposite end of the estate, where there were courtyards instead of graveyards.

How did he get here?

She eyed the man again, took another wary glance over her shoulder, and dismounted. His skin was slick with sweat and blood.

“Excuse me. Are you—” She turned him from his side to his back, laying him flat on the ground. He groaned but opened his eyes. The wound in his chest was fresh. She knew where he’d come from.

“What exactly is the status of the Sphere?” She needed whatever information she could get on whether it would break. The moment it did, her mother would be dead and she would be Headmistress, which complicated everything. But the gentleman only moaned in pain, his eyes rolling in their sockets. She tapped her foot. Ellery could be on her tail. She pushed away Daring’s reins, then whistled, and he ran off. The misdirection should buy her some time.

She sat the man up as best she could, trying to keep him from slouching and deepening the wound. “I need answers, and you’re going to give them to me.” Her mind raced with all she knew from her reading about healing magic. Back when she hoped Shifter magic would favor her. His eyes opened fully. They were green but dark. Like a hurricane ripping apart a meadow.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice weak. She eyed the blade in his chest again. The knife must have hit bone because its tip was stiffly wedged in place.

“We can’t take that out of you without massive blood loss.” Her tongue poked her cheek. He grabbed her hand with a shocking amount of strength, given his state.

“Who are you?”

She straightened, considering how she should answer. She didn’t need Red’s face to be bold. She was talking to a dead man. “I’m Nore Emilie—”

“Ambrose.” His grip tightened. “The red hair and inquisitive determination. I should have known.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Jordan Wexton.”

“The Dragunheart.” She eyed the blade again.