This place smells of dragons, Tieran told her.

“I descend from a long line of Society members. My grandmother, Enara, and great-grandfather, Coen, were both dragon riders,” she informed him.

But not Kivrin. He’d lost the tournament to Lorian, and the feud had existed ever since. A feud she was currently embroiled in.

One of the greats was here, Tieran explained. This will be fertile training grounds.

A lump formed in her throat, and she could just nod. As much as she hated what had been done to her, she’d never thought she’d see Waisley again. She still loved it so.

She slid off of Tieran’s back and retrieved her belongings, patting his back. “We’ll call when we start training.”

Good. I’m more than ready.

“Me too.”

Fordham dropped off of Netta and stood passively by as she collected herself. She’d seen his home in the House of Shadows and his love-hate relationship with it. Now, it was his turn to witness it on her end.

“Might as well go,” she said.

He nodded and fell into step beside her as they walked to the north side of the house and up the gravel trail. A butler awaited their entrance, bowing deeply.

“Mistress Argon,” he said formally. “Master Ollivier, welcome to Waisley.”

“Hello, Warby,” Kerrigan greeted him. “Is my father in?”

“Indeed, young mistress. He arrived last week and has been informed of your presence.”

“Swell,” she muttered.

“Allow me to escort you into the residence. Bedrooms are being prepared for you at present. I have refreshments in the sitting room.”

Kerrigan nodded. Warby was exactly as she remembered him. A tall, rounded Fae male with thin blond hair and an angular nose. He wore House of Cruse livery and had been with the family for generations. His father before him and his father before him had worked for the Argons. Now, his children resided in Waisley and would take over for him.

Warby opened the enormous double wood doors, and Kerrigan stepped back in time. Everything was precisely the same. As if no time at all had passed since she had last been here. Tightly woven rugs lined the hardwood floor. Gilded framed paintings of Argons past littered the walls. An enormous life-sized portrait of Mistress Enara Argon, the last Society member and revered mistress of Waisley, sat in a place of prominence at the top of the winding staircase.

Her throat tightened, and before she could say a word, Kivrin strode into the room, plucking gloves off of his hands. “Kerrigan,” he said in surprise. Though she had no idea if it was genuine. “I thought you’d be in Rosemont.”

“That was the plan,” she said. “But Fordham and I have some training to do. I thought I’d show him around in the meantime.”

Fordham bowed to her father. “Sir.”