Page 7 of Silvercloak

On the other side of the enormous double doors, a muffled din of chatter swelled. Who would be judging from the raised gallery on the southern side of the atrium? Captain Aspar, of course, and their other superior officers, but Auria suspected higher-ups from the King’s Cabinet were here to cherry-pick the most sparkling candidates for House Arollan’s own court.

Not that Saffron would accept any other offer.

She was fated to be a Silvercloak.

That fate was her god, her faith, her church. That fate was the only reason she was still standing. It had been written in the defining moment of her life—she believed that with her whole being.

Saffron shoved open the high double doors and gasped at what lay beyond.

INSIDE THE CAVERNOUS GRAND ATRIUM STOOD A RECONSTRUCTIONof an Augurest temple, hewn from pale stone and surrounded by red-leafed trees.

Augurest temples were shaped like an open eye: two curved outer walls sharpening into points where they met, with a domed purple roof. Inside was a winding spiral of a corridor, like an iris, leading into the central worship chamber—the pupil. They were designed to honor the prophetic power of the Five Augurs but were famously a hostage liability. Once intruders entered the spiral corridor, the worshippers in the central chamber became trapped.

Sure enough, this looked like a re-creation of a hostage situation. Two burly men flanked the arched entrance, wearing long scarlet robes with the moon phases embroidered in black and gold, the unmistakable ruby pins at their throats.

Bloodmoons.

Everything in Saffron bristled at the sight of them. Even though she knew these men were just Silvercloaks playing dress-up, even though she knew this wasn’t real, her body rose to the threat like the hairs on a fallowwolf’s scruff standing on end.

All at once she was six years old again, watching the murder of herparents through a narrow golden keyhole. The charred flesh, the reek of ash and honey. The slump of her father’s body as it hit the ground. The surge of raw horror in her chest.

Instead of shaking it off, she leaned into the pain of the memory. She could either suppress it, or she coulduseit, and she’d already come this far with the latter.

The cadets crossed the Grand Atrium’s threshold as a unit, and Sebran’s pine wand soared into Vertillon’s outstretched hand. Nissa cupped her palm to her ear, receiving her alternative information.

Saffron’s leg, of course, did not freeze as it should. But she was used to pretending.

She altered her gait, dragging her left foot behind her like a corpse.

“Welcome, candidates,” boomed Captain Aspar, their commanding officer, though she was nowhere to be seen. The room’s acoustics had been enchanted to amplify the voices inside it, and her words tremored, slightly distorted. “In the worship chamber, there are twelve hostages. The temple has been taken by an unknown number of Bloodmoons. You are to rescue the hostages with as few casualties as possible. As always, no killing spells—useeffigiasto turn your foes into statues, to represent death, but only when strictly necessary. The best cohort in the Academy’s history retrieved all twelve hostages while taking every Bloodmoon alive. That is the standard you should be aiming for. Good luck.”

The six cadets all turned to stare at one another.

“Taking every Bloodmoon alive?” muttered Nissa, dropping her hand from her ear. “Why wouldthatbe a priority?”

“Intelligence,” replied Gaian. “You know, the reason we’re here.”

“And so that innocent hostages aren’t murdered in retribution.” Auria’s voice was hollow, echoey—their voices too were amplified by the room’s enchanted acoustics. She tucked a lock of frizzy ginger hair behind her pale ear. “At first glance, I think this is a reconstruction of the Temple of Augur Amuilly, in the apothecary district. It was built roughly seven hundred years ago, meaning its walls are approximately forty-eight inches thick, and it won’t have an escape tunnel, like some of the newer temples. Could you burrow one, Nissa?”

“I’m not a fuckingmole,” Nissa seethed.

A frown notched between Auria’s brows. “No, but Wielders can manipulate earth. I don’t know why you have to be so—”

“Not sure that’s the best solution.” Peacemaking Tiernan scratched his head, looking up at the glittering purple dome. “My father always impressed on me the importance of community relations. What if we accidentally damage the temple? What if we burrow too hard or deep and destroy its foundations? If the whole thing crumbles to the ground, not only have we killed the hostages, but we’ve also decimated the Silvercloaks’ reputation amongst the Augurest community.”

Nissa rolled her eyes. “Fuck the community.”

Gaian smirked. “You know, it’s never clear what you’re arguing for or against.”

“Maybe I just like arguing.” Nissa’s fingers twitched to her lips, as though smoking a phantom achullah.

Saffron swallowed hard and looked away, trying desperately hard not to remember how their naked bodies felt intertwined, Saff’s soft edges pressing against Nissa’s hard planes, candle wax dripping over her bare hip—that tantalizing line between pain and pleasure, where the finest magic bloomed.

“What information were you given?” Auria asked Nissa.

Nissa paused for a second. “I’m not sure I should share.”

Auria clenched her fist around her slim wand. She and Nissa clashed so often that Gaian had started a tally.

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