Before she could say anything, I jumped out with a roar, straight into the line of oncoming soldiers, and smoke erupted around me.

EMBER

I realized what the rogue was saying a second too late. With a defiant roar, Cobalt leaped out of cover, straight at the line of St. George soldiers and their guns. Heart seizing, I lunged after him, hoping to get to him in time, knowing it was too late. That I was a heartbeat away from seeing the brave, brash, infuriating rogue gunned down right in front of me.

Time seemed to slow. Just as Cobalt sprang into the open, something tiny sailed through the air and landed between him and the soldiers with a clink. There was a deafening hiss, and white smoke erupted from the object, spraying everywhere and filling the room. Shots rang out from somewhere in the fog, and two of the soldiers I could still see jerked and went down.

“We’re under attack! Take cover!”

More shots cracked, the triple tap of burst fire, and another soldier cried out. Utterly bewildered, I looked around for Cobalt and found him crouched nearby, glaring around warily, clearly as shocked as I was.

“Ember! Riley!”

The breath left my lungs in a forceful explosion. That voice. No, it couldn’t be. He was gone. I’d sent him away myself.

And then, a body emerged from the smoke, M4 in hand, firing into the corners of the room, face grim and determined. For a second, nothing seemed real, as a pair of familiar gunmetal eyes met mine.

“Come on!” Garret Xavier Sebastian snapped, gesturing at us with the gun. “While they’re disoriented! Let’s go!”

PART II

UNDER ONE BANNER

SEBASTIAN

Six years ago

“Garret, are you listening to me?”

I tore my eyes from the window and the ancient Spanish-style monastery looming at the end of the drive. Surrounded by a high stone wall, red tiled roofs peeking over the top, it was an intriguing sight, especially since the number of times I had been outside the Order chapterhouse where I had lived until today could be counted on my fingers.

“Yes, sir,” I said, turning to Benedict, who glared at me from behind the wheel of the Jeep. “I’m listening.”

“Really? Repeat what I just said.”

“Formal training has already started,” I recited. “I’ll be joining the classes late.”

“And?”

“The Headmaster’s name is Robert St. Julian. He fought the dragons until he lost his arm in battle, but he’ll still kick my ass in sparring any day of the week. So be respectful when speaking to him.”

“And?”

“Work hard, follow commands and don’t talk about the Order to outsiders. Sir.”

“Hmph.” Benedict grunted, reluctantly appeased, and didn’t say anything else. Careful not to let any triumph show on my face, I went back to gazing out the window as we pulled to a stop at the huge wooden gate guarding the entrance to the monastery. It creaked open, and we rolled into a large courtyard with a single gnarled banyan tree in the center, outstretched branches mottling the ground with shade. It was a cold, wintry morning, and no one was around. We parked the Jeep, and I grabbed my duffel bag from the back before following Benedict across the grounds to the largest stone building at the end of the walk.

Inside, the rooms were dim and cool, the white stucco walls bare of adornments, windows or decorations. We marched down a corridor in silence until we came to a heavy wooden door at the end of the passage. Benedict knocked twice, and a quiet “Enter” drifted through the wood. Pushing the door back, we stepped into a small, equally bare office, where two men waited for us in the dimly lit room.

The first man who rose from behind a desk and came forward was dressed in flowing black robes, a simple rope belt tied around his waist and an iron cross hanging at his throat. He was tall, even taller than Benedict, with a long gray beard and a narrow, angular face, eyes peering down at me with the intensity of a hawk. The sleeve of his right arm had been folded and pinned to his shoulder, the fabric hanging limply at his side. A string of wooden beads were entwined in the fingers of his left hand, and they clicked softly as he approached and loomed over me like a grim specter of death.

“Ah, Garret Xavier Sebastian.” His voice scraped in my ears like a pair of knives. “We meet at last. I am Headmaster St. Julian, and I have been anticipating your arrival for a very long time. Do you know why you are here?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice steady and my eyes glued to a point over his left shoulder. “I’m here to learn how to kill dragons.”

St. Julian laughed, a raspy sound in the small room. “Right to the heart of the matter,” he said, looking at Benedict, standing behind me. “I see this one has no illusions. Have you told him everything?”