“Look at that face, en? I take it things aren’t going so well?”

Weysh grunted. “Can you at least pretend you’re not enjoying this?”

“En? Why would I be enjoying it?”

“Because you’re like a bedridden old woman with a farscope. You’re always looking for a good scandal.”

“Come now! That’s not true. I just want you to be happy with your Given. You’re like the little brother I never wanted.”

Weysh shoved him. “I’m bigger than you, you ass.”

Harth shoved back. “But not smarter,” he retorted.

“I suppose I’m glad to have finally met her. I was worried.”

“You sound like some old maid sprouting mole hairs. You’re twenty, for the blessing of Byen. The oldest I’ve heard of someone finding their Given is approaching thirty.”

They continued across the quad, ribbing each other until they reached the mouth of the training plain, a green expanse surrounded by rocky, moss-covered cliffs at the far west of campus. General Sol nodded her golden head in greeting as they passed. She always had them walk to the grounds in human form instead of just flying in. She said they needed to learn to observe protocols if they wanted to be leaders in the military someday.

The sight of the bluffs cheered Weysh somewhat. Advanced Aerial Tactics was the class he looked forward to the most this year. The sky overhead was blue, and fluffy clouds lined the horizon like cotton. The air smelled fresh and clean. He grinned at the large, glowing hoops that floated in midair. It looked like they’d be doing precision training today. Some of the others were already there, a colorful array of people lounging on the grass.

“Messer Nolan!” shouted a very familiar, and very unwelcome, voice. “I heard you’ve met your Given!”

Weysh closed his eyes, letting out a loud breath through his nose. If there was any good to be plucked out of the dung pile of the last two days it was that he’d completely forgotten about Luiz Noriago. He was the only one, other than instructors, who called him Messer Nolan like that, a jab at his adopted parentage. Weysh whipped his head toward Harth and glared, but Harth held up his hands.

“It wasn’t me, I swear! I hate him just as much as you, remember?”

No, it was most likely what Weysh liked to call the Dragon Daily—that network of gossip and speculation that plagued dragonkind. He briefly recalled the group that bore witness to his earlier performance with his Given and frowned.

Weysh turned his glare on the man striding up to them. He’d been afflicted with Noriago’s presence ever since the dung worm had transferred to Prevan last year. For some nutty reason Noriago had taken an instant dislike to him.