The time has finally come. Stepping outside of House Sivus with my marked at my back and four dragons riling in my head prove I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for the event.

  “Everything is as it’s meant to be.” Boeru holds close to my shoulder, staring up at the cloudy sky.

  “You sure about that?” I gaze along with him as the rest of the house gathers near the front door. “Something feels way off. Maybe it’s just nerves.”

  “Head up, mortal. You have trained every second of every day for this moment. Break through the glass, gain your ascension, and let us chase the Elden ways together.”

  “So you’ve finally come to terms?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Sefene watches over us from a plane I cannot yet reach, while my oaths are right in front of me.” He huffs. “I am by your side, as is my roost.”

  Hearing that proclamation from a legendary dragon makes it easy to square my shoulders.

  “Call to Arms.” Jurso tightens his lips, flipping through an ominous tome. “The death toll this time last year was over a hundred. Do you think…?”

  Rogo slaps the book shut in his face, blowing Jurso’s hair back. “Time for reading and worrying is done, I think. We’ll catch you like we did on the climb, little one.”

  “Yeah, cause if you don’t, you’re all dead now,” Jurso says, and the marked chuckle.

  “Look, the other houses are gathering.” Layla nods a far way down to the west, where House Kavoh sends its strongest to line up at the front. Dovesier’s sharp sight allows me to pick apart even the armor they’ve decided to wear, but I blink the power away so as not to waste any energy.

  Each of us don our most prized weapons—Izfael’s treasures. One per person that was earned through the rigorous process set in place. They’ve been chipped and polished and sharpened as needed, and now we’re ready to show the spectators what we’re made of.

  Ssssrrf!

  House Lord Karloth whooshes into existence at the forefront of Sivus’ lawn. In a further display of alt-magic, he clenches his fist to reveal his ring leaders—Aster among them. It’s been quite the rollercoaster with the Sivus leaders. Ultimately, though, we’re all getting along. Aster put his envy behind him when I visited his quarters to clear the air, and Karloth seems to like me in the headquarters far better than he did Izfael—because I don’t step on his toes every chance I get. I’m finding it’s not too hard to maintain political stature, so long as there’s a sense of integrity in actions and words.

  Sure, I had to put out a few fires lit by Rogo’s and Misty’s mouths, but nothing the lot of us can’t handle.

  My thoughts fly in every direction to avoid the nerves accompanied by this day. I’m terrified of what awaits us on the other side of the sanctum… beyond the great lawn behind House Valor—where the prevailing Elden construction is to house our Call to Arms event.

  Have the spectators already been called?

  Are they already there?

  “First-year cadets.” Karloth lifts back his hood. “A few words before we begin our march to the grand event.”

  The silence that Karloth allows in between his speech reactivates all my nerves. To think Kane might be among the audience today. I’ll know the truth of what he’s become—and whatever that is, I’ll bring him back.

  “Let me start by saying this year has been far from ordinary. In one fell swoop, I lost my highest earners—Drydon by my trading hand, and Izfael by his own—”

  I appreciate the house lord’s discretion in leaving my name out of it. The last thing I want is to rehash being dragged as a murderer that awful day.

  “And from those ashes, I have gained powerful leaders. Klendan Huff and his clan.” He motions to the other side of the line, where the cadets lift their weapons. “Ophara Hunt and hers!” He points again. “And last but not least, our very own dragonborn and his marked… Haledyn Winbridge!”

  The cadets cheer. All of them cheer.

  “Today, I want you all to forget that the sanctum is part of Miria. Forget that the houses are your brothers and sisters… for they will forget you. This is the ultimate training grounds for the war upstairs. Treat it as such, or fail to at your own peril.”

  Another long silence lets the gravity set in. We’re striking to kill today. If nothing else is clear, that much is.

  “And those of you whose names I have not shouted, do not fret. Call to Arms shuffles all fame. New warriors will bud, others will fall, because the pressure of war shows everyone’s true rise from fear. Today, you are House Sivus. Wear the emblem of balance well, for it will lead you to victory!”

  The cadets cheer, and across the way, I see Kavoh doing the same. We’re all being amped up for something truly epic. It feels like we’re about to ride into battle… because we are.

  As Karloth spins on his heel in lockstep with his ring leaders, us cadets follow, and Renesta finds her way to my ear.

  “The air is hazy today, Haledyn.” She gazes to the sky with a wide smile on her face.

  “What’s with the look?” I pull back to better analyze her.

  “Are you saying you’re not excited to see more Elden magic at play? It’s the true bane of my envy.”

  “You’re acting strange. I need you at full attention if we’re to win this, Ren. You’ve been showing up to practice, and leading a lot of the charges. Don’t fall back on me now…” My nerves affect my speech. Everything has to be perfect if I’m going to win the eye of a war hero.

  She eyes me, scanning my lips, reminding me of intimate times shared. “You say I’m the one acting strange, but indeed it is you. Don’t be clouded today of all days, Haledyn.”

  The giddiness in her step belongs with Misty. Misty’s trepidation belongs with Layla, and Jurso’s excitement belongs with me. We’re all off, today of all days. Maybe that’s what House Lord meant by pressure creating new heroes.

  I clench my fist to activate the mix of symbiotic pressure and antagonistic drumbeat pulses. It’s all alive within me… at my beck and call.

  Confidence replaces my jitters. Renesta’s right. This is no time to show weakness.

  The summer breeze is a godsend to withstand the heat. It’s not that the temperature is so high, but rather our armor is too snug, bodies packed too closely together. It makes the air around me thick. And the smell of fresh landscaping is overwhelmed by cadet fear. I’ve shared the same scent in the stables back in the sub-tier, but Boeru’s nose makes it that much more potent.

  “Remember, Haledyn, you juggle the souls of four dragons. Use them carefully, find your balance, because if we sense you depleting, we will have no choice but to pull away to preserve your life,” Boeru speaks in my ear.

  “You underestimate me still, Boe?”

  “On the contrary, I think you’ll blow past your limits this day.”

  “That’s more like it.” I squeeze a pulse of power through my arms. “Will Scorius be able to see you from far away?”

  “Our tactics seem to have worked thus far. We fly high overhead whenever he’s close. The traitor…”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Still don’t believe him, huh?” I cock my head to side-eye the dragon in my mind’s eye.

  “He reeks of hidden agenda.”

  “So does Renesta. But you branded her with your mark.”

  “Mmph,” he chuffs. “Now is not the time to question my decisions. Nor is it time to question yours.”

  I nod, internalizing his point.

  As we march down the west path toward House Kavoh—a quarter mile behind their marching cadets—I start to see it peeking in the distance. A hilly obstacle course with a teetering bridge, flags, and caves that stretches for a mile in either direction.

  “Holy gods.” Jurso grabs onto my shoulder. “Look at that fucking thing. It’s as tall as the sanctum.”

  It’s true. I suspect there’s a gaping canyon beneath the bridges and will be the cause of many deaths today. Eyeing some of the pledges behind me, I hold my gaze on Tesstalia, telling her she better do her best to defend from the sky if the rumors of aerial combat are true.

  Rrrrscrrrr!

  A screech cracks the air as a mother wyvern descends from the clouds. Its wings are the size of Dovesier’s easy, making me rethink whether the ancient dragons are the largest.

  “Our audience descends.” Karloth points to the flock of heavily armored gryphon riders soaring down in prime formation.

  My heart skips a beat. They’re big and burly, and could very well be part of the Barristan lineage. But what are the chances? Thousands are coming to watch, apparently.

  The gryphons caw while gripping the concave perch of the visitor section. The magi it must’ve taken to build an entire set of stands above the great wall is something I can’t even fathom.

  “There it is.” Renesta points over my shoulder to a hole in the ground beaming with dark energy. “And here they come.”

  Relias rises in his wind sphere with open arms, lifting himself to the stands in a flash. More Danes join him, huddled in wind spheres of their own.

  “Is the whole damn Sept invited?” Rogo snarls. “Going to lop off some heads and hurl them at those pricks to tell ’em they’re next.”

  “Still harboring that hatred, I see.” Jurso raises his eyebrows.

  “You should too, little prick. They had you primed for the incinerator. Never gave us any dragon spirits.”

  “They didn’t give Hale one either. He fucking earned it.” Jurso nudges him.

  I smile with them to my back. Jurso’s wrong. The part with the dragon was luck. Boeru said my act of selflessness in the face of certain death, the fearlessness to face it… those were the characteristics that bound us. How was I to know?

  From there, however, I earned the rest.

  “Hope you all memorized your lineages.” Jurso points. “Because I think I just spotted mine.”

  A handful of spectators with white capes clasped over shimmering golden armor stand tall over the ledge, flanked by full-grown phoenixes.

  “I think that’s the symbol.” Jurso squints to better see. “Wings and a hammer.”

  “Wings and a hammer,” I agree. “That’s them, Jurs.”

  “Gods. To think… my father, Jursento Astervon the Second, is here among us. Who’s got the magi to amplify my middle finger for him?”

  I chuckle and cover his hand. “Now’s not the time to make a scene, friend.”

  “Then when is?” I notice Jurso growing serious with emotion. “The bastard left me to die. All of us.” He swings his hand around. “We were all left to die by those coming to judge us.”

  “Hey!” Layla claps her shield. “Save that anger for the arena. Gods know we’ll need it.”

  “Whatever you want to say to your father, Jurs, you say it in battle. That’s the best we can do.” I put my arm over his shoulder. “We’re family. Us.” I hit my chest. “Not them.”

  He nods, biting back his anger. “I know, Hale. I know. I owe you everything.”

  “Think you paid us back tenfold at this point, huh?” Rogo slaps the little man’s shoulder. “That bliss is heavenly.”

  “Yeah, yeah. For some reason, it’s always the first favor that sticks.” Jurso’s cheek twitches.

  “We’ve come a long way since that day in the Sept, my friend.” I smile.

  “No shit.”

  As we get closer to the immense Elden construction, we all awe at its expanse. Scorius wasn’t kidding—a wall-to-wall maze of long dips, curves, caves, and perches stands tall. The side facing us is left open like a cracked egg, providing a wide view of the waterfalls summoned within its center. Mud slides change the landscape every few minutes, and the thunder of a melting glacier on the far-west side sends shivers through me as pieces roll down the hill.

  I’ve never felt so prepared for anything in my life. Thinking back to my lashings in the sub-tier… I don’t hate House Mother anymore. Kavoh had its ways of tempering our blood, and because of them, I don’t fear what awaits me. Being stabbed in the heart in the Sept’s chamber solidified my resolve. Going nearly mad with the echoes of Shade Milk means I can endure torture even better than my dragon.

  I’m ready to ascend.

  To save my brother.

  I have a roost of dragons in my arsenal to prove it.

  Endless cadets file up the nature-made steps—many of them second, third, fourth, and fifth years that continue up to the stands, while first years are directed left. It reminds me of that night all over again. The Danes lining us up to be judged by a council. Hell, they’re actually standing among the crowd. Though this time it’s more diverse. All tiers have come. They’re not only separated by attire, but demeanor as well. Warriors from the war-tier are most obvious. Hardened eyes and bodies teem with magi. They’re ready to activate their power at a moment’s notice. The Danes, on the other hand, are more brooding creatures. Hidden beneath their robes, they conspire like they always have. Then there’s the donors and castle lords, draped in flowing robes or ornamental armor as if no one could ever touch them.

  I wonder where we’ll all land at the end of this. Is there a future castle lord among my marked? It’d have to be Renesta. She’s the primmest, despite herself. Jurso in name should be, but I get the impression he’ll be sticking by my side. Hell, I hope they all do.

  “Why do you fight?” I whisper to Jurso, looking up to the growing crowd.

  “Because I’m not dead,” he whispers back.

  I chortle.

  “Look, Hale, I should’ve been dead in that Seal arena, but you saved me. Then I should’ve been marched back to exile in the sub-tier… but you chose me. Now I’m here, useful against all my insecurities. I’m going to war with you, Hale. Literally.”

  I slap his back. “Good man.” To my other side, Lay stands with narrowed eyes and a confident smirk, as if she’s ready to challenge even the generals who’ve descended to watch. She looks regal with that bronze-blue breast plate she chose from Izfael’s treasures.

  “You ready, guard?”

  “As I ever will be.”

  “We’ve come a long way from taking beatdowns from brutes, huh?”

  “A long gods-damn way.”

  A man descends on a silver-scaled dragon. His eyes are nearly all white, with the faintest blue irises that I can only see when they move. His hair is feathery and two-toned—black and brown, like mine. His black tunic is lightly made for nimbleness—black, with silver buttons crisscrossing a gray rope.

  “Hale…” Layla leans forward. “That man… looks like you.”

  I was thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to believe it. A fresh shot of angry adrenaline roars through my veins, activating the steam of the dragons swirling in my head.

  “A Winbridge,” Dovesier snickers. “I can blast him out of the sky right now, little mortal. Say the word.”

  I shrug Dovesier back.

  “That must be my father,” I say.

  “He looks rich.” Jurso tilts his head. “And here I thought I was the royal one.”

  Blissful branches suddenly grow from the sky like a slow bolt of white-gold lightning, gently curling and unfurling to mold into a magical creature by my assumed father’s side. Her bright skin cools into a human form. Flowy hand gestures and a straight expression make her seem immortal. And when she caresses the maw of my father’s dragon… more questions come up.

  “Looks kind of like a supped-up version of Mal from batch thirty-one,” Lay comments.

  “That woman is undoubtedly a seederborn,” Renesta chimes in.

  “Imagine if she’s a Winbridge too?” Jurso says. “Maybe awakenings run in the family.”

  “Maybe that’s why your parents threw you to the sub-tier, even being rich, prissy bitches,” Rogo cackles.

  I’m at a loss for words.

  “What you think, guide?” Lay nudges me back.

  “I think we’re jumping to conclusions. They might have nothing to do with my lineage.” Just as I say the words, a comet of black matter strikes down in front of my assumed parents. Cracked stone flies in all directions, reduced to dust in the air by the hidden Elden mage. And when the fog clears, an angry, distorted face with slithery warring dark emerges. I’ve seen it before… in the echo.

  “Kane.”

  When the seederborn’s hand abandons the dragon to caress Kane’s shoulder, it’s all but confirmed… I’m staring at my lineage.

  “What happened to him?” Layla frowns.

  “The same thing that happened to Elrick,” I say.

  “This is something far worse, Haledyn.” Layla is at a loss.

  “Don’t you worry. I’m going to bring him back from that ghoul’s hold. I’ve been researching the one who possesses him—Krenick the Vile.”

  “Careful, Hale. These are ranks beyond steel in our sanctum. We don’t even know what comes after.”

  “I’ve toppled the ranking system before, Jurs. I have it in me. I know I do.” Grabbing Jurso’s arm, I point to his mark. “And you do too.” I straighten. “Call to Arms is a powerful stepping stone that we’re all going to use to catapult us. Are you ready?”

  “Born fucking ready.” Misty sharpens her blades.

  “Hell yeah.” Rogo grabs his axe and growls at the audience.

  “Good. Because I’m volunteering us first.”

  Over the next half hour, more elites descend past the clouds to take their spots for the event. I had no idea the sanctum was this popular, and that the tutors were serious about grooming the next generation of soldiers.

  To my left—about fifty cadets down—Broggen made his way to the front with his brutes beside him. They’re all strapped with high-end enchanted steel of their own, earned from challenges throughout the year. Scorius thinks him a war mastermind, which rightfully persuaded me to keep a close eye on him the whole way. In battle rank events, every formation centers around him. Cycling weapons into his grasp so he can unlock varying arsenals through warring dark is a mighty attunement, but in all the mythos I’ve studied, I’ve never heard of a general narcissist worth noting.

  He doesn’t trust his brutes. He just uses them.

  My eye scans to Grondus in particular. He’s grown strong in his year here, not just physically, but he might have the most unstable warring dark I’ve noted. Layla will have a tough time getting past him when the two finally strike.

  “Spectators from high and low, I welcome you to Elshard,” Head Magus begins. “Allow my assistant scribe to prime you as we ready ourselves for Miria’s future.”

  Miria… an empire that breeds soldiers down to the very morsels of our blood. It’s not you I fight for…