looked around at the group. When no one answered, his frustration rose. “Someone requested him,” he bit out, pointing toward the inn, “and I don’t think it was the farmers.”
“It was me,” Latham said flatly. “I wrote to the commander when you didn’t take the farmers’ threat seriously,” he continued, his jaw set. “He said he’d come to smooth things over in a few days, and clearly he got here just in time.”
“You should have talked to me,” Tristan said. He couldn’t help feeling betrayed that one of his own patrol members had gone behind his back. “I would have handled it—I was handling it.”
“I can’t talk to you lately,” Latham argued. “You don’t listen. You’re stubborn and reckless. I don’t know what’s gotten into you—no wait, I do. It’s her.”
Tristan—along with everyone else—swiveled to stare at Veronyka, as if there could be some other “her” in their midst. Veronyka’s eyes were dark as they gazed back at Latham.
“She’s reckless, and she’s made you reckless too.”
“Latham,” Tristan said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Come on. I miscalculated this one time, but Veronyka never—”
“It’s not just this! You flew into the Silverwood a Rider short and got caught in an empire attack,” Latham spat, pacing now. “You’re always running off alone together, and tonight is no exception. You weren’t here.”
The words felt like a physical blow to Tristan… because they were true. He and Veronyka did often slip off alone together—whether it was to seek out the exiled Riders or to work on blocking shadow magic—and that meant spending time away from the rest of his patrol. And maybe he had been a bit reckless from time to time, but these were his decisions, not Veronyka’s.
“You want her to be your second,” Latham continued, voice incredulous, “when there are far more experienced Riders already on your patrol. You never ask for our advice or our input—only hers.”
The others stared at Tristan, and he wondered idly who had told Latham of his intentions to make Veronyka his second-in-command. Probably Darius, who didn’t seem to like Veronyka much either. Tristan didn’t look at her, though he thought he could feel her vibrating in anger beside him.
“She’s not a Master Rider, but you keep arguing with your father to keep her here. You’re trying to get us on the front lines—as if we’re not fresh out of training. And, oh yeah, let’s not forget the way you risked not just our lives but the phoenixes’ lives during the attack on the Eyrie.”
Tristan stared. Of all the charges Latham was laying at Tristan’s feet, blaming him for the fight at the Eyrie was a low blow.
“Latham,” came Ronyn’s rumble of a voice, his tone reasonable. “Tristan was under extreme pressure during that battle, and our bondmates deserved to fight for us.”
“It’s not our bondmates I’m talking about,” Latham snapped, rounding on Ronyn.
“Xoe,” came Veronyka’s soft voice. Tristan was surprised by the tenderness in it, but then he actually listened to the word she said. Xoe… short for Xolanthe. She was one of the female phoenixes that had been in the breeding enclosure. The one who’d died.
The one who was Xane’s mother.
It all came back to Tristan then, the sight of Xoe falling from the sky, the screeches of anguish from the other phoenixes, but none so potent as Xane’s. He’d flown over the place where her body landed for hours, refusing to come down. He’d also set up a vigil next to the funeral pyre where they’d burned their fallen warriors, including Xoe, waiting and waiting for a mother who’d decided not to come back. Not many phoenixes knew their parents, not when eggs could go unhatched for decades—even centuries—but that didn’t mean they didn’t feel and understand the bonds of family.
And the person who’d convinced Tristan to release the phoenixes—even the females—was Veronyka. She’d saved them all, but in war there were always casualties.
“I’m sorry,” Veronyka said to Latham, surprising Tristan. When he glanced in her direction, he saw moisture glistening in her eyes. He knew she’d suffered terrible guilt and regret after the attack, and he hated that Latham had just thrown it all back in her face. “I’m sorry that she died,” she continued, before her expression hardened. “But I’m not sorry I released the female phoenixes. You were the ones keeping them in a cage, trying to use them for breeding, not me. I set them free, as they should have been from the start. And when I opened that