Page 33 of Power of Draken

It’s the same laugh she had for Logan yesterday when he lifted her over the training yard fence; and the day before, when he bumped her shoulder as they broke formation. And every day for the past week. Every day since I tasted Rowan’s mouth in that forsaken workshop and then left her standing there with no explanation.

An unwelcome tightness grips my chest, cinching tighter as I watch Logan casually drape an arm around Rowan. Has she noticed yet that for all the contact Logan makes, it’s always him touching her and not the other way around? Has she picked up on his practiced habit of gracefully catching women’s hands and redirecting the movements with such skill that few ever notice the pattern? Does she know that he always ruts clothed and from behind? Does she find it odd?

My teeth grind together at the thought of Rowan knowing how Logan ruts.

“You alright, mate?” Kyrian slaps a bowl of venison stew on my tray, since I seem incapable of basic tasks. When I fail to answer at once, he shakes his head. “Fine. Look, there’s Logan.” He motions to the table I’ve been so carefully avoiding and whistles. "Those two seem to be getting on well. Let’s go see how well.”

The hint of amusement in Kyrian’s eyes says he knows exactly how much salt he’s pouring into a wound. Bastard.

“I need to go.” I slap my stew back on Kyrian‘s tray. “Eat mine. Not hungry anyway.”

“Where are you going?”

Good question. “I’ll go to the commandant,” I say, making a quick decision. “I’m supposed to be taking one hundred and twenty toddlers out in two days, and I still know nothing of the assignment.” It’s all true. Irrelevant, but true.

“Aye. Good idea. See if you can get a visual on the steel transport plans while you are there,” Kyrian says, already striding purposefully towards where Rowan and Logan are sitting. Huddling. Doing everything that I’m not.

I mean to leave right away but find myself standing there instead, rooted to the spot as Kyrian approaches Rowan, his characteristic easy confidence billowing about him like a cape. He slides onto the bench beside her, bumping her shoulder and nearly brushing his hand over her belly as he reaches over to add his own marks to the slate.

None of them look back at me as I finally manage to get my feet moving again. What does it matter that Logan and Kyrian get to sit next to Rowan, inhale her scent, and make her laugh? Their pleasure is only temporary. Maybe they’re doing this to torment me—they absolutely are doing this to torment me—but ultimately, they’re just hurting themselves.

Because Rowan will only hate them that much more when the truth eventually comes out.

Chapter 17

Kai

Idon’t succeed at securing a meeting with the commandant. The following day, however—barely twenty-four hours before the major two week field exercise is supposed to start—the woman finally condescends to gather everyone together on the parade grounds for a briefing. Standing in front of the formation, I hold my hands behind my back, my grip tight to keep from letting my annoyance show. I should have been told the details well before now, then allowed to brief the troops under my command.

Except these aren’t really troops and I’m not truly in charge. Not in this world.

Born a few minutes after my twin, Autumn, I’d been the presumptive future general commander of Slait Court’s forces since birth. Autumn, being the heir, got the raw end of the deal—but she’s always played her more difficult part with a great deal more grace and competence than I managed mine. Even when I was still trying. My time in Slait’s military, attempting to live up to the expectations of all five of my parents, turned into the first in a series of many spectacular failures. But even at my earliest military education, I’d been in charge of thousands of soldiers.

And now here I am, in charge of a hundred and twenty humans, none of whomhave even seen real battle. Hells, I’m pretending to be one of them. Perhaps being treated like an adult really isn’t a fair expectation.

Commandant Ainsley stands before the assembled cadets, her posture rigid. I don’t understand how someone like her produced a daughter as caring as Rowan. Then again, my own parents managed to produce both Autumn and me, so there is that. Balance of the universe.

"Tomorrow, you commence a two-week field exercise," the commandant announces with her signature cool detachment. I study her closely, trying to find the similarities with Rowan’s features. They’re subtle. The angle of her cheek bones, the minute gesture of the shoulder. Not the eyes though. Commandant Ainsely’s are washed out silver gray, while Rowan’s are deliciously hazel, a perfect complement to her chestnut hair. The commandant lifts her chin—another trait she’d gifted to Rowan—and continues. “You will be simulating a reconnaissance mission. Your targets are waypoints set up in various locations, ranging up to a five-day march from Spire East. Each cadet must check in to at least three waypoints, and you must cover all waypoints between the lot of you. Maps will be provided to the command cadre at the end of formation. Commander Grayson, you may dispatch your forces as you see fit.”

Behind me, several cadets exhale in relief, probably thinking this a navigation game. I don’t believe that for a moment. The Spire doesn’t repeat exercises from year to year, so I’ve no idea what the commandant has planned, but I know that she does nothing which doesn’t also benefit her sister’s hold on power. There is more coming. There has to be. If Ainsley is going to send a hundred twenty Spire cadets into the wild, she’ll extract something from it.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, cutting through her theatrics. “But reconnaissance is usually done in enemy territory. Therefore, what hostile forces can we expect here?”

A mirthless smile crosses Ainsley's face and I know I’ve hit the mark. "You are quite correct. So make a hostile territory for the Spire we shall.” She pauses for a beat, surveying all the cadets who hang on her every word. “All non-military Eryndor citizens within the exercise radius have been incentivized to hinder your mission. Spire East will pay out bounties to them for successful engagements."

"And what are the bounty rules?" I ask.

Ainsley holds up a necklace with a flat metal tag. "Each cadet will receive one of these to wear, and be issued a unique codeword. The ‘enemy force’ will be paid bounties in the amount of a silver mark for each captured tag, a gold mark for each body of a cadet brought to the Spire, and five gold for each cadet returned alive with the captor having learned their prisoner’s codeword.”

The commandant lets that sink in before continuing, her voice hardening. "Any cadet who permits their tag to be captured will be flogged at the conclusion of the exercise. Those who expose their codeword will face worse. We typically expect a ten percent casualty rate during the first field exercise of a fusion year, but I do hope you will pleasantly surprise me with better numbers.”

My stomach churns in disgust as fear permeates the courtyard behind me. Ainsley’s acceptable casualties for a training exercise would horrify any decent commander in Slait. And those are fae warriors with centuries of experience on killing fields. But this is the way of Eryndor. Control through brutality and fear.

Clever crow, Ulyssus remarks.

He isn’t wrong. This particular ploy is savagely clever in light of the civilian unrest the most recent round of conscriptions caused. For less coin than it would take to sustain a platoon, Ainsley just pitted the most capable of the potential rebels into open combat with trained cadets. By the end of two weeks, both the weaker cadets and the most active malcontents will have been culled from play.

To top it off, the surviving cadets will have learned to kill any civilians who rise up against the crown’s forces.

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