Page 8 of A Court of Wings and Shadows

It was nearly complete.

She was choosing me.

Chapter

Two

We returned to the Ascension Grounds with the solemn air of warriors who had stared death in the face and carried one of their own to ash. No one joked. No one whispered. Even Jax was quiet, his usual banter muted beneath the burden we all carried.

Major Kaler barked out instructions for combat drills, his voice like steel on stone. “Form pairs. Spar in rotation. If I see any of you holding back, you’ll repeat the entire circuit blindfolded.”

Thrall Squad moved into position, muscles aching, spirits brittle.

Zander stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest, watching us with that cool, calculated expression I’d come to know far too well. He only addressed me when giving instructions, short, precise commands. No comments. No flickers of annoyance or smug remarks. Just the clipped edge of professionalism.

And Remy?

He stood near the Warborn squad, his green and silver armband marking his station. But he watched me the entire time. Every movement I made, every blow I delivered, his eyes followed like they belonged to the past, and he couldn’t quite let go of it.

I ignored him.

Kaelith’s presence pulsed quietly in the back of my mind, and I leaned into it, letting her weight anchor me through every dodge and strike. I let the rhythm of combat drown out everything else.

By the time dusk painted the sky in streaks of gold and ash, we were dismissed. The air was thick with exhaustion and sweat as we filed into the dining hall.

It was unusually quiet.

No laughter. No gossip. Even the nobles kept their voices down. And Perin, gods help me, even Perin didn’t so much as glance my way. His usual sneer was nowhere to be found.

A rider’s death had changed something in all of us.

We might have magic now. Dragons. Strength we’d never dreamed of.

But we weren’t invincible.

Not to the Blood Fae.

The loss of Eilvin made it real.

We finished our meals in near silence and returned to our barracks early. No one spoke as we filed in. Boots were removed. Armor hung. Our beds climbed into like graves.

But Cordelle excused himself without explanation, slipping into the hall with a journal clutched tight beneath his arm.

He returned nearly a half hour later, his pale-blue eyes practically glowing with excitement. He didn’t say a word to the others, just made a beeline for my bunk and dropped down beside me, his weight shifting the mattress.

He looked like he might explode.

“What is it?” I asked, studying his flushed cheeks and barely-contained grin.

Cordelle’s eyes sparkled as he leaned in, lowering his voice like we were plotting a heist instead of talking about ancient lore in the middle of our barracks. He pulled a small satchel from under his cloak and drew out two leather-bound books, their covers old and cracked with age.

“My father just sent these,” he whispered, glancing around as if afraid someone might try to snatch them away. “They were kept in the Lorekeeper’s archives, restricted texts. He slipped them out under the pretense of cataloging damaged volumes.”

I arched a brow. “Are they damaged?”

Cordelle grinned. “Only enough to pass inspection.”

He opened one of the books, the pages brittle and yellowed, and tapped a section with scribbled annotations in the margins.