Page 14 of Phixmery

I finish chewing my last bite and swallow. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Yearwood is still a bit prickly and quiet, but I enjoy her company, and even Rozen’s. They make this place more bearable, even if I’m going to have to leave them one day, and I find it harder each day to keep myself emotionally distant from them.

She searches my face with her sunny yellow eyes, a complete contradiction to her serious personality, before she settles on something. “You can call me Ember if you’d like,” she announces as she rises from the table, taking her tray with her.

But before she can take two paces away, Rozen jumps up. “Can I call you Ember too?”

“No,” she states without hesitation or breaking her pace.

He pouts and a chuckle erupts from me as he glances after her longingly. “She was kidding, right?”

I shake my head and follow after her, stepping over the bench as I go. “No, I don’t think she was. Come on, I don’t want to be late and give Evera even more reason to hate me.”

Our squad works fine together, but thankfully come the second year we will be placed in our permanent squads depending on which faction we end up in. Fingers crossed that Evera and Cresida won’t be in mine.

It’s a miracle I only have to deal with Evera right now, and not Cresida too, but because of her newfound friendship with my childhood tormentor, I find myself not trusting her and watching my back. I never sleep until the rest of the squad is passed out—not since that first day here. There’s just something about her that doesn’t sit right with me, and I can’t put my finger on it. The way Cresida and her whisper and glare at me… I even swear the belongings in my cabinets were moved around. Sometimes I almost let Nero go for her eyes like he keeps begging me to do… almost. I’m behaving myself.

This morning is just the same. The frigid winter morning instantly has all traces of fatigue leaving my body as the three of us make our way to where our squad has gathered, waiting for this morning’s torture. Nero ruffles his feathers and I know he’s itching to take flight and stretch.

“Go on. If I need you, I’ll call,” I tell him softly. “I don’t want a dragon thinking you’re a snack or something, though.”

He caws out a laugh. “The dragons know I’m a familiar, Rav. They won’t harm me, but I promise to stay close.” He nips my nose and takes off.

“So is it true that you can talk with your familiar?” Ember whispers and it startles me. She typically keeps conversation to a minimum.

My chin dips slowly as I peer up at her from the corner of my eye. “Yeah, we communicate telepathically.”

She nods back. “That’s pretty cool,” she whispers succinctly before focusing back in front of her.

Rozen leans down and murmurs in a conspiratorial whisper. “I still vote that he should poop on Commander Rune when he makes us do death runs.”

I stifle a laugh and shake my head. “No, he would know it was me and we would be cleaning out gryphon stalls or worse for the rest of the year, and I don’t need anymore reason to be disliked.” What I don’t tell him is that I need to stay on my best behaviour and hope the rest of our squad does too so I can figure out how to get out of here before I’m discovered.

He sighs, “That’s a shame.”

The commander in question takes that moment to stride into the training yard and we all stand to attention, waiting to see what kind of horrid exercise we are starting off with today.

“Alright everyone, since we have gotten through a week of warm-ups and I see where you all are at, I’m now going to be introducing the combat lessons. Every other day will be Physical Training to help mold those bodies into the best soldiers for Damorleia. During combat lessons, I will have the fourth years join us. Your appointed fourth years will partner up with your squads for the rest of the year; they will be your mentors and guides. You will listen to them and, if not, they have been given rights to hand out punishments as they see fit.”

A hushed murmur goes up in the crowd of first years as the fourth years file in and stand at the Commander’s back, waiting for instruction, looking every part intimidating soldiers: fae males and females with their eyes fixed blankly forward, feet shoulder-width apart and hands folded behind their backs.

Dread settles in my stomach, and I know I’d rather deal with the torture of Physical Training until I drop or empty the contents of my stomach until I’m heaving. I was never invited to participate in the combat training in Shalo for obvious reasons. I know absolutely nothing, and something tells me today is going to be painful in more ways than one. On the bright side, learning to fight will help my chances of escaping, and I’m choosing to focus on the positive of this situation.

Major General Rune calls out squads and begins to pair them off with fourth years. I knew my luck was bad, but when I hear, “Squad Four, you are paired with Wing One!” Evera’s excitement peaks and she squeals at being paired with the legendary Dragon Riders of Phixmery War Academy.

I’ve learned this past week that Wing One includes the three lordly sons, one of each of the Lords of Skyrivene, Allondë, and Imperset. They and two other riders have commanded high respect with their ruthlessness and tactical prowess both on and off the battlefield. And now, we are stuck with them for the foreseeable future.

Maybe I won’t die with their training, so it should be fine… right? At least until I can find a way out. Fucking fates, I hope so.

Once every squad in year one is paired off, we move to meet with the fourth years assigned to us, Ember and Rozen sticking close to my side. My eyes widen as I notice the male with the dragon tattoos along his scalp and I really get a closer look at him. The dull burning starts again. These tunics must not like my skin or something, I think as I rub my hand down the length of my stomach, hoping to alleviate the irritated skin.

He strides towards us in the fighting leathers we all wear. The black leather fits him closely, and under the insignia over his breast sits his rank, sergeant. His dark brown hair is slicked neatly back and shaved down on the sides to expose his beautiful dragon markings and pointed ears. His eyes are so mesmerizing with their golden hue, like miniature suns, especially as they take us in—his new charges. And even though it’s winter, his tanned skin stands out starkly against the bright snow. His chiseled jaw clenches and unclenches adding to his intimidating persona as he continues his stride towards us with his wing. Thanks to Rozen talking about how much he looks up to this wing, wanting to be a Dragon Rider himself, despite Yearwood wanting him to shut up about him, I know this fourth year is Talyn Craven and he’s as gorgeous as he is imposing—he reeks of danger. Although, not nearly as much as the fae male to his left, who towers over his already staggering height.

This male is at least seven feet tall, dwarfing my small frame. His raven-black hair is braided elegantly into numerous tiny braids, his red eyes are narrowed with annoyance and his brutish yet ruggedly handsome face is marred by the scowl that so far seems fixated there. The silver scars littered across his face may seem horrific, but if anything they just accentuate the threat that this male seems to carry with him.

To Talyn’s right is a male with long, pin-straight crimson hair and eyes as green as the evergreens, although a scar runs over his right brow, into his eye and down his cheek, turning the once green eye milky. The silver, puckered scar is stark against his tawny complexion.

I swallow hard. Every instinct has me wanting to run away from the danger these males pose as they stride towards us with the other two of their wing behind them.

Evera is practically panting as she gives Talyn doe eyes, batting her lashes. He gives her a small nod as they come to a halt in front of us.

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