Page 51

“Aw,” Sabra sings from a few strides away. Her own mount is already leaning into her touch, its mane glowing like molten glass. “Don’t worry, Akemi. Some of us are meant to be warriors. Others… aren’t.”

I grit my teeth and push more magic forward. It burns shallow, like trying to light wet tinder.

“Hey,” Ramona murmurs, passing close by with her speckled mare. “Breathe. Let it meet you halfway.”

I try. The steed lowers its head just a fraction. Not a rejection exactly, so I’ll take this as a win. I swing up as the whistle shrieks.

“Bannerfall rules!” Hogsmith roars. “Teams of two. One banner per team. First to plant it wins. Sabotage encouraged. Ride like it matters!”

The battlefield erupts into motion. The field transforms into a broken maze, and I swear Professor Hogsmith would be an excellent Teller by the way he turns every class into a giant spectacle. Gryphon thunders past me on a bug-eyed beast the size of a roc, whooping as it charges straight through a cluster of mounted cadets.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—SORRY!”

I urge my steed forward. It moves, responsive but restrained, like it’s still deciding whether I’m worth the effort. “Come on, buddy,” I coax it with every scrap of warmth I can muster, my magic flickering instead of flaring.

Sabra cuts across my path, laughing, her banner already tied to her saddle. She throws a blinding flash of light over her shoulder. My vision whites out; my steed stumbles.

By the time I recover, she’s gone.

I push anyway, lungs burning, legs tight around the saddle. I don’t win. Sabra plants her banner first, triumphant and smug. Hogsmith calls the match, clearly pleased.

I slide down, hands shaking, sun magic spent to embers.

I lost. But I stayed mounted.

At the Watch, sometimes that has to be enough.

By the time I make it to the common room, the sting of Bannerfall has dulled into a tired ache behind my ribs. The space is carved straight into the stone of the mountain the castle is perched upon with its low, arched ceiling. The walls are softened by tapestries and floating glow-orbs that hum like sleepy fireflies. Someone has coaxed the hearth to life, and the couches are pulled into a loose, comfortable sprawl that looks decidedly un-military.

Ramona is already there, boots kicked off, feet tucked under her as she sprawls across one couch like she owns it. Silver daggers and rags of polish lay forgotten on the table in front of her. Leaf lounges opposite her, long legs stretched out, tossing a spark of sunlight up and down between his fingers just to show off. Typical.

I collapse between them with a groan.

“Ah,” Leaf says brightly. “The battlefield’s bravest casualty returns.”

“I did not die,” I mutter. “Emotionally or otherwise.”

Ramona snorts. “Debatable. You looked pretty dead when Sabra flashed you.”

Leaf clutches his chest. “Cruel. Truly cruel. Let her mourn her dignity in peace.”

I shove his knee with my foot. “You loved watching my demise. Admit it.”

“I live for it,” he corrects. “Bannerfall is art. Sabra’s victory lap? I heard it was something inspiring.”

“Traitor,” I say, but I’m smiling despite myself.

Ramona leans over and pokes my arm. “You stayed mounted the whole time. That counts.”

“It doesn’t,” I say.

“It does,” she insists. “Hogsmith didn’t have to peel you off the dirt. That’s growth.”

Leaf nods solemnly. “Also, you didn’t cry.”

“I wasn’t going to cry.”

“You absolutely were,” they say together.