He nodded, unsurprised. “All right. Before we go, let me make one thing clear, Sebastian,” he said gravely. “The only reason I’m even considering this is because the Order is so fractured, and the hierarchy within St. George is nearly nonexistent. If what you say is true, then my duty is to defend my chapterhouse and the soldiers who live there at all costs. That said, I would watch your back when we get there. I can protect you from the soldiers when we arrive, but don’t think you’re going to be welcomed back with open arms. You’re still a traitor and a dragonlover, and everyone in St. George knows what you’ve done. This is a temporary truce at best. And if your dragon friends do show up, I won’t order them shot on sight, but they should stay as far away from the soldiers as they can. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied once more. It wasn’t ideal; I knew my former brothers despised me just as much as the dragons they fought. I knew I was still a traitor, still the enemy in their eyes. Much like Kain, there were several soldiers I could think of who would want retribution and might try to take it out of me themselves. Those same soldiers would be enraged if a group of dragons showed up at the chapterhouse, even ones who were supposed to be allies. I would have to be careful, to protect both myself and my “scaly friends” from my former brothers. If they hurt Ember, or any hatchling in Riley’s network, I would never forgive myself.

Still, though I would have to be cautious and tread very lightly, it was a huge first step. Martin had listened to us. He’d spoken to Ember without trying to kill her. And for the first time in history, a group of dragons would be allowed inside St. George. This would change everything.

If Riley decided to show, that was. And any of us were still alive after the Night of Fang and Fire.

Martin nodded and gestured to a black jeep a few spaces down. “All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s move out.”

As I followed him into the vehicle and closed the door, I was struck by a vague sense of déjà vu. I’d been in this jeep with Martin only once before, but I remembered it as clearly as if had been yesterday. Six years ago, when he’d picked me up from the Academy of St. George, and we’d driven to attend Lucas Benedict’s funeral.

Martin didn’t look at me, but I wondered if he remembered, too.