Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The flickering glow of mage-light casts long shadows across the marbled floor, tinting the room in golden hues that do little to conceal how late the hour has grown. The air is thick with the scent of perfume, wine, and a fatigue Xaden can no longer suppress. His limbs feel weighted, his thoughts sluggish—his only true desire is to be anywhere but here, preferably curled beneath warm covers, far from the clamour of strings and silks.

A yawn claws its way up from his throat, and he barely manages to stifle it behind the heavily embroidered cuff of his formal coat. The gesture is half-hearted at best, a perfunctory attempt at decorum that fools no one, least of all the woman standing beside him.

She’s cloaked in elegance, her face concealed behind an ornate mask that mimics the striking brilliance of a swan’s plumage—white, dazzling, and ostentatious in a way that draws every eye. Every eye but his. He offers her a weary, apologetic smile, one that barely reaches the corners of his mouth. It’s a reflex more than anything sincere, an unspoken plea for mercy or understanding.

She grants him neither.

Instead, her gaze slices through him—sharp, appraising, unimpressed. With a soft scoff, she turns without a word, the delicate train of her gown sweeping dramatically as she vanishes into the shifting crowd. Xaden doesn’t move to follow her. He doesn’t even try. In fact, he feels a quiet, private satisfaction bloom in his chest as she retreats without looking back. No final glance, no scathing comment. Just distance.

Good. One less interaction to endure.

Among the swirling dancers and murmured laughter, surrounded by silken masks and painted smiles, he clings to the one mercy this evening has offered him—the anonymity. Here, in this sea of illusion and artifice, no one knows who he is. No one asks. No one cares. And that, at least, is something worth savouring.

The mask he wears is a masterpiece of craftsmanship—black as night and encrusted with thousands of minuscule, gleaming stones that catch the dim light and scatter it like shattered stars. It conceals the upper half of his face entirely, casting shadows over his features and lending him an unfamiliar air of mystery. The edges of the mask curve outward in sharp, angular flares, subtly evoking the scales of a dragon. Paired with his hair pulled back into a high tail—so unlike his usual low braid—he’s nearly unrecognizable. That, at least, is a small mercy.

For once, he blends in.

He is no longer the subject of second glances or whispered greetings. No murmured titles or formal bows. Just another anonymous figure adrift in a sea of extravagance.

Around him, the ballroom pulses with sound and motion. Nobles swirl past in clusters, adorned in elaborate costumes that mimic the creatures of myth and the mundane alike. He passes a woman dressed as a phoenix, her feathers dyed in unnatural shades of violet flame, and a man whose antlered mask towers so high it nearly grazes the chandeliers. There’s even someone slinking by with a long-striped tail, purring like a housecat. No theme is too ridiculous, no expense spared. They are foxes and wolves, peacocks and sphinxes, leviathans and lynxes. The absurdity of it all would almost be amusing—if it weren’t so exhausting.

Tonight is one of the rare nights in Tyrrendor, when names are forgotten and lineage discarded. For these select few hours, masks level the field, and secrets are currency. Strangers press close, whispering provocations behind bejewelled disguises, and laughter echoes from shadowed alcoves where flirtations bloom in the dark. It’s chaos, and yet it’s carefully choreographed—ritual masquerading as freedom.

Xaden stands still in the midst of it all, a solitary presence among the revelry. No one stops to speak to him. No one even pauses. They drift past without notice, and he finds, unexpectedly, that he prefers it that way. It’s a peculiar kind of peace, being invisible in plain sight.

He brings a glass to his lips, tasting the bitter, cloudy wine within—cheap, probably, or at least inferior to what he’s accustomed to. Still, it gives his hands something to do while he watches the masquerade swirl around him like a dream he’s only half-awake for.

A thought lingers, dry and ironic, at the back of his mind: 'How many of these masked fools would be brushing past him so indifferently if they realised who he was? ' If they knew that the man sipping quietly at his wine, deliberately tucked into a corner of the ballroom, was not just another noble in borrowed feathers—but by all technicalities, the sole heir and Crown Prince of Tyrrendor himself?

He doubts any of them would believe it. And that, too, pleases him.

All around him, conversation ebbs and flows like the tide—rising in waves of raucous laughter and receding into the low hum of hushed, intimate exchanges. The volume of each group seems directly proportional to how many glasses they’ve drained, and how many inhibitions they’ve cast aside along with their titles. Voices slur. Words overlap. Somewhere nearby, someone lets out a sharp burst of laughter that turns into a hiccup, followed by muffled giggles and the distinct clink of spilled wine hitting marble.

Xaden moves slowly through the press of bodies, sipping his own drink with deliberate caution. The wine is mediocre, sour with an aftertaste he can't quite place, but it gives him an excuse to keep his mouth occupied and his gaze unfocused—an easy way to look disinterested without seeming rude. He navigates the crowd like a shadow drifting through fog, unnoticed and content to remain so.

He pauses, almost involuntarily, and lifts his gaze toward the elevated dais at the far end of the room. There, draped in light and attention, sits his father—Duke of Aretia, King of Tyrrendor. Dressed in brilliant gold robes and a resplendent mask fashioned to resemble the blazing sun itself, he looks every inch the symbol he’s supposed to be. Regal. Luminous. Singular. The only guest at the masquerade not cloaked in fur, feather, scale, or fang.

The King is leaned comfortably to one side, murmuring something to the man beside him. His smile is broad and easy, his posture relaxed in a way that only those born to power can master. The man at his side, however, couldn’t be more different.

Felix, the ever-watchful royal advisor, sits stiff and silent, dressed in his customary austere black. No mask, no costume. Just stark simplicity, as if even this evening of pretence and celebration couldn’t pry him from his severe routine. He responds to the King's jovial commentary with his usual unyielding seriousness, a dry contrast to the revelry that surrounds them. It’s a familiar dynamic, one Xaden has observed countless times: the radiant sun of the kingdom orbiting beside its silent, shadowed moon.

Xaden doesn’t linger in his observation. He returns his gaze to the crowd and turns his steps purposefully toward the edge of the ballroom. The walls are his destination—his sanctuary. He’s learned the quiet art of surviving these nights by remaining unobtrusive, staying just enough in motion to appear engaged, but never so much as to draw attention.

All he wants is to make it through the evening without incident. No impromptu arguments, no backhanded political games disguised as drunken flirtation, no court gossip that begins and ends with his name. Just a quiet, uneventful passage through the gaudy chaos, and then, finally, sleep.

These masquerades are good for court morale, or so he’s been told—brief interludes of escapism that dull the edge of internal tensions and smooth over the stress that accumulates like limescale throughout the long months of rule. The nobility needs their distractions. Their spectacle. Their fantasy.

But Xaden?

Xaden would rather be exerting himself on the training field or tucked away in the estate's library, lost in the final chapters of the book he’s been reading over the last week, its worn spine more familiar to him than most of the people in this room.

Unfortunately, balls in this estate are notorious for dragging on until the first pale streaks of dawn bleed into the sky, and tonight promises to be no different. Hours more of forced smiles and meaningless chatter. Hours more of pretending he belongs in this glittering cage.

He sighs quietly into his glass. Time slips through his fingers like sand these days, and the older he grows, the more he feels the weight of every grain lost.

And yet here he is, masked and nameless among a crowd of masked and nameless strangers, watching the hours vanish in a room full of laughter that isn’t his.

Chapter Text

Xaden isn’t paying attention.

His thoughts have drifted—again—to the dog-eared book waiting for him on his writing desk, its final chapters calling to him like an unfinished promise. He wonders, not for the first time tonight, how difficult it would be to slip away unnoticed. There’s a servants’ hallway near the western end of the ballroom—barely lit and rarely guarded during festivities like these. If he timed it right, he could be back in his rooms within minutes, the masquerade behind him and a world of ink and parchment ahead. 

But while he’s caught in that comforting daydream—his mind far from the music and masquerade—his body keeps moving, and he fails to notice the figure stepping into his path until it’s far too late.

His foot lands squarely on someone else’s.

A sharp jolt of pressure beneath his boot yanks him back to the present, and the person he’s just trampled lets out a muffled sound, stumbling forward with a startled hitch of breath. Xaden recoils instantly, a grimace flashing across his face as he steps back, hands raised in reflexive apology.

“My apologies,” he says, voice low and rushed, the words almost drowned in the swell of a nearby violin.

The young woman he’s nearly bowled over turns toward him, catching her balance with a frustrated little breath. Her expression is one of thinly veiled irritation, brows furrowed as she glances down at her scuffed boot and then back up at him. She bites the inside of her lip as if restraining the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, exhaling through her nose instead.

Her eyes are striking even in the low light—clear as the ocean, so vividly blue, with streaks of golden thread plaited within them, her irises gleaming with just enough reflection to catch the flicker of the candles. They narrow slightly when they meet his. There’s something about her gaze that feels unnervingly focused, like she’s trying to determine whether or not he’s worth the effort of getting angry over.

The silver mask she wears gleams in the candlelight, stark against the porcelain white of her skin. It’s intricately designed, resembling a creature of the sea rather than the skies—a strange, angular thing that calls to mind a spiny fish or scaled serpent, glinting with iridescent hues of violet and pale blue when she tilts her head. The effect is arresting, almost eerie in how the shimmer dances across the sharp contours.

Xaden lowers his hands but doesn’t move to walk away, caught by the way her mask seems to shift like wet silk in the glow of the chandeliers. She’s clearly not a noble he recognises—not by voice, not by posture, not by the lack of immediate deference. But she carries herself with the same certainty that he does when he isn’t pretending to be someone else.

“Really,” he says again, quieter this time, “I didn’t see you.”

He isn’t sure why he adds the second apology. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s curiosity.

Or maybe it’s the way she’s still watching him like she’s trying to see through the mask.

The young woman’s expression smooths over at once, and she tilts her head more consideringly at Xaden, not saying anything. Xaden’s eyes absently flick down to her mouth, which is quirked with one side lifted higher than the other, almost a sardonic half-smile. It becomes a full smile when the young woman realises where Xaden is staring, which makes Xaden flush hotly.

“No harm done,” the young woman says, her voice quiet and warm. “I too am sorry as I didn't see you either.”

“It’s crowded in here,” Xaden replies, trying to quickly end the conversation and move past her, but the young woman leans in, ducking her head closer to Xaden’s.

“Your mask; it suits you and you wear it well,” the young woman offers, her voice smooth as satin and just loud enough to carry over the hum of the ballroom. Her head tilts slightly as she speaks, the silver edge of her mask catching the light in a quick flash like a signal. Before Xaden can find a response—witty or otherwise—she closes the remaining distance between them and raises a hand, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his dragon mask.

Her touch is delicate, almost reverent, as she traces the curve of a beaded scale near his temple. The gesture is so sudden, so unexpected, that Xaden forgets to breathe for a moment. His heart kicks hard in his chest, a startled gallop. Every instinct tells him to step back, to reclaim the small barrier of distance that usually cushions him from others. But he doesn’t. Something in her gaze—open, unbothered, utterly unafraid—roots him in place. He stares at her, and she stares right back, unblinking.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs finally, her hand falling back to her side with a featherlight movement, but her smile lingers—wide and enigmatic.

Xaden swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He lifts his wineglass and takes a sip, more out of necessity than grace. The liquid is sour and thin on his tongue, but he doesn’t care.

“How could you possibly know what suits me,” he says, managing a faintly sardonic tone, “when we’re nothing more than strangers?”

She hums, the sound more thoughtful than mocking, and gives him a small, knowing nod.

“I can sense these things,” she says solemnly, as if it’s the most natural answer in the world. There’s mischief in her eyes, though, and Xaden has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

The way she carries herself reminds him, absurdly, of one of his old tutors—someone who used to answer rhetorical questions with riddles and took far too much pleasure in confusing him. The memory makes his lips twitch, just slightly.

“You have a certain look about you,” she adds, and though her words are vague, she delivers them with the conviction of prophecy.

Xaden raises a brow, amusement blooming now.

“What does that mean?”

But instead of offering another cryptic answer, the young woman simply steps closer, her movement fluid and casual, as though there’s nothing unusual about invading another's space. She reaches for his wrist—her touch light as mist—and tilts the wineglass he’s still holding towards her face. Xaden’s breath stutters in his chest as he watches her lean in, close enough for him to catch the soft scent of her perfume—salted wind and something floral.

Her fingers are gloved in silver, matching her mask, and the material is impossibly soft where it grazes the inside of his wrist. Despite the fabric, her touch sends a current up his arm, a bright, startling line of heat that settles somewhere just beneath his skin.

She inhales slowly over the cup, her expression thoughtful.

“Your eyes,” she says, so quietly he almost misses it. The words hang there, unexplained, and then she adds, just as softly, “May I?”

Xaden blinks, caught off guard by the question—and even more so by the implication of it.

'May I?' she asks, and he knows exactly what she means. Not “may I take the glass” but “may I drink from it while you hold it.” An intimacy built not from familiarity, but boldness.

He opens his mouth to answer and finds that his voice is stuck somewhere behind his ribs. All he can manage is a nod and a breathless; “Of course.”

But she doesn’t take the glass from him. Instead, she adjusts the way he’s holding it—tightening her grip just enough on his wrist to steady the angle—and then leans in and drinks from the cup, her mouth brushing the rim where his lips had just been.

Xaden feels it like a jolt, heat blooming from the centre of his chest outward. A mix of shock and something warmer, deeper, more dangerous. Few people touch him without permission. Fewer still act like they’re allowed to.

And no one has ever dared done this.

He watches, transfixed, as her throat moves with each swallow. It’s a quiet moment, but everything in him is loud, from the pounding of his heart to the rush of blood in his ears.

She finishes with a satisfied sigh, then licks her lips—slow, unhurried—and flashes him a grin so bright it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

Xaden wants to say something clever. He wants to pretend that none of this is affecting him. But all he can think is: I need more wine. Or better yet, I need to lie down. Or maybe, What in the seven hells just happened?

Because whatever it was, it felt a little like the beginning of a story he’s not sure he’s ready to read—but can’t stop himself from opening to the front page.

“Only the finest for an Aretian masquerade,” the young woman quips, dipping her head in a mockery of a courtly bow. The silver glint of her mask catches the candlelight again, and there’s mischief in the way she peers up at him from beneath her lashes. “Thank you for your hospitality, gracious host.”

“You’re welcome,” Xaden says before he can think better of it, relieved when his voice emerges steady. He lets a smile slip into place—low and just a little crooked—and catches the way her gaze falls, unerringly, to his mouth. That, at least, feels like a small win. “Though I’m sure you’ve already made the rounds by now.”

“Are you implying I’ve been overindulging?” she gasps, one gloved hand rising dramatically to her chest. “That I’m a hopeless drunk? I’ll have you know I’m perfectly sober. Tragically, tragically sober. As you appear to be.”

“The only way to survive these things with your dignity intact is to keep a clear head,” Xaden replies dryly, remembering all too well the scandalous aftermaths of past masquerades. Drunken lords weeping in corridors. Broken limbs. Whispered threats. Embarrassed apologies.

She hums, clearly unimpressed.

“That sounds incredibly dull,” she says, though there's a glint of grudging amusement in her tone. “But I’ll admit it’s sensible. You wouldn’t happen to be one of the King’s advisors, would you? That would explain the uptight attitude.”

Xaden grimaces at the thought, imagining himself shoulder-to-shoulder with the grim-faced policy-makers who always seem to speak in measured, deliberate tones. The expression must be convincing, because it makes the young woman laugh—freely, unrestrained, her head tipping back in delight. The sound rings clear even through the music, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

The way the firelight dances over her silver mask makes her look lit from within, and Xaden finds himself watching the shape of her smile even after the laughter fades. She regards him again, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her lower lip.

“I take it that’s a no,” she says, grinning. Xaden shakes his head slowly, still caught in the pull of her presence. “Well then,” she continues, voice sly now, “should I try guessing which of our esteemed nobles you are?”

“That sort of defeats the entire purpose of the masks, don’t you think?” Xaden says, aiming for dry and indifferent, but the tightness curling in his gut betrays him. There’s a flicker of unease beneath the words—a quiet panic fluttering in his chest like a caged bird. He’s not ready for this to end. Not ready for her to look at him differently. And that’s exactly what will happen if she discovers who he is.

Because the moment the title “Heir of Tyrrendor” leaves her lips, the conversation will shift. It always does. Her teasing will stiffen into politeness. Her curiosity will calcify into flattery. Suddenly she’ll remember an uncle who needs a title or a family eager for a betrothal. That invisible space between them—comfortable, strange, real—will vanish into something cold and calculating.

He’s had flirtations before. Courtly ones, carefully arranged, orchestrated with precision and an audience. But this? Being flirted with simply because he’s here, anonymous and unimportant, standing still among a hundred other masked strangers? This is entirely new.

For a moment, the young woman seems to sense the shift in his energy. Her expression softens; the mischievous curve of her mouth straightens ever so slightly into something more contemplative.

“You’re right,” she says at last, her tone gentler than before. “Let me unsubtly change the subject then—would you like to dance with me?”

It’s not the first time Xaden has been asked to dance by someone he doesn’t know. But this is the first time it’s ever felt like a real question. Like it’s meant for him—the person behind the title and the mask—not Fen Riorson's son, not a pawn in someone else’s strategy.

And that feeling stirs something unfamiliar in him. Something tentative. Hopeful.

He doesn’t respond at first. His thoughts are too tangled. His tongue, uncooperative. The music swells in the background, slow and swooning, and she shifts her weight where she stands, the hesitation creeping into her features for the first time since they started speaking.

“In saying that though,” she adds, lifting one hand to adjust the strap of her shimmering mask. Her voice is quieter now, cautious. “You don’t have to. I only meant—”

But Xaden has already turned, already reached out, passing his half-empty glass of wine to a stranger in a fox mask drifting by. The man accepts it without a word and throws it back in one smooth tilt of the wrist, never breaking stride.

Xaden doesn’t wait for the stranger to speak again. He simply places his hand in hers.

“Lead on,” he murmurs, watching the way her silvered fingers tighten slightly around his. Her expression falters—only for a heartbeat—but then her mouth lifts again in that same knowing curve, as if she’s pleased by his answer but not at all surprised.

Wordlessly, she tugs his hand, guiding him through the swell of guests and toward the open space where masked couples already turn in loose, gliding circles beneath the glow of a thousand flickering candles.

And for the first time that night, Xaden doesn’t think about the crown or the court or the mask on his face. He only thinks of her hand in his, and the strange weightlessness blooming in his chest.

Xaden’s fingers remain laced with the stranger’s, and his other hand drifts instinctively to her waist just as she places a gloved palm against his shoulder. Their eyes lock—a moment suspended in mage-light and soft music—and they hold still, poised in a space that feels strangely private despite the crowd around them.

Then, without a word, her hand tightens around his, and they begin to move.

It’s an effortless twirl at first, sweeping them into the orbit of the other dancers, but Xaden’s body tenses with each step. He knows how to dance. Has known since childhood, drilled alongside etiquette and posture and how to conceal displeasure with a smile. But for all his years of training, something about this feels… different. As if he’s learning for the first time. He wants to glance down to check his footing, make sure he doesn’t repeat the clumsy mistake from earlier, but he resists—barely.

Apparently not well enough.

“You’re fine,” the young woman says with a quiet laugh, and before he can reply, she twirls him in place with a confident tug. The motion is a little too fast, too showy, and it leaves Xaden slightly off balance—his foot slides as he catches himself. But the rush of it pulls a laugh from his chest, startled and genuine.

He can’t remember the last time someone made him laugh during a dance.

“You’ve got good form,” she says, sounding pleased with herself. “If anything, I’m the one who should be worried about stepping on your toes.”

Then, when the spin slows and they’re facing each other again, she lets her gaze dip slowly—deliberately—scanning Xaden from head to toe in exaggerated appraisal. Her smile is pure mischief when she meets his eyes again.

Xaden is immensely grateful for the mask. His cheeks feel like they’ve been set alight. The flush creeps down his neck, and he ducks his head on instinct, attempting to hide behind a crooked half-smile that feels boyish and traitorous on his face.

He doesn’t know who this girl is.

But she’s laughing with him—not at him, not for show. And somehow, under all the silk and ceremony, that feels more disarming than anything else.

“You’re incredibly bold,” Xaden says, lifting his chin just enough to meet her gaze again. The movement catches the light—flames flickering along the rim of the ballroom, leaping like dancers themselves—and it turns her the tips of her hair, which looked dark grey a moment ago, into bright silver. Almost otherworldly.

He doesn’t want her to see his face, not truly. And yet, his fingers ache to touch the edge of her mask, to draw it up and over and see what secrets her eyes are hiding. More than that, he wants to pull her by the hand through the crowd, out into the cool night—or maybe back to the warmth of his room. Somewhere quiet, somewhere honest. Somewhere her eyes could meet his with no one watching.

He must be drunk. Except... he isn’t. Not really. There’s none of the woozy blur he associates with too much wine. Only the golden shimmer around everything, the slow, deliberate weight of the moment. It feels like a dream—but his dreams are never this vivid, this electric, this close.

“What’s the point of a masquerade if you don’t flirt outrageously with the prettiest person in the room?” the young woman says, winking as she spins in his hold again.

Xaden huffs out a laugh.

“You keep saying things like that, but you haven’t seen my face.” He gestures faintly to his mask. “For all you know, I’ve got warts. Or a constellation of spots. Maybe even scars.”

“You’d be lovely even with all of those,” she says, and her tone changes—grows quieter, anchored by something real. It knocks the breath from Xaden’s lungs more effectively than any twirl. She leans in slightly, her eyes scanning his with something like reverence. “Your eyes,” she murmurs. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.”

The space between them shrinks. Their chests brush. Her arm presses along his. He feels it all—the press of her glove against his waist, the warm trace of her breath near his jaw. And underneath his ribs, something shudders awake, slow and glowing. A fire, gentle but inevitable.

They’re so close now. A breath apart.

Her head tilts. His lashes flutter. The air between them tightens, thickens. He wants to know if she tastes like wine, if her mouth moves the way her words do—confident, playful, sharp at the edges. The hand on his waist curls tighter, and without thinking, Xaden’s fingers press harder at her shoulder. A wordless answer. A yes.

They’re going to kiss.

He can feel it in the way the world has narrowed to just her.

Then—A voice cuts through the golden hush, loud and jarring. A shout. His father's.

The spell snaps like a string pulled too tight. The music falters. Glasses lift.

A toast.

And Xaden—Xaden is left reeling, pulse still racing, lips parted around a kiss that didn’t quite happen.

“My fellow gentlemen and women!” the king booms, lifting his goblet high above the crowd. “Thank you all for joining me this evening—for your incomparable company, your spirited conversations, and your truly spectacular disguises. You’ve outdone yourselves this year.”

Xaden curses under his breath.

He knows exactly what’s coming.

The stranger seems to sense it too. She eases back, just a little, and the space that opens between them feels suddenly immense. It’s only inches, but it might as well be a mile.

“I have to go,” Xaden says, the words landing heavy, dull. Already his father is calling for him—his heir—to join him on the dais for the toast. Whether it’s to celebrate good health or a fruitful harvest or some newly sealed trade agreement with Navarre, Xaden doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care to.

Because the result is the same: the moment is over. His moment is over.

“Oh,” the young woman says, and then again—softer—“Oh.” There’s something quietly stricken in her expression, as if she’s just now realising who he is. Or what she’s lost. She steps aside without another word, not trying to stop him. Not even touching his hand one last time.

Xaden moves. Through the crowd. Toward the raised dais and his father's waiting smile.

He hears his name called, the cheer of the guests. Sees the blur of masks and lifted goblets and warm candlelight. But it all feels far away.

He scans the room, desperate to find her again—the silver-masked stranger who danced like moonlight and flirted like fire—but she’s already gone.

She never returns.

Xaden doesn’t see her again for the rest of the night.

Later, he climbs into bed, still in half his costume, and lies on his back staring at the ceiling, hollowed out and aching in a way that feels newly sharp and stupid. He can still feel the ghost of her fingers on his waist. On his wrist. On his lips.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Only the memory of a breathless almost-kiss and the echo of a voice that said his eyes were unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Chapter Text

The king’s voice cuts through the music, loud and unmissable, reverberating through the vaulted ceilings like a bell toll.

“My fellow gentlemen and women!” he calls, goblet raised high, “Thank you all for joining me this evening—for your incomparable company, and your spectacular disguises. You’ve all outdone yourselves this year, truly.”

She flinches. Not visibly—not in a way anyone would catch. But she feels it ripple beneath her skin like a shiver. Like ice cracking. 

Maybe the boy in front of her sees it. Or maybe he’s already pulling away, some invisible string tugging him from her grasp.

His voice is quiet, and she feels it before she hears it. Like something giving way.

“I have to go.”

Of course he does.

The words settle in her stomach like stones. Cold. Heavy. Unmoving.

She doesn’t ask why—because she already knows. There’s only one reason a man like him would carry himself like that, would speak with such precision, would have a name summoned from a throne. Only one reason the world would shift around him as if in deference, even in disguise.

“Oh,” she says, stupidly. And then again, smaller—softer—“Oh.”

Her heart beats like a trapped bird in her ribs, frantic and fluttering. Panic and longing tangled up in the same breath. She takes a single step back, as if distance could fold this entire moment away into the shadows and silk, could undo it all.

She doesn’t reach for his hand again. She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t even know it.

And he doesn’t look back.

She watches him disappear into the crowd, swallowed by velvet masks and golden light, by fluted laughter and clinking glasses and spinning dancers who haven’t paused to notice that something just ended. Something delicate and impossible.

He walks up the dais like it costs him nothing. But she knows better. She knows the weight of duty when it settles over someone’s shoulders. She watches his posture stiffen beside the king. Watches how his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

The cheers rise up like a wave, crashing around her—but none of it lands.

She just stands there.

Stands there in her pretty gown with her painted lips and her foolish hope, while the ghost of his hand lingers in her own. The phantom imprint of his warmth. The echo of his laugh, low and surprised and real.

What have I done?

It was just a dance. Just a few words, flirtations spun like ribbons into the air.

She should be able to walk away.

She should smile and drink and laugh, and move on to the next set of eyes behind a stranger’s mask.

But she doesn’t.

Not right away.

She stays rooted, her shoes too tight, her breath catching in the hollow of her throat. Around her, the world resumes spinning—but she feels off-axis, out of step. Drenched in a memory that hasn’t even cooled yet.

She tries to memorise the sound of his voice when he told her she was bold. The way he tilted his head like he was listening to a secret she hadn’t said aloud. The way his gaze had dropped to her lips, reverent, almost afraid.

The way they’d almost—

Her mask feels too tight. Suddenly unbearable.

She can’t breathe.

She slips through the crowd without drawing attention, disappearing between archways and tapestries and curling ivy, skirts whispering secrets to the marble floor. No one follows her. No one even notices.

It’s better that way. Safer.

And yet—

Later, she lies awake in a room that doesn’t quite feel like hers. Still in her gown, her bodice wrinkled, her hair a dishevelled crown of silver pins and unravelling braids. The candle on her bedside table burns low, the flame small and flickering, like the last of her resolve.

She stares up at the ceiling and tries not to picture him.

Not his hands, warm and callused. Not the burn in his eyes when she said he was the prettiest in the room. Not the almost.

She wonders what would’ve happened if she’d kissed him. She wonders what his name is, what his story is, whether he meant any of it or all of it or too much of it. She wonders if he’s wondering, too.

She wonders if he’ll remember her.

She hopes he doesn’t.

She prays he does.

And she aches.

Quietly. Fiercely. Entirely.

Chapter Text

Life resumes, as it always does. The sun rises and sets without fail, indifferent to what’s been lost or left behind. Xaden wakes each morning to the familiar rhythm of duty—his schedule already plotted, his roles already decided. There are lessons to attend and lessons to avoid, guards to train with, reports to sign, and a brother to stand beside at court. He spars with Bodhi, his cousin, and the other children of Tyrrish leadership in the yard, sweat soaking through his tunic as blades clash and cut, his movements clean and practiced, if not a little distracted. He wears the mantle of prince as well as he ever has—perhaps better than most expected of him, given his history of disinterest and quiet rebellion. He’s had years to become this version of himself. It should be second nature by now.

And it is, mostly.

But in the days following the masquerade ball, something feels off-kilter.

Not wrong, exactly—just dulled. As though someone has turned the colour down on the world and left everything in shades of grey.

He doesn’t speak of it, of course. Not to his father, or the others of his age, or even to himself in anything more than vague, unfinished thoughts. But he feels it in his bones—in the quiet between tasks, in the space between conversations. That… ache. That absence. That flicker of something left behind.

He keeps seeing her.

Or rather, remembering her.

The stranger in the silver mask, who’d stepped into his life for ten minutes and carved a hollow into it so cleanly that he’s still rattling around inside it, days later.

They hadn’t spoken long. A handful of minutes at most. But those minutes stand out in sharp, impossible relief against everything that’s come after, like a single vivid brushstroke in a canvas otherwise painted in smudged greys.

With her, he’d felt… different. Lighter. Clearer. Like someone had peeled back the weight he always carried and reminded him how it felt to exist without it, just for a moment. There had been no titles between them, no expectations, no masks beyond the physical ones they wore. He wasn’t Prince Xaden of Tyrrendor, Heir to the Crown. He was just a boy in a room full of strangers, speaking to a girl who saw him—really saw him—and chose to stay in that moment anyway.

And gods, it had felt good. Electric, even. That heady mix of possibility and anonymity. That spark of curiosity, of connection. That reckless temptation to kiss her, to say something real, to ask for her name.

But then the king’s voice had broken through the haze, and the world had reassembled itself around Xaden with brutal clarity. And just like that, the spell had shattered.

He returned to his role. His name. His place beside the throne.

But something inside him didn’t quite come with him.

The disconnect lingers. He goes through the motions of his life with practiced precision, but the motions feel heavier now, like armour that doesn’t quite fit. He finds himself searching crowds with something like longing, catching glimpses of silver in the corner of his eye, heart stuttering before reason catches up and reminds him it’s not her.

He doesn't even know who she is. And yet… her absence has become a kind of presence all its own, echoing quietly through the corners of his day.

He wonders if she’s thought of him, even once.

He wonders if she regrets stepping away when he left.

He wonders what might’ve happened if he hadn’t turned back into the prince too soon.

But mostly, he wonders if he’ll ever feel like that again—like himself, untethered from the title and the weight and the expectations. Like a person, not a symbol. Like someone who could be wanted, not because of what he is, but in spite of it.

And the longer he goes without seeing her, the more impossible it feels that he ever will again.

But still, he looks. Still, he hopes. And still, he aches.

“Xaden. Are you even listening?”

The voice cuts through the haze like a blade, sharp with barely veiled irritation. Xaden blinks, startled, and lifts his gaze from the page in front of him—the words a blur, a meaningless scatter of ink. His father is staring at him from across the table, arms crossed, the set of his mouth pulled tight with concern more than anger.

Right. They’re in the study. The late afternoon sun casts long amber shadows through the stained-glass windows, bathing the room in fractured colour. A debriefing. Trade talks. Delegations. There had been something about arrival times, route escorts, ceremonial guards—things Xaden is meant to care about, meant to remember. Things he’s been trained to handle since he could walk.

His scattered thoughts begin to gather like startled birds returning to roost. He schools his face into something attentive and appropriately neutral.

“My apologies,” Xaden says smoothly, folding the book shut and laying it on the table like it had ever held his focus. “You were saying something about the Countesses' of Poromiel's tour of the castle tomorrow?”

His father doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just… looks at him. Not like a knight to his prince. Not like a subordinate to his superior. Like a friend who’s seen this version of Xaden before—frayed at the edges, a little too far inside his own head.

“Xaden,” he says slowly, dragging a hand over his jaw. “I spoke about Catriona ten minutes ago. I’ve spent the last three discussing that stable-hand we took on last week—the one who nearly got kicked by the ambassador’s horse and just laughed.”

Ah. So not Catriona. Or Syrena. Not even close.

Xaden winces internally but forces a small, sheepish smile.

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

Fen doesn’t look amused. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharper now, narrowing slightly as he studies Xaden's face.

“You’ve been off lately. Distracted. Not just today. For days now.”

Xaden feels the words coming before his father even says them. The lecture. The concern. The reminder that he carries more responsibility than most ever will—that if he falters, people notice. That there’s a cost to seeming adrift, even for a moment.

“I’m fine,” he says, more firmly this time. “Just… my mind wandered.”

Fen tilts his head, not quite buying it.

“This isn’t like you.”

Xaden doesn’t respond. Not directly. Because what can he say? That he keeps waking in the middle of the night, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat from a dream that isn't even a dream, just a memory? That he can’t shake the image of firelight flickering against a silver mask, or the phantom feeling of fingertips on his jaw? That ten minutes of unguarded laughter and stolen glances have haunted him more thoroughly than a lifetime of duty?

Instead, he shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of the squire standing near the hearth. A young girl—no older than fifteen—dressed in Aretian livery and doing a rather terrible job of pretending not to eavesdrop. Her eyes dart between the two men now and then, pretending to examine the tapestries. Xaden can already imagine the version of this conversation she’ll carry to the kitchens. The prince, distracted again. The heir, tuning out in the middle of his duties. Maybe they’ll add in that he snapped at his guard captain. Maybe they’ll say he stormed out.

The last thing he needs is more whispers. More doubt.

He sits straighter. Sharper. Colder, if he has to be.

“I said I’m fine,” he repeats, quieter this time. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”

Fen doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop—for now. He just nods once, curtly, and turns back to the parchment in front of him.

But Xaden can still feel the weight of the question hanging between them. Heavy. Unspoken.

Are you alright?

He isn’t. Not really. But that isn’t a luxury he’s ever been afforded.

And it’s just one girl. One dance. One ghost of lips upon his, a passing moment, tangled up in candlelight and soft laughter.

It shouldn’t matter this much.

But somehow, it does.

Xaden exhales sharply, the sound more of a growl than a sigh, and with a conscious, practiced effort, clamps down on the thoughts clawing for space in his mind—the mask, the girl, the dance that still lives like an echo in his chest.

He pushes them all aside. Folds them up like old letters, tucks them into the back of his thoughts where they can’t touch him for now.

“Go on, father,” he says, tone clipped, a hand waved in brisk dismissal. It’s too abrupt to be anything but forced. Too controlled to be natural.

Fen raises a brow at the gesture, unimpressed, but says nothing. If he’s annoyed by the shift, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he lifts a folded parchment from the stack beside him, scanning its contents with the kind of sharp efficiency that’s earned him the unofficial title of Xaden's second spine.

“Well then,” Fen begins, voice neutral but with an undercurrent of pointed calm. “Aside from the new stable hand for your personal mount—and the additional security rotations we agreed on for the duration of the delegation’s stay—there’s little else that needs your immediate attention.”

He pauses as he folds the paper once more and tucks it neatly away into his tunic, then levels Xaden with a look that is just shy of concerned.

“The Countesses' are due to arrive early tomorrow. Which means, unfortunately, you’ll have to miss morning practice with the guard. There’s no need for you to rise before dawn.”

Xaden nods, grateful for something as simple as logistics. Something that doesn’t feel like a choice, just an obligation. Something expected.

Fen doesn’t move.

His eyes linger.

“Xaden—”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Xaden interrupts, his voice firm enough to quiet further inquiry. He sits straighter, gathering the unopened missive in front of him and tapping the edge against the table with deliberate focus. “I need to finish reviewing this before the ink’s dry on our guest list. I’ll see you at dinner.”

There’s a moment of charged stillness, a silent contest between concern and command. Fen's stare lingers long enough to make even the stone walls feel warmer by comparison. Across the room, the young squire shuffles her feet, clearly caught in the awkward in-between—torn between Xaden's formal dismissal of his father, the king of Tyrrendor, and his direct superior.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. She shifts, then looks to the door as if it might give her permission to breathe again.

Fen finally breaks the silence with a resigned sigh.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says. The title is formal, but the weight in his voice is anything but. He turns, jerking his chin toward the squire. “Come now, Sloane. Let’s leave the prince to his important royal paperwork before he impales someone.”

The girl nearly jumps, then fumbles through a deep bow that’s a touch too rushed, a little too grateful. She trails after Fen with hurried steps, and the door closes behind them with a soft click that seems louder in the absence of their voices.

Xaden waits. Not for them to return—he knows they won’t—but for the silence to settle. For the tension in his shoulders to uncoil, which, of course, it doesn’t.

He leans back in his chair, letting it creak beneath him as he tilts his head toward the high, arched ceiling of his study. Cold stone greets him there. Grey and unmoved, just like everything else these past few days.

No answers. No peace. Just the hollow, echoing stillness of a boy trying to be a man trying to be a prince.

He scrubs a hand over his face and closes his eyes.

The parchment before him remains untouched.

“Foolish,” he says aloud. “It’s foolish to keep thinking of her.” His voice echoes slightly, just enough to feel as if someone else is admonishing him.

It echoes faintly in the stone chamber, bouncing back at him with just enough resonance to feel like a second voice—someone older, wiser, and far less forgiving, reprimanding him from the shadows. He sighs, long and low, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until bursts of colour bloom behind his lids. Maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll blur her face from his memory. Maybe then he’ll finally get some rest.

He has to stop. This—this clinging—is ridiculous. He knows it. He tells himself again and again: it was nothing. A masquerade. A fleeting night carved from candlelight and chance. One dance, a few whispered words, a kiss. People survive more with far less. People forget.

So why can’t he?

He’s tried. Gods, how he’s tried. But the dreams haven’t stopped—half-fragments of music and heat and her eyes catching his across a sea of velvet masks—and each morning he wakes with the weight of her still in his arms, though she never truly was. He’s built an entire kingdom of memory out of minutes, and now he’s trapped inside it.

He shifts in his chair, spine straightening like a man forcing himself to attention. Enough. He has to let it go. He will let it go. If memory refuses to fade, then he’ll bury it. Stack responsibility over it like stones on a grave.

She was just a girl in a gown. Just a stranger in a mask. Just another night among hundreds—one more costumed blur in a lifetime of charades. He’ll tuck her away with the others. Her laugh, that unbearable look in her eyes, the slight upturn of her lips—they’ll all blend into the countless faces that have passed through the court, until she’s nothing more than a faint ache in the back of his mind.

He looks down at the book open on his desk, trying not to grimace.

It isn’t the missive he’d claimed to be reviewing earlier, not even close—it’s a bound and weighty tome of noble family trees, its thick pages dusted with the scent of ink and age. An absurd, almost desperate attempt to track her down by process of elimination, scouring the pages for something familiar—eye colour, lineage, names that tugged at something instinctive. A foolish hope that if he just stared long enough, she’d appear in lilting script beneath a crest he recognized.

He stares now at the Sorrengail line, which he’s read twice already, and feels the heat of his own embarrassment creep up the back of his neck.

What am I doing?

He closes the book with a soft thump, ashamed. Of the hope, the indulgence, the pathetic, lovesick pull of it all. Worse still, it wasn’t even subtle. He’s lucky his father hadn’t pressed harder—hadn’t asked what, exactly, had Xaden so distracted these last few days. But if his father noticed, then others likely have as well.

The thought makes his stomach turn.

Xaden takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

Time to move on, he thinks. And though the words taste like ash, he repeats them in his mind like a mantra.

Outside, the sky begins to bruise with twilight, the forest casting long shadows that crawl across the windows of the study. Without hesitation, he snaps his fingers, summoning a flicker of fire that curls obediently to life at his fingertips. He lights the candle on his desk, the flame jumping eagerly into place, bathing the desk in warm gold.

The light does not chase away the ache in his chest, but it’s familiar. Reliable.

He sets the genealogy book aside and pulls the correct parchment in front of him, his fingers already adjusting their grip on the quill. With practiced ease, he sinks back into the mask he wears better than any he donned at the masquerade—the heir. The weapon polished for use.

For a moment, Xaden just sits there.

The study feels too big around him. Too quiet. He presses his fingertips to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the ache in his chest to dull, to disappear.

It doesn’t.

It never really does.

Xaden exhales once, slowly, and forces himself to refocus. To reach for the mask he wears even better than the one he donned at the masquerade—the one no one sees beneath the titles and armor.

He flips open the next report, and the next after that, letting the pages blur into meaninglessness until duty is the only thing left to hold onto.

But even as he buries himself in the work, a sliver of memory flickers at the edges of his mind: a silver mask, a girl’s soft laughter, the way she looked at him like he was just him—no crown, no weight, no past.

And gods help him, Xaden holds onto that too.

Because if he lets go of that, he isn’t sure what’s left.

Chapter Text

Fen watches him.

Really watches.

Not the way the court does, from behind fans and veiled whispers, cataloguing every stumble and triumph like ticks on a ledger. Not the way the kingdom does, full of heavy expectation and hidden disappointment, as though Xaden's worth is some distant goal he has yet to reach. Fen watches as a father. As someone who remembers what Xaden looked like when he was nine and scared of heights. When he’d crawl into his parent's bed, cloak clutched in one hand, asking if it was alright to stay when the sky was lit with lightning and thunder. When he’d cry silently, too proud to ask for comfort but never too proud to take it when his father offered his arms.

He sees him now—older, taller, burdened by duty and cloaked in command—but it’s the same boy beneath it all. The same quiet ache in his chest. The same struggle to stay afloat in a life too big for any one person to carry alone.

And he’s slipping.

Fen can feel it in the silences. In the pauses between words that stretch just a little too long. In the way Xaden's eyes scan the courtyard like he’s looking for someone he can’t name. In the way he goes still sometimes, too still, like he’s waiting for something to break.

It worries him.

Gods, it terrifies him.

Because Xaden never lets anyone in. Not really. He wears a mask even when he’s alone—carved from duty, forged by necessity. Fen is the only one who’s ever seen beneath it, the only one who’s ever been allowed close enough to understand just how much it costs Xaden to play the role they’ve all demanded of him. And right now… he’s fraying. Coming apart at the seams, slow and silent like unravelling thread.

Fen wants to shake him. To shout. To grab him by the shoulders and say, 'Tell me. Let me in. Let me help'.

But that’s not how this works.

Not with Xaden.

So instead, Fen sits across from him in the study and speaks of trade routes and schedules, watches his son flinch beneath the weight of another task, another expectation. He studies the set of Xaden's jaw, the hollowness in his eyes, and feels a sick sort of helplessness swell in his chest.

Because this isn’t about the Poromish visit. It isn’t about the stable hand, or the ink drying on royal missives. It’s about something else entirely. Something that took root in Xaden's chest the night of the masquerade and hasn’t let go since.

Fen doesn’t know who she was—the girl behind the silver mask. But he knows what she did to his son.

She made him feel.

And now she’s gone, and Xaden doesn’t know how to stitch himself back together without her.

Fen saw it the moment Xaden walked into the yard the next morning, armour polished, eyes dull. He still sparred like a Prince, still moved like a soldier, but there was a hollowness in the way he stood. As if he’d left something behind and couldn’t find the shape of himself without it.

Fen had seen heartbreak before. On soldiers. On servants. On himself, even. But on Xaden… it was something else. A quiet devastation. The kind that doesn’t shatter so much as it erodes.

Day by day. Thought by thought.

And gods, it breaks Fen in ways he doesn’t know how to name.

Because Xaden has always been the strong one. The untouchable one. And now he’s unravelling, and there’s nothing Fen can do but sit here and pretend it isn’t killing him to watch.

So when Xaden snaps—when he folds himself up in that too-polished veneer and waves his father away like he’s just another courtier—Fen doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn't press. He just lifts the parchment, answers the question, plays the role befitting of him as Tyrrendor's King. Because someone has to hold the line while Xaden tries to remember how to be whole.

But before he leaves, he can’t help himself. He throws one last look over his shoulder. Just a glance.

Xaden doesn’t meet his eyes.

And somehow, that hurts the most.

Because Xaden isn’t just the Prince. He isn’t just the Heir. He’s Fen's son. The only person Fen has ever loved without condition, without hesitation.

And Fen would burn the whole fucking kingdom down if it meant putting the light back in his son's eyes.

But all he can do, for now, is close the door quietly behind him.

And hope to gods she comes back. Whoever she is.

Because if she doesn’t…

He’s not sure how much more of Xaden he’ll lose.

Chapter Text

The Countess of Poromiel is tall, her rich ebony hair flowing like silk down her back, framing high cheekbones and glowing, radiant skin. There’s a kind of effortless majesty in the way she moves—every eye in the courtyard follows her, from stiff-backed nobles to wide-eyed servants, all equally struck by the brilliance of her smile. She’s been wearing it since she stepped from her carriage, luminous and disarming, like she already knows she’s won the room.

Her gown catches the morning light—dusky pink, the shade of sunrise bleeding into cream—and it stands in striking contrast to the deep, muted tones of Aretian court dress.

She doesn’t just stand out. She owns the space.

When Xaden approaches, she turns the full force of that smile on him. And despite himself, even he feels its warmth—like he’s walked into the sun and forgotten to brace for the heat.

Off to the side, Fen exchanges pleasantries with a Lady whose features so closely mirror the Countesses', it’s impossible not to wonder if they were carved from the same stone. Twins, and if not, sisters perhaps—or close enough to fool anyone at a glance.

"My Lady," Xaden murmurs, bowing low as she extends a gloved hand toward him. He takes it, brushing the back with the lightest touch of his lips, careful—always careful—not to linger.

The Countess watches him with eyes like warm obsidian, her expression touched by amusement as though she’s already caught him off guard. Her hand is soft, warm despite the morning chill, and he wonders if it’s the silk or something more inherent to her.

"Xaden," she says, her voice a low melody in the quiet courtyard. "It’s far too early to have you waiting out in this cold. I’m sorry to trouble you."

"Nonsense," Xaden answers immediately, the word smooth on his tongue though his jaw is tight. The cold has teeth this morning—late autumn slipping into winter with each breath drawn from the stone courtyard—but it slides harmlessly off his skin. Fire hums in his blood, quiet and steady, a subtle comfort pulsing from his core to his fingertips.

Still, he notices the way her gown shifts in the wind, the delicate fabric whispering around her ankles like flame chasing the breeze. Sunrise pink and cream, like hope dressed in silk, so utterly unlike the heavy, sombre colours of the Aretian court. She stands out like a spark in a pile of ash.

"I wasn’t expecting you to arrive before midday," Xaden continues, straightening. His voice is polite, neutral—but his eyes scan the courtyard behind her, catching sight of her retinue. "You’ve made good time."

"I like to surprise people." Her smile tilts, just a shade. "Besides, I heard Aretian mornings are beautiful this time of year. I wanted to see for myself."

His brow arches faintly.

"And what’s the verdict?"

"It’s cold," she says, laughing softly. "But not without charm."

"You’ll find that describes most of Aretia," Xaden replies dryly.

She tilts her head, studying him.

"And what about you, Xaden? Are you cold... but not without charm?"

He opens his mouth, not quite sure if he’s about to deflect with wit or diplomacy, but the moment is broken by movement nearby. Fen, ever the diplomat, is deep in conversation with one of the Countess's attending ladies—a woman whose resemblance to the Countess is too close to be coincidence.

The Countess follows Xaden's gaze and smiles more softly this time.

"My sister," she offers. "Syrena. She rarely leaves Poromiel, but I insisted she come with me. There are… delicate matters we’ll be discussing, and I value her counsel."

Xaden nods once.

"I’ll be sure to make her feel welcome."

"I’m sure you will." Her eyes linger on him a beat longer than necessary, her voice dipped in something unreadable—approval, perhaps. Or warning.

The silence that follows is not awkward. It hums, thick with mutual appraisal, like the moment before a match begins.

Around them, the courtyard slowly begins to stir again. Servants resume their duties with a kind of dazed efficiency, casting quick, curious glances at the Queen as they go. The tension her arrival brought—the hush of awe, the ripple of whispers—begins to settle like dust after a storm, but the impact of her presence lingers.

Xaden catches himself watching them too long and straightens. Protocol. He’s still on duty.

“We are more than pleased to welcome you and your delegation to Aretia, My Lady,” he says with careful warmth, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

“It is my honour,” she replies, her voice vibrant with sincerity. She keeps her hand in his a breath longer than expected, fingers flexing gently against his palm, before she steps closer. He finds himself looking up—barely, but still. She towers over him, all striking angles and that sunrise-coloured gown that glows softly in the morning light.

Xaden isn’t sure if it’s her natural height or the work of very well-hidden heels, but either way, he feels momentarily dwarfed. And oddly... captivated.

“I’ve heard so much about Aretia,” she continues, her words tumbling in an eager rush, “and I’m especially interested in the foothills to your north. Have you been there? My advisors tell me there are crystals in the hills—your hills—which is fascinating, because you know we’re known for our own, but yours are apparently a completely different colour, and I’ve heard they—”

She pauses for breath, and Xaden tries to blink his brain back into working order. He wasn’t prepared for this—her warmth, her volume, the sudden nearness of her presence. Her voice rises and falls like a melody, but he can feel the sheer intensity of her curiosity behind it.

“Catriona,” Fen cuts in smoothly from just behind Xaden's shoulder, his tone pleasant but firm, the perfect courtly interruption. He wears his most benevolent expression, the one that says forgive me, but I’m saving someone from drowning. “We don’t want you to catch cold. Shall we move indoors? Breakfast has already been laid out for you and your retinue.”

Xaden exhales, almost imperceptibly. His father. Always on time.

The Countess laughs—a rich sound that seems to curl in the air—and gives Xaden a slightly apologetic look, as though aware she might’ve overwhelmed him.

“Of course,” she says graciously, her smile never dimming. “I’d love nothing more.”

As she turns toward the steps, her train trailing behind her like sunrise mist, Xaden finds himself staring for a moment too long—at her back, at the curve of her shoulders, at the effortless way she takes command of every space she walks into.

He moves to follow, Fen falling in step beside him.

“She’s... enthusiastic,” Xaden mutters under his breath, unsure if it’s awe or exasperation in his tone.

Fen hums in agreement, eyes ahead. “And very tall.”

“Thanks for the rescue.” Xaden sighs.

“Anytime, Your Highness.” Fen smirks, clapping Xaden on the back.

Chapter Text

Catriona, the second Countess of Poromiel, threads her arm through Xaden's as though they’ve known each other for years. Her grip is light but calculated, guiding just as much as being guided, and there’s something about the way she moves—like she’s claiming space, not merely occupying it. Her perfume is artfully subtle, layered and precise: warm floral notes touched by something sharper, like the faintest hint of smoke.

Behind them, Fen peels away to direct the flurry of movement in the courtyard. Servants hurry to accommodate the early arrival. Carriages are being unloaded with practiced efficiency, while nobles from both sides—some bleary-eyed, others wide awake and scheming—begin to engage in polite, pointed conversation.

“I must ask your forgiveness, Xaden,” Catriona murmurs, her voice smooth as silk. “I do tend to get... enthusiastic when something piques my interest.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Xaden replies automatically. He glances up at her—still unsure if she’s tall by nature or cleverly using heels and posture to elevate herself. Either way, she commands attention with every word, every glance. He finds himself adjusting his gait to match hers without realising it.

“I’d be glad to speak more about the northern hills,” he offers. “I’ve only visited once, but I own several blades inlaid with crystals from that region. If you'd like, I’m sure we could show you a few samples.”

She turns her head just slightly toward him, and for a moment, the smile she gives him is more calculated than warm.

“How generous,” she says lightly. “Crystals are our pride in Poromiel. To see a foreign variant... especially one used in weapons... well. That would be a fascinating point of discussion.”

Xaden's brows twitch, just barely. There’s a deeper current beneath her tone, but before he can parse it, she turns sharply.

“Oh—Your Majesty,” she calls, brow furrowed as she glances over her shoulder. “The mare may have picked up a stone during the journey. I couldn’t be sure in the dark, but I’d hate for her to be lame by midday.”

Fen, ever alert, nods once.

“Of course, Catriona.”

“Felix?” he calls to the stablemaster.

The grizzled man grunts.

“New kid,” he mutters, pointing around the back of the carriage. “Make sure you follow through.”

“Yep!” a young voice answers brightly. A hand flits into view, then disappears again, busy with something heavy and metallic. Catriona doesn’t glance twice to confirm. She simply accepts that her order will be followed.

And just like that, she’s moving forward again, tugging lightly at Xaden's arm to resume their walk into the palace.

“I assume your stables are well-kept?” she asks with idle charm.

“They’re among the best in the realm,” Xaden replies, resisting the urge to bristle. She hasn’t insulted him—but there’s a deliberate note in her voice, a feigned ignorance that lets her poke at weaknesses while smiling sweetly.

She makes the appropriate sounds of admiration when they enter the Grand Hall, eyes drifting slowly over the architecture, the soaring ceilings, the seasonal tapestries.

“This is lovely,” she breathes, her head tilting back slightly to admire the towering ceilings and sweeping stone arches. Her eyes track the vast tapestry that runs the length of the hall—scenes of ancient battles, dragons, and sweeping landscapes. “These are handwoven?”

“Most,” Xaden answers. “A few are embroidered replicas of the older ones. We rotate them out seasonally, depending on the occasion.”

“Ah,” she says, pausing beneath one. “That’s a Tyrrish design, isn’t it? Your weavers are skilled. I’d heard Aretia was conservative with trade. I wonder how many hands it passed through before arriving here.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Xaden answers, voice cool. “We’re particular, not closed.”

Her eyes flick to him—sharp, assessing—and then she smiles, all warmth again.

“How reassuring.”

They arrive at the smaller dining chamber, and she releases his arm only once he gestures for her to take a seat. She glides into place without hesitation, like she’s done this a thousand times across a hundred palaces.

She examines the spread of food—berries, sausages, warm bread, delicate cheeses—then lifts her eyes to Xaden and tilts her head.

“You do breakfast well,” she says, reaching for a slice of fruit. “Or perhaps you were warned I can be particular.”

Xaden gives a faint smile.

“A little of both.”

Her gaze lingers on him, and there’s something catlike in it now.

“I think we’ll get along very well, Xaden Riorson,” she says softly. “Especially if you keep surprising me.”

And just like that, he knows she’s testing him—probing for weaknesses, for boundaries. But oddly, he doesn’t mind. She’s the kind of opponent he respects.

Xaden was right—The Poromish Countess keeps up a steady stream of conversation as the morning sun inches higher through the tall arched windows. She moves effortlessly from topic to topic, never lingering long, each thread like a lure cast gently into deeper waters. She doesn’t seem to mind that Xaden offers only occasional responses—polite affirmations, small commentary, nothing too substantial. Her voice is soft and lilting, a melodic cadence that flows like a slow-moving current, wrapping gently around him.

It’s strangely hypnotic. Xaden, never a morning person even on his best days, finds himself lulled into a half-doze, his posture loose in the high-backed chair, fingers absently playing with the handle of his teacup. Her words blur, sweet and indistinct.

He doesn’t realise she’s said his name until he feels a touch—light and deliberate—against his wrist.

“Riorson,” Catriona says, her tone gentle but unmistakably expectant. She tilts her head, eyes bright with amused patience.

Xaden straightens quickly.

“My apologies,” he says automatically, then adds with a sheepish smile, “And please—just Xaden, if you like. We’ll be spending a lot of time together the next few days, and formalities seem excessive.”

“I agree completely,” Catriona replies, smile returning like the sun after a cloud. But now that Xaden is fully awake, there’s a distinct sharpness in her gaze—a kind of focus that wasn’t there before. “But I was wondering…” she leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Who are those people over there?”

Xaden follows her subtle finger point toward the far end of the hall, where Felix is walking swiftly, flanked by two of the Assembly members. They carry scrolls tucked under their arms, heads bowed as they speak in hushed voices. Catriona's timing is precise—just as Xaden's eyes land on the group, Felix turns. Their gazes meet. Felix's expression falters for a moment, his brow tightening, mouth pressing into a faint line. He looks like he wants to say something… but then the moment snaps. Felix nods once at Fen, who murmurs something too quiet to hear, and the Assembly members sweep past and disappear down the hall.

Xaden blinks.

“Members of The Assembly and my father's advisors,” he says at last, reaching for a biscuit and swiping it through jam mostly for something to do. Felix's look sits heavy in his stomach, unease coiling low. He’s known Felix all his life—his father's most loyal man, blunt and efficient—but that expression was new. Almost wary. Almost… accusatory. He clears his throat and sets the biscuit down. “They’re likely headed to the Assembly rooms. My father—His Majesty—has meetings this morning.”

Catriona hums in mild acknowledgment and sips from her water glass. It’s been chilled to near perfection—crisp and refreshing in a way only a water wielder hand could make it. She notices. Of course she does.

“Your wielders are very skilled,” she comments idly, though the remark is anything but idle.

Xaden nods.

“The kitchens are staffed by some of our best. They take their craft seriously.”

The Countess tilts her glass slightly in appreciation, but her attention hasn’t left the direction Felix disappeared in.

“Will your father be joining us for breakfast?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Xaden says, working to keep his tone light. “Meetings, as I said. He’ll likely want to meet you later this evening, after you’ve had time to rest.”

She turns her gaze back to him, still smiling, though there’s something evaluating in her silence—measuring the weight of what he’s not saying. Then she nods, gracious as ever.

“How considerate of him,” she says, with just a faint note of something drier underneath. “But I’m entirely at your disposal today, Xaden. I’ll follow your lead.”

He offers a more genuine smile at that—one she seems to draw from him without effort.

“We’ll let you settle in first, of course. But this afternoon, if you’re up for it, I’d love to take you for a ride around the capital. It’s the best way to see it. We’ve had excellent weather lately—the sun will be high enough by then.”

Catriona inclines her head.

“I would be delighted. Seeing a city through a prince’s eyes is always more interesting than hearing it described by courtiers.”

As if on cue, the servants begin to clear the table around them, gliding through the room in soft-soled shoes. Dishes vanish with smooth precision. They flash polite smiles and low bows in the Countesses' direction as they move, and she returns each one with a grace that feels practiced—but never insincere.

Xaden watches her from the corner of his eye. It occurs to him, for the first time, that she’s far more dangerous than she appears. She’s not just charismatic—she’s attentive. Strategic. Every word, every glance has been intentional.

And for some reason, that makes him feel... steadier. Less wary. Because at least now, he knows what kind of game they’re playing.

Xaden walks with Catriona and her sister, Syrena, to the series of rooms they've been assigned, tucked along the eastern wing where the sun filters through soft curtains and the marble floors warm earlier in the day. Their servants are already bustling within, unpacking trunks and cases, their movements efficient and quiet.

To Xaden's surprise, Catrina thanks each of them by name. There’s no hesitation—she doesn’t fumble or generalise, but speaks to them directly. A few blink in startled pleasure before bowing and returning to their tasks, even more briskly than before.

Xaden's already high opinion of her lifts another notch.

She promises she’ll be ready for the ride just after noon, her smile warm as she retreats into the space, and Xaden turns to leave, the sharp click of his boots echoing softly in the stone hall.

He’s halfway back to his personal wing when someone matches pace beside him, appearing with the same quiet ease as a shadow.

“Shouldn’t you be on patrol?” he asks without looking, recognizing the rhythmic gait at once.

“Technically, I am,” Imogen says breezily. “Just thought I’d make it an entertaining shift while I could.”

He glances sideways. Her hair is a brilliant, almost blinding pink today, clashing horribly with the deep plum guard cloak draped over her shoulders. It shouldn’t work. On anyone else, it wouldn’t. But Imogen never seems out of place—only like the space she occupies has bent to accommodate her. She’s relaxed, posture loose, but there’s a glint of amusement in her bright green eyes that puts Xaden immediately on guard.

“How do you like the Countess?” she asks, casual.

Xaden narrows his eyes at her.

“You haven’t seen her yet.”

“I hear things.” Imogen's grin sharpens, almost fox-like. “And you’re walking a little lighter than usual.”

“She’s nice,” Xaden says neutrally. “Gracious. Charming. Possibly terrifying, but in a diplomatic way.”

Imogen raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this more than she should.

“Sounds like your type.”

Xaden shoots her a look.

“Are you coming with us this afternoon?” he asks, instead of rising to the bait.

“Of course,” she says, smiling again—but this one’s cooler, professional. Her eyes flick over the corridor as they walk, cataloguing the environment with practiced detachment. For all her jokes, Imogen is Xaden's second guard for a reason. She’s good. Too good, sometimes. And she gets assigned to Xaden far more than chance or need would suggest. He doesn’t need guarding. He’s the Tyrrish heir. But Imogen always seems to be nearby, lingering like a second shadow. His father's idea, no doubt.

“Are you going to be ready to play tour guide?” she asks, like it’s a casual question.

“Yes,” Xaden says shortly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he repeats, this time with a hint of bite.

She shrugs, clearly satisfied that she’s ruffled him.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t respond. They round the next corner and pass a trio of servants carrying neatly folded linens—two girls and a boy. The younger girl and the boy smile brightly at him in passing. They’re familiar, staff he recognizes from this part of the castle.

But the third—The third is new.

She’s petite, porcelain-skinned, and moves with a dancer’s ease. Her eyes—startlingly hazel—flick up to meet Xaden's for only a moment, then lower respectfully. There’s a curl to the corners of her lips, a ghost of a smile that feels far too knowing for someone carrying sheets. Not mocking. Not flirtatious. Just—knowing. Like she’s in on something.

Like she’s seen him before.

Something about it lodges uneasily in his chest.

But then the moment’s gone, and the servant moves past, and Xaden reaches his rooms. He still has letters to respond to before noon—briefings to review. Too much to do to waste time puzzling over a face he’s likely never seen before.

He dismisses her from his mind.

But the smile stays with him longer than he’d like.

Chapter Text

Catriona walks beside him with easy grace as they cross the estate grounds toward the stables, her long strides measured and confident. Imogen trails behind them at a loose distance, but Catriona doesn’t seem concerned — her attention stays focused ahead, surveying the grounds with the faintest hint of a smile.

“My rooms are more than comfortable," she says, her tone light but edged with deliberate precision. "Your staff are well-trained. Efficient. I appreciate that."

The words are courteous, but they land like a subtle test, and Xaden answers with a nod, amused. She’s weighing him, weighing the estate, even now.

The sun is high, blazing down against the rough cobblestones. When they step around a crumbled patch of stone, Xaden steadies her lightly with a hand at her elbow. She glances at him, the smallest tilt of her mouth betraying a flicker of something warmer — approval, maybe, or amusement.

“It’s strange,” she says after a beat, voice thoughtful. “To smell the sea so far inland.”

She says it like an observation, but there’s a wry note tucked just beneath it, a quiet acknowledgment of how foreign everything must seem. Xaden keeps his eyes ahead, not trusting himself to look at her too long with the way the sunlight gilds her features.

"I haven’t been to the villages along the Poromish coast," he says, steering her toward his private stable. Servants bustle around them, their glances lingering longer than necessary on the Poromish Countess and her sister — both now dressed in deep burgundy riding clothes, a deliberate shift from the pink finery of the morning. The richer colour sharpens Catriona’s presence, makes her seem even more striking. Dangerous, if she wanted to be. “But I’ve travelled to Caldyr," Xaden continues. "It felt like stepping into another world.”

“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Catriona replies, her voice quiet but sure. "Caldyr mirrors home in all the ways that matter. Familiar enough that you forget you’re foreign." Her gaze sweeps the fields, the sea-bent trees in the distance. “Here, it’s different. No illusions.”

The words hang between them — not sad, exactly. Just true.

For a moment, Xaden thinks she’s letting her guard down, just a fraction. Not careless. Intentional. A gift.

He follows her lead, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them as they near the stables. Her shoulder brushes his, and though she says nothing about it, Xaden feels the shift, quiet but undeniable.

Catriona doesn’t need grand declarations, he realizes. She speaks in subtleties. In choices. In what she lets him see.

And he’s starting to look closer than he probably should.

“I hope you don’t become homesick,” Xaden says honestly. 

It’s something he’s wrestled with himself, every time he’s forced to leave the estate for diplomatic meetings — nothing ever feels quite as steady as the rolling hills of Aretia. The flat, endless plains of Navarre, the jagged crags of Braevick — none of them offer the same quiet reassurance as the spindly pine trees that guard the capital, or the familiar silhouette of the brick-and-stone estate against the horizon.

“Oh, I doubt you’ll be rid of me that easily,” Catriona replies, a glint in her eye as a passing maid nearly trips over her own feet at the sight of her smile. There’s something effortlessly magnetic about her when she smiles like that — as though she’s aware of the effect, and chooses exactly when to wield it. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip for a long time," she continues, smoothing her hand over the hem of her burgundy riding coat with casual precision. "It’s rare they let me escape the academy, or my duties to my uncle Tecarus. The moment I heard there was a delegation being assembled, I made very sure no one else got the spot.” 

Her words are lightly spoken, but there's an unmistakable undercurrent beneath them — ambition, sharp and deliberate, tempered by charm. Xaden finds himself appreciating it more than he probably should.

“You must be very persuasive,” Xaden says, studying her.

Catriona tilts her head, her mouth curving into something almost wicked and yet still graceful.

“I prefer determined.”

Her gaze lingers on him just a fraction longer than it needs to, steady and certain in a way that makes something in Xaden’s chest tighten.

They reach the stable doors. The morning smells of hay and sun-warmed leather.

“I’ll introduce you to my sister, whom I'm sure you've seen around the estate since our arrival, more properly at dinner—if you’re free,” Catriona adds.

The phrasing is casual, the offer light — but there’s something else tucked just beneath it. An invitation not only to meet her sister, but to share something closer to familiarity and a hint as though she already knows he’ll say yes.

Xaden finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

“I’ll make the time.”

The barn’s interior still clings to the lingering chill of the evening, shadows pooled in the corners where the sunlight can’t quite reach. But the space is steadily warming, filled with the constant movement of stable hands mending armor, hauling sacks of grain, and shoveling fresh straw for the livestock. The air is thick with the rich scent of dragons and hay, undercut by the sharper tang of leather and oil.

"Your Highness!" one of the workers calls, waving cheerfully as Xaden and his small group step through the doors. "The dragons are all prepped and ready!"

Xaden stops short, and without thinking, lets go of Catriona’s arm.

"Sgaeyl’s been seen to already?" he asks, genuine surprise threading through his voice. Behind him, Imogen lets out a distinctly amused sound, and Xaden quickly adds, for Catriona’s benefit, "Sgaeyl is my dragon. She’s... not exactly patient." Which, honestly, doesn’t even scratch the surface. Most days, Sgaeyl barely tolerates the stable hands tending to her scales, let alone tending to her. Xaden had fully intended to handle her himself while Catriona was introduced to her own mount.

"Lady Catriona," Imogen says smoothly, resting a gentle hand on Catriona’s back, "perhaps I can show you to your companion while His Highness recovers from the shock."

"Please," Catriona replies, blinking once before a sly smile tugs at her mouth.

"Imogen," Xaden warns, shooting her a pointed look, but she’s already sweeping Catriona away toward a group of beaming stable hands who look entirely too pleased to be enlisted.

Xaden wonders, half amused and half wary, what rumors about Catriona have already begun circulating, judging by their eagerness—but his focus shifts almost immediately.
Across the barn, near the wide-open doors, Sgaeyl stands tall, her massive frame backlit by the blazing sunlight outside. Someone is at her side, mostly hidden by her bulk, their hand resting against her scales with casual familiarity.

The sunlight turns the two of them into stark silhouettes, as if inked onto a fresh sheet of parchment, sharp against the blinding gold beyond.

It takes Xaden a second to register what he’s seeing.

Sgaeyl, the most vicious and prideful creature in Aretia outside of her own bonded rider, stands still. Still—and even more unthinkable—relaxed. The spines along her neck aren’t raised in warning. Her tail, so often twitching in irritation around strangers, hangs low and loose behind her.

The hand stroking her scales moves slowly, with easy, practiced confidence.

Xaden’s boots scrape against the packed dirt as he strides closer, every step sharpening the shape of the stable hand in his vision. It's not one of the usual staff he recognises. This figure is smaller, leaner, moving with a kind of calmness that speaks of no fear—only familiarity.

Sgaeyl rumbles low in her chest, and the figure laughs quietly, the sound almost stolen by the wind blowing through the open doors.

A strange unease threads through Xaden’s stomach.

Not danger. Something else. Something he cannot name.

He finally steps close enough for Sgaeyl’s bulk to shift and for the light to fall differently—and sees her.

The small, hazel-eyed girl from the hallway. The one with the hidden smile.

She glances over her shoulder at him now, the edge of her mouth tilting in a knowing sort of amusement, as if she’s been waiting for him to realize. Her hand never leaves Sgaeyl’s side, stroking over a spot just beneath the silver-blue scales that Xaden knows is especially sensitive, a place only a handful of people even know about.

“Well,” she says lightly, voice cutting through the barn’s heavy air, “you must be the one she’s been waiting for.”

Sgaeyl’s eye, massive and gleaming, swings to Xaden—and blinks once, slow and deliberate, as if confirming it.

Xaden, for once in his life, has no immediate idea what to say.

Xaden’s brow furrows in confusion, the unease almost immediate as his eyes scan the stable. He knows the barn well, but this young woman—standing next to his dragon, of all places—doesn’t ring a bell.

He’s not sure why he feels unsettled, but the faint tug in his chest is there, something akin to a whisper in the back of his mind. His eyes flick to Sgaeyl, and then back to her. There’s something about the way she stands so comfortably beside his dragon, the easy calmness between them, that leaves him a little off-balance.

"Do I know you?" he asks, curiosity lacing his tone as he steps closer. His mind races through the faces of the stable hands, trying to place her. His acquaintance with the barn staff is limited to a few names—Quinn, who somehow earned Sgaeyl’s reluctant trust when it came to grooming, and Eya and Ciaran, the infamous twins who caused more chaos around the estate than Xaden cared to keep track of. He’s seen most of them enough to recognise them, but this woman—small in stature but striking in her quiet confidence—doesn’t seem familiar.

The stable hand coughs, a soft, almost nervous sound, before responding.

"My name is Violet, Your Highness. I’m new here."

“Oh,” Xaden says, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. “Violet, yes, my father mentioned you in passing yesterday."

The name settles in his mind but doesn’t quite connect. His gaze moves over her again, a sharp note of recognition flitting through his thoughts.

Why does this feel so strange?

She straightens slightly, her eyes bright with something unreadable.

Xaden’s gaze narrows, but he hides his surprise well. Violet. Father. The words click together, but he doesn’t voice his sudden realization. Instead, he lets the moment hang between them.  For a heartbeat, it feels as though something passes between them—something unspoken. Perhaps it’s just his own disorientation, the strangeness of this unexpected encounter.

But the longer he watches her, the more a strange sense of familiarity settles in. Not just in her name, but in the way she looks at him, her demeanor calm but steady, as though she’s been waiting for this moment.

“Fen’s—The King, I mean—he’s actually who got me hired here.” Violet’s teeth catch on her lower lip as she speaks, the sharpness of her incisors briefly flashing in the dim light of the stable. Her smile is playful, almost knowing, as though there’s more behind her words than she lets on.

“Oh,” Xaden repeats, a touch of surprise creeping into his voice. He wonders if his father mentioned this yesterday in one of his long-winded explanations, though he can’t quite recall. It seems like something Fen would do—always looking out for those in need, offering a hand even when the future’s uncertain. Collecting broken souls and offering them refuge within the walls of Tyrrendor. “A job here, then.”

Violet’s fingers trace along Sgaeyl’s snout as she glances over at him, her lips curling into a sly smile.

“Better here than in the kitchen,” she says, her voice light but with an edge of something teasing. “I’m far more at ease with creatures cuddly and caustic than I am with pots and pans.” She meets his gaze without hesitation, her grin widening ever so slightly. “The last dish I tried to cook? Well, it was a bit of a... disaster. I’m sure it could have doubled as a doorstop.”

Xaden lets out a small, involuntary chuckle, but his amusement doesn’t mask the quiet curiosity in his eyes.

“Seems we have something in common, then. Cooking's never been my forte either.”

Violet’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, the smile still playing at the corners of her mouth, before she shifts her attention back to Sgaeyl.

“A prince taking to cooking in the kitchens? Tyrrendor is a strange place indeed,” Violet muses, tilting her head, her eyebrows arching in playful curiosity. Her gaze remains steady on him, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she waits for his response. “I must admit, I didn’t take you for someone with a... secret culinary side.”

Xaden feels the flush spread across his face, the warmth creeping up his neck. He hadn’t exactly meant to share his secret midnight cooking habits with a near stranger—especially not when that stranger happened to be a sharp-eyed stable hand. He catches himself just before he starts to stammer, realising belatedly that perhaps this wasn’t the best conversation to have with someone from the estate, given his title. But then again, most of the servants and staff wouldn’t have batted an eye at the Crown Prince of Tyrrendor in the kitchen. Violet, though... Violet had questioned it outright. No hesitation, no apology, and no hint of embarrassment. Just that clever look, as if she knew exactly how to make him squirm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words falter when he catches her eyes. There’s something about the way she looks at him—calm, teasing, and entirely unflustered—that throws him off balance. He clears his throat, straightening his posture, trying to look unfazed by the fact that she seems to see right through him.

“I’m not sure what’s stranger—the cooking, or your ability to call me out without blinking.”

Violet’s smile widens as she watches his discomfort.

“You know, if I had known you could cook, I might have asked you to prepare something for me... I do enjoy a good meal. Though, judging by your face, I might be in for a surprise.” She pauses, leaning in slightly, just enough to make him wonder if she’s toying with him. “But then again, I don’t think you strike me as the type to disappoint.”

Xaden coughs, trying to regain some composure, but the playful glint in her eyes keeps him on edge.

“I don’t know if I’d call it disappointment,” he mutters, though he’s not entirely sure if he means the cooking... or the way she’s making him feel under her gaze.

Violet’s smile widens again, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Well, if you ever need a critic, Your Highness, I’m more than happy to give you an honest review.”

“How did you manage to tend to Sgaeyl?” Xaden asks, trying to keep his voice steady and authoritative, but his curiosity is evident. He’s expecting the usual deference, but Violet doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she meets his gaze with a knowing smirk, her eyes softening as she gazes up at Sgaeyl.

“She’s not nearly as frightening as everyone makes her out to be,” Violet responds, her fingers running lightly across the dragon’s scales. “Sure, she tried to bite me when I first got close,” she adds with a playful glint in her eyes, “but I did manage to win her over.”

“Win her over,” Xaden repeats, his brow knitting together in confusion. He’s seen Sgaeyl nearly bite the heads off anyone who dares to get too close to her—he’s the only one she’s ever trusted. And now this girl, this stranger, has somehow charmed Tyrrendor’s most ferocious dragon in a single day?

Violet doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by Xaden’s disbelief. She just smiles, her lips curling up in that way that suggests she’s privy to a secret only she knows.

“It wasn’t all that hard,” she continues, her voice dripping with quiet confidence. “I’ve always had a way with animals… and with people, too.”

Xaden swallows, his thoughts momentarily scattered as Violet’s words hang in the air. Is she insinuating something? Her gaze never wavers from him, and for a moment, the playful challenge in her eyes feels like she’s testing him, daring him to respond.

He clears his throat, desperately trying to regain control of his composure.

“That’s... impressive,” he says, his voice a bit hoarse, though he can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s not just Sgaeyl that Violet has managed to get under the skin of.

Violet’s grin widens just a fraction, clearly enjoying the effect she’s having on him.

“I suppose I’m just full of surprises.”

A flicker of irritation darts through Xaden, but he forces it down, pushing the emotion aside. There’s no time for him to waste on jealousy, not when a stranger has so easily gained the trust of his dragon—a creature that only ever yields to him. Lady Catriona, ever poised, is already mounted and ready, sitting confidently on her steed just outside. She’s speaking with Imogen, her smile radiant as always, her eyes never straying far from the conversation. The image of her perfectly composed, as if there were no nerves or uncertainty at all, makes him feel even more unsettled.

The sound of Violet’s voice breaks his focus, pulling his attention away from the women. Her words are light, teasing even, and he turns back to her, only to find her smirking up at him with a knowing look that makes his pulse quicken in an unexpected way.

“I’m quite the charmer,” she says, her tone laced with mischief. Her eyes sparkle as she meets his gaze, the playfulness in her words not lost on him. There’s something about her smirk—something familiar, as though she’s done this before, and it unsettles him in a way he can’t quite explain. He’s sure he’s seen that look somewhere... Maybe even aimed at him, though he can’t place when.

“I’m sure,” Xaden replies, his voice a touch sharper than intended as he tries to regain his composure. His gaze shifts to Sgaeyl, the dragon’s familiar presence offering a welcome distraction. He scratches under her chin as he nudges her forward, grateful for the physical task to ground him, but the flush on his face lingers.

Violet doesn’t let up.

“Let me add that if you ever need lessons on charm, I’m happy to offer my assistance,” she adds, the glint in her eye promising that she enjoys every second of this game.

Xaden’s brow furrows slightly, curiosity piquing in spite of himself.

“I’m sure you have plenty of opportunities to practice,” Xaden mutters, his voice strained as he tries to regain control of the situation. He forces his gaze away from her, focusing instead on Sgaeyl. He scratches the dragon under the chin, the motion a small, grounding comfort, before he begins to nudge her forward. The heat from his face lingers, but he does his best to shake it off.. He can’t deny that something in the way she carries herself intrigues him, but he’s not about to let that show. “Thank you for tending to her,” he adds, his words now more clipped, a slight stiffness creeping into his tone. He’s not sure whether he’s trying to distance himself or if he’s still caught up in the strange way she looks at him. “And congratulations on your new job.”

Violet’s smile broadens, a little slower this time, like she’s savouring the moment.

“Thank you, Your Highness, I’ll make sure to keep Sgaeyl in good care, fret not.” she responds, her voice dripping with something teasing, though her bow is executed with perfect precision—neither too shallow nor too deep. The way her lips curl up in the corner, however, gives her away. There’s something a little too mischievous in her gesture, as though she’s in on some secret joke that only she knows. 

Xaden stands there for a moment, watching her straighten and look him dead in the eye, the smirk never fading, only deepening. It’s as if she’s daring him to try and figure her out, challenging him to see the game she’s playing—except she’s not the one on the defensive. The power dynamics are flipped in a way that makes his mind and his heart, race.

Chapter Text

Xaden leads Sgaeyl out of the barn, his frown deepening with every step. The sun strikes his face as they emerge, but it does little to burn away the lingering heat rising stubbornly at the tips of his ears.

Sgaeyl stretches out her massive wings with a pleased rumble, the sunlight gleaming along her silver-blue scales. She cranes her neck, spotting the other dragons already gathered beyond the paddock, and lets out a low, eager growl. Xaden sighs under his breath. It’s clear he’s going to spend half the flight wrestling her into formation rather than keeping pace like a civilized royal envoy. Still, her restlessness offers a welcome distraction — pulling his thoughts away from the maddening stablehand and back where they belong.

He presses a hand along Sgaeyl’s powerful neck, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath her scales, and she bumps her snout against his shoulder in response. At least someone around here still has their priorities straight.

“Took you long enough,” Imogen calls lightly. She’s already seated atop her dragon, staying conveniently close to Lady Catriona’s side. The foreign noblewoman, composed and elegant even in riding leathers, looks down at Xaden with a curious tilt of her head.

“Your dragon doesn’t seem particularly fierce,” Lady Catriona observes, her voice full of polite wonder. A diplomatic lie, probably — Sgaeyl’s mere presence tended to send grown men scattering like children.

“She must be putting on her best manners for you,” Imogen adds slyly, flashing Catriona a grin that makes the other woman’s cheeks flush pink.

Xaden pointedly ignores Imogen’s transparent attempt at flirtation. He turns back to Sgaeyl, checking her over himself out of habit, running his hands over her gleaming scales. He tugs the girth of her seat to make sure she hasn’t puffed herself up to loosen it — a favourite trick of hers — but everything is snug, properly fastened. There’s no real reason to doubt the work. Still, he moves carefully, methodically — trying to shake the strange pull lingering in the back of his mind.

Irritatingly, it doesn’t work.

Still, unease prickles at him, and his gaze flickers toward the barn doors without conscious thought.

Violet stands just inside the threshold, half in shadow. Her arms are folded loosely, her posture lazy, but her eyes — her eyes are anything but. They meet his across the space between them, the corner of her mouth tugging upward into a quiet, knowing smile. It isn’t mocking exactly, but it isn’t respectful either. It feels private. Like she’s already decided on some secret between them and hasn’t seen fit to tell him yet.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither does he.

For a beat too long, the world narrows down to that tethered look, the faint curl of her mouth, the way the sunlight catches on the rolled sleeves of her shirt, leaving the strong lines of her forearms bare.

Then — as if she’s deliberately choosing to end the moment — Violet tips her head in something that might be a bow, might be a dare, and turns back into the barn. The lazy hum of a tune follows in her wake, faint and maddening.

There’s something about her smile though — the way it curves at the edges, knowing and just a little too familiar — that pulls at Xaden’s mind with greater insistence this time, sharper than a tug.

A jolt of recognition flickers through him.

Oh. Of course.

He should have seen it the moment he laid eyes on her. Would have, if he hadn’t been too distracted by Sgaeyl's sudden and suspicious streak of good behaviour — an unprecedented enough event to knock his instincts sideways for a moment. But now, with the barn doors yawning open behind him and the imprint of that smirk still lingering in the back of his mind, the memory slides into place with an almost audible click.

She’s the girl he glimpsed earlier today.

The one weaving through the long corridors of his wing of the estate with the other servants, arms full of fresh linens, her head down just enough to pass for unobtrusive — and yet he remembered her anyway.

Xaden presses his teeth against his lower lip, a restless habit he rarely indulges in, and narrows his eyes at the empty threshold where she disappeared.

Something gnaws at the edges of his thoughts — not fear, exactly, and not anger either — more like an itch he can’t quite scratch, a faint disquiet that keeps turning over in his mind without settling.

If she were just any stablehand, just another nameless servant assigned to his household, he wouldn’t still be thinking about her. Wouldn’t still be caught on the flash of her smile, the easy way she looked at him, as if she knew something he didn’t.

Wouldn’t feel so... unsettled.

What was a stable hand — new to the grounds, by her own admission — doing inside the estate itself?

In his part of the estate, no less?

Where even trusted staff tread carefully, and strangers have no reason to be?

“Your Highness, are you still with us?”

Imogen’s sharp voice cuts cleanly through the haze of Xaden’s thoughts, snapping him back to the present. He jerks his gaze away from the barn, blinking against the sunlight as he looks up at the two women waiting on their mounts.

Imogen wears the unmistakable expression of impatience, her eyebrows drawn tight, tapping her fingers restlessly against Glane's scales.

But it’s Catriona who draws his attention — calm, composed, her posture impeccable atop her dragon. She leans forward just slightly, not enough to seem improper, but enough to study him more closely, her eyes bright with veiled interest.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, her voice soft, careful, almost tender. But there’s a keen intelligence behind her words, a sharpness lurking beneath the sweetness — as if she’s already filing away every reaction he gives her, every hesitation, for future use.

Xaden tightens his jaw for a breath, swallowing the inexplicable urge to glance back at the barn — to look for a flash of a smirk, the shimmer of sun on bare forearms, the sound of humming just beyond the threshold.

“Fine,” he says crisply. And if it’s a little too curt, a little too fast, at least it’s final. He gives a short nod, smoothing scales between his fingers to steady himself. “Apologies. I was... momentarily distracted. I’m ready.”

Without waiting for a response, he climbs easily p onto Sgaeyl’s back. She shudders beneath him with pent-up energy, her muscles rippling under his thighs as she shifts restlessly, eager to launch. Xaden leans into the motion instinctively, moving with her, not against her — the familiar rhythm anchoring him when everything else feels off-balance.

“Shall I lead the way?” he calls back, his tone lighter than he feels — though they all know there was never any real question. Sgaeyl wouldn’t tolerate following for long, not with her pride, and neither would he.

“Please,” Catriona answers, a small smile curling at her lips, and if there’s more weight in that one word than there should be — if it feels like permission for more than just the flight — Xaden pointedly ignores it.

He gives Sgaeyl a bit of slack, and she doesn’t hesitate. With a powerful surge of her wings, she launches them into the sky, the familiar rush of wind and strength lifting them above the flight field.

Glane rises obediently after them, brown scales catching the sunlight in a shimmer of muted gold, Catriona’s seat flawless atop her mount. A handful of guards form a loose tail behind, the gleam of their armor flashing as they catch up.

Xaden tightens his grip, letting the bite of leather into his palm refocus him.

Focus on the task.

Not on a girl in the barn who had no business smiling at him like she knew him.

And certainly not on Catriona’s calculated interest either.

Beyond the high stone wall encircling the estate grounds, the view opens into the beating heart of Aretia — the capital of the kingdom that, one day, will rest squarely in Xaden’s hands.

Even from this distance, with the estate set slightly above the city on its rise of land, the energy of Aretia is unmistakable. It pulses with motion, with colour, with a rhythm entirely its own — constant and alive, no matter the hour. Whether beneath the noonday sun or wrapped in the burnished gold of early evening like it is now, the city always moves. Always breathes.

From his vantage point atop the estate walls, Xaden watches the river of people flow through the streets. Children dart between their parents’ legs with shrieks of laughter, their little arms stretched hopefully toward sweets held just out of reach. Vendors with bright awnings spill aromas of spice and fresh bread and roasting meat into the air — a deliberate seduction meant to lure in every wandering soul. Couples walk arm-in-arm, brushing shoulders, whispering in each other’s ears, their faces lit with private jokes and the soft ease of youth. Friends sit with legs dangling off public fountains, sharing wine and stories and the last warmth of a summer that's just beginning to slip away.

There are so many of them — thousands of lives stitched together across cobbled streets and vine-wrapped balconies and lantern-lit windows. Some he knows by name, by loyalty, by shared history. Others are strangers, people he’ll likely never meet. And yet, all of them belong to this city. To him, in a way. To his family.

They live under the protection of his house, of his father’s rule — and one day, of his own.

That knowledge sits in his chest like stone and fire. The weight of it is familiar by now, though it hasn’t gotten any lighter. If anything, it presses harder the older he gets, the more he understands what true leadership will require. How easily it could all break if he falters.

But even with that pressure curling at the base of his throat, threatening to close around it when he lets his mind linger too long on the future... there is also something else.

Something stranger.

It lifts him.

Not entirely — not like wings — but enough. Enough to take one breath deeper. To let his shoulders drop just slightly. Because it’s not just duty. Not to him. It never has been.

He loves this city.

Not because he was raised to, or because tradition demands it. He loves it in that quiet, aching way that takes root beneath the ribs and settles there — steady and undeniable. It’s in the way the rooftops catch fire in the evening light, in the music echoing down from open windows, in the way even the chaos feels like it’s part of a larger, unknowable harmony.

This city matters to him.

And somehow, impossibly, it feels like the city knows. As if it breathes in time with him — inhaling as he straightens his spine, exhaling as he lets his eyes drift shut for just a moment.

He opens them again, and Aretia is still there — bright, loud, imperfect, beautiful.

Waiting.

Aretia is the most breath-taking place in the world — or at least, it is to Xaden. Of all the corners of the realm he’s laid eyes on, none hold a candle to the city that stretches before him now. Not the jagged obsidian keeps of Caldyr, where the wind howls through the fortress towers like a living thing, nor the pale, endless cliffs of Poromiel, which jut into the sea like the bones of some ancient giant. Not the desert cities that shimmer with heat and illusion, or the far-north outposts where the night sky dances with cold fire. All of them are wonders in their own right — powerful, awe-inspiring, even dangerous.

But none of them are this.

None of them are Aretia.

From this vantage, the city spills out beneath him like a dream painted in sunlight and motion. The towers and spires of the inner ring catch and throw the light, while winding streets buzz with life — a thousand tiny moments unfolding all at once. Market stalls bursting with bright fruit, bakers brushing sugar over warm pastries, weavers stringing looms in open windows. There’s music, too — faint but unmistakable — drifting on the breeze from some unseen courtyard below.

Xaden’s chest tightens with something that feels impossibly large — pride, maybe. Love. A bone-deep protectiveness. Whatever it is, it rises up like a tide, pushing hard against the inside of his ribs until he’s sure it’ll leave bruises.

This is his city. His people.

This is what matters.

And it should be what occupies his every waking thought. The shape of this kingdom. The future of its people. The weight of responsibility his name commands. He should be thinking of trade routes and defense lines and council diplomacy. Of his father’s expectations. Of his own.

Not…

Not a girl behind a velvet mask whose laughter still echoes in his head. Not a stable hand with clever fingers and a mouth that never quite stops smirking. Not the thousand small distractions that have been worming their way under his skin lately, making it harder and harder to think straight.

This is what’s important. Not the tangled questions or the lingering glances or the dreams he can't seem to shake. This city, alive and waiting and real — this is where his focus should be.

Beside him, Catriona draws her mount a little closer, her eyes scanning the city as if she’s trying to memorize it. She sounds thoughtful, almost reluctant when she speaks.

“It’s lovely,” she says, and for once, her voice lacks calculation.

Xaden turns his gaze from the horizon to glance at her, and a faint, unguarded smile tugs at the edge of his mouth.

“It’s home,” he says simply, the truth of it ringing through him like a bell.

Then he gives Sgaeyl a gentle nudge with his heels, and she responds instantly, breaking into a smooth dive that carries them down the hill and into the waiting arms of the city, the sun climbing steadily higher behind them.

Chapter Text

“You must promise we can go back to that shop — the one crammed with all those books,” Catriona says, her voice lilting with something between mischief and earnestness. She leans in just enough for the tips of her fingers to brush the worn leather at his shoulder, the contact so light it could almost be accidental. But it isn’t. Her wide, imploring eyes meet his with theatrical innocence, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

Xaden lifts his cup to his mouth, hiding a smirk behind the rim as he takes a slow sip of wine. The day’s sunlight is gone now, traded for the soft hush of evening and the lantern glow spilling from the windows of the estate’s dining hall. Still, the energy from the afternoon lingers in her, and he finds himself oddly pleased by it.

Most visiting nobles viewed the city tours he was tasked with leading as a duty to endure — a tedious checklist of monuments and markets, to be tolerated for the sake of diplomacy. They would nod politely, offer empty compliments, and retreat back to their gilded rooms at the earliest opportunity.

But Catriona had been different. She had lit up at every winding street, lingered over every stall, asked questions about the city’s history not because protocol demanded it, but because she genuinely wanted to know. Or, at the very least, she was good enough at pretending that even he was half convinced.

It was… refreshing. Disarming, even.

Lowering his cup, Xaden allows himself a small smile — not the careful, aloof one he usually wears, but something softer, almost real.

“If you insist,” he says, tone dry but not unkind. “I suppose I can spare an hour for books.”

Catriona beams, triumphant, her fingers still ghosting against his jacket before she finally pulls them back.

"An hour," she repeats, mock-solemn, as if binding him to a sacred oath.

Xaden shakes his head slightly, bemused, but says nothing more. Better to let her think she's won something. Better to let himself believe, for a little while, that the easy laughter in this hall, the clink of glasses, the warm weight of home pressing against his shoulders — this was the only thing that needed his attention tonight.

Originally, they had taken the main road that bisected Aretia, winding through the heart of the city where its pulse beat strongest. They stopped often — more often than Xaden had intended — at every important shop and market square, where vendors spilled into the streets and familiar citizens lifted their hands in greeting.

People were used to seeing Xaden Riorson riding through the city. But the beautiful foreign noblewoman at his side was something new, and they treated her accordingly — with eager curiosity, relentless charm, and no small amount of scheming.

Merchants called out offers with wide smiles, their hands heavy with jewellery and trinkets. Swordsmiths he’d known since boyhood shouted from across crowded streets, urging him to gift the lady one of their finest blades. Mothers pushed curious children forward to gawk; young men and women stared openly, their laughter bright on the breeze.

Catriona handled it all with effortless poise. Each smile she gave was perfectly measured — just warm enough to seem genuine, just reserved enough to keep them wanting more.
She was gracious, radiant even, and the more attention she gathered, the more calculating a gleam began to spark behind her eyes.

And Xaden, damn him, had noticed — but found he didn’t mind it.

At least, not enough to end the tour when he should have.

Instead, he’d convinced Imogen and the guards to allow a longer detour, leading Catriona off the main avenues and toward the places of Aretia he loved most — the parts of the city that lived beneath its polished face.

He showed her the dirt road that wound out of the city and into the pines, where the forest opened into a wildflower clearing bursting with color, like a living painting stretched out beneath the sun.

He brought her to a half-crumbling pub tucked into the seedy underbelly of the city, where an old woman barely taller than the counter served dumplings so good they could make a grown man weep.

He even brought her to his hidden bookshop above the apothecary — a cramped, dusty place heavy with the smell of parchment and oil, where he had lost countless afternoons among forgotten histories and far-off tales.

Seeing the city through her eyes — wide, sparkling, eager — had eased something restless inside him. Something that had been clattering loose and hollow since the masquerade. Something he hadn't even realised was clawing at him until today.

But even as the day wore on, even as her laughter warmed the air between them, Xaden kept a sliver of distance between himself and the easy charm Catriona offered.

She wasn’t reckless, wasn’t obvious.

Her smiles were subtle weapons, her glances deliberate. Every so often, when she thought he wasn’t looking, her gaze would sharpen — focused and assessing, almost hungry.

Not predatory. But patient. Intent.

Now, seated at one of the castle’s long dining tables, empty plates and half-finished goblets spread before them, the hum of soldiers and nobles filling the hall around them, Xaden let himself breathe a little easier.

The pride that had swelled in him all day — pride for his people, for this city, for what they had built and fought to keep — still lingered, softening the ever-present edge of his guard.

Catriona sat nearby, her laughter low and musical as she listened to a story one of the guards was telling.

But every now and then, her gaze would flick to Xaden — sharp, calculating — and linger.

He caught her watching once. And she only smiled, tilting her head slightly, as if he were an interesting book she planned to read slowly, savouring every word.

Xaden simply lifted his goblet in a polite toast, let a faint smile curve his mouth — and then deliberately turned his attention back to his men.

A silent answer.

A clear refusal to be drawn any closer.

At least, not yet.

“Those stories you told me,” Catriona says, her voice lilting like music as she leans forward with wide, earnest eyes, “I’ve never come across them before—and I studied Tyrrish lore before I ever set foot on Tyrrish soil. That one in particular, about Pascha the Elder and the ring he forged, the one in the heart of the city—how he called out to the stars, begged them for answers, and was punished for his arrogance…” She shakes her head slowly, her earrings catching the low sunlight. “It was fascinating. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Xaden glances sideways at her, a faint, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That was one of my favourites as a child. Though,” he adds, with the careful neutrality of someone familiar with both legend and its critics, “there are some historians who say the ring wasn’t forged for communion with the stars at all—that it was a symbolic gesture, a metaphor for celestial ideals. The myths about arrogance and punishment were supposedly added long after Pascha's death, maybe to soften the legacy of what he took from others.”

Catriona’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, her eyes glint with a deeper, knowing amusement. She tilts her head slightly, one finger curling absently around a dark strand of her hair as she considers his words.

“Mmm,” she hums thoughtfully, then flashes a smile like a blade hidden in velvet. “I prefer your version. The idea of someone daring to speak to the stars—that’s far more romantic. Even if the stars never answered, there’s something deeply poetic in the asking.”

Xaden chuckles, surprised by the warmth in it. A few of the nobles seated nearby glance their way, but for once, he doesn’t feel the familiar tug of scrutiny’s weight. He simply returns her smile, subdued and genuine.

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, tapping a finger lightly on the wood of the table. “It’s rare I get the chance to talk about those stories. Let alone with someone who’s actually curious.”

“You’re a better storyteller than you let on,” Catriona replies, her voice smooth as silk, her long fingers lacing neatly atop the polished wood between them. “And a better guide than I could have hoped for. I know this outing was for my benefit, but truthfully—I feel I’ve stolen something precious today.”

The compliment is layered, artfully ambiguous, and Xaden knows it. Her gaze lingers a breath too long. He holds it steadily, offering nothing but a polite nod, and just enough of a smile to keep the moment pleasant, not personal.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he says instead, choosing the most diplomatic route forward. “It’s been... a long time since I’ve had reason to leave the estate like this. Sgaeyl appreciated the flight, and I—well. I appreciated the quiet.”

Catriona’s smile widens, clearly hearing the sentiment he didn’t say aloud.

“Then we must do it again,” she says lightly, but there’s purpose in the statement—an invitation dressed in velvet, waiting to be accepted or refused. “Before your duties trap you entirely.”

Xaden offers a small bow of his head in response, not committing, not declining.

“We’ll see what the stars have to say about that.”

The way Catriona laughs—soft, delighted, a little dangerous—tells him she understands the game they’re playing. She may want more, but she won’t push him—not yet.

And he, in turn, will keep walking this line. Just close enough to keep the peace. Just distant enough to never confuse kindness for invitation.

Handling the nobility had always been Xaden’s weakest courtly skill—if it could be called a skill at all. He had a particular talent for letting conversations unravel into uncomfortable silences, and once, during a summer banquet, had made a young lord cry during what was meant to be a symbolic duel.

Apparently, Xaden had missed the subtext that it was only for show. He’d treated it as a real bout—because what was the point otherwise?—and floored the boy within three exchanges. The young lord had landed hard, sword flying from his grasp, and then, to Xaden’s horror, burst into tears. He hadn’t returned to court in the two summers since.

Garrick, Bodhi, and Imogen still brought it up every chance they got, usually with mock solemnity or dramatic re-enactments. They claimed the poor boy had been flirting with Xaden—something he still found deeply unlikely, if not entirely baffling.

No one flirted with Xaden. Not really. They flattered him to win his favor, maybe hoped for proximity to power, but flirtation? Real interest? Never.

Except for her, something treacherous inside him murmurs.

His jaw tightens. Not this again. Not her.

Still, the memory of that masked girl, that fleeting moment in a half-lit room, surfaces with startling vividness. Her laugh, soft and wild. Her eyes behind the lace. The way her touch had lingered on his wrist as if she’d known it would be the only time.

Annoyed at himself for indulging the memory—again—he lifts his wine and takes a deeper swallow than he should. The flavor blooms on his tongue, too rich, too sweet.

And then he chokes.

Not on the memory. Not entirely. But on the sudden, unmistakable flash of silver in the corner of his eye.

Violet.

He spots her just as she’s ducking around the far end of the dining hall, far from the grand entrance where most guests are still filtering in. She moves swiftly, head slightly bowed as if hoping to avoid attention, though her pace is measured—unhurried, purposeful.

“Are you alright?” Catriona’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern. “You’re not choking, are you? Should I—are there any water wielders nearby—?”

“I’m fine,” Xaden manages hoarsely, clearing his throat with as much dignity as he can summon. His fingers lift instinctively to his collar, hiding the flush that’s rapidly climbing up his neck. “Just—drank too fast. I’m fine.”

But he’s not looking at her anymore.

His gaze has locked onto Violet as she weaves past the crowded room, skirting the edge of a group of Poromish dignitaries laughing too loudly at an air wielder juggling knives. She slips past them with ease, shoulders held high, smile polite but distant, the kind of practiced grace that suggests she knows exactly how to vanish in plain sight.

Her hair gleams under the floating crystal lights, catching like moonlight on water. She moves like she’s part of the room, like she belongs, but never lets anyone close enough to ask how.

He watches as she steps aside for a young boy carrying a stack of pewter plates, exchanging a few words that draw a startled laugh from him. She says something else—something that makes him grin wider—and then they part ways without a backward glance.

'What are you doing in here?' Xaden wonders, fingers still pressed to his throat where the wine had burned its way down.

Violet moves with practiced ease, following a servant carrying a teetering stack of plates, her long fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe as she slips through. That touch—bare, incidental—feels oddly significant. And then she’s gone. Just like that.

She’d been in the hall for less than thirty seconds. No one else had even seemed to notice her. But Xaden’s still frowning, his mind racing far too fast for such a brief, silent encounter.

Why was she here?

Why hadn’t she looked at him?

“Xaden,” Catriona whispers, startling him back into the present. She’s closer than he expected—so close her breath stirs the fine hairs at his temple.

He turns too quickly, his braid sliding forward over his shoulder, cool against the skin of his collarbone.

“My apologies,” he mutters, feeling the flush return, darker this time. “I was momentarily distracted.”

“Yes,” Catriona says, her lips curving with the faintest trace of amusement. “I could see that.”

He opens his mouth, instinctively ready to explain—but Catriona is already looking away, clearing her throat with a delicate little sound, almost shy.

“I had a favour I wanted to ask of you,” she says, changing the subject with practiced grace.

Relieved, Xaden latches onto the new thread like it’s a rope out of water.

“Ask away,” he says, gesturing for her to continue. “I’m all ears.”

Catriona says something beside him, but he doesn’t catch it.

He’s still staring at the space Violet just disappeared through.

And for the first time in weeks, his pulse isn’t steady.

It takes Xaden longer than it should to realise Catriona is speaking again. Her voice reaches him distantly at first, like a melody drifting on the wind—sweet, smooth, and artfully practiced—but when her words finally register, he wishes he could un-hear them.

“I was hoping you might consider taking me to the northern hills before I depart Aretia,” she says, the words tumbling from her mouth in a breathless cascade. She speaks quickly, the way someone does when they’ve rehearsed their lines and know they only get one shot to deliver them. “I know it’s a bit of a journey, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, but I’ve always wanted to see them. I’ve heard so many stories about the way the mist pools in the valleys and the way the light turns gold on the trees—and I just don’t know if I’ll ever have another chance. It would mean so much to me if I could see them—truly see them—before I leave.”

She finishes in a flutter of breath, looking at him with wide eyes and a smile that teeters on the edge of triumph and feigned innocence. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

And Xaden, damn him, responds almost automatically.

“Of course.”

The smile that breaks across Catriona’s face could light the whole dining hall. She places a hand delicately over her chest, as though touched beyond words, and releases a soft, delighted laugh.

Only once the words have left his mouth does Xaden realise what he’s agreed to.

He’s just volunteered to escort a highborn visiting noble—one with Poromish blood, no less—out of the safe confines of the city and into a stretch of untamed forest that stretches for leagues without a single stronghold or outpost. The trip would take at least half a day each way, maybe more depending on weather and terrain. There are no guards scheduled, no itinerary prepared. It’s not just a ride through the gardens—it’s an excursion into the wild, through a region known for its treacherous terrain and, lately, a few troubling reports.

Garrick is going to murder me.

And yet... Xaden doesn’t feel dread. Not exactly. In fact, it’s almost a relief to know he has an excuse—albeit a foolish one—to escape the crushing routine of political luncheons, tedious introductions, and the excruciating business of courtly small talk.

Because if there’s one thing he truly despises about his role, it’s the delicate dance of diplomacy: the thin smiles and veiled barbs, the manipulation hidden beneath compliments, the constant performance. Catriona plays that game expertly, always saying just enough to suggest intimacy without ever crossing a line. She’s flirtatious without being improper, bold without ever losing plausible deniability.

Xaden, meanwhile, can only respond in kind—cordial, courteous, perfectly princely. He doesn’t encourage her, not really. But he doesn’t reject her either. That would be rude. And worse—it would be memorable.

Besides, of all the things he has to endure in this life, a few hours in the forest are hardly a punishment.

The northern hills are one of the few places that still feel untouched by politics or war. Out there, beneath the towering trees that reach so high they vanish into the mist, everything else falls away. The air smells different—cleaner, sharper. The wind carries the sound of birdsong instead of gossip, and the sky overhead feels more like the one he saw as a boy in Aretia—wider, freer, impossibly blue.

He feels something loosen in his chest at the thought. Something like breath. Like escape.

“If you’ll give me tomorrow to make arrangements,” he says, schooling his voice into something polite and measured, “we can leave the day after. If we ride out at sunrise, we should return just after nightfall. I imagine that will sit well enough with Lady Syrena’s schedule?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Catriona says quickly, her eyes gleaming. “I’m sure she’ll understand. Thank you, Xaden. Truly.”

He offers her a small bow of his head and a carefully crafted smile.

“It’s my pleasure, my lady,” he says, and this time, he almost means it—not for the company, not for the courtship games she’s subtly trying to play, but for the hush of wind through ancient branches, and the promise of a single day beyond the reach of expectation.

Chapter Text

“Xaden,” Garrick groans, drawing the name out like a dying man pleading for mercy. He’s slumped in the chair opposite Xaden's desk, both hands dragging down his face as though physically trying to scrub the conversation from existence. His elbows are braced on his knees, spine curled so dramatically that Xaden finds himself half-distracted by wondering if his bones might actually snap under the pressure. “Xaden,” Garrick tries again, muffled by his own palms. “You are killing me.”

From where he sits at his desk, Xaden doesn’t even look up. He’s lazily flipping through the pages of a report, skimming figures about agricultural yields and rainfall totals with all the dispassion of someone reading a mediocre novel.

“If we take the shortcuts,” Xaden says mildly, “we can be there and back in a day. I’m failing to understand what exactly is killing you.” He flips another page. “Hmm. Beatha’s reporting lower wheat yields again this season. Didn’t we send a water wielder out there last year to assist with irrigation?”

The sound Garrick makes isn’t quite a scream, but it’s definitely adjacent. He drops his hands and levels a flat, withering look over at Xaden.

“Do not pretend you’ve suddenly become an overachieving prince just to weasel your way out of this conversation,” he snaps. “I see what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”

Xaden finally glances up, but only briefly — a flick of his eyes, cool and unreadable. He leans back slightly in his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting them lightly against his lips as if contemplating some deeply complex diplomatic dilemma.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, his voice the picture of innocence. “I’m merely reviewing the needs of the region. Seems responsible, doesn’t it?”

“You’re deflecting,” Garrick says flatly. “And worse — you’re dragging me into the fallout. If you leave the city, I have to go with you. That means pulling two of our guards from estate security, possibly more if anyone from the Poromish delegation insists on joining. Which they will. And let’s not forget the earth wielder we’ll need on standby in case anything so much as quivers underfoot—”

Xaden exhales in dramatic exasperation.

“Garrick. It’s a short ride to the northern hills, not a campaign into enemy territory. We’re not scaling cliffs or negotiating surrender terms, we’re just taking a small diplomatic excursion. With guests. To show goodwill.” He spreads his hands wide as if this were the most reasonable idea in the world. “Isn’t that what you keep harping on about? Being welcoming? Making allies feel at home?”

“I meant dinner invitations, not royal caravans into the countryside,” Garrick mutters, rubbing his temples. “Gods. Why do you do this to me?”

Xaden smothers a grin behind steepled fingers. His eyes, however, gleam with unrepentant amusement.

“Because you make it so easy.”

Garrick fixes him with a flat, pointed look — the kind that suggests he’s weighing every life decision that led to this moment and finding each one equally unforgivable. His dark eyes are narrowed in clear accusation, brows drawn into a scowl so heavy it might as well be carved in stone.

“This is a double blow for you, isn’t it?” he says slowly, voice heavy with resignation. “You get to sneak away from your duties for an entire day and make my life significantly harder in the process.”

Xaden presses a hand over his chest in mock offense, then leans forward as though preparing to deliver a heartfelt confession. His expression shifts into one of solemn sincerity — wide eyes, composed mouth, the very picture of remorseful nobility. He lowers his voice to something soft, almost reverent.

“Garrick. You are my oldest and dearest friend. I love you like the brother I never had, and truly, that love runs deep.” He pauses, then adds, deadpan: “Which is exactly why I take so much pleasure in your suffering.”

Garrick lets out a long breath through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a snarl.

“I should have drowned you when we were children,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair as though preparing to mentally leave his body.

Xaden lifts a brow, entirely unbothered.

“That’s treason, you know,” he says lightly, lips curving into a smug little grin.

Garrick stares at him, unmoved. Not a flicker of guilt crosses his face.

“It’s still the truth,” he mutters.

But then, after a moment’s pause, his posture shifts — a subtle loosening of his shoulders, the weight of inevitability sinking into his bones. He exhales slowly, a tired, familiar sound that signals what Xaden’s been waiting for: surrender.

It’s not enthusiasm, not by a long shot. But it is permission.

Xaden doesn’t celebrate — not outwardly. But a small flicker of triumph sparks in his chest all the same.

A pregnant pause stretches between them before Xaden turns back to the report with a frown settling between his brows, dragging his thumb across a smudge of ink as his eyes move quickly down the page. The writing is clear and precise, but the words make his stomach tighten — missing tools, unseasonal droughts, vanishing supplies. Phrases he’s seen too many times in too many border towns lately.

“Garrick,” he says without looking up, still scanning, “do you know if there’s been more word from Bethea? Or if the envoy we sent—”

“I’m afraid I’ve just remembered some very pressing, incredibly time-sensitive duties that need my attention,” Garrick interrupts, already rising to his feet with exaggerated care. His tone is dry, bordering on noble, but the smirk threatening the edge of his mouth betrays him.

Xaden finally glances up.

“You’re fleeing.”

“I’m surviving,” Garrick corrects, adjusting the folds of his jacket like he hasn’t just declared bureaucratic desertion. “And you, Your Highness, have plenty of work to get through if we’re to vanish into the northern wilds tomorrow. Don’t dawdle, or I’ll escort Lady Catriona myself while you stay here and draft grain shipment manifests.”

Xaden groans softly, tipping his head back.

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m pragmatic.” Garrick’s grin grows, sharp and bright. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to see if I could charm a foreign noble into giving me state secrets.”

Xaden rolls his eyes with all the energy of a man who’s done this dance a hundred times before — and enjoyed every step of it. Still, a quiet warmth stirs in his chest. Garrick doesn’t seem irritated anymore, not really. He’s just sulking out of principle, because Xaden always does this — changes plans at the last minute, follows a gut instinct, drags them both into chaos he swears will be fine.

And despite himself, Garrick always goes along.

“I’ll be good,” Xaden says, holding up a hand in mock innocence. “Promise.”

Garrick pauses in the doorway, looking back with a too-wide smile.

“Then I’ll have lunch brought to your study, so you don’t fall behind. Wouldn’t want you to neglect your responsibilities.”

Xaden’s mouth twists.

“You’re too kind to me.”

“I know.” Garrick gives an overly formal bow — just enough to be mocking, not quite enough to be disrespectful — and disappears through the door, leaving Xaden in sudden quiet.

The study settles around him like a second skin. Only the muffled sounds of courtyard life drift up through the open windows — the ring of sparring swords, the distant voices of stable hands, the steady rhythm of the estate’s heartbeat continuing just beyond his walls.

He exhales, pushes his chair back, and rolls his shoulders. Then he bends once more over the report, eyes scanning with sharper focus now.

It’s a rhythm he knows well — solitude and responsibility wrapped into a single, unyielding beat.

He doesn’t notice the exact moment the door opens again, hours later, or when soft footsteps cross the rug. It’s only when the faint clink of porcelain reaches his ears that he realizes someone’s placed a tray at the corner of his desk. Whoever it is doesn’t speak, doesn’t wait to be thanked — just slips out with the same silence they came in.

Xaden doesn’t look up. He’s too deep in the pattern now, locked into the flow of ink and parchment, of rising concern and quiet calculations — the quiet stewardship of a man who knows the cost of power and bears it all the same.

Chapter Text

The hours bleed together as Xaden works his way through the ever-growing pile of correspondence stacked like miniature battlements across his desk. Letter after letter, sealed in wax or hastily folded, marked by official crests or by trembling hands seeking favour, passes through his ink-stained fingers. Each one demands something of him—his judgment, his attention, his authority.

Reports first: dry and factual, but necessary. Assessments on crop yields across the western plains, percentages and projections that spell either prosperity or impending scarcity depending on how closely he reads the margins. Tax ledgers follow, full of numbers so small and repetitive they might as well be written in another language. He skims through complaints from merchants and field officers, sifts through census updates and birth registries, and keeps a mental tally of which villages are growing too fast and which ones are suspiciously shrinking.

Then come the troubling reports—the ones that darken his brow as he reads them. Whispers of unrest. A baron rumoured to be pressuring his tenants to swear loyalty to the old regime. A countess entertaining diplomats from the west, perhaps too often. There’s always one noble sniffing around the borders for foreign coin and another who believes themselves too clever to be caught. He marks their names in the margins in firm, deliberate strokes. They'll need watching.

Next: gossip. Not the idle kind traded over wine, but the calculated kind sent by informants who live in shadows. Rumours of hidden gatherings, of runes drawn into alleyway stones, of servants who hear what they shouldn’t and send it to him out of loyalty—or fear. It’s all half-truths and conjecture, but the kind that can set entire provinces ablaze if ignored.

Mixed among the state matters are the personal letters—pleas from desperate subjects, asking for his intervention. A widow who can’t pay her taxes and begs for leniency. A soldier’s mother asking after her son. A boy who scrawls in shaky script asking if dragons are real. The kind of letters that sit heavier in the chest than any official demand ever could.

He reads and replies, reads and replies, until his writing hand aches with the tension of too many hours gripping his pen. The straight length of it now feels unnatural between his fingers, the grooves pressing against skin turned sore and stiff. His handwriting, usually sharp and meticulous, begins to waver, the lines blurring and the words bleeding into each other until they no longer make sense—not in his mind, not on the page.

By the time he sets the final scroll aside, his back is tight with knots and his head hums with the static of overexertion. There is no satisfaction in finishing—it’s not finished, not really. The pile will be taller tomorrow. But for now, he leans back, lets his hand fall limp at his side, and closes his eyes for just a moment.

Just a breath.

Just long enough to remember there’s a world beyond paper and ink.

“Your Highness?”

The voice is gentle, but it strikes through the haze of Xaden’s fatigue like a whip crack. He jerks upright so quickly that the fine tip of his pen scrapes violently across the parchment. A blot of ink splatters onto the letter he’d been drafting, spidering out like spilled blood across a field of carefully penned words. He swears under his breath and drops the pen, scowling at the ruined page before dragging his gaze to the doorway.

Ciaran and Eya stand there, familiar as furniture, though far more useful. Their silhouettes are framed by the sunlight slanting through the hallway window behind them, and both wear the slightly amused, patient expressions of people who’ve seen their prince in this state more than once before. Each of them holds a wide, round tray stacked with cleaning rags, iron-woven bristles, and smooth stones that shimmer faintly with minor magical runes—charms meant to lift ink stains, catch loose parchment, coax dust into obedient piles.

“We’re here to tidy your study, and collect that tray of food you've been ignoring,” Eya says lightly, stepping just inside the threshold. She nods toward the edge of the desk where a long-forgotten meal perches precariously—a single piece of bread that looks like it could chip a tooth, a congealed plate of sliced meat and fruit that’s begun to sweat under its covering. “Garrick mentioned you’d be working through the day,” Eya adds with an arched brow and the faintest tsk. “But that’s no excuse for starving yourself like a cloistered monk. Honestly.”

Ciaran says nothing, just gives a knowing nod, his dark hair falling into his eyes before he sweeps it back with a practiced flick. He always was the quieter one between them—methodical, grounded—but his expressions speak volumes.

Xaden exhales through his nose, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You can clean around me,” he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, as he lifts a hand to rub at the grit behind his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Eya gives him a look that lands somewhere between fond exasperation and triumph, like she's won a wager no one else knew was taking place.

“I’ll have someone bring up a fresh tray,” she says, stepping further into the room with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly where not to tread in a war zone of parchment. “That’s all gone cold, and the fruit’s probably turned by now.”

“I’ll warm the food myself,” Xaden replies with a lazy wave of his hand, already reaching for the familiar pull of shadow. “No need to fuss.”

“You say that like it stops me.” Eya clucks her tongue in that particular way that makes Xaden feel, vaguely, like a wayward child being tolerated with affection. Without waiting for further permission, she lifts her palms toward the towering bookshelves that stretch to the ceiling. Dust begins to stir as if caught in a soft breeze, rising from the top of the shelves and drifting down in lazy clouds that gather above Eya’s hand. The particles coalesce into a fuzzy, humming orb, pulsing faintly with light.

Beside her, Ciaran begins moving with quiet efficiency—collecting scattered books from the armchairs and side tables, straightening the papers that Xaden had abandoned mid-thought, restacking parchment that had slid half off the shelves. He says nothing, but the order he restores to the room speaks louder than any words.

Xaden doesn’t bother watching. He’s used to this rhythm. They’ve all done this dance before—he works himself into exhaustion, and they arrive like clockwork to save him from himself.

He lifts his hand again, fingers curling loosely as he draws the shadows into his palm, coaxing them to life with practiced ease. They slither toward the forgotten tray and lift the metal plate from its edge, gliding it smoothly through the air toward the hearth across the room. The fire there has mostly died down to a low smoulder, but the embers glow hot enough. The shadows hover the plate above the coals, and already he can smell the meat beginning to warm, the faint tang of citrus rising as the fruit softens again.

In the meantime, he picks up the apple that had rolled to the corner of the tray, still miraculously fresh. He sinks his teeth into it, relishing the crunch—the burst of sweetness that jolts him awake more effectively than any spell ever could. He reaches for his cup, expecting coolness, and frowns when tepid water greets his lips instead. He grimaces, but swallows anyway.

He has no energy left to trace even a simple rune to chill it. And really, it’s his own fault for letting it sat that long in the first place.

As he eats, the quiet settles around them all, companionable and undemanding. The room begins to breathe again. Not quite in order, but no longer suffocating under the weight of a prince’s burdens.

And for a moment, just a moment, Xaden allows himself to be a boy in his study, surrounded by the low murmur of magic, the soft shuffle of pages, and the simple kindness of people who know exactly when to speak—and when not to.

The sounds of daily work fill the room in a soft, familiar cadence: the muted swish of a cloth brushing across wood, the occasional clink of metal stationery being rearranged, the rhythmic scuff of boots crossing the stone floor. Eya and Ciaran move with practiced ease, their steps synchronised in a way that only years of shared routines can produce. They speak in low voices, not out of fear of disturbing him, but because that’s simply how they exist in this space—seamlessly, comfortably, as if the presence of the crown prince is no more disruptive than a piece of furniture.

Xaden sits at the long oak table, his plate in front of him, mostly untouched. He doesn’t mind the murmur of their conversation. In truth, he prefers it. The quiet domesticity of it all settles something in his chest that he rarely allows himself to examine too closely.

It hadn’t always been like this, of course. When he’d first been assigned quarters in this wing—back when everything about him had been sharp and unfamiliar, cloaked in rank and shadow—they had been stiff with formality, addressing him as “Your Highness” in every sentence and bowing so often it had made his neck ache just watching them. It had taken months of gentle corrections, the occasional joke, and more than a few shared late-night meals for the edges to soften between them. Now, at least with these two, there was a kind of ease. A quiet understanding.

The meat on his plate is finally reaching that sweet spot—warm through, but not yet dry—when Ciaran leans over and bumps his hip against Eya’s, grinning like a boy half his age.

“Did you see that new girl at the card game last night?” he asks, voice pitched just low enough to be conspiratorial.

Eya lets out a sound that stops Xaden mid-motion. A giggle. An actual, breathy giggle.

Xaden blinks once. He’s known Eya for years, through battles and blood and all manner of tension, and not once—not once—has he ever heard that particular sound come out of her mouth.

“From the barn?” she asks, amusement thick in her voice.

Xaden keeps his head bowed over his meal, but his senses go on alert, a subtle shift he doubts they’d notice. His fork hovers over his plate as he listens more carefully now, each word sharpening like the point of a blade.

'They must be talking about Violet', he thinks, a quiet flutter of intrigue stirring in his stomach before he can suppress it.

Ciaran chuckles, shifting a map slightly askew on the wall—a casualty of Eya’s overenthusiastic dusting.

“She must’ve flirted with half the room,” he says. “Didn’t matter who it was, either. Harmless enough, but she even had Liam blushing.”

That gets a blink out of Xaden.

Liam? Blushing? One of his closest friends, who could face down a storm with a raised brow and a shrug, blushing?

He peels the edge off a hunk of crusty bread, feigning disinterest, though his thoughts are already racing. Just how well had Violet played the room?

“I heard she cleaned out half the kitchen staff,” Ciaran adds, tugging the map back into alignment with a sharp eye. “They were whining about it all morning.”

Eya snorts.

“Oh, they’re always whining. They wouldn’t know what to do if they weren’t. Water wielders, honestly.”

Xaden’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look up.

“Eya,” Ciaran groans, and Xaden can practically feel the eye roll. “That’s not fair. How would you feel if someone said something like that about air wielders?”

“They do,” she replies with a shrug, utterly unbothered. “We’re all scatterbrained and unreliable, remember? Earth wielders are stubborn and slow, fire mages are impulsive and reckless, and shadow wielders...”

She trails off, and Xaden sees her shoulders tense for just a heartbeat before she catches herself.

“Moody and unpredictable?” he finishes for her, finally glancing up with a sly smile as he lifts a slice of meat to his mouth. His voice is mild, but the gleam in his eyes is unmistakable.

Eya and Ciaran both freeze mid-step, as if just now remembering he’s in the room. They turn in perfect sync, the expressions on their faces somewhere between mortified and sheepish.

“Your Highness,” Eya says quickly, dipping into a stiff bow. Her voice is strained with embarrassment. Ciaran’s already doing the same, his ears tinged pink.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” she adds.

“Eya,” Xaden says with a quiet chuckle, waving his fork lightly through the air. “It’s fine. Truly. I know when someone’s joking.” He pops the bite of meat into his mouth and chews leisurely, watching them both recover from their panic. “And besides,” he says after a moment, tone lighter, “I am moody and unpredictable. That’s what the rumours say, is it not?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Eya huffs out a laugh, clearly relieved. Ciaran grins.

The rumors had always followed him like shadows, but they’d multiplied tenfold after the masquerade—after one night where he’d let himself slip, just a little. After her.

Eya clicks her tongue softly against the roof of her mouth—a small sound, but one weighted with the kind of disapproval only someone who’s known you for years can deliver without overstepping.

“You shouldn’t listen to those sorts of rumours, Your Highness,” she chides gently, her tone full of quiet loyalty. “No one who actually knows you would speak ill of you. Surely you realise that by now.”

Xaden glances up, the corners of his mouth twitching in response.

“I do,” he replies, his voice as soft as hers.

But it’s a lie. A careful, deliberate one.

Because the truth is far less comforting: there are plenty who know him—intimately, professionally, even from childhood—who wouldn’t hesitate to whisper damaging things behind his back. And worse, not out of simple cruelty, but for calculated advantage. He’s not just a man; he’s a prince, and the path before him is lined with thrones, treaties, and traps. For people like him, information is currency. Reputation is armour. And any crack in either can become a blade in someone else's hands.

In Tyrrendor, secrets flow like river currents, subtle and relentless. The Tyrrish court may lack the naked aggression of Navarre’s, or the silken manipulation of Poromiel’s veiled politics, but they play their own game—one far more insidious. Their weapon of choice isn’t war or poison. It’s knowledge. Whispers traded in the dark. Hints left in letters. The right word spoken at the wrong time, planted like a seed in fertile soil.

Here, everyone trades in information. Some wield it like a sword. Others drape it over their shoulders like fine velvet, letting people believe they know more than they do. Either way, truth and falsehood are both useful, so long as they’re believable. He’s known this since he was a boy—raised with the knowledge that every conversation, every misstep, every look in public could be recorded, reported, repurposed.

Understanding that didn’t make it easier. Didn’t make the rumours sting any less when they cut close to the truth.

Still, he’s learned to live with it. To trust only a select few. And today, as the soft hum of work resumes around him, Xaden allows himself to glance toward the others in the room—at Ciaran, standing rigid by the hearth, arms crossed and jaw set, as if daring someone to speak against him. At Eya, arranging the scrolls with care, her gaze flicking toward him only once, but lingering just long enough to convey everything she didn’t say aloud.

That she’s watching. That she’s with him.

Loyalty, then, even here. Even in a place where walls have ears and floors carry footsteps like echoes through water. He doesn’t need many loyal people. Just the right ones.

And it’s that realisation, quiet but sure, that causes a small warmth to unfurl in his chest. So unexpected it almost startles him. He lowers his gaze quickly, pretending to return to the half-read document in front of him as he feels his mouth lift into a real smile—one he doesn’t entirely want them to see.

Too revealing. Too human.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he murmurs, his voice more subdued now, but not closed off. “Please—go on. I’ll finish my meal so you can clear the tray when you’re ready.”

Eya inclines her head in acknowledgment, not quite bowing this time, but offering a graceful dip of understanding.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Her voice is soft, but it holds a subtle note of reassurance. Not just obedience. Not just service.

Affection.

And for once, Xaden doesn’t brace against it.

Chapter Text

The rest of their time in the room passes in a haze of polite conversation and gentle tidying. Eya and Ciaran chatter lightly as they work—about the early frost warnings, the unusually chilly evenings for this time of year, and the arrival of the Poromish delegation. Their words drift through the air like falling leaves, brushing past Xaden’s ears and vanishing before they can take root.

It should be comforting. Familiar. The easy rhythm of shared duties and gentle distraction.

But it’s not.

The words drift past Xaden without catching. They flit through one ear and out the other, as though the syllables themselves can’t find purchase. He nods at the right moments, forces the occasional hum of agreement, a vague sound of agreement that requires no actual thought, but even that feels like effort. He keeps his expression neutral, his back straight in the chair, his hands carefully busy as he shuffles a page here, smooths a parchment edge there—little movements, rehearsed over the years, meant to look purposeful. Present.

But inside, his body is screaming.

He’s so fucking tired.

The kind of tired that doesn’t just settle behind your eyes, but in the marrow of your bones. The kind that doesn’t pass with a few hours’ rest—because rest hasn’t come. Not in days. Not in any way that matters. Sleep is shallow and brief, full of false starts and twitching limbs, of dreams that dissolve into plans he hasn’t finished yet.

But none of that shows. It can’t.

So he nods again as Eya says something about the south-facing windows needing a stronger ward, and keeps his grip loose on the quill he isn’t using. Keeps his posture composed, even as the strain sets into his shoulders like stone.

But, his exhaustion, his mind, traitorous and stubborn, is not here in this room.

It’s circling around her.

Violet.

He doesn’t even try to stop them anymore.

It’s absurd, really—this fixation. They’d spoken only a handful of times. Brief, passing moments that should’ve meant nothing, all things considered. And yet, they’ve taken up space inside him like a presence. Like a weight, gentle and persistent, pressing against his ribs whenever he lets his guard down. It should be laughable, the way she keeps threading herself into his thoughts like she belongs there. They’re not friends. She’s an outlier—an anomaly that should’ve passed unnoticed, except she didn’t. Doesn't.

He can’t stop seeing her.

She shouldn’t linger like this. Not in his mind. Not under his skin.

But she does.

And it’s not even the grand things he remembers—it’s the small ones. The way her fingers curved just right around the handle of a tool, as though it were an extension of her body. The sunlight catching on the slope of her forearms, her pale skin nearly glowing silver in the light. The sharp, knowing glint in her unique hazel eyes, as though she constantly carried some secret she was daring you to try and guess. That half-smile she wore, always on the edge of laughter, like the world itself amused her in a way it never had for him.

She shouldn’t be able to hold his attention. Not with everything he’s juggling. Not with his father’s shadow looming larger over him every day, or the endless negotiations with the Tyrrish Houses, or the slow, delicate game he’s playing with the Poromish court.

And yet—

Was that why she’d gone to the kitchens last night? Just for a card game?

It seems unlikely. She moves with purpose. She thinks with purpose.

How had she gained Sgaeyl’s trust so quickly?

He’d never seen the dragon take to someone so fast. It had taken Xaden a full week, and he’d nearly lost both his eye and a hand before Sgaeyl would let him near her. But Violet had walked straight up to her like it was the most natural thing in the world. And somehow… it had been.

And then, the most poisonous thought of all:

What happened when she met with the King? What did they speak about that ended with his father offering her help—something—without demanding anything in return?

No one, no one, received simple favours from his father.

So why her?

He doesn’t know. And worse—he wants to. Wants to understand what game she’s playing, if she’s playing one at all. Wants to know if that little tilt of her head when she looked at him meant anything, or if it had only been in his imagination. Wants to know why the hell he even cares.

The thought lands with a sharp pang in his gut, souring the remnants of his meal. He pushes the plate away, appetite long gone. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to press against his temples as his headache creeps in more firmly now, a dull pressure blooming at the base of his skull.

He exhales slowly through his nose, but it doesn’t help. He’s reading the same line of text for the fourth time, and the words might as well be written in Old Lucerish for all he can make sense of them.

Tired doesn’t begin to cover it.

He is drained. Hollowed out from too many late nights, too many conversations laced with double-meaning, too many expectations that press against his shoulders until he feels as if they might crack.

His body aches from hours spent at his desk, his mind from holding too many threads together at once.

And yet he can’t stop. Not with so much still left undone. Not with so many eyes watching.

“Your Highness?”

Ciaran’s voice reaches him softly, and Xaden lifts his head to find the younger man standing beside the desk, tray in hand, hesitation in his eyes.

“You alright?” Ciaran asks carefully. “Should I have a cooling charm sent up? You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Xaden replies, running a hand over his face before sliding it back to trace the hair skimming the nape of his neck—an unconscious, grounding gesture. “Just tired.”

It’s the truth. And yet it doesn’t feel like enough of one.

“You should rest,” Eya says from across the room. Her arms are folded now, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and a tightly contained sphere of dust and detritus hovers at her side like a summoned moon. “If you keep going like this, you’re going to burn yourself out.”

Her voice is gentle, but there’s steel in it, too. The kind that doesn’t ask, but insists.

“I’ll rest,” he promises with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, glancing pointedly at the stack of papers still to be read. “After this.”

The stack that hasn’t moved in hours.

There’s something doubtful in the silence that follows, but neither of them calls him on it.

Instead, they dip their heads in a synchronised bow and retreat quietly through the door, which clicks softly shut behind them.

And only then—only then—does Xaden exhale, and sags.

The mask drops as the silence rushes in.

The tension spills out of him all at once, like a snapped line suddenly slack. He slumps forward, elbows on the desk, then lets his forehead drop to his folded arms. Not hard, just enough to feel the cool wood against his skin, to let his eyes close for a breath. Just one.

He doesn’t even bother pretending he’ll rest longer than that.

For a moment, it’s enough to just not be upright. To feel the tight ache in his lower back and admit, if only to himself, that he’s been running on sheer will for days. That his mind is a frayed wire, that everything he touches feels like it slips through his fingers just before he can hold it steady.

He’s so tired.

He wallows in it for exactly thirty seconds. No more.

Then he lifts his head again, slower this time. Rolls his shoulders back into place. Draws his mask up tight. He reaches for the next page in the stack, knowing full well he won’t remember the words five minutes after reading them.

But he reads anyway.

Because someone has to.

Chapter Text

“Your Highness.”

The voice is scarcely louder than the sigh of wind through open shutters—so soft it blends into the haze of Xaden’s dreams, becomes part of it. At first, he doesn’t register it as something external. It’s just another whisper in the dreamscape he’s trapped in, that too-vivid world of half-formed impressions and aching memory. Silver scales shimmer in the dark behind his closed eyes, delicate and deadly, catching the flicker of phantom candlelight. A mask—beautiful, elaborate—slides into view, glinting with every tilt of an unseen head. Warm eyes meet his, brown as earth and old as storm light, filled with a quiet sorrow that hooks its fingers into his chest and pulls.

A gloved hand twines with his, familiar and foreign all at once, the sensation so visceral he can almost feel the brush of leather against his skin.

And then—movement. Not hers. Not the dream’s.

His body reacts before his mind catches up, long-ingrained instincts rousing him like a blade drawn from its sheath. There’s no thought, no hesitation. Just motion. A hand darts under the pillow, fingers closing around cool steel. In the same breath, he rolls, muscles coiled tight, dagger unsheathed and ready, eyes narrowing against the dark as he searches for the source of the whisper.

A figure stands over him—tall, familiar, annoyingly unbothered.

“This is precisely why I insisted on being the one to wake you,” Garrick murmurs dryly, his tone laced with amusement, even as the knife in Xaden’s hand gleams a mere inch from his jugular. He doesn't flinch, doesn’t shift. One hand rests lazily on his hip, the other hanging loose at his side, completely unconcerned by the fact that Xaden is half a breath from opening his throat. “You’ve always been a menace in the mornings.”

Xaden exhales sharply through his nose, every part of him still thrumming with adrenaline, though the dream clings to him like mist. He lets his head drop back against the pillow, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.

“It’s not morning,” he rasps, voice rough with sleep, “if the sun hasn’t seen fit to rise.”

He reaches up with his free hand, rubbing at his brow as though he can scrub away the last remnants of the dream. His fingers thread through the dark tangle of hair falling over his face, sweeping it back. The gesture is weary, automatic.

But the glow of it—the dream—lingers in the corners of his mind. Not just the image of her, though that alone would be enough. No, it’s the feeling. That ache. That impossible sense of something lost and something almost grasped. He shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t even allow himself to dream it. And yet...

“The time has come,” Garrick announces with the exaggerated patience of someone who has done this before—many times. He reaches out and plucks the blade from Xaden’s slack fingers, movements slow and deliberate so as not to trigger a second reaction. The knife clinks softly as he sets it atop the nearby table. “You made a promise, remember? To a lady.”

“I know,” Xaden mutters, dragging himself upright with all the enthusiasm of a man being hauled to execution. “I’m going, I’m going.”

Garrick doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. It curls at the corners of his mouth, smug and knowing. He watches as Xaden sits up, groaning softly as he does. The fatigue in his bones goes deeper than interrupted sleep.

“Don’t you have responsibilities to be attending to?” Xaden asks, voice laced with irritation as he scrubs both hands over his face.

“I am attending to them,” Garrick replies with mock formality, one brow arched in exaggerated offense. “Getting you out of bed before midday is a feat worthy of song.”

“Then may the bards spare me the verses,” Xaden grumbles.

Garrick’s laughter follows him to the door, which he pulls shut behind him with a quiet, definitive click.

Silence reclaims the room.

Xaden stays where he is for a long moment, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. The dream still echoes in him, refusing to be shaken loose. He can still see the silver mask, still feel the press of that gloved hand in his own, like the ghost of something half-remembered and wholly unwise.

He exhales through his teeth as he sits alone in the soft flicker of dying firelight, bracing himself for whatever this day demands.

But deep in the marrow of him, he knows the dream isn’t done with him yet.

He wakes slowly, the way he always does—like dragging himself up from deep water, each breath a little clearer, each thought a little sharper. There’s no sudden snap to alertness, no warrior’s instinct propelling him into motion this time. Just a gradual, begrudging return to the world of the living as his body begins to remember its shape, its routines, the familiar weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders.

Eventually, with a quiet exhale, he shifts. The soft rustle of the sheets is the only sound as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The chill of the stone floor seeps into his bare feet, sharp enough to make him wince. His fingers go first to the waistband of the thin sleeping pants he doesn’t even remember putting on—more a habit than a garment. They slip off easily, discarded without ceremony.

He stands there for a moment, stripped down to bare skin and exhaustion, before reaching for the pile of clothes draped across the nearby bench. The air bites at his shoulders and spine as he dresses. A well-worn shirt—dark, utilitarian—goes on first, followed by a heavier, structured coat that fits him like a second skin. He buttons it with slow, precise movements. The fabric still smells faintly of cedar and smoke.

Next come the pants—thick enough for riding, but soft with age—and he tucks them methodically into a pair of weathered leather boots, the ones he always reaches for when he doesn’t want to think about what the day might bring. They’re scuffed at the toes, softened at the ankle, moulded to the shape of him after years of use.

He stands still again, blinking up at the gauzy silk hangings that drift lazily from the canopy above his bed, the soft fabric catching what little light filters through the high windows. His hair is a mess, a heavy curtain of tangled black falling around his face and sticking to the nape of his neck. He drags a hand through it once, twice, then sighs and reaches for the comb on his dresser.

It takes longer than usual to style it into something resembling order. The knots are stubborn, the strands uncooperative. He scowls at his reflection in the dark pane of the window, barely visible through the early shadows.

He really ought to cut it, he thinks. Has been meaning to for weeks, but somehow the time never feels right.

Outside, the sky has begun its slow shift from night to dawn. There’s a faint silver wash creeping into the corners of the darkness, a promise of light not yet realized. The glass of the window is mottled with beads of dew, glinting in the cold. He shrugs on a cloak—thick wool, lined with fur at the collar—and fastens the clasp near his throat with fingers that still move too slowly.

When he finally opens the door to the hallway, he’s greeted by the quiet presence of Imogen waiting just beyond the threshold. Her back is against the wall, arms loosely folded, her head tilted in half-asleep boredom. Her hair is a soft, powdered pink this morning—cool and delicate, like spun sugar under moonlight.

He stops for a beat, studying her. She returns the glance with a flat stare, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and gives a small, unimpressed shrug, as if to say she’s not thrilled to be awake either. Which, to be fair, she’s not. If anyone in this gods-forsaken estate hates mornings more than he does, it’s her.

They don’t speak. There’s no need.

Instead, they simply fall into step beside each other, two yawns exchanged like the passing of a torch. No taunts, no smirks, no clever barbs. Not yet. It’s too early for games.

The corridor is hushed around them, the high ceilings and long walls holding onto the silence like a secret. The estate hasn’t stirred yet; not a single servant, not even the sound of distant boots. The torches along the walls burn low, flickering shadows that seem reluctant to give way to morning.

Their footfalls are the only sound—quiet, measured, unhurried—as they wind their way through the sleeping halls and descend toward the courtyard, the last remnants of dream still clinging to their thoughts like smoke.

Chapter Text

Here, in the courtyard, there is movement. There is life. The kind that stirs quietly but purposefully before the sun has fully claimed the sky. Fire wielders, bleary-eyed and hunched against the chill, move slowly across the perimeter, coaxing the last licks of flame back into control. Their fingers flicker with residual sparks as they sweep away the glowing embers that have burned through the night. You can almost taste the warmth in the air, still lingering, still fighting off the cold that clings to every stone.

Servants weave through the haze of early morning in hurried silence, their arms laden with fruit tucked into the folds of cloth or small baskets, heels clicking softly against flagstone as they pass. Loaves of warm bread are balanced on trays or wrapped hastily in linen to keep from cooling too fast. They eat as they walk—quick bites, torn crusts, chewed while navigating stairs or doorways—because there’s no time to stop, not when every bell toll brings new demands, new voices shouting orders down the halls.

A handful glance up as they pass him, startled for the barest of seconds. Their eyes widen when they recognize Xaden. No one expects him to be awake at this hour, least of all wandering the grounds without his usual armor of command. But none of them pause long enough to comment—this hour belongs to the working class, and time is a luxury none of them can afford. They keep moving, blending back into the rhythm of their tasks like birds startled briefly from a tree.

Xaden squints up at the pale sky, the edges of the horizon just beginning to bleed with faint light. It’s a struggle not to groan aloud. Every inch of him aches with the unnatural hour. He’s never understood this—how people can function, let alone converse, when the world is still so steeped in darkness. It feels wrong. Like moving before your body has truly returned to you. He’s only been awake this early a handful of times in his life, and each instance has been more miserable than the last.

He mutters something under his breath that even he doesn’t catch and turns his attention toward the gathered figures near the estate's main gates.

Their small group stands out like a misplaced detail in a painting—a cluster of low murmurs and shifting shapes among the orderly chaos of castle workers. Dragons loiter just beyond the arched threshold, their massive silhouettes half-shrouded in mist. One of the larger club-tails stands perfectly still as a wooden supply cart is hoisted and secured to the leather rigging across her back. The operation is quiet but efficient, practiced hands pulling tight the buckles and checking their work with quick glances and tighter nods.

Xaden’s gaze snags on one of those hands. Even from a distance, he recognizes the way it moves—calm, deliberate, smoothing over the dragon’s flank in broad, reassuring strokes. He knows that touch. Knows the woman behind it.

Violet.

She stands beside the dragon with her weight shifted to one hip, her hair twisted loosely at the nape of her neck. Even in the dim grey-blue of pre-dawn, her presence catches like a spark against dry tinder. There’s a faint smile tugging at her lips—soft, amused, always just a little bit knowing—and despite the exhaustion pulling at his shoulders, something sharp and inconvenient twists inside his chest.

It’s not quite surprise. Not quite longing. But it’s enough to make him still where he stands. Enough to remind him, with uncomfortable clarity, that whatever calm he’s told himself he possesses around her is more fragile than he likes to admit.

She hasn’t seen him yet, and he finds himself half-hoping she won’t—just for a second more. Just to delay whatever it is he’ll feel next.

Because even in the cold, with the sky barely awake, her smile is the brightest thing he’s seen all morning.

Nearly thirty minutes pass in uneasy quiet before the tension in the air begins to settle—not dissipate, just settle—as their small delegation finds temporary shelter in one of the old, stone-walled storage cellars tucked beneath the estate’s south wing. It’s a place rarely used, filled with the scent of dried herbs and cold stone, but the thick walls trap the heat from the hearth well enough. Xaden leans back against the curved arm of a weathered chair, fingers outstretched to the warmth of the fire flickering in the iron brazier. The heat seeps slowly into his limbs, softening the edges of the restless disquiet that’s been pressing behind his temples since dawn.

Around him, Imogen, Catriona and her sister Syrena, and a few of Xaden's closest lieutenants sit scattered—some on chairs, some on crates, some slouched against the walls, their boots drying in the heat, cloaks discarded in heaps. There’s the faint sound of murmured conversation, the rustle of fabric, the occasional creak of shifting weight. It’s a lull, quiet and fleeting, but hard-earned.

They’ve been waiting on Garrick—leader of the expedition and usually the most dependable of their number—who’d left earlier to speak with the days watch captain on a matter of logistics. The delay has begun to stretch long enough to make Xaden uneasy.

Then, as if summoned by thought alone, the silence fractures.

The door to the cellar bangs open without warning, the sudden crash of wood on stone startling everyone in the room. The impact reverberates through the narrow chamber like a struck gong, loud and discordant. Xaden’s head jerks up, and instinct snaps his spine straight. That kind of entrance doesn’t belong to Garrick—not their Garrick.

Not the man whose every movement is usually deliberate, precise. Not the knight who follows protocol like breath and whose knock, when it comes, is always measured—three short raps, wait, then enter. But this? This was one knock. No pause. No waiting. Just motion, swift and hard and edged with something just a little too close to panic.

Garrick storms inside and kicks the door closed behind him, the muscles in his jaw tight, his shoulders braced as though expecting a fight to follow him in. His breath comes in harsh bursts, his cheeks flushed with windburn and urgency. Something’s wrong—Xaden knows it before a single word is spoken.

“Garrick,” Xaden says, rising immediately to his feet, all warmth forgotten. The fire might still be burning, but the chill creeping down his spine is deeper than any draught. “What is it?”

The question is taut, stripped of any pretense or bravado. Worry cuts through the prince’s voice in a way that draws a glance from Imogen, who’s already standing.

Garrick doesn’t waste time.

“Assembly summons,” he says, breathless. “It’s urgent. They’re calling everyone. Now.”

His words drop like stones into still water, sending ripples through the room—disbelief first, then motion. Imogen’s expression hardens. One of the others curses under their breath. Whatever this is, it’s not routine.

Xaden frowns, already reaching for his coat where it hangs on the back of his chair.

“What happened?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Garrick replies, gesturing sharply for them to start moving. His tone is clipped, unusually so, and there’s a raw edge to it that unsettles Xaden more than he’d care to admit. Garrick doesn’t rattle easily. “This is big,” the knight adds. “Bigger than anything we’ve seen in months. Maybe longer.”

Xaden slips his arms through the sleeves of his coat, pulling the fabric tight across his chest as he surveys Garrick with a sharp, assessing look. His fingers find the hilt of the blade resting near the hearth, more out of habit than need. The sarcasm that comes next is thin, a brittle veneer over something far more serious.

“Big enough to need a knife in hand before the sun’s even fully risen?”

The corner of Garrick's mouth lifts, but it doesn’t quite become a smile. His eyes remain cold, focused. Garrick meets his gaze without hesitation.

“Big enough,” he says grimly, “that you might want to bring more than just one.”

Without another word, Garrick steps back, creating space for Xaden to rise and orient himself. There’s no need for explanation beyond what’s already been said; the urgency crackling in the air is more than enough.

Xaden moves without hesitation, slipping into motion as if his body remembers something his mind hasn’t yet fully grasped. He adjusts the folds of his robe as he strides forward, his footsteps falling soft but swift against the chill of the stone floor. Garrick leads the way in silence, and Xaden follows close behind, tension coiling in his spine.

The air feels heavier now, thick with a pressure that didn’t exist moments before—like the very walls of the estate are aware that something has shifted. There’s a change in the rhythm of the night, the subtle beat of danger quickening around them.

As he crosses the threshold into the corridor, Xaden’s thoughts are already racing. The Assembly. An emergency summons. Whatever had prompted this, it wasn’t routine. Meetings at odd hours weren’t unheard of, but the weight in Garrick’s voice—that hard edge, that clipped urgency—suggests something more. Something volatile. Something dangerous.

His mind scrolls through the list of possibilities, discarding each almost as quickly as it comes. The past week had been crowded with familiar concerns: minor disputes over trade tariffs, whispered rumors about foreign weaponry, the usual negotiations over border protections and alliance treaties. All thorny, yes. But not enough to justify the kind of reaction Garrick had just delivered.

His hand brushes instinctively against the hilt of the knife secured beneath his robe. The steel is cold, reassuring. But even as his fingers curl against it in habit, he knows—if things are as serious as Garrick made them seem, no single blade will be enough. This isn’t about posturing or precaution anymore. This feels different. Sharper.

As they move through the dim corridor, Xaden silently recites the names of the Assembly members—every face, every agenda, every secret he’s learned to read behind their polished facades. Who among them would have demanded this kind of meeting? What had happened that could not wait until dawn?

And more pressingly—who stood to gain from such disruption?

Their footsteps echo along the stone corridors of Xaden’s ancestral estate, brisk and deliberate, cutting through the hush like a blade through still water. The house, usually a quiet monument to old power, feels different now—its silence no longer comforting, but watchful. The air hangs heavy with anticipation, and every muffled sound—a door closing in the distance, the shuffle of a servant's step—feels amplified, as though the estate itself is holding its breath.

As they near the top of the grand staircase that descends into the Assembly chamber, Garrick slows, just barely, his pace faltering with the subtlest hesitation. He casts a sidelong glance toward Xaden, brief but charged with meaning. The easy confidence he wore earlier in the day has been replaced by something far more sober—his features drawn tight, the line of his jaw set with purpose.

“Xaden,” he says, his voice low, threading into the quiet like a warning bell just beneath the threshold of alarm. There’s a tension in the way he carries himself, a stiffness that doesn’t come from fatigue or formality, but from knowing what lies ahead. “Whatever happens in there... keep your head. There’s more at stake than you know.”

Xaden meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. His expression doesn’t waver, even as a flicker of unease settles beneath his stern exterior.

“I was born for this,” he says, his tone even, a quiet assertion of both readiness and resolve. “I can handle it.”

Garrick nods once, but there’s a moment—a fleeting, unguarded beat—where something else surfaces in his eyes. A trace of worry. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by his familiar composure, but Xaden sees it. Feels it. And it lands like a stone in his gut.

There’s something Garrick isn’t saying. Something he’s bracing for.

And Xaden, despite everything he’s been taught, everything he’s prepared for, can’t help but feel the edges of uncertainty pressing in.

They reach the door to the Assembly chamber, its tall frame carved with the crests of ancient houses, a silent reminder of the generations that had shaped the room beyond. Garrick pauses for only a moment—barely long enough to register—as if steadying himself. Then, with a quiet breath, he pushes it open.

The heavy door swings inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing a chamber bathed in lamplight and low tension. Familiar faces line the room—elders, strategists, political minds who’ve shaped the course of Tyrrendor for years. Some sit, others stand in quiet clusters, speaking in hushed tones. The clink of crystal, the soft rustle of parchment, the occasional murmur of voices—these small sounds echo in a space otherwise thick with expectation.

But the moment Xaden and Garrick cross the threshold, the atmosphere shifts. Conversations fade into silence like smoke drawn out of the air. All heads turn.

Xaden steps forward, measured and composed, but every footfall feels magnified. He moves to the center of the room, the sheer weight of attention pressing in from every direction. The silence that greets him isn’t accusatory—it’s something worse. Waiting. Watching. As if the decision has already been made, and now they’re simply watching to see if he’ll rise or fall.

“Riorson.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. It belongs to one of the senior Assembly members, a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair and a face etched with lines of age and power. His expression is unreadable, though a thread of urgency tightens his words.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Xaden inclines his head once, his voice smooth despite the flicker of unease tightening in his chest.

“I’m here now. What’s happened?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, movement.

From the back of the chamber, a figure steps forward—a woman with pale blonde hair coiled into a sharp knot at the nape of her neck. Her bearing is composed, every motion deliberate, but there’s something steely in her eyes, something sharpened by urgency.

“It concerns the negotiations with Navarre,” she says, voice clipped and precise. “We have reason to believe there’s been a breach. Sensitive intelligence has been leaked. And this—” she pauses, allowing the gravity of her words to settle, “—is not merely an act of espionage. This is larger. Coordinated. Deliberate. If we don’t act swiftly, we won’t just lose ground in the trade discussions—we could compromise our entire political standing in the region.”

A chill coils at the base of Xaden’s spine. His mind darts to the fragile diplomacy of recent months—the long hours of tense dialogue, the carefully brokered terms, the promises made and the ones withheld. He and his father had fought to hold the Navarrians to the table, to keep their ambitions in check. A leak like this… it could unravel everything.

He glances sideways at Garrick, who remains still but watchful. His expression is unreadable, yet something in his eyes gives him away—he knows more. And he’s not saying it. Not yet.

Xaden turns back to the room, his voice low and clipped.

“Do we have any suspects?”

Another pause, as if no one wants to be the one to speak it aloud. But the room has already shifted. The game has changed.

“We’re not certain,” the woman replies, her gaze sweeping deliberately across the room. “But a pattern is beginning to emerge. Someone within our ranks is passing intelligence to Navarre—and if we don’t root them out quickly, the damage could become irreversible.”

Her words land like a blow, reverberating through the chamber with a weight that silences even the smallest movements. A current of unease pulses through the room, subtle but undeniable.

Xaden feels it settle over him, heavy and suffocating. The implications twist through his thoughts like smoke through a cracked door—ungraspable, but impossible to ignore. The pieces are shifting, but instead of forming a picture, they scatter into chaos. Too many questions. Not enough answers.

“We’ll need a full investigation,” the woman continues, her voice ironclad, cold with resolve. “And we must move quickly. Discretion will be paramount.”

Around the room, heads nod, some slow and thoughtful, others clipped with urgency. But Xaden is no longer fully present in the discussion. His mind is already racing, leaping several steps ahead. Faces flash through his thoughts. Conversations from days past. The quiet, lingering doubts he hadn’t dared voice aloud. Whispers of a Navarrian faction gaining traction. Subtle signs dismissed as coincidence.

Now, every fragment takes on new shape.

This isn’t a simple breach. It’s the opening move of something far more calculated.

And in the silence that follows, as the chamber shifts into low murmurs once more, a chill lingers in Xaden’s chest.

This is only the beginning, and what they’re dealing with is far more dangerous than anyone realises.

Chapter Text

As the meeting drags on, the air inside the chamber grows heavier, saturated with unease and the faint, metallic scent of anxiety.

Xaden sits still, outwardly composed, but beneath the surface his attention sharpens to a razor’s edge. Every word, every shift in tone from the Assembly members is filtered through his scrutiny, weighed and measured for value. They’re all talking—loudly, sometimes with false bravado, sometimes with feigned certainty—but it’s obvious to him that none of them truly know what they’re dealing with. They’re circling around the issue like vultures around a carcass, tossing out names, spinning theories, stringing together half-formed accusations. It’s a chorus of speculation, not strategy. Guesswork dressed up as insight.

Xaden leans back ever so slightly in his chair, the worn wood creaking faintly under his weight. His fingers move almost absently along the bevelled edge of the table, tapping out an irregular rhythm—a barely restrained frustration made manifest. He’s not impatient. He’s calculating. And what he’s calculating is just how deep this rot goes, and how long it will take to cut it out before the infection of betrayal spreads.

Talk of security dominates the room now—more guards, more checkpoints, more eyes watching more doors. Some suggest a complete overhaul of surveillance, even a temporary lockdown of the outer halls. Others mention sweeping the communication lines, vetting all couriers, intercepting outgoing missives. It’s a lot of noise, all aimed at treating the symptoms, not the sickness. Bandages over bullet wounds.

Xaden knows better.

If someone inside the Assembly is leaking information—and he’s increasingly certain they are—then it won’t matter how many guards they post outside the gates. This isn’t about fortifying the exterior. The breach is internal. And the longer they spend reacting instead of uncovering, the more ground they lose.

He turns his gaze slowly to Garrick, who sits several seats away, just close enough that Xaden can study him without drawing attention. Garrick’s posture is stiff, unusually so. His elbows rest on the arms of his chair, hands steepled in front of his lips in a position that might seem contemplative to the untrained eye. But Xaden sees past the performance. The usual aura of quiet confidence that Garrick wears like armour is notably absent today, replaced by something more tightly wound. There’s a faint crease between his brows, a tautness in his jaw he hasn’t unclenched in over half an hour.

He’s listening to the other members speak, nodding when appropriate, occasionally adding a clipped comment of his own—but it’s all surface-level. Garrick’s mind is elsewhere. Holding something. Guarding it. And whatever it is, it’s weighing heavily on him.

Xaden knows Garrick well—too well. They’ve stood back-to-back in battle and argued across war tables more times than he can count. He’s seen him calm in chaos, decisive under pressure. But this version of Garrick? This restrained, tense quietness? It’s a warning bell. The kind that sounds just before something breaks.

And Xaden can feel it, deep in his gut: this meeting, this moment, is skimming over the real danger. They’re trying to solve a puzzle without knowing how many pieces are missing. Garrick, he’s convinced, holds at least one of them.

The thought tightens something in Xaden’s chest—not out of suspicion, but concern. If Garrick knows something, if he’s uncovered even the faintest thread of truth, then they’re wasting time letting this discussion play out like it’s theoretical.

Time they don’t have.

Because this isn’t just politics anymore. It’s infiltration. Betrayal. And the consequences will be devastating if they don’t act soon.

When the meeting finally concludes, it does so not with resolution but with exhaustion—a collective exhale from a room of people who know they’ve said a lot without actually solving anything. The scrape of chairs and the low rumble of departing voices begins to fill the space, but Xaden doesn’t move. He remains seated, his eyes unfocused, caught in the thick tangle of spiraling thoughts. Around him, the room begins to blur into a haze of murmured farewells and shifting bodies.

It’s Garrick who pulls him back.

A flicker of movement. A glance.

Xaden’s gaze lifts just in time to meet his. Garrick is still standing across the room, his lips pressed into a firm line, his shoulders set like stone. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—an internal battle, maybe, or a decision made and not yet spoken aloud. For the briefest moment, it looks like he’s going to say something right there, in front of everyone. But then, silently, he simply nods toward the door.

A summons, quiet and unmistakable.

Xaden rises without a word, the chair legs dragging faintly against the polished floor. He falls into step behind Garrick as they exit the chamber, the ornate double doors shutting behind them with a dull finality. The corridor beyond is dimly lit and eerily quiet, the sounds of the meeting now sealed away behind thick stone. Their boots strike the floor in steady rhythm, the sharp echo of each footstep ringing out like a countdown.

Neither man speaks as they walk—yet the silence between them is heavy with implication. Every step feels like a descent, a slow walk toward something that can’t be taken back.

Xaden knows this isn’t just a casual conversation.

This is going to change everything.

“What’s going on, Garrick?”

Xaden’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade—low, controlled, but humming with restrained urgency. It’s not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but there’s a sharpness in his tone that demands an answer. He’s not asking out of curiosity. He’s asking because something in the air has shifted, and Garrick—calm, dependable Garrick—isn’t acting like himself.

Garrick halts mid-stride, his back still turned to Xaden. For a long, breathless moment, he doesn’t move. Just stands there, rigid, as though the question itself has pinned him in place. Then, slowly, he turns. His gaze drops to the stone floor beneath their feet, his brow furrowing as if the answer might be carved there, waiting to be unearthed. The lamplight casts shadows across his face, obscuring his expression, but it’s the tightness in his shoulders that gives him away.

He’s wrestling with something. And Xaden knows him well enough to recognize the signs. Garrick doesn’t hesitate unless it matters. Unless the truth is too volatile to speak aloud without consequence.

Finally, Garrick inhales—shallow, strained—and lifts his gaze to meet Xaden’s. When he speaks, his voice is hushed, almost reverent, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might summon something neither of them is ready to face.

“Xaden…” he starts, then falters. The pause stretches, uncomfortable. His mouth opens slightly as though he might try again, but the words refuse to come. It takes a heartbeat longer before he finally forces them out. “I don’t want to cause panic, and I don’t have proof yet,” he says, each word carefully measured. “But I’m almost certain we’re being played. There’s someone—someone close to us—leaking intel. Strategically. Deliberately.”

Xaden’s heart stutters in his chest, just once, before the cold rush of focus slams through him. He’s suspected as much—had caught the scent of betrayal on the air weeks ago—but hearing it from Garrick confirms what instinct alone could not. This isn’t paranoia. This is real. This is now.

“Someone in the Assembly?” he asks, his voice sharper now, more direct. “One of ours?”

Garrick meets his gaze, and there’s a grim resignation in his eyes that Xaden doesn’t like.

“I don’t know who. Not yet,” he admits, the words bitter on his tongue. “But it’s someone with access. Someone trusted. The pattern’s too precise to be coincidence—our movements getting anticipated, our messages intercepted… it’s not just luck on Navarre’s side. Someone is feeding them exactly what they need to keep us cornered.”

Xaden clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His mind begins to turn, fast and hard, cataloguing every vulnerability, every face at the table, every moment that could’ve masked treachery.

“We don’t have the luxury of time, Garrick,” he says, voice low but laced with steel. “If there’s a traitor in the Assembly, we need names. Facts. And we need them now. Everything we’ve fought for—everything we’ve bled for—rests on whether or not we can root them out before they burn us from within.”

“I know,” Garrick says, nodding, though the tension in his frame doesn’t ease. “Believe me, I know.”

But Xaden studies him closely. There’s something unspoken lurking behind Garrick’s steady façade—a flicker of unease, a piece of information not yet shared. And while Garrick might be a friend, might even be the one person Xaden trusts to watch his back in battle without question, he’s not a fool. Trust doesn’t mean blindness.

“You’re holding something back,” Xaden says quietly, eyes narrowing. “A name. A suspicion. You already have a lead, don’t you?”

Garrick doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks away, his jaw grinding as though he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to speak aloud.

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” he says finally, his voice firm—but not quite convincing.

Xaden doesn’t push. Not yet. The hallway is too exposed, the walls too thin, and he knows Garrick well enough to recognise when pressing won’t get him anywhere. But the knot in his stomach tightens all the same.

They start walking again, footsteps falling into rhythm, but the air between them is no longer filled with quiet camaraderie. It’s charged now. Tense. And Xaden’s thoughts are already moving ahead, mapping the path he’ll need to take to get answers—real answers—on his own, if necessary.

He won’t wait for betrayal to reveal itself in blood. He’ll find it. Confront it. Tear it out at the root.

Because if there is a mole embedded among their ranks—someone feeding Navarre critical information, someone who knows their weaknesses and vulnerabilities—it won’t just compromise the war effort. It will dismantle the fragile alliances they’ve built. It will cost lives. It could cost everything.

And Xaden Riorson has never been one to sit back and let the world fall apart around him.

He’ll act. He has to.

Even if it means stepping into dangerous waters with no guarantee of coming out clean.

Even if it means questioning the loyalty of the people closest to him.

Because trust is earned, but betrayal… betrayal is silent, swift, and always comes from behind.

Chapter Text

The echo of Xaden’s voice lingers in the corridor like the aftermath of a thunderclap—low, restrained, but unmistakably charged.

What’s going on, Garrick?

It’s not an accusation, not yet, but it holds the gravity of one. Garrick halts mid-step, eyes fixed on the stone beneath his boots as though the answer might be carved there, waiting to be deciphered.

He doesn’t turn immediately. Instead, he inhales once, slow and silent, as if oxygen alone might steady the turmoil rising in his chest.

This was inevitable.

He’s known for days that Xaden would see through the silence. That his friend—the man he’s fought beside, bled beside—would feel the shift in the air, would notice the fracture running beneath the surface of their once-solid foundation. Because something is wrong. Not just strategically, not just politically. Fundamentally wrong.

When he finally turns, their eyes meet. And in that instant, Garrick feels the unbearable weight of what he must say. Not just the words, but what they imply: a crack within their own walls. A serpent among their own.

“Xaden,” he begins, voice low, nearly lost in the vast quiet of the corridor. Even now, with the truth burning his throat, he hesitates. To name it would give it shape, make it real. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think we’re being played.”

There. The line is drawn. The moment irreversible.

Xaden stiffens, though it’s a controlled stillness, the kind that masks a thousand possibilities whirring behind his unreadable gaze. Garrick has seen this look before—in the war room, on the battlefield. It means calculation. It means danger.

When Xaden speaks again, his voice is a sharpened blade.

“Who?”

The word cuts cleanly through the silence, a demand cloaked in steel.

Garrick swallows, and for the first time, regrets not having more to offer.

“I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.”

It’s not enough. He knows it. Xaden knows it. The air tightens around them, thick with unspoken frustration. But naming the wrong person—unveiling suspicion too soon—could rupture what little cohesion the Assembly still clings to. And worse: it could destroy someone innocent.

Because the person Garrick suspects… isn’t some distant figure. They’re close. Trusted. Embedded so deeply within their cause that even imagining betrayal feels like blasphemy.

And yet, his instincts won’t quiet.

“We don’t have time for uncertainty,” Xaden says, voice taut with conviction. “If there’s a mole, we need to know. Now. Or everything we’ve worked for—everything we’ve sacrificed—could fall apart.”

Garrick nods slowly, but something flickers in his expression—an almost imperceptible shift, like a shadow passing behind his eyes. He knows Xaden sees it. His friend misses nothing. Still, Garrick offers the only reassurance he can without overstepping the line between truth and speculation.

“I’ll keep you in the loop.”

It’s meant to be a promise. But even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they ring hollow. Not because he intends deceit—but because some truths are too dangerous to speak aloud. Not yet— because some truths aren’t ready to be spoken. Not until he’s certain. Not until he can protect the people who won’t survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

Still, the guilt curls low in his stomach like smoke from an unseen fire. He hates keeping anything from Xaden. They’ve been through too much, lost too much, to allow suspicion to creep in now. But Garrick has always been the one to shoulder the invisible burdens. The one who watches. Waits. Calculates.

And if that means carrying this weight alone for a little longer—then so be it.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s dense with tension, thrumming with everything they can’t say. And as they begin walking down the corridor again, Garrick can feel it—Xaden’s wariness growing beside him, the cogs of strategy already turning in his friend’s mind.

He doesn’t blame him.

But Garrick can’t afford to move rashly. Not without evidence. Not when the betrayal he suspects could shatter the fragile alliances holding them together.

He’ll uncover the truth. He has to.

Because if he’s right—if the person he suspects is truly feeding their enemies—then the danger doesn’t lie ahead of them.

It’s already inside the gates.

Chapter Text

Outside, dawn arrives slowly, almost reluctantly, as if uncertain whether to grace the war-weary world with its light. The first tendrils of pale gold push through the veil of mist that clings to the earth like a shroud, casting a ghostly shimmer across the dew-laced glass. Raindrops remain on the panes, delicate and unmoving, catching the light like suspended tears—mourning something unspoken, or perhaps anticipating what is yet to come.

Xaden stands motionless before the tall window, his palm pressed flat against the chilled surface. The glass is slick beneath his fingers, grounding and cold, a quiet contrast to the rising fire of unease coiled in his chest. Beyond the pane, the sky shifts in slow gradients, black giving way to bruised violet, then to the faintest brush of amber—light bleeding into the world like a wound being reopened.

Everything out there feels distant. Untouched. The whisper of trees, the glint of frost, the hush of the waking world—none of it belongs to him, not anymore. Not with the weight of what he’s carrying pressing so heavily on his shoulders. Inside the walls of the Assembly, everything feels sharper. More brittle. And within himself, a quieter war rages still.

He exhales slowly, the breath fogging the glass for a moment, blurring the world beyond. When it clears, he finds not the view, but his own reflection staring back. And it takes him a heartbeat too long to recognize the man in the glass.

That man wears exhaustion like armour. His eyes—dark, sharp, once unshakeable—look hollowed, dulled by the burden of too many half-truths, too many sacrifices made in silence. There’s no visible wound, but something in him is fraying at the edges.

He doesn’t hear the approach until it’s close.

A single, deliberate footstep shifts behind him, quiet but sure, and Xaden turns. He doesn't need to guess—it’s Liam. His presence is like a familiar rhythm in the chaos, a tether to something solid in a world that no longer feels stable.

Liam stands a few paces away, his expression calm but intent, the crease between his brows speaking volumes. There’s a guardedness in his stance, but also concern—clear and unwavering. He studies Xaden carefully, eyes the colour of a clear winter sky narrowing slightly as though searching for a crack in the façade.

“You alright?” Liam asks, his voice a murmur, gentle in a way only few people are allowed to be with Xaden. “I saw Garrick storming across the courtyard not long ago. He looked like a man who’d just stared down a ghost. Thought I’d check on the one person who might’ve sent him running.”

There’s a faint attempt at levity in his words, but it doesn’t quite land—because they both know this isn’t the moment for comfort dressed in humour.

Xaden’s jaw tightens, a reflex more than anything, before he answers.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words lack conviction. “Everything’s fine, Liam. Just…” He falters, unsure how to finish. How to describe the pressure mounting like a storm cloud, the sense that something vast and unseen is beginning to shift beneath them. That the ground they’ve built everything on may no longer hold.

How do you name a feeling like that without sounding unmoored?

Liam doesn’t press. He steps closer instead, crossing the distance between them without hesitation. There’s a warmth in his presence that Xaden hadn’t realized he needed until it was there—subtle, unobtrusive, but anchoring.

He’s always handled things alone. It’s what leadership demands. What guilt insists. But now, with dawn creeping up like an omen and the Assembly behind them splintering at the seams, Xaden feels the shape of that solitude more acutely than ever.

And somehow, Liam always knows when to stand beside him rather than let him face the darkness alone.

The silence stretches between them, long but not uncomfortable. Liam gives him time—space to wrestle with his own thoughts, to weigh what he can say against what he must still keep to himself.

And then, softly, Liam speaks again.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says, his voice barely louder than the hush of the wind beyond the window. “But we’ll face it. Together. Whatever end Malek’s seen for us, we’ll meet it as one.”

Something in Xaden’s chest tightens. The words are simple, but the weight they carry is not. It’s not just loyalty—it’s belief. Unshakable. Enduring. And Xaden wants, more than anything, to believe it too.

He nods slowly, once. The gesture is small, but it’s everything. Trust, held steady in the silence.

“I won’t let it come to that,” he murmurs after a moment, his voice low but resolute. “Not while there’s still something I can do. That much, I promise.”

The doubt lingers—he can’t deny that. But in Liam’s presence, it quiets enough to let him breathe again.

Xaden turns back to the window for one last look. The light has grown stronger, golden now, streaking the sky with the faint promise of day. But the shadows it casts inside feel longer than ever.

He steps away from the glass, leaving behind the ghost of his reflection. And though uncertainty clings to him like mist, he walks forward with purpose, toward the gathering storm.

Toward whatever truth waits to be uncovered.

And whatever it costs—he’ll face it.

He always does.

Chapter Text

Not everyone is dragging themselves through the thick fog of sleep the way Xaden and Imogen are. Garrick, despite their earlier encounter, is infuriatingly chipper, seemingly immune to the early hour. He claps his hands together with a sharp, decisive snap, loud enough to startle a few nearby servants and draw the attention of their small party. The sound rings out in the courtyard, crisp against the hush of early morning. A firm, professional smile sits comfortably on his face, too alert for the hour. Xaden resists the urge to scowl.

“So,” Garrick begins, placing a steady hand on the neck of his dragon—a brown scorpiontail that shifts beneath him with calm familiarity—“today’s outing will include the prince,” he nods toward Xaden without ceremony, “Ladies Catriona and Syrena, Imogen, Bodhi, myself, and a few hands from the barn to help manage the dragons.”

His tone is clipped, business-like, the cadence of a man who has already been awake long enough to enjoy breakfast and perhaps a second cup of tea.

“A small enough group,” Garrick continues, “that we should be able to complete the journey and return before nightfall, just as King Fen has requested.”

Of course there would be dragon handlers. Of course the barn would send someone. And of course it would be Violet.

Xaden doesn’t need to look to know it’s her.

He feels her before he sees her—some strange pull, quiet and subtle, but persistent. When he finally lifts his gaze, her eyes catch his with unerring precision. The light from a nearby mage light reflects in their depths, casting twin glints of silver-gold in the pools of blue starlight. She doesn't smile. Not quite. But there’s a softness in the way she looks at him, something searching and oddly distant, as if she’s peering through his skin and into the places he keeps carefully guarded. Trying to read him. Trying to understand something he hasn’t said aloud.

Xaden looks away first.

Imogen, still wordless beside him, slips a heavy mug into his hand without warning. The rich, bitter scent of coffee hits him like a punch. It’s slightly burnt, thick, and clearly made with more practicality than finesse. He doesn’t care. It’s hot, it’s strong, and most importantly, it’s gives his hands something to do.

He downs the entire thing in a single gulp, ignoring the heat as it scalds the back of his throat. The lingering sting in his chest is preferable to the other sensations gnawing at him—like the irritating sense that Violet is still watching him, or that her laughter just now sent a thread of warmth curling low in his stomach.

The dragons are already prepared, of course. Harnessed and packed, their scales catching slivers of light in the dimness. Even Sgaeyl stands ready, patient but vibrating with restrained energy. Xaden swings himself up onto her back with practiced ease, settling into the familiar weight of his seat. He strokes a hand down her neck, fingers gliding over the line of smooth obsidian-blue scales. Her muscles flex eagerly under his touch—alert, poised for flight. She’s always ready. She thrives in the cold air and pre-dawn haze. Not unlike someone else.

Catriona is still mounting her own dragon a few paces away. She fumbles slightly with her footing, but Imogen is already there to steady her with a swift, wordless motion. Xaden turns his attention away—tries to, at least—but his eyes betray him.

They flick back to the far side of the courtyard, to where Violet stands beside Syrena. He watches, against his better judgment, as Violet offers Syrena her hand—steady, confident, unhurried. Syrena accepts it with a grateful nod and the ease of familiarity, allowing Violet to help her up onto the back of her dragon. The laugh that follows—Syrena’s, low and warm—drifts into the cool air and seems to linger longer than it should.

It’s nothing. It’s routine. There’s nothing remarkable about the gesture, nothing unusual in their closeness.

And yet it echoes in him like something far more dangerous.

Once the final straps are checked, and the dragons are all mounted, the small party sets off.

It's not the swiftest departure—more a sluggish unfolding than anything else—as they weave carefully around the few workers still bustling about the courtyard. Despite the lack of speed, there’s a certain inevitability to their movement. They are going, and the pace, however slow, is steady.

Xaden finds himself riding squarely in the middle of the formation, which grates against every instinct he has. Sgaeyl, naturally, hates it even more. Her wings beat with a barely restrained tension, her posture tight and impatient, and Xaden keeps a firmer hand on her power than usual. She's testing him—he can feel it in the flick of her tail and the tremor in her shoulders—but he reins her in anyway. It’s too early in the day to let her have her way, and he has no desire to begin the journey by picking a fight with his own dragon.

Up ahead, Catriona rides with that same open poise she always does, back straight and composed as if she’s already at the destination and playing host. Her face is a study in pleasant focus—eyes alight with interest, smile easy but contained. To the untrained observer, she might appear bright, even cheerful, but Xaden knows better than to be taken in by the shine. There’s calculation in the way she scans the skies and the riders around her, taking mental stock without a single misstep. She speaks little, but every glance is measured, filed, considered. It’s not distrustful. Just careful. Watchful. The kind of woman who keeps her knives sharp, even when she’s smiling.

Beside her, Syrena is less…composed. Slumped slightly in the saddle, her chin dipping toward her chest every few minutes, she sways in the lazy rhythm of flight like she might tip over any second. Xaden watches her loll sideways briefly, only to snap upright at some last-second jolt of awareness. She’s wrapped snugly in her cloak, but it’s clear she’s still half-asleep, eyelids drooping despite the morning air whipping against her face.

Both sisters are dressed for travel, their leathers expertly fitted and stitched with delicate detailing in that same soft robin’s-egg blue. The colour is striking—too striking. It flashes in the corner of Xaden’s vision every time they shift in their saddles, drawing the eye again and again no matter how he tries to ignore it. Against the rest of the group, who wear the sombre shades customary in Tyrrish circles—deep greys, blacks, and browns, accented only by the indigo-lined collars of their cloaks—the sisters look like streaks of sky come down to earth. Whether the choice is simply aesthetic or another of Catriona’s subtle manipulations, he can’t be sure.

No one speaks as they rise higher, the city slowly shrinking beneath them. Aretia is still mostly asleep, its streets quiet, its people tucked behind shuttered windows. The dragons’ wingbeats fall into a soft, rhythmic pulse above the stone rooftops—softer than one would expect for their size, like a heartbeat muffled by thick walls. The gentle rise and fall of it threatens to lull Xaden into a haze, his exhaustion pulling at the edges of his thoughts.

Below, a blacksmith already at work raises one soot-smeared hand in greeting, the other busy feeding coals into the glowing mouth of his forge. The faint clang of metal carries faintly up through the morning air, oddly soothing in its consistency. A moment later, a woman steps out of her home and onto the path beneath them, her hair arranged in a meticulous braid that coils over her shoulder like a rope. She pauses, tilting her head to watch them pass, but says nothing.

Aside from those two, there’s no one else. No merchants setting up stalls, no messengers darting down alleyways, no patrols moving along the ramparts. The city is holding its breath, still wrapped in sleep, and the party slips through it like a shadow. By the time they crest the final hill and leave Aretia behind, Xaden feels the weight of the city fade from his shoulders—only to be replaced by the growing heaviness of the day ahead.

Chapter Text

For a few suspended moments, the forest is even quieter than the city.

As the final stretch of cobblestone gives way to the soft crush of earth beneath claw and foot, a hush settles over the group—dense and natural, but not quite still. It’s the kind of quiet that presses in around you, as though the trees themselves are listening, holding their breath. Even the dragons’ steps seem muted here, the leathery rustle of wings overhead blending seamlessly into the dim canopy above.

The silence doesn’t last long.

Gradually, like a slowly tuning orchestra finding its key, the forest begins to come alive.

The first sound is faint: the delicate scurry of some small creature—too nimble to be a deer, perhaps a fox or badger—rustling through the underbrush. Then, the call of birds begins to pierce through the quiet, scattered notes echoing high among the branches. There’s no rhythm to it at first, just isolated chirps and trills, but it grows—call and answer, short bursts of song carried on the rising light. Wings beat overhead, casting fleeting, fragmented shadows across the riders’ cloaks, and the morning sun lances through gaps in the foliage like falling ribbons of gold.

Imogen leans toward Garrick, her voice low and indistinct, and he shifts slightly in his seat to hear her better, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he nods.

Then, a sound slices cleanly through the forest’s quiet music.

A roar—low and lingering—rises in the distance. One single feather-tail. A lone cry, half-lost to the trees, but it cuts through the air like a blade.

The dragons don’t react, uninterested in such a small disturbance. But Xaden stiffens.

Not visibly, perhaps, but something deep within him catches and holds.

The sound curls down the length of his spine like cold smoke, drawing gooseflesh to his arms, prickling the hair at the back of his neck. There’s a thread of something almost electric in the air—something ancient and half-forgotten. The rhythm of wings, the rise and fall of breath, the muted thud of Sgaeyl’s claws on the path—all of it fades.

He blinks.

And then he’s gone.

He’s not on Sgaeyl’s back anymore. Not surrounded by the quiet company of the others. Not in this moment.

He is younger—much younger—and crouched low behind a wide-bellied oak, rough bark scraping the inside of his arm. The chill of the forest floor seeps through his trousers, and the smooth hilt of a wooden practice blade presses into his palms. He’s holding it too tightly. His fingers ache.

There are hands on his shoulders—firm and sure—and a familiar voice, warm and low, murmurs into his ear:

“Steady now. Don’t look down. Eyes forward, Xaden. Always forward.”

He exhales shakily, the breath catching on the edge of something he can’t name.

The memory unfurls not like a vision, but like falling—headfirst into something vivid and overwhelming. The forest here is denser, the light swallowed by thick brambles and moss-laden trees. Around him, laughter howls alongside the wolves—raw and gleeful, animal in its intensity. Shapes dart through the trees, low to the ground, fast and flickering. He remembers flashes: the gleam of white teeth in the darkness, yellowed fangs bared in playful challenge, the press of hot, damp breath against his cheek as one of the younger wolves nuzzled him curiously.

They were never tame, those wolves. Not really. But they had accepted him—because of her.

His mother.

She stands a few feet away in the memory, her tall frame cloaked in a dark, patchwork shawl, daggers strapped at her thighs, her eyes fixed not on the forest, but on him. On his stance. On the line of his shoulders. On the slight tremble of his hands. There’s nothing harsh in her gaze, but there’s no softness either—just fierce attentiveness, the kind of love that demands strength, not because it is cruel, but because it knows what the world will take from those who are weak.

The wolves adored her.

They came to her like pilgrims to a shrine, brushing up against her legs with bloodied muzzles and matted fur, nipping playfully at her heels or lying sprawled at her feet. She never flinched. She welcomed them with an ease that Xaden had never been able to replicate—resting her hand on the crown of their skulls like a benediction, her fingers moving gently over their coarse hair, murmuring things only they could hear.

He had asked her once, when he was small, what their names were. He wanted to call them something. Wanted to call them his.

She had smiled, low and knowing, as she wiped her blade clean against her thigh.

“They’re not ours, little bird,” she’d said, brushing her fingers across his cheek. “They belong to themselves.”

And yet—he had longed for them anyway.

He had buried his fingers in their fur when no one was looking, clutched fistfuls of it like an anchor, pressed his face against their necks and breathed in their wildness, imagining for just a moment that he could belong to them. That they could belong to him. Not as a prince. Not as a symbol. But just as a boy. Just as Xaden.

His mother had always hummed while she cleaned her weapons—soft, unplaceable tunes from somewhere older than the castle, older than even she seemed. She would sit beside him in those moments, shoulder to shoulder, close enough for him to feel the steady weight of her presence, the warmth of her knee pressed lightly against his.

Those were the only times he felt solid. Not seen, not judged—seen.

That world—those wolves—had never truly belonged to him, no matter how much he wished they had. But for a while, at least, they had let him pretend.

A memory older than most. And yet, it claws its way forward now, vivid and aching.

Bitterness is no stranger to Xaden. It lingers at the back of his throat like the aftertaste of burnt herbs, something acrid and clinging that no amount of breath can cleanse. It curls in his chest, coils in his ribs, stubborn and familiar, older than most of his memories. So he breathes—slow, deep, deliberate. Holds it in until his lungs burn and his vision edges toward white, then releases it in a slow exhale, as though he might unspool the years from his bones and cast them into the wind.

Again. And again.

Until the ache reshapes itself. Until the grief becomes a dull, heavy thing pressing against his sternum, physical and blunt, easier to carry than the tangled knots of thought he cannot quite untie.

Somewhere behind him, quiet as a breath, comes a low hum—not quite a song, not quite a whisper, but something in between. It threads through the rustle of leaves and the rhythmic gait of dragons, soft and unassuming, yet unmistakably there.

He shifts in his seat, a glance over his shoulder.

Violet.

She watches him unabashed, her gaze direct and curious, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to study a prince in the midst of his unravelling. She doesn’t look away when he catches her. She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes meet his with that same calm steadiness she wears like armour, like silk.

For a heartbeat, something in him stutters. Heat floods his cheeks.

He jerks his head forward again, the flush climbing high into his ears. Shame curls low in his gut—not for her looking, but for how it unsettles him. How easily she sees through him. How exposed he must have seemed.

A soft snort, almost affectionate, follows from behind.

He clenches his jaw and bites down on the inside of his lip until the sting drowns out everything else, until numbness replaces the flicker of emotion rising in his throat. Ahead, Garrick and Imogen fall quiet, their conversation tapering off as though the hush of the woods has swept them all into its silence.

Xaden closes his eyes briefly and begins to count backward from one hundred, each number a fragile tether to the present. When he reaches zero, he rolls his shoulders with exaggerated calm, trying to imagine the weight of his thoughts sliding down his back like water and vanishing into the path behind him.

A quiet ritual. A familiar lie.

But it works. A little.

By the time the distant shape of Aretia fades behind the folds of trees, an hour’s ride in their wake, he’s almost convinced himself that he was being foolish. That he’s assigned too much meaning to a single servant’s glance, to the quiet knowing in her eyes. That there is no reason she should notice him at all—and thus, no reason he should do the same.

It’s a clean resolution. Easy. Clinical.

And he clings to it like a lifeline.

Instead of pondering her, he forces his mind toward the present—the towering trees, cupped like cathedral hands over the road; the way the sunlight filters through the canopy in golden slants, painting Sgaeyl’s scales in shifting light; the cool wind threading through his hair; the sure, steady warmth of his dragon beneath him, breathing like a mountain come to life.

Here, at least, there is a rhythm. A steadiness.

Not quite peace.

But something close enough to pretend.

Chapter Text

Violet doesn’t look away when he catches her watching him.

She could, easily. Could drop her gaze and feign distraction, make a show of adjusting her reins or checking the saddle strap again. It would be the polite thing to do—expected, even, from someone in her position. But she’s never seen much use in pretending she doesn’t see what she sees.

And what she sees now is a man fraying quietly at the edges, unwinding himself in silence while the rest of the world politely pretends not to notice.

There’s something about Xaden Riorson that compels honesty—not because he asks for it, but because he wears so little of it himself. It makes her want to reach into that silence and draw it out. Not expose it, not wound it—just… see it.

He startles like a deer caught in moonlight. The flicker of heat across his face is immediate, almost boyish, and then he turns away as though the very sight of her gaze has scalded him. Violet watches the movement, quiet and thoughtful, her head tilting slightly to one side. She doesn’t laugh—not really—but a soft sound escapes her throat, amused more at herself than at him.

Because she shouldn’t be watching him. And she certainly shouldn’t be watching him like that.

And yet, she can’t help it.

Something in the way he breathes too deliberately. The way his shoulders tense and then drop, like he’s trying to shed a skin he no longer fits inside. She recognises it. That careful control. That unspoken ache.

She’s worn it before.

The others are quiet now, and she lets herself drift back just a little in the seat, content to fall into a pocket of silence. Around them, the forest hums with waking life—birds calling through the trees, branches creaking softly overhead. The wind tastes like damp earth and old pine.

Violet glances upward, watching the dragons circling above like slow-moving stars, and then back to Xaden, whose profile is still drawn tight with whatever he’s trying not to feel.

She wonders, not for the first time, what kind of boy he must have been before all of this—before the shadows gathered under his eyes and made a home of him. Before the bitterness took root in his ribs like rot.

Probably too sharp for his own good.

Probably the kind of boy who tried to fix things no one asked him to.

Probably the kind who’d bleed for someone and call it strategy.

Violet straightens in her saddle, suddenly aware of the weight of her thoughts, of the strange ache they’ve summoned in her chest. This isn’t her business. He isn’t hers to fix, or even to wonder about.

And yet…

Her gaze lingers one second longer than it should.

Then she turns her face forward, letting the forest take her in instead. The road ahead curves gently through the trees like a ribbon left behind by something ancient and slow. There’s a hush to it all, something reverent, and she breathes it in like a promise.

She will say nothing. Not now. Not until he does.

But she sees him.

And she knows—whatever he’s carrying, he’s not carrying it alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Silence, no matter how companionable or comfortable, is never built to last—not when the morning sun has climbed high enough to pierce through the canopy with its molten gold light, setting the forest alight with hues of soft rose and burnished copper. The dappled glow spills over their small company, casting long, dancing shadows over cheekbones and leather straps, gilding even the dirt path with fleeting traces of warmth. The hush between them, held gently for the past hour, finally begins to stretch thin, fraying at the edges.

It’s Catriona who breaks it first, her voice soft but clear as she adjusts the reins in her gloved hands.

“Thank you again,” she says, glancing toward the rider just ahead of her. “For indulging me, Prince Xaden.”

Before Xaden can offer any kind of reply, Garrick’s voice calls out from the front of the procession, sharp and amused.

“If anyone’s being indulged here, your ladyship, it’s the prince. This little woodland excursion is a blessed reprieve from his usual sulking.”

He glances back just long enough to flash a knowing grin, his white teeth catching a shard of morning light. Xaden rolls his eyes, less out of annoyance than habit. Still, his hand hovers near his belt for a beat too long—where a small, sheathed dagger rests peacefully—and he briefly considers, with grim satisfaction, how satisfying it might be to lodge it in the centre of Garrick’s self-satisfied back.

Regrettably, there are consequences to maiming your most loyal knight and best friend, no matter how deserving.

“I’ll admit,” Xaden says instead, his tone dry, “it’s been nice to get away from court for a while. Though I’m beginning to question the wisdom of allowing Garrick to tag along.”

There’s a beat of laughter in response—low, polite—but it’s Violet who speaks next, her voice barely louder than the rustle of wind through leaves.

“But where the prince travels, so does Tavis.”

The simple truth of it lands lightly in the air between them, and yet it seems to momentarily shift the mood, enough that the others glance back at her with faint surprise. It’s the first time she’s spoken all morning. She meets their looks with composed ease, the corner of her mouth ticking upward, her tone measured and almost playful.

“Everyone knows that,” she adds. “Even us newcomers. The bond between the prince and his knight is practically legend.”

Her gaze settles briefly on Garrick, and a wry smile curves her lips—not mockery exactly, but something edged with irony.

Garrick barks a laugh.

“I thought I warned you not to put your faith in idle rumours, Violet,” he says, pointing a gloved finger her way before resettling his posture on the saddle.

She doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, she tips her head to the side, eyes gleaming with mischief now.

“I don’t,” she replies simply. “I only trust the rumours that turn out to be true.”

Then, for the second time since Xaden has known her, she laughs—freely and without restraint. It’s a clear, genuine sound that rings out through the forest with such surprising brightness that it startles a few birds from the branches overhead. Their wings beat in hurried retreat, scattering sunlight as they go.

Xaden stiffens in his seat.

Does she laugh like that at everything?

He’s not sure why it irritates him—perhaps because it’s too easy, too open. As though nothing truly touches her deeply enough to stay. Or maybe it’s just because the sound of it lingers longer than it should in his mind, like the fading echo of a song he doesn’t want to admit he’s been listening for.

Catriona lets out a quiet, breathy laugh—more thoughtful than amused—and angles her head toward Garrick, her pale hair catching the sunlight like silk.

“I’ve heard the same stories, Garrick,” she says lightly, then turns her attention to Violet, studying her with a narrowed gaze that’s more curious than critical. “But if I recall correctly, I believe you mentioned earlier that you're new to Tyrrendor yourself?”

Her words hang in the air with the soft weight of genuine inquiry, but there’s something in the way her lips purse—something that suggests she’s already turning over the implications.

Violet meets her gaze with the kind of easy composure that Xaden is beginning to suspect is not an act.

“I am, my lady,” she replies with a respectful nod. “This is my first time in Tyrrendor. I was born and raised in a small province just outside Basgiath—deep in the heart of Navarre.”

At that, Shay makes a quiet sound of disbelief, almost a laugh herself.

“Basgiath?” she repeats, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’ve travelled an awfully long way.”

Violet’s response is smooth, but there’s a subtle shift in her tone now—something less polished, less performative.

“Yes, indeed I have, my lady.” Her voice carries a trace of something unspoken—a shadow of sentiment that flickers before it can fully form. It might be pride. It might be nostalgia. It might be both.

For a moment, her features soften in a way Xaden hasn't yet seen—like a blade held just slightly at rest. The edges of her smile shift, almost imperceptibly, not quite faltering but deepening. A distant look clouds her eyes, and then, just as quickly, it's gone.

“My mother is a Rider,” she says after a pause, “and my father a Scribe. Living near Basgiath comes with the territory—one of the many joys of growing up with parents who serve both the front lines and the archives.”

She says it lightly enough, but Xaden hears the layers beneath. He wonders, briefly, what kind of childhood lies behind those words—between the crash of war and the scratch of ink—and what kind of girl it made her into before she crossed their borders with that careful smile and inscrutable eyes.

“And you?”

The question escapes Xaden before he’s fully aware he’s spoken. The moment the words are out, the entire group seems to still. Heads turn. Eyes land on him. Even the soft rhythm of the dragons wings feels quieter. Heat creeps up his neck to settle in his cheeks, but he refuses to lower his gaze. He straightens in his seat, spine rigid, eyes fixed on Violet as if sheer will alone could make his curiosity feel less exposed.

A bird trills nearby, sharp and urgent, as if issuing a warning. Then silence again, fragile and waiting.

Violet’s expression shifts when she looks at him—not to the quiet sadness she'd worn while speaking of her upbringing, but something else entirely. Her smile sharpens at the edges, less sentimental and more curious, even amused. The light catches in her eyes and turns them dark—deep and gleaming like ocean depths, or veins glimpsed beneath translucent skin.

Xaden feels the air change and suppresses a shiver that nonetheless rolls across his shoulders.

“I’m neither, Your Highness,” Violet says, her voice smooth and bright, as though she hasn’t noticed the tension that’s sprung up between them. Her hand moves idly, fingers light, unconcerned. “I never had quite the same knack for riding as my mother and siblings, nor the patience for ink and scrolls like my father. Which is how I found myself journeying beyond Navarre’s borders.”

The way she says it—cheerfully, simply—makes the explanation sound entirely benign. But it isn’t. Not really. There’s something buried beneath the words, something left deliberately vague. Not a lie, precisely. Just... a door closed softly in the middle of a conversation.

“How interesting,” Lady Catriona murmurs, her fingers lifting to rest lightly against her mouth as she studies Violet with open curiosity. The lilt of her voice is gentle, but there’s no disguising the scepticism behind her words. “And now you find yourself here, in Aretia—accompanying royalty on a quiet little forest ride.”

Her smile is thin, her tone edged with disbelief she barely bothers to mask. It hangs in the air like mist, casting Violet’s easy manner into sharper relief. The silence that follows carries its own kind of tension, stretching between them like a drawn bowstring.

And still, Violet doesn’t flinch.

Xaden stiffens in his seat, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

He hadn’t missed the way Catriona’s brows lifted just slightly, nor the sceptical curve of her lips as Violet spoke. The disbelief in her voice had been subtle, but unmistakable. Too refined to be called rude outright, but sharp enough to cut all the same. His mouth is already parting, a sharp retort forming at the back of his throat—one that would make clear, in no uncertain terms, that her tone had not gone unnoticed—when a sudden sound from behind derails the moment.

It isn’t a sigh, exactly. Not the weary sort that drifts out on exhale, unthinking. This is shorter. Harsher. A single, clipped breath of air that carries the weight of irritation—something like indignation wrapped in annoyance.

Xaden turns slightly in his saddle, scanning over his shoulder until his gaze lands on the source.

A stable hand rides a few paces behind, younger than Xaden by a handful of years, with broad shoulders and hands that look more used to hoisting tack than handling people. His eyes are an icy, brittle blue, narrowed now beneath furrowed brows as he stares—without even trying to hide it—at Violet.

Xaden doesn’t know the boy’s name. He’s seen him around the palace stables, always hovering near the dragons, silent and unsmiling. An earth-mage, if memory serves. Probably brought along in case the trails through the hills have washed out after the last round of storms.

But right now, the terrain is not what has his attention. His scowl is fixed entirely on Violet.

Xaden meets the boy’s eyes directly, holding his gaze in open challenge.

The effect is immediate. The stable hand startles, like a boy caught with his hand in the grain bin. Colour floods his cheeks in a swift, embarrassed rush, and his eyes dart down—first to his horse’s neck, then to the ground—anywhere but at Xaden. His mouth draws tight as a drawstring, shoulders stiff with the tension of barely-suppressed emotion.

Xaden doesn’t move, but his expression cools considerably. He files the moment away, tucking it deep into the part of his mind reserved for things that require...future handling.

And then Violet speaks.

She doesn’t so much raise her voice as she does steady it, infusing the air with a practiced calm that makes everyone listen.

“I’ll only be staying through the season, my lady,” she says, addressing Catriona with that same easy poise that had characterised her earlier replies. “Once the spring thaws the roads, I plan to move on.”

She speaks without hesitation—but something in the weight of her words lands with particular precision. There’s no sharpness to her tone, no overt challenge, but there is an unmistakable edge beneath the grace. A line drawn gently but firmly in the sand.

“And I’m grateful,” she finishes, “for the chance to see the northern hills while I’m here.”

It is not a rebuke, and yet, it silences the trail for a long moment.

Xaden glances her way, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but close. There's steel beneath that charm, he thinks. Quiet, unflinching steel.

And for the first time since they set out, he wonders if perhaps Violet Sorrengail isn’t just passing through.

Chapter Text

The conversation meanders, as it often does in the comfort of gentle company, until it lands—naturally, inevitably—on the hills themselves. Their rocky majesty rises around them like an ancient cathedral, and it only makes sense that someone should speak of the last time they’d ridden through them.

Imogen picks up the thread first, her voice warm with memory, and Garrick soon joins her, their shared cadence so familiar it’s clearly been told before—often enough that they each know when to pause for the other, when to let a beat of suspense hang in the air before delivering the punchline. They paint a vivid picture for Catriona and Syrena, detailing the sun-drenched days of that early expedition with Xaden, the way the air had smelled of pine sap and iron-rich earth, the silence between ridgelines broken only by birdcall and the rhythmic pounding of hooves.

And, of course, the detour.

Garrick leans into the telling with relish, gesturing animatedly as he describes the moment a fully-grown bear came charging from the underbrush, its coat matted, its eyes wild. Xaden remembers it clearly, though he makes no move to contribute. Imogen chimes in to explain how the earth wielder riding with them—Renna, he thinks her name was—had barely managed to raise a cocoon of stone and soil around the beast before it reached them, buying just enough time for the group to flee to safety.

It’s a familiar story. Too familiar.

Xaden lets their voices fade into the background, not quite ignoring them but letting them wash over him like the wind. He turns his attention inward instead, fingers absently tugging at a loose strand of hair near his temple, twisting it, then smoothing it out again. The rhythm is soothing, mechanical, and paired with the gentle motion of Sgaeyl beneath him—the undulating sway of her careful footing—it becomes almost meditative.

A sudden burst of laughter breaks the spell.

Catriona, laughing freely now, her voice clear as a bell. They’ve reached the part of the story where Garrick—ever the cocky show-off—had been so intent on glancing back over his shoulder at the pursuing bear that he hadn’t seen the low-hanging branch ahead. It had caught him squarely across the brow, knocking him clean off his horse and into the underbrush. He’d come to with a headache and a rather bruised ego, neither of which had healed quickly.

Even without looking, Xaden knows the precise expression Garrick must be wearing now—feigned indignation overlaid with just enough self-deprecation to charm his audience. Xaden doesn’t need to see it. He’s lived it.

Still, he feels his lips pull upward in spite of himself, the corners of his mouth curling into a quiet, automatic smile. There’s something comforting about it—the story, the laughter, the momentary peace. A memory softened by time and retelling.

For just a moment, he allows himself to enjoy it.

“Your Highness.”

Xaden turns at the sound of Violet’s voice, finding her riding beside him now, their dragons moving in easy tandem. For a moment, his eyes drift—against his better judgment—downward. Her legs, wrapped in fitted riding leathers, shift easily with the rhythm of her dragons stride. The worn boots at her feet are scuffed and faded, well-used. His gaze lingers too long as it trails up to her narrow waist, where her loose white shirt billows slightly, the hem half-tucked. She’s not wearing a cloak, despite the crisp edge to the late afternoon air, and the collar of her shirt hangs open, baring the slender line of her throat. It’s reckless. Unconcerned. A little wild.

Just like her.

“Are you alright?” Violet asks softly, leaning toward him just enough for her words to reach him without being overheard. Her voice is stripped of its usual playfulness; there’s no teasing, no coy inflection. Just genuine concern. Xaden doesn’t respond at first. The question sits between them like a stone in a quiet stream, disrupting the flow of his thoughts. She watches him closely, waiting, and when the silence stretches too long, she adds, “You seemed... off earlier. Distracted. If you’re unwell, I’m sure Tavis would—”

“I’m not unwell,” Xaden says, cutting her off gently. “Just tired.” His voice is low, rough around the edges, and he holds her gaze now, studying her. Light filters through the leaves above, gilding the edges of her hair, turning them to silver. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind, her nose tinged pink.

He doesn’t mean to speak, not really. But the words slip out anyway, unguarded.

“Aren’t you cold?”

A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth, the first sign of mischief returning to her expression. “You changed the subject very quickly.”

“And here I thought I was supposed to be terrible at diplomacy,” Xaden replies dryly.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Violet murmurs, eyes glittering. “But I thought you didn’t care about rumours.”

“I don’t,” he mutters, then pauses. “Most of the time.”

Violet hums, a low sound of amusement threaded with quiet disbelief.

“I try not to lend them too much weight either,” she says, her voice light but knowing. “But even so, rumours are worth keeping an ear on. They tend to reveal more about the people spreading them than the ones they’re about.”

Her dragon shifts beneath her with a subtle toss of its head, and she adjusts easily, her body moving in time with the creature's gait. There’s a fluidity in the motion, the kind that only comes from years of instinctive balance—like she was born to stay steady even when everything around her moves.

“And to answer your question,” she adds softly, her tone gentler now, shaded with a hint of warmth, “No. I’m not cold. But thank you for the concern, Your Highness.”

The way she says it, half teasing, half sincere, makes something tighten in Xaden’s chest. He doesn't respond—not right away. Instead, he glances forward again, eyes narrowed against the breeze, and tells himself it’s better this way. Better to stay quiet. Better not to ask why she’s really here, or why she keeps seeing through him so easily.

But that doesn’t stop him from wishing she’d ride beside him just a little longer.

As if the wind had been waiting for the perfect moment to contradict her, Violet barely finishes her sentence before her nose wrinkles and she sneezes—twice, in quick succession. It’s abrupt and entirely human, and Xaden watches with quiet satisfaction as Garrick, Imogen, and Bodhi glance back, each of them wearing varying shades of amusement.

Xaden lets out a low, dry hum, the sound edged with something suspiciously like delight. It’s rare to see Violet flustered—rarer still to catch her off guard—and he takes a moment to simply enjoy the sight of her cheeks warming with embarrassment. She always carries herself with such effortless command, as though the world tilts to meet her stride. But right now, in the wake of an ill-timed sneeze, she seems almost... mortal.

“Pardon me, Your Highness,” she murmurs, ducking her head with a sniff. “I didn’t mean to—wait, what are you doing?”

But Xaden doesn’t answer. He’s already undoing the clasp of his cloak with practiced fingers, the rich fabric loosening from his shoulders. Without ceremony, he gathers the folds and tosses it toward her in a graceful arc. It lands across her chest in a dark, heavy cascade, and Violet instinctively catches it before it slips to the ground, blinking in startled confusion as she looks from the cloak to Xaden and back again.

“I can’t possibly accept this,” she says, clearly flustered now, even as her fingers curl tighter around the wool. “You’ll be cold.”

“I gave it to you,” Xaden replies, his voice clipped and final, as if that should settle the matter.

“But—Your Highness, really—this isn’t necessary,” she begins, still holding the cloak as though unsure what to do with it.

Before she can protest further, Xaden snaps his fingers. Instantly, a mantle of shadow unfurls around him, wrapping his frame in an ethereal cloak conjured from his own power. The shadows curl at the edges like smoke in the wind, and when he meets her gaze again, it’s with unmistakable expectation.

Violet stares at him, speechless now.

And for once, Xaden doesn’t feel like the fool.

“Still…” Violet begins, her voice soft, almost tentative.

Xaden fixes her with a neutral stare, offering no reply, no softening of his expression. He simply waits.

Faced with the impassive set of his features, Violet’s shoulders lift and fall in a breath that borders on a sigh. The look she gives him next is one of such reluctant resignation—so plainly helpless and endearingly unsure—that Xaden nearly loses his composure. He turns away abruptly, biting down on a traitorous smile, his teeth catching the inside of his lower lip as he fights back the low ripple of laughter threatening to escape.

There’s a pause—three heartbeats, maybe four—where neither of them speaks. Then, with a quiet exhale, Violet draws the cloak around her shoulders. The dark wool rustles faintly as she fastens the clasp at her throat, the silver button catching the light briefly before disappearing beneath her fingers. The fabric drapes around her frame with a kind of reluctant grace, too large for her build, the hem skimming the tops of her shins and brushing against her knees like it has a mind of its own.

She looks like she’s been swallowed by shadow—and, somehow, it suits her.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she murmurs at last, her tone low but earnest.

“You’re welcome,” Xaden replies, the words clipped, almost dismissive—but there’s no edge in his voice, only something quietly steadying.

The two of them lapse into silence, riding in companionable quiet as the sounds of laughter rise ahead—Imogen has finally wrapped up her tale, and the others are responding with audible amusement. But here, between them, it is calm. Unspoken. Fragile.

Xaden risks a glance sideways.

Violet’s head is slightly bowed, her expression mostly hidden by the high collar of the cloak. Only the slope of her cheek is visible, the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her lashes resting against flushed skin, and it takes him a moment to realize what she’s doing—breathing it in. The warmth, the scent, maybe even the weight of it. His cloak. His magic.

And she’s smiling.

It should put Xaden on edge. Should make him bristle the way he always does when she sees too much, when she slips past the armour he wears so deliberately.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, something deep inside him stirs—something hot and bright and startlingly quiet. A flame catching in dry tinder. It coils low in his stomach and flares sharp beneath his ribs, and even when he forces himself to look away again, the warmth lingers.

This time, he doesn’t try to snuff it out.

Chapter Text

Xaden knows they’re nearing the hills long before they crest the ridge—he hears it first. A low, resonant hum begins to ripple through the air, not unlike the faint vibration of a string drawn taut and struck gently. It starts in the soles of his boots and climbs upward, a subtle pressure that sets the fine hairs on his arms prickling.

Catriona is the first to react visibly. She draws her dragon to an abrupt halt, her head tilting as though trying to catch the strange sound more clearly. A flicker of alarm crosses her face, quick and sharp, and her fingers drop instinctively to the hilt of the short dagger strapped at her hip.

“What is that?” she asks, her voice taut with caution.

Beside Xaden, Violet stiffens in the saddle. Though unarmed, her hand moves almost unconsciously to her side, fingertips brushing where a weapon might once have rested. The reaction is automatic, practiced—one that speaks to long hours of training and discipline. A blade master, then. Xaden had already suspected as much. Her lean build, the economy of her movements, the quiet precision in the way she observed everything—they all hinted at a deadly kind of grace honed by steel and repetition.

“It’s the ward-stones, Lady Catriona,” Xaden says, his tone even, though he rubs absently at one ear, which has begun to ring faintly under the hum. “The stones are embedded deep in the hills. They resonate with the magic in the earth, and that resonance causes the sound you’re hearing.”

From up ahead, Imogen turns slightly in her saddle, her voice calm and almost cheerful despite the strange atmosphere. “That’s why some call them the Singing Hills,” she offers, nudging her dragon onward. “They hum like this whenever you pass near—though it gets louder the closer you ride.”

Catriona makes a thoughtful sound, releasing the hilt of her dagger. Her dragon huffs beneath her, as if in agreement, and she leans forward, curiosity overtaking suspicion. Without another word, she urges her mount ahead, veering out of formation to ride alongside Imogen.

Behind them, Garrick exhales loudly, the sound halfway between a sigh and a groan.

“We’re supposed to stay in formation,” he mutters under his breath, not for the first time that morning.

“This country is so weird,” Violet mutters under her breath from beside Xaden. Despite the sun now sitting high and unbothered in a cloudless sky, she still hasn’t shed Xaden’s cloak. The air has turned warm—warm enough that Xaden has dismissed his cloak of shadows entirely and undone the top button of his high-collared tunic—but she clings to the heavy fabric like it anchors her. To what, Xaden cannot fathom.

The hum of the ward-stones grows clearer, easier to follow, threading through the air like a song just under the skin. It guides them forward, and then, without warning, the dense treeline breaks. One moment they are weaving through towering trunks, and the next it’s as if the forest has been cut away by a divine hand, leaving only open sky and a sudden, staggering view of endless green hills.

The shift is so stark it steals the breath from Xaden’s lungs—even now, even after all the times he’s seen this.

“Oh,” Lady Catriona breathes, her voice hushed, reverent. Her wide eyes drink in the vista like it might vanish if she blinks.

Xaden almost says the same. Almost. The view deserves it.

Before them stretches a sprawling sea of grassy hills, rolling and vast beneath the midday light. Scattered across the slopes are violet-hued crystals—shimmering in the sun with a brilliance that rivals starlight. They gleam like precious stones, glittering with an intensity that makes Xaden’s eyes ache just to look at them. It’s breath taking and surreal, like something conjured in a fever dream, a vision too perfect to be trusted. The crystals are strewn across the land as if a careless god emptied a jewel box across the countryside—beautiful and untouched.

And yet, some part of him recoils at the idea of disturbing even one.

The sound is everywhere now. A dense, humming vibration that coats the air like fog—so palpable Xaden swears he could gather it in his hands, press it to his chest, feel it echo inside his bones. It thrums in the base of his skull and along the nape of his neck, raising gooseflesh despite the heat.

It’s stunning. And a little bit terrifying.

They all fall silent, momentarily humbled by the sight—until Garrick, ever the practical one, breaks the stillness.

“Well,” he says, carefully dismounting with practiced ease, ever mindful of the weight and limits of his false arm. “We should rest for a moment and break for lunch. Afterward, the prince and Lady Catriona can explore while we gather some of the ward-stones for the Poromish to study—and for our luminary to use. We’ve only got a few hours before we need to head back if we want to beat nightfall.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Catriona says, though she winces slightly as she slides off her mount. Syrena mirrors her movements with less grace, stepping down with a wide-legged wobble that makes her grimace.

Xaden swings off Sgaeyl in one smooth motion, his hand trailing affectionately down her flank. Even she—fierce, tireless Sgaeyl—is winded from the trek, steam curling from her nostrils in soft puffs as she exhales.

“Barlowe, Violet—the dragons,” Garrick calls out with a vague gesture, but they’ve already anticipated the command. The two have dismounted and are leading the riderless dragons to a small, winding stream at the edge of the forest’s boundary, letting them drink and rest under the whispering canopy.

Garrick turns pointedly toward Xaden.

“Your Highness, these rocks should provide a decent seat for the ladies. Imogen and Bodhi will unpack the lunch the kitchens prepared this morning.”

Xaden offers no argument. He knows the part he’s meant to play—royal host, charming guide—and slips into it with the ease of someone who’s worn too many masks for too long. He leads Catriona and Syrena to a natural ring of stones, nestled in the grass like a meeting place designed by time itself. The tops of the rocks are rough, marred with moss and wear, but as Xaden brushes his hand across one, the surface softens beneath his fingers. The stone smooths of its own accord, polishing to a silken finish. Around him, the other rocks follow suit—shifting and flattening until the entire circle resembles a collection of carefully sculpted stone benches.

A simple show of power. Just enough to remind them where they are—and who and what, he is.

With the last of their small envoy now dismounted and settling in, Xaden lifts his gaze and catches the eye of the other stablehand—Barlowe. The young man hesitates mid-motion, hands half-raised in a silent question, then drops them quickly and offers Xaden a small, uncertain smile before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

“Thank you,” Lady Catriona calls over, her voice edged with relief as she sinks onto the smoothed stone seat. She stretches her legs out with an audible sigh. Beside her, Syrena mirrors the motion less gracefully, grimacing as she rubs her hands up and down her thighs, trying to work the stiffness from the long ride out of her muscles.

Xaden’s attention lingers on Barlowe a beat longer, watching as he moves with unhurried efficiency. He’s rubbing down Garrick’s dragon now, brisk but careful, checking for stones between her claws and murmuring under his breath. His movements carry the same quiet confidence as the surge of earth-magic he’d worked moments before—precise, steady, unobtrusive. The sun has brought a faint flush to his cheeks, and there’s sweat on his brow, but he doesn’t complain. Just works.

Then a soft voice draws Xaden’s gaze sideways.

“There you are, beautiful.”

Violet stands at Sgaeyl’s side, one hand resting against the dark curve of her neck, the other skimming down her flank with practiced ease. Her fingers trail slow and sure along Sgaeyl’s side, moving gently over sweat-slick scales. She leans close as she moves, her voice low and affectionate, murmuring a quiet stream of words only Sgaeyl can hear.

Her hands glide over the broad swell of Sgaeyl’s ribs as if she’s feeling for something more than tension—something unseen and deeper. She isn’t rushing. She’s communing.

Barlowe snorts from where he crouches by Imogen’s dragon.

“You could spend less time sweet-talking her and more time doing your job.”

“I could do both,” Violet replies, tone light, almost musical, “and still manage to mind my own business while I’m at it.”

She doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention remains fixed on Sgaeyl, who hums contentedly under her touch.

Barlowe mutters something under his breath and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push it. He finishes with Garrick’s dragon and lets her wander off toward the others before moving on to Imogen’s.

Xaden says nothing, but a flicker of amusement curls at the edge of his mouth. He watches Violet with a quiet sense of appreciation—not just for the easy way she handles Sgaeyl, but for the fact that she never lets herself be goaded.

There’s steel in her softness, and she doesn’t waste it proving anything to anyone.

“Your Highness.”

The voice is far too loud and far too close to his right ear. Xaden flinches and whips his head toward it, scowling—only to find Imogen standing there, looking completely unrepentant.

She presses a cup into his hands. “Here,” she says, then hands him a small charmed stone, already pulsing faintly with waiting magic. He doesn't bother to thank her—she wouldn’t expect it—and instead touches the stone to the side of the cup and gives it two quick taps.

A faint shimmer spreads across the surface of the water as the spell releases, cooling it instantly.

He drinks greedily, draining the cup in three large gulps that are probably nowhere near the level of poise expected of someone of his station. Imogen doesn’t comment, merely tilts the waterskin toward him again in silent offering, which he accepts with a brief nod.

“Bodhi, could you bring some water to the—” She stops short as she catches sight of him already by the cart, his arms laden with their midday provisions.

“I’ll take it to the stable hands,” Xaden offers, already moving to rise.

Imogen gives him a look—not surprised, because Imogen is never surprised, but something akin to it. Her brows lift, the faint arch so unfamiliar on her face that it gives him pause.

“You’re a prince, Your Highness,” she says evenly. “Or has that particular detail slipped your mind today?”

Xaden scowls.

“So I can’t carry some water to a few people, those that are helping us, without causing a political incident?”

“No,” she says immediately, rolling her eyes. She leans in, voice low and teasing. “Especially not to pretty people who forget their cloaks on journeys in the sky.”

“Imogen,” he hisses, heat rising fast under his collar—but she’s already turning away, her hair bouncing behind her as she walks off without another word, supremely pleased with herself.

Left standing by the stone seat and seething, Xaden presses his lips into a tight line, fighting back the flush crawling up his neck and into his ears. He drops onto the rock with a thud, his cup cradled in both hands, and glares down into what little water remains.

She was only teasing. That’s how their friendship worked—always had. Imogen kept him grounded by refusing to ever treat him like a prince, and if she wasn’t mocking him, he’d start worrying something was wrong.

Still though, sharing his cloak with Violet had felt like more than a gesture. In the moment, it had been quiet penance—a small offering in a war that was entirely in his own head, a war she didn’t even know existed. A silent apology for all the bitter, unwarranted thoughts he’d entertained about her. Because none of this was her fault. Not the awkwardness. Not the longing. Not the ache left behind by a girl who’d crept into his world like a whisper and vanished without a backward glance.

A girl who hadn’t even known she’d taken something from him.

Jaw tight, Xaden glares down at his cup hard enough that his vision starts to blur. He counts to five under his breath. Then, against his better judgment, he lifts his eyes toward the dragons at the edge of the clearing.

He regrets it immediately.

Violet’s head is tipped back, sunlight skimming over her features as she drinks from a cup identical to the one Xaden holds. He watches—helplessly, unwillingly—as her throat works with each swallow, elegant and unhurried. A stray droplet escapes the rim, carving a delicate path down the curve of her chin, gliding along the line of her jaw before it falls, silent and shimmering, onto the hollow of her collarbone.

The breeze toys with her hair, lifting tendrils to frame her face in loose, golden wisps. She looks windswept, luminous—like she’s been conjured from the very pages of those battered romance novels Xaden used to devour in secret, stories hidden beneath military treatises and political texts. Gilded. Untouchable. A heroine in some far gentler world than this one.

Pretty.

Imogen’s teasing voice ghosts through his mind, sharp-edged and infuriatingly accurate. Because yes—she’s beautiful. Violet is the kind of lovely that disarms you before you know it’s happened: petite and poised, sharp where it counts, softened in ways that draw the eye and make the heart falter.

And maybe she’s exactly his type. Fine. Let Imogen crow about it later.

But none of that matters—not really.

Not when she’s a stable hand with a foot already out the door, her future tethered to the next fleeting season and nothing beyond it. She’d said so herself that morning, her voice light and final as she explained her plans. No permanence. No ties. Just time borrowed on someone else’s land.

And as if that weren’t enough—as if Xaden needed further dissuasion—there’s the simple, immutable truth: Violet is a commoner, born in a foreign province, raised with none of the expectations or constraints that bind him. Their paths were never meant to cross, let alone intertwine. No matter how fiercely something in him rebels at that truth, it remains a boundary carved in stone.

There could never be anything between them. Never anything of substance. Never anything real.

Xaden’s fingers tighten around the cup until the pressure aches in his knuckles, the charm-cooled metal digging against his palm. The heat he feels now is not from the sun, but from the raw, helpless frustration churning just beneath his skin.

He doesn’t want this.

Not the intrigue. Not the pull. Not the echo of something gentle stirring in the hollow spaces of his chest.

Because the truth, sharper than any desire, is that he no longer has the appetite for anything fleeting. No flings. No quiet pining. Not even a whisper of the kind of aching interest Violet stirs in him.

His heart has already weathered too much. What remains of it is armoured, cracked, and no longer fit for ruin.

Chapter Text

The journey back to the estate stretches longer than it had in the morning, dragged out by the slow, steady fatigue of both riders and dragons. Their mounts, loyal though they are, move with a measured weariness—wings heavier with each beat, muscles taxed from an entire day in the air broken only by brief, insufficient pauses. The weight of the three canvas sacks, stuffed full with ward stones, doesn’t help matters. Their bulk adds a sluggish drag to their flight, and no one is in the mood to make light of it anymore.

Gone is the easy banter from earlier in the day. The shared smiles, the teasing remarks—faded like the warmth of the sun that had long since dipped beneath the horizon. Even Catriona, whose composure seems carved from stone most days, sits with a languid posture, the corners of her mouth twitching upward into a soft yawn. She covers it with such grace that Xaden almost wouldn’t have noticed—no audible breath, no slackening of discipline, only the flicker of weariness visible if one knew her well enough to look for it.

Night arrives not in a sudden sweep but as a slow descent, like a blanket being drawn carefully across the sky. The fading light passes from pale blue into the soft lavender of dusk, and then deepens further into indigo, rich and endless—the very shade of midnight-dyed silks traded from Caldyr’s coastal looms. Under the veil of night, the forest below does not fall silent so much as it shifts its tone. Day-creatures vanish into nests and burrows, their scurrying replaced by the rustle of night predators stirring, their eyes gleaming faintly in the shadows. The sounds are subtler, cautious. The hush of leaves, the cry of a lone hunting bird, the distant splash of something slipping into water.

The air cools swiftly with the setting sun, shedding the last of its daytime warmth. Within an hour, the breeze that brushes their flight path has grown crisp enough to make even the most seasoned riders tug their hoods higher and fasten their cloaks more tightly about them. All but Xaden.

She had offered him the cloak before they’d even taken off—Violet, ever thoughtful, despite clearly feeling the cold. He’d refused it without hesitation, with a brief shake of his head and a low murmur of thanks he hadn’t meant to sound so final. He’d seen Imogen’s brows lift, the brief arch of her disapproval as pointed as a blade, and felt the weight of Garrick’s silent, searching glance—neither comment nor question, but the sort of look that asked anyway.

He hadn’t explained himself. He hadn’t needed to.

The cold doesn’t bother him. It never has. In truth, he welcomes it.

There’s something comforting in the way it bites at the skin, wakes the senses, sharpens the edges of thought dulled by exhaustion and too many tangled emotions. Goosebumps rise along his forearms where his sleeves are pushed up, and his breath curls visibly in the air—white and fleeting, like smoke from an unseen fire. Winter is near. He can feel it not just in the air but in his bones, in the slow, inevitable tilt of the world toward frost and silence. It has always been his season. Brutal, yes, but clean. Honest. It strips the world bare, peels it down to truth and survival.

Xaden doesn’t bother pulling up a hood or shielding himself from the cold. Instead, he lets his shadows coil subtly around him, threading through the air like wisps of smoke, absorbing the chill and holding it at bay. Their presence is a quiet comfort, familiar and obedient, responding to his mood without conscious thought. They flicker just beneath the surface of his skin and weave through the spaces between his limbs like a second cloak—one born not of fabric, but of instinct and control.

Around him, the others exchange bits of conversation that rise and fall like tides—never loud, never sustained, more the scattered remains of a long day strung too tightly to allow for much talk. Garrick’s voice breaks the silence first, asking Bodhi a low question about the terrain ahead, to which Bodhi responds with a grunt and a short, clipped answer. Their exchange fades almost before it’s finished.

Somewhere off to his right, Catriona leans in to murmur something to her sister. Whatever she says is lost to the wind, but the result is unmistakable: both of them dissolve into laughter that’s thin with fatigue, breathy and unguarded. It carries faintly through the air like glass bells struck out of rhythm—hollow with exhaustion, but genuine. He lets it pass without comment. If anything, the sound makes the quiet feel deeper in its wake.

But it's the third conversation that draws Xaden’s attention like a thread tugged too tight.

Imogen leans toward Violet, her voice low, just barely audible over the wind. He can’t catch the words—only the rhythm of them, the deliberate tone, the cadence of something carefully chosen. Violet doesn’t respond right away. She simply turns and meets Imogen’s eyes, and the two of them stare at each other in a silence far louder than anything said aloud.

The expression on Violet’s face unsettles him—not because it’s angry, or even unreadable, but because it’s neutral. Entirely, infuriatingly neutral. Her lips are neither pursed nor smiling, her brow smooth. She holds Imogen’s gaze with a kind of quiet intensity that speaks of unsaid truths and shared knowledge Xaden isn’t privy to. Not anymore, a bitter voice at the back of his mind suggests.

The longer they look at each other, the more something restless twists inside his chest. It isn't quite jealousy—he knows better than to reduce it to something so simple. It’s closer to apprehension, that creeping, low-bellied unease that something is shifting right beneath his feet, just out of reach.

Eventually, Imogen leans back, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. Not triumph, not malice—just a shade of satisfaction, like someone who’s successfully made their point. Violet doesn’t look away. Not immediately. But when she finally does, her eyes flicker back toward the horizon, unreadable once more, her expression serene as ever.

Xaden exhales slowly and glances away, as if doing so could settle the unease curling like smoke in his stomach. Whatever was just exchanged between them, it wasn’t meant for him.

And that—more than the silence, more than the chill—bothers him the most.

By the time they reach the outer edges of Aretia, the city is draped in a soft hush, as though the very stones are dozing. Most of the district slumbers under a blanket of night, yet here and there, golden light still spills from high windows above clustered shopfronts, flickering like distant stars in the dark. A few taverns remain alive with music and laughter, their doors open wide to welcome the sleepless and the carefree—those with nowhere urgent to be come morning. The scent of roasting meat and sour ale lingers faintly in the air as they pass, carried on the breeze from the town’s heart.

The forge they’d passed earlier, bustling with smoke and hammer strikes, now lies dormant. The anvil stands silent, the hearth reduced to a low, pulsing glow. Even the shadows seem heavier here, slower to shift—like the city itself is exhaling.

When the estate comes into view, it’s not empty. A cluster of figures waits in the courtyard, silhouettes lit by the flickering lanterns along the entryway. Fen stands at the center, just outside the arched wooden doors, his arms crossed and a furrow in his brow that softens the moment he spots them. Relief blooms across his face in a quiet, unmistakable smile.

Stablehands hurry toward them without needing to be told, already reaching for the ropes and fastenings that secure the heavy canvas packs to the dragons’ harnesses. Their movements are efficient, practiced, the scrape of leather and the creak of shifting weight filling the air around them.

Xaden swings one leg over and lets himself slide down from Sgaeyl’s back, his boots thudding against packed dirt. The moment he hits the ground, his legs tremble beneath him—not with weakness exactly, but with the kind of fatigue that settles in deep after a day carved out of tension and travel. He exhales shakily and doesn’t bother hiding the way he leans into Sgaeyl for support.

She huffs, a rough, almost indignant burst of air through her nostrils that rustles his hair. You think you’re tired? the sound seems to say. Still, she doesn't shift away, doesn't move to shake him off. Her presence, as always, is unwavering. Solid. Steady.

He smiles faintly against the side of her neck, letting his gloved fingers drift over the curve of one of her scaled plates—an unspoken thank you passed from rider to dragon, wordless and familiar.

They’d made it back. Worn down to the bone, but intact.

“Oh, Your Majesty, it was beyond words,” Catriona coos, her tone syrupy-sweet, the earlier weariness wiped clean from her features like it had never existed. Her eyes shine with too-bright enthusiasm, a perfect performance of breathless awe. “The ward stones—”

“Catriona.” Fen interrupts gently. His voice carries a fond edge of amused reprimand as he steps in, offering his arm. “You need rest, not another chance to hold court. You can tell me every detail in the morning, I promise.” His gaze slides to Xaden then, more solemn now, as he inclines his head with genuine gratitude. “Your Highness. Thank you—for your time, your protection, and your patience. What you’ve done for our guests, for out ties to Poromiel, it won’t be forgotten.”

Xaden shifts awkwardly where he stands, the exhaustion beginning to creep into his bones again the moment Fen addresses him formally. His shoulders tighten.

“It was nothing,” he replies, careful and even, but his voice carries the weary rasp of someone who hasn’t slept properly in too long. “Truly, I was glad to be her guide. The trip was… worthwhile.”

A shadow of something flickers behind Catriona’s eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, or something softer she masks too well for him to name. She steps out from beneath Fen’s hand as if she hadn’t even noticed it there, her movement graceful, deliberate. She closes the distance between herself and Xaden without hesitation, her gaze never leaving his.

“Thank you again, Xaden,” she murmurs, and this time there’s no title. Just his name, warm and low, like a secret between them. She reaches for him with both hands, and he lets her take his—her fingers are soft, her grip light, but there’s purpose in it. Possession. Poise.

“I’m truly glad I saw the hills,” she continues, her voice dipping into something close to sincerity. “They were... unforgettable.”

Xaden holds her gaze for a beat too long, unsure what to make of the emotion she layers beneath her smile. There’s something calculated in her calm, something restrained and polished—but real, too. Perhaps that’s what unsettles him. Not the performative charm, but the truth she’s tucked beneath it like a blade hidden in silk.

“You’re welcome, Lady Catriona,” he replies, quieter now. His smile is polite, almost apologetic, and he withdraws his hands the moment it feels appropriate. Not rushed. Just... careful.

She dips her head with studied grace, the gesture smooth as a bow in a ballroom. Then she turns away and allows her sister to lead her up the stairs, her posture immaculate even in retreat.

Xaden watches until they disappear into the estate. And only then does he let himself exhale.

Xaden reaches out for the underside of Sgaeyl’s chin, intent on guiding her to the barn himself. His hand moves with habitual precision, fingers prepared to find the familiar ridges of her jaw—but instead, they brush against something far softer. Warm. Human.

He startles, a breath catching in his throat as his fingers graze skin, delicate and smooth. For one heart-thudding moment, he can’t place what it is—who it is—until the haze lifts and he realises: Violet is beside him.

She’s standing so close he can feel the shift of air between them, her slender fingers curled under Sgaeyl’s chin in quiet reassurance. She’s scratching the dragon with gentle ease, utterly absorbed in the motion, unaware—or perhaps all too aware—of how quietly she’s disarmed him.

Xaden snatches his hand back like he’s been burned. The phantom trace of her skin lingers against his fingertips, and he presses them to the fabric of his pants in an automatic, almost desperate motion, as though he can erase the impression of her touch before it carves itself too deeply into him. Before it settles into the memory of all the other times he let things slip away.

He doesn’t dare speak. Doesn’t trust the heat crawling up his neck or the sudden, mortifying flush he can feel rising in his cheeks.

In the dimming light, her eyes—hooded with exhaustion—lift to meet his. There’s a drowsy softness to her expression, but her smile curves with quiet amusement, knowing and a little lopsided.

“I’ll take care of her, Your Highness,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost indulgent.

He should nod. Step back. Let her do her job. But instead the protest slips from his mouth before he can stop it.

“I can do it,” he says, the words coming out rougher than intended, almost too fast. He doesn’t know what compels him to argue. Sgaeyl clearly trusts her—more than she trusts anyone else besides him. Violet has a way with the dragon, something calm and unintrusive that Sgaeyl responds to without resistance. Violet belongs here, doing this. It is, after all, her task.

And yet some part of him balks at letting her take Sgaeyl away. Not because he doubts her competence—never that—but because of the quiet ache that rises every time he watches Violet walk away. It’s irrational, but deeply embedded in him. Like watching someone carry off a piece of his own armour. A sliver of safety. Of something he’s never had the courage to name.

“I know,” she says simply, already turning to coax Sgaeyl forward. Her voice is kind, but firm with the sort of gentle finality he can’t seem to argue against. “But it’s been a long day, prince. And tomorrow won’t be any easier.”

She doesn't need to say more. The unspoken part hangs between them like mist: Rest while you can. Let someone else carry this for you, just for a moment.

Sgaeyl’s claws click rhythmically against the stone as they move away, the quiet echo of metal on cobblestone marking each step. The dragon follows without protest, her head lowered, wings tucked.

Trusting.

Xaden watches them go, his gaze trailing the shape of Violet’s figure beneath the folds of his cloak. It dwarfs her—his shoulders are far broader than hers—but she wears it anyway, without complaint. The fabric pools around her wrists and flows behind her like shadow, the insignia stitched at the collar barely visible in the twilight.

He’s been trying not to notice all day. The way the cloak sits on her frame. The way it reminds him—stupidly, maddeningly—that she’s walking around in something that belongs to him. Something that should feel like a small, meaningless gesture, and yet doesn’t.

He stays rooted in place, even when they begin to vanish into the dark. The light slips from her shoulders, swallowed inch by inch until only the faintest glint of her braids remains. And then even that disappears.

She doesn’t look back. He doesn’t expect her to.

Still, something in him deflates as the final echo of her footsteps fades. A silence descends, heavy and full of everything he hasn’t said, everything he doesn’t understand about what he feels around her. Or why her absence always feels like something being quietly taken from him.

Eventually, he turns and walks back inside.

His legs feel heavier than they should. The stone beneath his feet too cold. The corners of the hallways too quiet.

His fingers curl once at his side, then again, unconsciously brushing the spot where her skin met his. The warmth hasn’t faded.

Not yet.

And part of him isn’t entirely sure he wants it to.

Chapter Text

The barn is quieter than usual.

Not the emptiness kind of quiet, nor the oppressive silence that falls after loss. No—this is the kind of quiet that wraps around Violet like a well-worn cloak. Like a breath held between one moment and the next. The kind that waits, listening.

Sgaeyl’s weight shifts beside her, talons ticking rhythmically against the stone floor, but otherwise, the dragon moves with remarkable grace. Violet has long since grown used to her—used to the eerie stillness she possesses, the way she watches everything with eyes that miss nothing.

Violet places her hand gently along the line of Sgaeyl’s jaw, letting her fingers move slowly over warm scales, humming a half-forgotten lullaby under her breath. It’s instinct more than anything, the song something her mother once sang while brushing knots from her hair.

Sgaeyl leans into the sound.

“I know,” Violet whispers. “You’re tired too.”

The warmth of the barn, rich with straw and the faint, earthy tang of dragon musk, wraps around her shoulders, but the weight that truly anchors her is the cloak she still wears—his cloak. Heavy with heat and faintly scented like him: wind and smoke and some subtle spice that’s lingered in her thoughts all damn day.

She should have given it back hours ago. Should’ve shrugged it off and handed it to him with some dry remark, something casual, easy, forgettable. But she hadn’t. And now the fabric drapes down her back, too long for her frame, the collar brushing against her jaw whenever she moves too quickly.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Violet glances toward the barn doors, half-expecting to see him there still, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes. But he’s gone. Of course he is. He had looked so tired when she left him. As if he’d been on the verge of saying something and then swallowed it back.

“I can do it,” he’d said.

Not about the dragon. Not really. She knows that now.

He’d reached for Sgaeyl the same way he reaches for everything he’s afraid of losing—carefully, too late, and just as someone else gets there first.

Violet’s heart aches, a quiet throb under her ribs. She’s tried not to think too much about what it means, this strange tether between them. The moments that flicker and catch like firelight between their palms—unspoken, unclaimed, but no less real for their silence.

He’d touched her by accident tonight. Just for a second. But that second had felt like a breach in the walls he keeps so carefully built. A crack of warmth, of instinct, of something he didn’t mean to offer—and something she shouldn’t have wanted.

And gods help her, she had wanted it.

She draws the brush from the nearby wall and moves to Sgaeyl’s side, letting the repetitive strokes calm her hands. She focuses on the scales, on the shifting light, on anything but the fact that her fingers are still tingling from the place where his hand met hers.

The dragon huffs contentedly, curling down into a nest of straw and folding her wings. Her breath comes slower now, sleep pulling at her body the way the night pulls at Violet’s thoughts.

“He’s not as steady as he pretends,” Violet murmurs to Sgaeyl, not expecting an answer. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

She kneels down, resting her palm against Sgaeyl’s side, feeling the quiet thunder of her heartbeat beneath the scales. The barn creaks gently above them, wind sighing through the rafters.

“I don’t think he knows what he’s doing. With me. With anything.”

The admission hangs there, barely a whisper.

But there’s no bitterness in it. No anger.

Just truth. Heavy and unshakable.

Violet stays there for a long while, watching the slow rise and fall of Sgaeyl’s chest, letting the dragon’s breathing anchor her. The night drapes itself over her like velvet, soft and full of things unsaid.

Eventually, she’ll rise. She’ll take off the cloak. She’ll return to her room and close her eyes and pretend that the world is as simple as it was before she brushed her fingers against his.

But not yet.

For now, she sits in the quiet of the barn, wearing the weight of his warmth like a shield, her hand still resting where the memory of his touch lingers—not quite willing to let it go.

Chapter Text

The Poromish delegation departs only a few days later. The ink on the agreements is still drying, but already there’s a palpable sense of satisfaction threading through the palace halls. Courtiers and councillors alike walk with lighter steps, flushed with success. Smiles are easy, laughter flows freely, and every conversation loops back to the same refrain: Victory. Prosperity. Alignment.

Tyrrendor has secured a significant foothold—a strong claim to the Poromish luminary, an asset of volatile brilliance and enormous tactical value, offered in exchange for high-grade alloys and weaponry. A week’s worth of diplomacy, late-night negotiations, and posturing has culminated in a deal that benefits both parties. The alliance is firmer than it has been in decades.

And for once, Xaden feels as though something has gone right.

He’s halfway to his chambers when a steward intercepts him—low bow, hurried whisper—and moments later, he finds himself summoned to his father’s private study.

The door clicks shut behind him with a soft finality.

It’s strange, how unfamiliar the room still feels. Xaden’s been inside it only a handful of times, and each one left a distinct impression: of power coiled and precise, of silence that listened, of expectations that never had to be spoken aloud.

The air here always feels heavier. More deliberate.

His eyes are drawn—inevitably—to the maps. They stretch along one vast wall, layered and annotated, cities and ports and supply routes stitched across the continent in painstaking ink. Each parchment tells a story of movement and control, of war and watchfulness. He traces familiar borders with his eyes: Poromiel and Montserrat hugging the coastline to the south, Navarre clinging eastward with its jagged mountains like a shield. Caldyr sprawls cold and quiet to the northwest.

And there, right in the heart of it all—unmoving, unyielding—is Tyrrendor.

His country. His cage. And then there’s her.

Just behind the vast, meticulously ordered desk, high on the stone wall where the light catches just so, hangs the long line of Tyrrendor’s monarchs. Oil-painted likenesses, solemn and dignified, dressed in the regalia of their eras. From High King Deimos, bronze-eyed and stern, all the way to the last queen, her smile sharp and knowing—his mother.

She stares down at him from her frame, black eyes gleaming like glass under varnish, and for a second, Xaden forgets to breathe. The artist has captured her in uncanny detail: the slope of her cheekbones, the faint tension in her jaw, the exact tilt of her brow. Regal. Composed. Watchful.

He wonders if her eyes ever softened like that for him in life, or if the portraitist simply imagined it.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” comes a familiar voice, pulling him out of the moment.

Xaden turns just as his father clasps a firm hand on his shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth. There are laugh lines around the king’s eyes, a rare sight, deepening now as he smiles broadly at his son. There’s pride in the gesture—genuine pride, which only unsettles Xaden more.

“I’ve been working,” Xaden says evenly, managing a smile in return, though it feels slightly out of place on his face. “I thought that was the expectation.”

“And you’ve met it,” his father says, squeezing his shoulder before letting go. “More than met it. The delegation is leaving satisfied, and we’ll see the first shipment within the season.”

He crosses the room to pour two glasses of wine, offering one to Xaden before gesturing for him to sit.

Xaden hesitates—just for a breath—but takes the seat.

It’s almost disorienting, the sudden shift in proximity. His father so close, so familiar, in a space so rarely shared. He hadn’t realized how long it’s been since he’s seen him properly—not in a war room, not across a council table, but here, in this private space where strategy and legacy intertwine.

“I’m proud of you,” the king says, smiling gently, and the words land with unexpected weight.

Xaden stiffens subtly, the glass pausing halfway to his lips.

Pride. From his father. It should feel like a victory. Instead, it feels like a verdict.

His gaze drifts again to the portraits. To the watching eyes of his ancestors. To the woman who bore him, now immortalized in oil and memory.

His smile doesn’t falter, but it doesn’t deepen either.

There’s a ringing in his ears, a hush beneath the words. Like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Thank you,” he says finally, and takes a sip of wine.

The vintage is excellent—sweet and deep—but he barely tastes it.

Some part of him, silent and stubborn, still doesn’t know whether this is a beginning or a warning. Or both.

His father’s smile lingers a moment longer, then fades to something quieter, more contemplative. He turns and walks toward the map wall, folding his hands behind his back, eyes sweeping over the sprawling canvas of their world. The silence that settles between them isn’t uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either — it’s the kind that hangs with weight, filled with unsaid things neither of them quite know how to voice.

“You’ve grown into yourself more than I thought possible,” his father says, still facing the wall. “You used to disappear into corners when you were younger. I’d look for you and find you crouched behind the stables or up in the observatory tower, scribbling notes or asking the stars for answers you wouldn’t let us give you.”

Xaden smiles faintly, though the edge of it is sharper now.

“I still do that. Just harder to hide these days.”

At that, his father turns slightly, one brow lifting in amused acknowledgment.

“You’ve always been... quiet about your strength. It unsettles some of the court. They don’t know what to make of a prince who doesn’t posture.”

“I don’t need to,” Xaden replies simply. “Not when there are better ways to prove myself.”

His father nods slowly, then crosses the room to his desk, leaning both hands against the carved wood.

“True. But strength without posture still draws eyes. And questions. You may not care about appearances, but others do. You’d do well to remember that.”

There’s no venom in the words — not quite — but something stiffens in Xaden’s posture all the same. He crosses his arms loosely over his chest, gaze settling on the portrait of his mother again, the way her eyes follow him even now, decades later.

“You brought me in here to thank me,” he says after a beat, “or to remind me how to act like a prince?”

A pause. His father doesn’t answer right away. Then—

“Can’t it be both?”

That makes Xaden’s jaw tick, just faintly.

“It could be. But it rarely ever is.”

His father sighs through his nose, as though the moment is slipping away from him faster than he meant it to.

“Xaden,” he begins, voice lower now, a touch of frustration curling beneath it, “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Then don’t,” Xaden says, though his tone is steady. Not cruel. Not cold. Just tired.

Another silence blooms between them. His father pushes off the desk, walking toward the small decanter in the corner and pouring two glasses of the dark, spiced wine they reserve for late-night talks. He offers one to Xaden without a word.

Xaden takes it. Their fingers don’t brush.

They drink.

“I am proud of you,” his father says eventually, voice soft. “Even if I don’t say it in the ways you want.”

Xaden looks down into his glass, watching the dark red swirl with the motion of his hand. He nods, but doesn’t reply.

The silence holds this time — not entirely peaceful, but steady. Familiar. They don’t say what they mean, not really, but the space between them isn’t entirely empty either. It never has been.

Chapter Text

The room stills around them, the silence weighted—thick with things neither of them wish to name. And though nothing is said, Xaden feels it shift: the tenor of the conversation turning, darkening. He notices it in the pause between breaths, in the way his father exhales—a long, deliberate sigh that carries no emotion and somehow still feels like disappointment.

“We both understand,” he says slowly, voice low and almost distant, like the words cost something to say aloud, “that I’ve only ever been a placeholder, Xaden.”

He does not look at Xaden as he speaks. Instead, he reaches up and removes the crown from his head with a careful hand. It’s a slim circlet of gold, plain save for a single blood-coloured gem—a symbol of restraint, not indulgence. And yet, in his grasp, it carries the weight of inheritance, of inevitability. He turns it slowly in his fingers, studying it as though it might answer a question neither of them has ever asked aloud.

“Your mother was born and bred to rule, prepared for the throne from the moment she could speak, just as you have been." A pause. "This has always been your inheritance, Xaden. Your inevitability; You were not born to serve—you were born to reign.”

The crown gleams faintly in the mage light. The same one she wore, in the portrait above Xaden's head— her gaze ever fixed forward, lips unsmiling, the weight of the realm resting on the elegance of her spine. And now it sits in his father's hands and inevitably, upon Xaden's head.

Xaden feels his mouth go dry. His father's words are not ones of praise. They are words of prophecy. Xaden recoils from them instinctively.

“Father—” he starts, but the word lands awkwardly in his mouth. He almost never calls him that. Sir, Your Majesty—titles easier to stomach than anything that implies intimacy. Yet now, in this moment where the line between parent and monarch is deliberately blurred, he reaches for it and regrets it instantly.

That cold is creeping in again, the one that roots itself in his spine and radiates outward, the one he’s known since childhood. It’s the same sensation he felt the first time his mother told him—without hesitation, without warmth—what his future would be. You will rule. You will do your duty. There is no alternative. He had clung to her hand, trying to disappear into her shadow. Now, there’s no shadow left to hide in, not even his own. Only legacy, and the yawning space between what he is and what everyone expects him to be.

“Father—” he tries again, but his voice falters. It’s a child’s voice, brittle and too soft, too late.

He hates that it still happens—this shrinking in his presence. He is a commander on the field, sharp and unflinching. But here, in this chamber, beneath his father’s eye, the steel in Xaden's spine buckles. The words that he should say—I’m not ready, I don’t want this, not yet, not ever—turn to ash behind his teeth.

I’m not ready.

The words beat like war drums in his chest, but his throat has closed around them. There’s no room for protest, only breathless dread.

The king continues as if he hasn't spoken. His gaze is locked on the crown, distant and impassive, and it infuriates Xaden that it is the crown—not him—that commands his father’s attention.

“When your mother disappeared,” the king says, almost clinically, "the court looked to me because they had no choice. And you—you were a grieving boy. I never begrudged you that. I took the throne to give you space to grow into yourself, to carry your grief somewhere it wouldn't be weaponised.” He lifts his eyes now, gaze sharp and assessing. “But grief cannot be your shield forever. Tyrrendor requires more of its king than mourning and potential.”

“I am not a king,” Xaden snaps, the words breaking free before he can stop them. His fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, his voice rising despite himself. “You speak of growth, of destiny, but you see what you want to see; you're no better than anyone else.” Xaden harks. “One diplomatic victory, that’s all it was. A conversation. Not a coronation.” Xaden snarls before he can stop himself, bitterness slipping out unbidden. "One diplomatic victory and suddenly I’m ready to be handed the realm? Do you even know me?”

The king’s gaze sharpens, the hint of indulgence gone.

“One conversation that a lesser man would have fumbled. You’ve proven you can hold power without cracking beneath it. That matters.”

“I didn’t ask to prove anything,” Xaden says, his voice low, dangerous now. His hands are fists at his sides, tight enough to shake. “I didn’t choose this.”

The King doesn’t flinch. He merely exhales, unhurried.

“Control yourself, Xaden.”

There is no anger in the words—only disappointment, cool and practiced. The kind that has been wielded against him since he was a child. Xaden bites down the next retort so hard his teeth meet with a click.

“I’m not announcing your coronation at dawn, nor am I forcing your hand,” the King continues, “but I am telling you, plainly, that come summer solstice, I will relinquish the throne and pass the crown over to you, Xaden, and you will accept my decision.”

It is a sentence, not a suggestion.

The words ring in Xaden’s skull—summer solstice—and he barely manages to contain the jolt of panic it sends through him.

Summer solstice. A horizon still distant—and yet perilously close. A date that suddenly carries the full weight of forever. It lands in his chest like a stone dropped into a still lake, disrupting every fragile, quiet hope I’ve had that he might be spared a little longer. That were he lucky, just maybe, the expectations might shift elsewhere.

Xaden forces himself to breathe, forces himself uncurl his clenched fingers, every movement stiff with restraint. The crescents his nails left in his palms pulse with dull pain—marks of a battle fought entirely within, blood pooling beneath the skin.

“I understand, Your Majesty,” he says at last, the words flat and formal. He doesn’t say Father again. He doesn’t trust himself to. His father doesn’t correct him.

The King nods slowly.

“I believe you do,” he replies. There is something inscrutable in his expression now—not pride, not relief. Not even affection. Just inevitability. “This is not punishment, nor reward. It’s the role written for you before you could walk. We do not always get to choose when our names are called, Xaden. Sometimes, the crown calls first.”

The silence that follows is immense. The crown remains in the King's hands, but it no longer belongs to him alone. Its weight has already begun to settle onto Xaden’s shoulders, and for a moment, there’s no son in the room, and no father either. Only the past, present, and future of a fractured crown, suspended in a silence that neither of them dares to break.

The words don’t belong to his father. Not truly. Xaden knows their shape too well, has felt the cold press of them against his bones since he was old enough to understand what duty meant. But hearing them now—from his father’s mouth—unsettles something so deep it feels tectonic. They emerge with the same effortless precision, the same merciless finality his mother once wielded, and for a moment, it’s as if time folds in on itself.

He is small again. Fragile. Back in her private chamber, his hand clutching the fabric of her gown, listening as she explained—like she was listing the weather—that he would one day inherit the weight of a realm. He had nodded, even then. Not because he understood, but because he was too afraid not to.

Now, he can’t seem to move. He stands perfectly still, fixed in place by the echo of her voice wearing his father’s face. His gaze drifts somewhere beyond the King’s shoulder, unfocused and hollow, like if he stares hard enough into the space between them, he might disappear entirely.

Another sigh escapes the King—long and soft, like steam hissing from a dying flame. It says more than any speech might. When he speaks again, it’s with an ease that makes Xaden’s skin crawl.

“That’s all I wanted to say.”

There’s a faint note of amusement in his tone, as if he’s just passed along the weather forecast rather than a life sentence. The crown is back on his head now—settled in place like it never left—and Xaden, by some old reflex carved into his spine, bows his head in return.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” he murmurs—words hollowed out by habit, not thought.

Then he’s moving. Not fleeing, not quite. That would require speed, purpose. He walks with outward calm, but inside, he is blazing. His chest and throat burn as if he’s inhaled fire, his eyes sting like they’ve been filled with smoke, and it takes everything in him not to claw at the collar of his shirt, suddenly too tight, too close.

The hallways twist and shimmer as he passes—grey stone and crimson banners, gold filigree and polished portraits all collapsing into meaningless colour. The grandeur of the estate is wasted on him now. He doesn’t register whether anyone sees him. Maybe someone does. Maybe a servant steps aside, or a guard glances his way—but if they do, they blur into the same indistinct smear of red and grey. He wouldn’t remember them even if they spoke.

'Less than a year.'

The thought coils tight in his skull, barbed and insistent.

'By the next solstice, I will be King.'

He doesn't remember opening the door to his chamber. Doesn’t remember closing it either, though the echo of it slamming shut rings in his ears like the clang of a gate being drawn. He leans against it heavily, the wood firm and grounding at his back, anchoring him to the present through sheer weight.

Pain blooms behind his eyes, sharp and white-hot. It pulses with the force of held breath, of words he couldn't speak. He presses his forehead against the door, willing the cool surface to draw the heat out of him, to cool the storm gathering behind his ribs.

“One,” he whispers. Then again. “Two.”

His voice is hoarse, barely audible, each number dragging him further from the void that nearly swallowed him whole. He counts. Not because it helps, but because it’s the only thing he can control.

It takes until one hundred and forty-six before his vision clears enough to see. Before the static in his mind thins out and leaves behind only silence—trembling and unsure.

'You should have been prepared', he tells himself. 'You knew this would happen. You knew this was coming'.

But knowing and being ready are not the same thing.

They never were.

He sinks to the floor, legs folding uselessly beneath him, arms limp at his sides. There’s no grace to it—just a slow collapse, like a marionette whose strings have finally snapped. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even close his eyes.

He simply exists, sitting there on the stone floor with the quiet pressing in, and the promise of a crown hanging above him like a sword on a thread.

And for a very long time, he does not move.

Chapter Text

“You want to talk about it?”

The question is casual, almost carelessly lobbed across the sparring ring, but it strikes like a stone against glass.

Xaden doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even glance at Garrick. Instead, he steps forward with cold precision and jabs his practice sword directly at his friend’s midsection. There’s nothing theatrical about the strike—it’s clean, economical, and just a little too fast to be playful.

Garrick reacts on instinct, jerking out of the way with a grunt. He manages to avoid the point, but barely, his boots skidding against the stone floor as he scrambles back a step. It’s a clumsy move—nothing he’d have let happen even a few months ago—and Xaden sees the opening. Doesn’t take it. Not yet.

A smirk pulls at his mouth. Not because Garrick’s footing is off, but because something—anything—has finally disrupted the suffocating stillness inside him.

“You don’t have to disembowel me, Your Highness,” Garrick says with exaggerated formality, recovering with a roll of his shoulders and swinging back with a twisting strike aimed at Xaden’s ribs.

Xaden blocks it without thinking, the rhythm of their blades clashing briefly before parting again. The parry is sharp enough to make Garrick wince and readjust his stance, but neither of them comments on it. They move automatically into the next step—circling, slow and deliberate, boots scraping in sync across the floor as they spiral counter clockwise around one another like opposing storms caught in the same gravitational pull.

The silence stretches.

“These swords are blunt, Garrick,” Xaden mutters finally, his voice low and rough with disuse. He flicks his head to the side, trying to shake a strand of sweat-damp hair out of his eyes without lowering his weapon. “If I wanted to disembowel you, I’d have to actually put in some effort.” He lets the implication hang there—dark, a little too serious. “As it is, Imogen would make sure I didn’t live long enough to regret it.”

Garrick chuckles under his breath, but it’s tight around the edges.

“With your mood lately, I don’t think it’s entirely out of the question.”

He says it like a joke, but it lands wrong.

Xaden’s grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, the leather-wrapped handle creaking faintly beneath his fingers. His eyes flash—just once—and Garrick immediately looks like he regrets the comment.

But it’s too late.

Xaden lunges, not in warning but in response. The movement is fast, a blur of muscle and intent as he feints high, then shifts low, angling his blade in a direction Garrick doesn’t anticipate. It forces him to stumble backward, scrambling for balance as Xaden’s foot sweeps toward his ankle in one fluid, merciless motion.

The hit connects.

Garrick crashes to the floor with a grunt, the air knocked out of him as he lands on his back. He tries to raise his arm—maybe to block, maybe just out of instinct—but Xaden is already there, blade pressed flush against his throat before he can breathe in again.

Neither of them moves.

For several heartbeats, the world narrows to the span of metal between them, the ragged sound of their breath, the heat radiating from their sweat-slicked skin.

Xaden doesn’t lower the blade. He doesn’t speak, either. His arms tremble faintly with the exertion, but his eyes remain locked on Garrick’s, jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might crack. His chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, lungs screaming for air, but he ignores the burn. He’s burning everywhere already.

Garrick holds still. Not out of fear—Xaden would never hurt him, not truly—but because he knows better than to interrupt this moment. This storm.

Because that’s what Xaden is right now.

Not just angry. Not just tired. Something heavier. Wilder. A prince made of pressure and pain, one word away from collapse or explosion, and no one, not even Garrick, can tell which it’ll be.

The silence holds and Xaden doesn’t move.

The same calm, steady cadence he summoned when a soldier—mud-splattered, wide-eyed, and nearly falling off his horse from exhaustion—galloped into the courtyard and collapsed at Xaden’s feet. Gasping for breath, the man had choked out that Her Majesty, the queen—Xaden’s mother—had been caught in a storm while returning from a diplomatic visit across the western sea. That her ship had vanished into the waves. That the search parties had found only shattered wood and floating wreckage. That they’d kept looking, and looking, and looking… but never found her.

Xaden had been ten.

Even now, years later, the memory feels like a bruise beneath the surface, not fresh but never fully healed either. His fingers tighten around the worn leather grip of the practice sword in his hand, white-knuckled with pressure. The pain feels grounding. Almost welcome.

“I’m fine,” he says curtly. The lie tastes bitter, but he doesn’t soften it. “It’s not even—it’s not unexpected. I knew this was coming. We both did. This reprieve was never meant to last.”

Garrick doesn’t argue. He never does, not when Xaden’s voice has that edge to it, the one that sounds like a blade sliding back into its sheath. Instead, he shifts closer, quiet and unhurried, and rests his right hand gently over Xaden’s clenched fist. His prosthetic fingers don’t quite wrap all the way around, but the contact is warm. Steadying.

“My prince,” Garrick says, voice low and unwavering, “you will be fine. You don’t have to believe it yet—but you will be.” He waits a beat, then adds with a crooked smile, “It’s not like your father is vanishing off the face of the earth. He’ll still be here. And the Assembly will stand with you. And me, of course,” he finishes, the smile deepening. “Always me.”

For a moment, Xaden doesn’t respond. His throat works around a knot of words he doesn’t want to say aloud. Eventually, the tension in his fingers ebbs. His grip loosens, and the hilt of the sword dips a fraction in his hand. Garrick withdraws his own, knowing better than to linger too long when Xaden’s guard is down.

“You’re right,” Xaden murmurs at last, closing his eyes for a second. Letting himself breathe. “It’s just…”

His voice trails off before returning, softer. Honest.

“It just hit me, I guess. That this really is the end of the pause. The last moment of stillness before it all changes. I kept pretending things could stay the way they were for a little longer. That maybe no one would notice if I stood still and the world didn’t.”

“But the world always notices,” Garrick says, not unkindly. “All things shift. All quiet ends eventually. You know that.”

“Of course I do,” Xaden replies with a grimace. “But does your wisdom always have to sound like you’ve stolen it from the back pages of a dusty Tyrrish philosophy book?”

“You mock, but you listen.” Garrick snorts.

“Only because you’re insufferable when I don’t.” Xaden retorts.

He’s smiling again, but it’s quieter this time. A little more worn around the edges. Garrick sees it for what it is—not defeat, not exactly, but the weight of acceptance settling over his friend’s shoulders like a cloak he’s been avoiding putting on.

And he knows Xaden well enough not to say anything more.

Not now. Not yet.

Chapter Text

From the southern side of the courtyard, a rising swell of noise shatters the relative quiet like a rock through still water. Voices—young, loud, and competitive—clash together as a group of boys starts to converge, shoving and elbowing one another as they scramble to form a loose, chaotic ring around some unseen spectacle. The crowd’s energy spikes with every second, rowdy laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Someone lets loose a particularly creative string of curses that earns a chorus of whoops and jeers, the volume escalating as more students rush to join whatever trouble is brewing.

Garrick groans like a man under siege.

“Brilliant. My level of authority is under attack from every angle today.”

Xaden doesn’t answer at first—he just rolls his shoulders and picks up his sword again, shifting it with absent familiarity back into his grip as he begins to cross the grass in long, unhurried strides. There’s something almost languid in the motion, like he’s moving just fast enough not to look concerned. But Garrick has known him long enough to catch the flicker of curiosity under the calm.

“Hey,” Xaden finally says over his shoulder, his voice even, almost amused. “At least I only picked a fight with you this morning.”

Garrick exhales dramatically, though he falls into step beside him without hesitation.

“Small mercies, I suppose.”

In truth, Xaden knows he should be more irritated that someone’s causing yet another disruption in the one place meant for order and discipline. The courtyard is supposed to be a space for controlled sparring, tactical drills—not whatever adolescent nonsense is currently unfolding at the far edge of the lawn.

But right now? Right now, the noise is welcome.

It cuts through the heaviness that’s been pressing down on him all morning, offering just enough of a diversion to keep his thoughts from circling the same tired path again and again. Whatever chaos is waiting for them on the other side of the crowd, it’s not the kind that comes with expectations or duty or mourning. It’s just noise. Just boys being foolish.

And for once, that sounds like exactly what he needs.

By the time they reach the gathering, the crowd has swollen so densely that Xaden can’t see anything beyond a mass of shoulders and bobbing heads. Stablehands make up the bulk of the group, but he catches glimpses of gardeners, masons, even a few Riders among them, all wearing reckless grins and elbowing one another, shouting encouragement toward the center of the ruckus.

Xaden shifts the sword onto his shoulder and clears his throat, expecting the wall of bodies to part. When it doesn’t, he raises an eyebrow and coughs again, louder this time. A stocky man with a thick beard finally glances back, clearly irritated—until recognition dawns, blanching his face in an instant.

“Your Highness!” the man squeaks, recoiling as though burned.

The words ripple outward like a dropped stone in a still pond. One by one, the others around him turn, each new pair of eyes going wide before the next picks up the echo. Soon, his title is on everyone’s lips, the energy of the crowd turning frantic as they scatter like startled birds, tripping over themselves in their haste to clear a path. Laughter dies abruptly. Bodies break apart. And the spectacle is laid bare.

Xaden steps forward, dust kicking up around his boots as he sees them: a man and a woman rolling in the dirt, limbs tangled, the surrounding haze of kicked-up earth giving the scene the look of a battlefield after a skirmish.

“You bitch, get off me!”

Xaden knows the voice even before he sees the face—Barlowe, red-faced and snarling, struggling beneath the woman now astride him. Violet.

Her braid has half-come loose, and a red flush is rising along her cheekbone. Despite the scowl twisting her mouth, she holds him down with ruthless precision, her knees pinning his wrists.

“Will you stop?” she snaps, breathless and furious.

“I know you took it!” Barlowe hisses. His mouth is bloodied from a split lip, blonde hair caked in dust. He’s too far gone in his rage to notice the tremble in the ground beneath them, the way the dirt quivers subtly beneath Xaden’s boots. But Violet notices. Her gaze jerks sideways, sharp and assessing as the earth stirs.

“Listen, you—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Xaden says mildly, cutting across them like a blade through fog. His tone is almost bored, but it works like a command. Both freeze at once, heads snapping in his direction, hands still locked in a tense grip. Neither of them lets go. “What exactly is happening here?” he asks, letting the weight of his stare settle on them both.

“She—she stole my keys,” Barlowe blurts, jabbing his chin at Violet. “This Navarrian thief refuses to admit it!”

He tries to throw her off again, but Violet moves like water, flowing with the motion and springing lightly to her feet. The ease of it, the utter fluidity of her body as she rises without so much as a stumble, steals the breath from Xaden’s throat. His grip tightens instinctively on the hilt of his sword as he watches her, gaze fixed, heart suddenly thudding in his ears.

“I didn’t steal anything,” she says, voice clipped, brittle with restraint. “And I don’t know what my being Navarrian has to do with anything.”

Her fists are clenched at her sides. She refuses to look at Barlowe, instead turning her bright, burning gaze to Xaden. There’s no plea in her expression—only fury held tight under iron control.

“Your Highness,” she says, dipping her head in a rigid nod, “I apologise for the disturbance.”

“Why don’t you get back to what you were doing, Violet,” Garrick says at last. His voice is easy, almost lazy—but his smile? That smile could draw blood. Razor-sharp and glinting with unspoken warning.

The message is clear enough; Violet, go. I’ll handle the rest.

Chapter Text

The air seems to thicken as Barlowe pushes himself up from the dirt, slow and reluctant, like every muscle in his body resents being told what to do. His glare lands on Violet as he rises—a slick, oily thing that clings like a stain. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at her says it all: resentment, suspicion, something darker lurking behind his eyes.

And then he turns and stalks off after Garrick, boots grinding against the earth, dust clinging to the back of his tunic like a bad reputation.

Xaden waits, watching them go until they’ve nearly disappeared between the paddock fence and the edge of the stables. Only then does he step closer to Violet, his shadow falling across her shoulder.

His gaze sweeps her face, pausing when he sees it—the red swelling flush across her cheekbone, skin puffed and tender beneath the smear of dirt. Anger coils low in his chest, tightening.

“Do you need a healer?” he asks, voice even, almost too quiet.

She huffs out a breath, brushing at her sleeve like she’s swiping the question away with the dust.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he says, not unkindly.

“He had a weak punch,” Violet mutters, eyes shifting away. It’s not modesty. More like irritation at being asked.

Xaden doesn’t move, just watches her in that unsettling, unflinching way of his. Head tilted slightly. Brow furrowed, lips barely parted like he’s weighing her every word and finding himself wanting.

“Any particular reason he was weakly punching you to begin with?”

Violet’s jaw tightens. Her fingers still on her sleeve.

“He told you,” she replies flatly. “He thinks I stole the keys.”

She says it like it costs her nothing. Like the accusation slides off her skin. But Xaden hears the cut underneath—cold and clean and familiar. The kind you don’t flinch from because you’ve learned it hurts more when you do.

He doesn’t speak. Just waits.

Eventually, Violet lifts her eyes, sharp and glinting.

“They weren’t even his,” she adds, voice low and edged. “They belong to the stablemaster. Quinn’s been sick, so Barlowe was holding them temporarily. Bit of borrowed authority and a lot of delusion, if you ask me.”

Xaden’s head tilts again.

“So why you?” he asks. “Why blame you?”

She laughs at that—a dry, biting sound that scrapes the back of her throat.

Then, slowly, she shifts her stance. Crosses one arm over her chest. Lets her eyes roam down the length of him—measured and deliberate, from the set of his jaw to the dirt scuffed along his boots. When her gaze lifts again, it lands like a blade: clean, calculated, and unapologetic.

He feels it. In his spine. In his fists, clenched now at his sides without him realising.

She sees it. He knows she does.

“Apart from the obvious?” she says, voice like dry heat on cracked stone. “He thinks all Navarrian's are thieves. Especially the ones who don’t fall in line. Apparently, if one of us slips through the cracks, the rest must be waiting in the wings to pick the kingdom clean.”

Xaden doesn’t smile, not really—but something about his expression changes. A dark flicker of amusement, perhaps. Or recognition.

“And that explanation,” he says slowly, “didn’t occur to you before you decided to tackle him in front of half the stables?”

Violet shrugs.

“He grabbed my arm,” she says simply. “I told him not to.” A pause. “I told him twice.”

Xaden blinks. That’s… not what he expected.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“That’s it.”

He lets out a low breath, more confused than anything.

“That sounds like something out of a story.”

Violet blinks back, mirroring him.

“What, the General’s thief?”

Xaden nods.

“I was told it was a bedtime myth. Something Tyrrish parents used to scare their children into behaving. ‘Tidy your room or the General's thief will come snatch you away.’” He snorts, like it’s absurd, but she starts to laugh.

A grin curls at the edges of her mouth, and amusement sparks in her eyes—bright and genuine. She laughs. Really laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but a full, sudden burst of amusement that crinkles the corners of her eyes and softens something in her face.

Xaden frowns.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Violet says, still grinning. “I just—can’t believe that’s what they told you. I grew up hearing that Tyrrish traded in secrets. That their spy networks had no equal. So I suppose it makes sense. They probably told you the tale that way on purpose. The General’s thief is known for spreading lies. Half the fun, I think, is watching which ones stick.”

She’s enjoying this. He can see it.

Xaden’s brows draw together.

'Or I’ve just been left in the dark', he thinks sourly. It isn’t the sort of detail his father’s advisors would overlook. The Assembly were renowned for tracking every whisper that moved through the realm. If a thief like that existed—one operating under one of the Navarrian General’s orders—they’d know.

And if they knew… they hadn’t shared it with him.

Maybe they were waiting until he ascended the throne. That thought doesn't comfort him. In fact, it sours his mood entirely.

“But legend or not,” Violet goes on with a sigh, “it makes a good excuse for someone like Barlowe to be a prick. People love a convenient stereotype.” She touches her cheek gently, her fingers skimming the swollen arch of bone, and winces. “Ugh. Red is so not my colour.”

He almost tells her she’s wrong.

Because it is—objectively—wrong. Red is her colour. It burns bright against her skin. It suits her—this fire, this defiance. Red looks ridiculously good on her. But something twists in his chest at the sight of that blooming bruise, dark and high on her cheek, discolouring her skin like spilled blood across freshly fallen snow. It shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be allowed to be there.

His hand moves before his brain catches up—just the barest brush of a fingertip over the edge of the bruise.

He moves without thinking—just a hand reaching, instinct more than intention—and the edge of his finger grazes the swollen skin near her cheekbone, just the barest brush of a fingertip over the edge of the bruise. Light as a whisper.

Violet startles slightly. Her eyes go wide, breath catching in her throat. Xaden jerks his hand back like he’s been scalded.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, his voice gone rough. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head quickly. “It was— It’s fine.”

They stand there for a moment. A silence full of almosts. Her cheek still tingling where he touched it. His fingers curling against his palm like they still remember the shape of her skin.

Then, more gently than before, she nods toward him and says, “Your arm. Are you alright?

“My arm?” Xaden repeats, puzzled. It takes him a second to follow her gaze—then he sees it: the long gash torn clean through the sleeve of his shirt, fraying threads clinging uselessly to the shredded fabric. Dried blood has turned the edge of the wound dark, and now it’s crusting against his skin like ash after a storm.

“Oh,” he says, voice dipping into a register that feels too casual. “That. Garrick and I were training. Things got a little… dark.”

He winces the moment the word leaves his mouth—dark. Unintentional, but there it is, out in the open like a badly timed joke. His eyes flick up to her, bracing for confusion or worse—mockery.

Instead, Violet’s face brightens. Not just a polite smile or one of those perfunctory nods people give when they don’t know what else to say, but a real, radiant grin that takes up her whole expression. Her eyes gleam like she’s just been handed the punchline of some secret joke.

“Oh, gods,” she laughs. “Funny and a prince? What a menace. Is there no end to your admirable qualities?”

Xaden blinks at her, slightly stunned. He doesn’t know what he expected—sarcasm, maybe. That’s usually her defense. But this? This teasing, effortless warmth? It throws him off balance.

“Being a prince is admirable?” he asks, dryly enough to cover his discomfort. His tone laces around the words like barbed wire—meant to protect, meant to keep something in.

“Well,” Violet drawls, tapping a finger to her lips like she’s giving it real thought, “not always.”

She glances at him again—another once-over, though this one is less curious and more… measuring. As if she’s cataloguing pieces of him, drawing conclusions he’s not privy to. It’s quick, but it lingers just long enough to light his nerves like fuses.

And then she smiles again. This time it’s quieter. Almost to herself.

“But you seem different,” she murmurs.

That stops him entirely.

The words hang in the air between them, suspended like dust in sunlight, and he has no idea what to do with them. What does different mean, exactly? Different from what? From whom? From the stories? From the man he’s supposed to be?

He doesn't know what to say. Every possible response feels like it’ll tip too much of himself into the open.

Thankfully, before he can make a fool of himself fumbling for an answer, Garrick strides back into the clearing beside him, wearing the weathered patience of a man who’s seen too much in one day.

“Well,” Garrick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to believe this, but the keys were in his pocket the whole time.”

Violet actually laughs aloud at that. Xaden just stares.

“He didn’t check his own pockets?” he asks incredulously, one brow rising in disbelief.

“He claims he did,” Garrick says, throwing his hands up. “He looked genuinely shocked to find them. I swear, I signed up to lead soldiers into battle, not break up fistfights over borrowed keys. I’m not paid enough for this.”

There’s exasperation in his voice, but there’s a sliver of humor tucked behind it—thin, but real. Even Garrick can’t quite believe the absurdity of the situation.

“Thank you, Garrick,” Violet says, her tone unusually soft, and for a heartbeat Xaden watches how easily she shifts—how her posture straightens, how her grin resurfaces like the sun breaking through fog. It’s a performance, but not a dishonest one. Violet doesn’t lie. She just… edits the truth depending on who’s asking.

“Back to work, Violet,” Garrick says with mock severity, pointing a finger at her. But the corner of his mouth twitches upward as he watches her salute and spin on her heel with theatrical flair.

She hums as she walks, something tuneless and light, like she’s already moved past the bruises and the accusations and the scuffle in the dust. Like none of it touched her.

But Xaden saw her face back there. He knows it did.

He watches her go, the sway of her steps unhurried, unbothered, and something low and unwelcome curls inside his chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly. It’s something more complicated. Something jagged. Because there’s a scrape on her cheek, and a fire in her eyes, and she still smiled at him like he was more than what he’s been trained his entire life to be.

He flexes his fingers at his side. They’re aching now, and he doesn’t know why.

“Violet,” Xaden calls—too sharply, too suddenly, and entirely without thinking.

She turns, one brow arched beneath the raw splash of red across her cheek—just in time to catch the small tin of salve he tosses her way. Her hand snaps out, fingers closing around it with instinctive precision. She blinks once, glancing down at the tin, then back up at him with a spark of surprise in her eyes.

“You said red wasn’t your color,” he says, attempting nonchalance, though his voice betrays him with its softness.

A slow smirk curls at her lips. She closes her fist around the tin.

“Thank you, Prince,” she murmurs, her tone equal parts gratitude and amusement, before turning and walking away.

He watches her go.

There’s a smear of dirt across the shoulder of her coat—his coat, he realises—and something about the sight pulls at him. Lingers. Unsettles.

He turns—and finds Garrick already watching him, a knowing smirk stretching across his face like he’s been waiting all day for this moment.

“No,” Xaden says flatly, voice clipped.

“I didn’t say anything,” Garrick replies, innocence dripping from every syllable like syrup from a spoon.

“You’re thinking it.”

“Am I?” he says, grinning wider. “Because what I’m thinking is that I just witnessed the crown prince of Tyrrendor throw medicinal salve at a girl like a teenage boy lobbing a note across the war college courtyard.”

Xaden scowls.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then what was it like?”

“Shut up,” Xaden snaps, heat rising to his cheeks. “It’s not—it’s just—shut up.”

“Not even if you suddenly became terrifying,” Garrick replies, his grin verging on inhuman. “You like her.”

Xaden glares.

“Are you the lead Rider of our regiment or a child?”

“Maybe both,” Garrick muses, lifting a finger thoughtfully. “Especially if I get to immortalise this. Gods, Xaden, you’re flushed.” Garrick pods at Xaden's shoulder. “But I should’ve known. She’s sharp-tongued, brilliant with dragons, and her hair’s unfairly perfect. She hits every one of your weak spots like she was engineered to—”

“I will banish you,” Xaden growls.

Garrick only beams wider.

“You’ve threatened that at least a hundred times. My concern remains non-existent. Unlike yours, apparently—”

Xaden rubs a hand down his face.

“You are insufferable.”

“And you,” Garrick says, voice suddenly grave with mock solemnity, “are in so much trouble. You’re halfway in love with her already.”

“I am not—”

“You threw her ointment, Xaden.”

Xaden doesn’t wait for him to finish.

He’s grateful the courtyard has already cleared—because it probably wouldn’t do for the crown prince to be seen shoving his head knight to the ground before stalking off, his ears burning, the echo of Garrick’s laughter chasing him all the way.

Chapter Text

Violet catches it before she even register what it is.

A flicker of silver arcs through the air, glinting against the fading sun like a star spun loose, and instinct takes over before thought can. Her fingers snap closed around it.

It’s only when she looks down that she sees what she's caught—a small tin of salve, the kind every healer at Basgiath keeps stocked by the dozen. The lid bears a familiar scrawl—Xaden’s handwriting, barely legible, more slash than script.

Her gaze lifts, slow and wary. Xaden stands several paces away, arms folded across his chest like he’s not sure whether he meant to throw it or not. There’s a strange tension in his stance—an awkward stiffness that doesn’t belong to the man who commands entire rooms with a glance.

“You said red wasn’t your colour,” he says, voice carefully offhand.

It takes Violet a moment to register the words. Then she remembers the bruise—already blooming along her cheekbone like warpaint, bold and tender. She feels it throb as if it heard him, flaring hotter beneath his gaze.

She wants to roll her eyes. Or laugh. Or maybe throw the tin right back at him and ask what in the Gods name he thinks he’s doing, tossing salve at her like that’s how you talk to someone who makes your hands shake.

But instead, her lips curl into a smirk before she can stop them. Something warm slips behind her ribs, settling there like an ember flaring gently to life.

“Thank you, Prince,” she murmurs, the title shaped deliberately, delicately, like a blade held to the light.

And then she turns.

Not because she wants to leave, necessarily—but because she has to. Because if she doesn’t, she’ll say something foolish. Something she’ll regret. Something like 'you noticed' or 'that’s the first thing someone's said to me today that didn’t hurt me'.

Behind her, Violet can feel the weight of Xaden's eyes lingering on her back—on the rumpled coat she hasn’t returned to him yet, on the smudge of dust across the shoulder where she tripped earlier and caught herself with her forearm instead of her bad hand. It's his coat, and the thought makes Violet's stomach twist.

She rounds the edge of the courtyard slowly, keeping her pace measured, even, unaffected. The burn in her cheek is steady now, duller. Manageable. The tin feels warm in her hand, though she knows that’s impossible—it’s metal, and the wind has turned cool. But still. It feels… warmer than it should.

She should laugh. Or scoff. Or toss it in the grass and walk away without a second glance. But she doesn’t. She can’t.

Because Xaden Riorson has always been like this—impossible. Infuriating. And just when Violet is certain she's managed to push him from the hollows of her mind, he goes and throws salve.

Gods, she fails to understands him.

Gods, how she wants to.

Far behind her, Violet hears a dull thud, followed by Garrick’s voice carrying loud and unmistakably gleeful across the stone: “You're halfway in love with her already!”

Violet nearly trips.

She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t dare to.

But her mouth curves again despite herself—traitorous and wry and far too knowing.

Boys who toss salve don’t get to live in her head.

'And yet here you are', a voice whispers.

She presses the tin into the fold of her palm and keep walking, pretending she doesn’t feel the ghost of Xaden’s gaze on the back of her head.

The walk back to her room feels longer than it should have.

Not because of the distance—Tyrrendor's winding corridors are familiar by now—but because the tin in her palm weighs more than metal should. Not heavy, exactly. Just present. A thing that insists on being felt.

Violet doesn’t hurry. She doesn’t limp either, though the aching throb in her leg from where Barlowe had thrown her into the dirt suggests she probably should have. The sting on her cheek is louder, a sharper pulse that beats in time with her heart. She can feel the split skin with every shift of muscle beneath it, a slow, dragging burn that tugs at her jaw when she clenches her teeth.

The bruise had felt superficial at first. Just a mark. An ugly flare of red and violet—a name that always felt stranger when it painted her flesh instead of belonging to her. But as she steps into the low-lit quiet of her room and shuts the door behind her, the weight of it settles.

She crosses to the mirror and freezes.

The damage is worse than she thought.

The mottled bruise has deepened, spread like an ink spill beneath her skin. But it is the fine, angry split at the centre—right along her cheekbone—that makes her pause. Thin and sharp like a cut from broken glass. Dried blood rings the edge, and beneath it, the swelling is beginning to bloom.

A hiss escapes through her teeth as she leans closer, brushing the edge of the wound with careful fingers. It flares hot beneath her touch.

She sets the tin down on the washstand and opens it slowly.

The scent hits her first—herbs and smoke and a faint, clean trace of something like cedar. It is the same salve they use in Navarre, but this tin is somehow different. Because it came from him. 

Violet dips two fingers into the balm. It is thick and cool, and as she brings it to her cheek, she flinches—not from the pain, but from the tenderness required to apply it. She never has much patience for her own healing. It always feels like weakness. Like indulgence.

But tonight, she forces herself to slow down.

Carefully, she dabs the salve along the split, easing it into the bruise with featherlight pressure. The sting dulls, then fades. The skin tightens faintly as the medicine begins to work. And all the while, her mind wanders back to the way he’d said it—‘You said red wasn’t your colour’. Like it mattered. Like she mattered.

Her reflection stares back at her, smeared with balm, eyes shadowed with fatigue—and something softer. Something she doesn’t want to name.

She looks ridiculous in his coat. Too big in the shoulders, sleeves rolled three times over and still brushing her knuckles, the hem dragging along the ground behind her as she walks. It smells like leather and wind and the faintest trace of citrus.

Violet presses her fingers to the balm tin one last time, then closes the lid gently, setting it aside.

And for a long moment, she just stands there.

The girl in the mirror is one she doesn't recognise.

After a moment, Violet exhales heavily, reaching for the washcloth to wipe her fingers clean, and finally allows herself to whisper the thing she hadn’t let herself say when he’d thrown the salve in the courtyard.

“…Thank you, Xaden.”

The room doesn’t answer.

But she feels the words settle in her chest like an oath.

Soft. Unspoken. True.

Chapter Text

He shouldn't be here.

Xaden knows that much as he stands outside Violet's door, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the cold stone beside the doorframe. The corridor is empty—quiet enough that he can hear his own breathing, can almost convince himself that no one would know if he knocked.

But he doesn’t.

He stares at the grain of the wood, at the worn bronze of the handle, and feels something coil tightly in his chest.

He’d meant to leave after tossing the tin. That was the whole point of throwing it—so he wouldn’t have to walk the space between them. So he wouldn’t have to stand here, wrestling the ache in his ribs like it might let him off the hook.

He should’ve gone back to his study. But he hadn’t. He’d followed her. Half a breath behind, steps softened by instinct, by years of wariness and want. And now… here he is. Standing like a fool outside her door, trying to talk himself out of caring.

He can still hear the echo of her voice—'Thank you, Prince'. Half-tease, half-dagger. Enough to leave a mark. Enough to make him wonder if it meant something when she hadn’t said his name.

He exhales, low and harsh. She is fine. He’d seen her walk.

But then again, he’d also seen the way she winced when she thought no one was looking. The way she curled slightly to the side when she moved, protecting the cheekbone now cracked open like an early blossom.

Gods.

He straightens. This isn’t helping.

He lets his hand drop from the wall, forcing the ache back into the box where he keeps all the things he isn’t supposed to feel. Violet doesn’t need him hovering like a ghost. She needs time. Space. Quiet.

And if he stays any longer, he might just knock. Might just ask if she is all right. Might just say something he can’t take back.

So Xaden turns and walks away, missing her whisper, muffled by wood and distance, as she murmurs his name into the stillness.

The salve has cooled on her skin. It no longer stings, no longer tugs with every motion of her jaw, but Violet still feels the bruise like a memory—warm and lingering, stitched with pride and pain.

She had washed her hands, tidied the edge of her desk, even folded his coat before slipping into her nightclothes. But the tin still sits on the table beside her bed, its lid catching the lanternlight like a secret not quite ready to be kept.

She lies curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, and stares at the faint outline of the salve tin as if it might offer answers.

Why had he given it to her?

She knew what Garrick would say—that it was nothing. Just decency. Just pragmatism.

But she isn’t foolish enough to believe Xaden Riorson did anything without thought.

Outside, wind sweeps the cobbled stone walkways. Somewhere far below, she can hear the shift and creak of dragons settling into their roosts for the night.

But here… there is only the rise and fall of her own breath, the heavy thrum of her heartbeat against the bruise, and the echo of footsteps she thinks she might’ve imagined.

She turns her head slightly on the pillow. No one at the door. Just quiet. 

She reaches toward the table and lets her fingers brush across the tin. Just once. Just long enough to feel the imprint of Xaden's phantom warmth still clinging to the metal.

Then she draws her hand back and lets her eyes fall shut.

Sleep comes slowly, coiling around her like a tide, gentle and strange. She dreams of a field beneath a storm-lit sky, of violet-coloured smoke and the press of callused fingers against her cheek, gentle as a vow.

And in the hush of midnight, with no one there to hear, Violet murmurs his name again—softly, like a lullaby.

Xaden.

Chapter Text

Some things change—and others, perhaps most things, do not.

Xaden had braced himself for a whirlwind in the days following the Poromish delegation’s departure. He’d expected early mornings and long nights, endless summons from tutors, sharpened drills with the guard, and his father swept into ceaseless meetings behind closed doors. Instead, the world around the estate seems to have exhaled in one long, reluctant breath.

The pace has slowed, subtly but unmistakably. The usual thrum of energy that echoes through the corridors has dulled to a quiet murmur. Fires that once crackled to life before the first light of dawn now wait on drowsy hands, and the scent of smoke hangs longer in the halls, as if the hearths themselves are reluctant to rouse. The servants move with the sluggish grace of people exhausted to the bone—not from laziness, but from having maintained perfection too long, for too high a cost.

And strangely, perhaps most disconcertingly, his father’s presence has faded like a shadow at twilight.

There had been no grand feasts since the Poromish had left, no performances in the courtyard, no hushed meetings that dragged into the night. The Duke of Aretia, normally a force of endless motion and fire-forged will, had withdrawn into his solar with only occasional appearances—brief, polite, and veiled beneath the lacquer of courtly composure.

Even Xaden’s lessons, which should have intensified in preparation for the coming year, had barely shifted in pace. His instructors seemed distracted, more inclined to assign busywork than challenge.

He was being kept busy, yes—but not in the way that mattered. It felt like the estate was… waiting. For what, he couldn’t say.

“Just routine reports from the borders,” his father says one evening, breaking the stillness over a half-finished plate of venison and root vegetables. His tone is almost casual as he swirls the wine in his goblet, not even glancing at Xaden as he speaks. “Harvests to monitor. Traders to track. We all need to make it through the winter somehow.”

The words are reasonable enough. Sensible. And yet, Xaden’s instincts stir with unease.

He has survived nineteen winters under this roof. He knows the rhythm of the estate in his bones—how the tempo shifts with the seasons, how preparations move with the inevitability of falling snow.

But this… this wasn’t that. This was something else. Something off.

And then his father reaches up absently and tugs at his earlobe.

It is the smallest gesture—brief, barely noticeable. A flick of fingers against skin.

But Xaden sees it. He remembers.

His mother’s voice returns to him then, soft with amusement and affection, the kind that curls around memory and makes ones chest ache: “He always tugs his ear when he’s hiding something from me.”

She’d said it about birthday surprises and concealed sweets, about letting Xaden sneak away from his studies with a wink and a warning not to push his luck.

But there are no gifts waiting in the wings this time. No secrets whispered between parents planning delight.

His father is lying. Not in words—his speech is careful, measured, deliberate. But in silence. In the way his shoulders cling to tension he tries to mask. In the way his eyes don’t meet Xaden’s until the wine cup is drained and refilled. In the twitch of that tell-tale ear.

Something is coming. Something he isn’t being told.

And Xaden, though he holds his tongue and nods along with talk of supply routes and frost dates, knows it for what it was: the calm before a storm.

Only this time, he isn’t a child hoping for surprises.

This time, he will be ready, come what may.

Xaden sets down the last of his venison and root vegetables, the rich flavours lingering on his tongue even as his mind drifts elsewhere.

He thinks back to Felix—how, only weeks ago, the man had struggled to meet his gaze, eyes darting away as if shielding some fragile truth. Then there were the king’s advisors, whispering in shadowed corners, voices hushed to near silence whenever they believed no one was watching. Yet, when Xaden approached, they met him with blank smiles, carefully polished masks that betrayed none of their true thoughts.

Xaden presses his lips together, biting back the sharp retort that threatens to spill when his father casts him an expectant glance across the dinner table. The unspoken weight of secrets hangs heavy between them. In this kingdom, secrecy is currency—and clearly, Xaden has yet to earn his full share.

He supposes, then, that he will have to take what is owed to him. Perhaps the Navarrians, with all their cunning and whispered plots, have been right all along.

“Let me know if I can help,” Xaden offers, voice steady and calm, though inside his thoughts churn like a restless sea.

His father returns a smile—a courteous curve of lips—but it never quite reaches his eyes, which remain guarded, distant.

Xaden mirrors the smile and lifts his wine cup in a casual gesture, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. His mind spins with quiet determination, weaving plans and possibilities as the shadows lengthen around them.

The game is far from over. And Xaden intends to play it well.

Uncovering secrets—especially when they are shrouded by the highest-ranking military tacticians in the realm—is not impossible. But even Xaden, for all his calculated confidence, can admit that he has no real idea where to begin. The Assembly is a fortress of minds, each sharper than the last, their loyalty stitched so tightly to the crown that even truth seems to bow to their strategies. Whatever they’re hiding, they’ve hidden well.

He considers asking Garrick. Briefly. But loyalty, he knows, is the heartbeat of Garrick’s being—and though Xaden wears the crown by birth-right, he is not exempt from scrutiny. Garrick serves the realm, not the boy who was born to rule it. And if Xaden’s father has deemed something unfit for his son’s ears, Garrick will guard that silence with his life.

Which means, once again, Xaden must go it alone.

Fortunately, he has an advantage—one not even Garrick is likely to suspect: the estate is riddled with secrets. Not just the political kind whispered behind closed doors, but physical ones—hidden passageways, concealed alcoves, labyrinthine routes woven through stone and shadow. Most boys would have outgrown the game of hide-and-seek years ago, but Xaden never stopped playing. He only got better at it.

There is the passage concealed behind the enormous crimson tapestry of the Battle of the First Six, its woven threads so heavy with history—and literal weight—that he hadn’t been strong enough to move it until he was eleven. He still remembers the rush of cold air as the hidden doorway swung inward, revealing a narrow hall that seemed to breathe with centuries-old secrets.

There is the tiny, almost imperceptible hollow at the top of the servants’ staircase, the one Xaden discovered entirely by accident when he was eight and wielding a wooden sword with the unearned confidence of youth. He’d jabbed it into a crack between stones, imagining himself victorious in battle, only for the wall to groan and shift beneath his hand, revealing a narrow tunnel that led directly into the garden hedges. He’d nearly fallen through it.

And then there’s his favourite: the hidden corridor that connects all three of the estate’s libraries, accessible only by pressing in the hilt of a rusted sword on the statue of his great-great-great-grandfather, whose stony expression seems to narrow each time Xaden approaches—as though the long-dead man recognises his descendant’s meddling nature and silently approves.

There are dozens more—some discovered through idle exploration, others in the fevered avoidance of tutors and political lectures. And he’s certain there are more he hasn’t yet found. The estate holds its breath around him, hiding truths in its walls like folded letters left unread for generations.

But that will change.

Because if secrets are being kept from him, Xaden intends to unearth every last one.

The Assembly might be brilliant, disciplined, and tireless, but they’ve overlooked one thing: no one knows this place better than the crown prince who grew up in its shadows. And no one is better at slipping between them unnoticed.

Let them keep their secrets, he thinks grimly, as he moves toward the corridor behind the library shelves.

He’ll steal them in silence.

Chapter Text

If it turns out that his father truly is simply ensuring the kingdom is adequately prepared for winter—well, fine. Xaden can live with that. Caution is part of rule, and safeguarding supplies before the first frost settles is hardly suspicious on its own. But the nagging weight behind his sternum says otherwise. His instincts murmur like the winds slipping through old stone—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore.

And he trusts them. He always has.

More than that, he trusts his mother’s voice in his head—the sharp clarity of her warnings, her unwavering intuition wrapped in warmth and wit.

He always tugs his ear when he’s hiding something from me.

Xaden has seen the gesture again and again these past weeks: his father’s fingers brushing his earlobe as though it itches with the pressure of untold truths. That habit, once a harmless tell during dinner table negotiations over extra sweets or postponed lessons, now strikes Xaden like a herald of something far graver. Something the king doesn’t want him to know.

And that means he needs to find out.

The problem, however, is that this secret—whatever it is—is buried beneath layers of strategy, loyalty, and eyes that see too much. Spying on his father, let alone on the Assembly, is no simple task. The king is rarely alone. Even when he appears to be, Xaden is keenly aware that solitude, in his father’s case, is often a carefully crafted illusion.

And then there’s Ulices.

Head of the Assembly. The man with ink-stained fingers and a gaze like steel veiled in velvet. Ulices is infamous—not for brawn or battlefield glory, but for the eerie precision of his silence. He moves like smoke, soft-footed and utterly untraceable. People whisper that he doesn’t walk from place to place so much as fade into one shadow and step out of another entirely. A myth, perhaps. One Xaden would’ve scoffed at once—should scoff at still, given he’s the only confirmed shadow wielder born in a century.

But myth or not, the rumours are persistent, and Xaden knows better than to dismiss what the rest of the realm has learned to fear. After all, he’s living proof that legends sometimes come back to life.

And whether Ulices is stepping through shadows or simply outmaneuvering every watchful eye, the fact remains: he is not someone to underestimate. Not when secrets are concerned.

Still, Xaden has no intention of sitting idly by while the corridors around him echo with half-truths. Not when there are whispers behind closed doors and unreadable glances traded in candlelight. Not when even his father is tugging at his ear like a man caught in a lie.

Winter may be coming.

But something else is, too. And Xaden intends to meet it head-on—with open eyes, sharpened instincts, and the will to uncover whatever truth lies hidden in the dark.

Persistent as ever—perhaps to a fault—Xaden spends the better part of several days threading himself through the forgotten veins of the estate, wandering dusty passageways that curl like ribs beneath stone skin. He moves carefully, silently, pressing his body against cold walls as he peers through pinprick holes carved long ago into the rock, each offering a narrow glimpse into the corridors that matter—into the world of men who keep secrets.

He squints often. The flickering mage lights suspended above cast erratic shadows, and his eyes ache from the strain of trying to pick Ulices out of the gloom. The man has a habit of slipping just beyond the frame—never where Xaden expects him to be, and always conspicuously absent when the hushed voices in the hallway shift to murmurs that sound suspiciously like strategy.

Some of these tunnels he hasn’t walked in years. He no longer needs to flee his lessons like a gremlin with too much energy and not enough patience, so the scuff marks left by his younger, faster feet have been swallowed by time—blurred and smudged into the earth, faded into nothing. But not everything has disappeared. His drawings still remain, carved into the stone with the tip of a dagger or etched by hand when he’d been too young to wield anything more dangerous than chalk. Crude little sketches of a boy flanked by his parents, all three of them smiling with impossibly wide mouths. As he walks, the drawings evolve: wolves circling fires, the curve of the moon etched above a mirrored lake, clusters of eyes—dozens of them—watching from beneath thick lines meant to look like trees or shadows. Watching him pace. Always watching.

He exhales, blowing a lock of his dark hair out of his face, and grimaces when it flutters right back down. A servant passes beyond the peephole at that moment, moving quickly with an armful of neatly folded clothing, oblivious to the young man hidden behind the wall. It’s the third time today that someone unrelated to the Assembly has passed by outside his father’s study, and frustration curls low in his gut like smoke.

What in the skies is going on in there? Laundry deliveries? Fresh linens? Secret war councils and crisp bedclothes?

He’s filthy. He knows it. Dust clings to every thread of his tunic, every strand of his hair. He reaches out idly and runs a gloved finger along the wall beside him, watching as it carves a line through the grime. He doesn’t even want to think about what his face must look like right now—he hasn’t dared find a mirror since he first slipped into the hidden passages two nights ago.

So far, no one’s caught him. One of the perks of wielding shadows is that he can sink into them when needed, bend around corners like a ghost, vanish from sight with barely a whisper of sound. But if anyone were to catch a glimpse of him emerging from a hidden panel at three in the morning looking like he lost a fistfight with a chimney, well. It wouldn’t take long for rumors to start spreading. And he’s already got enough of those tied to his name.

Another figure walks past the hole—he jerks forward, holding his breath—but it’s only a guard. Not one of Ulices’ inner circle, not a spy or tactician or Assembly dog. Just a weary man yawning into his fist, trudging toward the front entrance with the dull resignation of a man counting down the hours until his shift ends.

Xaden lets out a quiet sigh and leans his head against the wall.

This is the part he hates. The waiting.

He remembers, with sour amusement, the way Garrick once told him—point-blank, in the middle of a sparring match—that he’d never have the temperament for Assembly work.

“You’re too restless,” he’d said, laughing as Xaden had thrown a half-hearted punch in reply. “You can’t sit still for five minutes without brooding.”

At the time, Xaden had rolled his eyes and muttered something scathing about Garrick’s own lack of imagination.

Now? He’s starting to think Garrick had a point.

Because here, crouched in the dark, inhaling dust and shadows, the minutes stretch themselves out with cruel, elastic slowness. A single heartbeat becomes a hundred. The silence presses against him like the inside of a tomb. He needs movement, needs motion, needs something to happen—but instead he sits and watches and waits, hoping for the faintest scrap of information to slip through the cracks.

Because he knows something is being hidden from him. And whatever it is, it won’t stay hidden forever.

Not from him.

Xaden gives up the night’s efforts when the estate’s clock tower bell tolls midnight, the deep, resonant chime echoing through the bones of the old stone. It’s late enough now that staying any longer risks being seen, and even he isn’t foolish enough to test how far he can push his luck—not tonight.

Still, he hesitates. Lingers for a moment more in the cold silence, squinting once again through the pinhole into the empty hallway, as if sheer will might conjure some last-minute encounter. But there’s nothing. Just the flickering lights and the stillness of stone, and the faint, familiar scent of dust and damp air.

With a sigh, he retreats, weaving his way back through the narrow, winding passage that leads to the eastern wing of the estate. The route eventually opens out behind a ridiculous old portrait—some minor lordling who once graced Aretia with a visit and, for reasons Xaden will never understand, left a full-length painting of himself behind as a parting gift. His parents had promptly hung it in one of the least frequented corridors, conveniently close to the abandoned eastern tower.

The tower had once been home to a bustling roost of carrier birds, long before written missives and mage-bound messengers made them obsolete. Now it sits mostly empty, save for the handful of owls and hawks and city pigeons that still come and go, perching along the wooden beams like they’ve never received the memo that the war has moved on without them.

It’s because of this—because he knows no one ever comes this way—that Xaden doesn’t bother to mask his exit. He slips out from behind the frame without thinking, one hand still gripping the edge of the hidden panel, his other foot mid-step.

And finds himself face to face with Violet.

The breath punches from his lungs.

She blinks—just once—eyes widening in surprise, but only for the briefest of moments. Then her expression shifts, smoothing into something entirely composed, the curve of her lips amused, calm, far too knowing.

There’s a feather caught in her curls. Pale and delicate, tucked just above her brow like a careless ornament.

Xaden freezes, every thought colliding uselessly in his brain. He’s half in the wall, half out, filthy with dust, one knee bent like he’s been caught in the middle of some elaborate crime—and maybe, in a way, he has.

Violet, graceful as ever, dips her head in a slow bow. Her voice is honeyed and soft.

“Your Highness.”

He stares at her, mute, heartbeat thudding traitorously in his throat. He’s never been so thoroughly undone by a single person in all his life.

“I—” he manages, then stops. His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat uselessly. “I—”

She doesn’t let him flounder for long.

“I should be going,” she says lightly, as though she hasn’t just stumbled across the heir to Aretia crawling out of a wall like a myth. Her head remains dipped, but her eyes flick up to him through thick lashes, and the ghost of a smile playing at her lips sends heat rushing to Xaden's face. “Sleep well, Your Highness.”

She walks past him then, skirts whispering against stone, feather bobbing softly in her hair as she heads toward the main hall. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t glance back.

Until the very last second.

Just before she rounds the corner, she casts one final look over her shoulder—brief, quiet, devastating. And then she’s gone, and the hallway slips back into silence, the only sound the fading echo of her footsteps and the distant coo of pigeons nesting in the rafters above.

Xaden stands there for a long moment, still halfway in the passageway, wondering if it’s possible to die of mortification.

A moment later Xaden groans under his breath as he lets himself tumble out of the hidden passage and onto the cold floor, landing in an ungraceful sprawl as the portrait swings shut behind him. His heart is hammering, a rapid staccato against his ribs, and something wild and unfamiliar claws at his chest—something dangerously close to giddy laughter.

Of all people. Of all the times for her to be there.

He presses both hands over his eyes and lets out a sound that’s half groan, half breathless laugh, muffled enough not to echo. It escapes before he can swallow it down. Just the memory of her standing there—unshaken, unbothered, that damn feather stuck in her hair like it belonged there—sends another sharp flutter of disbelief through him.

Violet. Smiling like she’s seen straight through him and found it amusing.

He pushes himself up off the stone floor, shakes the dust from his sleeves, and checks the corridor. Empty. No sign of her. No sign of anyone. The house is deep in sleep, and the guards he passes are laughably easy to avoid—he knows their routes by heart now, the spaces between footsteps, the blind spots in their vision. It’s almost too easy.

When he finally reaches his room, he brushes through his hair until he’s confident there’s no lingering cobweb or leaf clinging to him. The grime is gone, his hands are clean, his face cool from the water he splashed over it. He climbs into bed, pulls the heavy covers over his chest—and then promptly turns to bury his face in the pillow.

Because that smile won’t leave him.

That slight tilt of her lips, the gleam of mischief in her eyes just before she walked away like she hadn’t caught the future king sneaking out of a wall.

He groans into the linen. Then laughs again, helplessly this time. Quiet and raw and unguarded.

It lingers. Long after the candle has guttered out. Long after the house settles into silence.

Because now, no matter how still the night becomes, it’s the echo of her that follows him into sleep.

Chapter Text

She’s not expecting anyone to be up this late, least of all him.

The eastern wing has always been quiet, tucked far enough away from the main quarters that even the servants avoid it unless necessary. It’s where the air feels cooler, the walls older. Violet prefers it that way—forgotten places tend to leave her alone, and she’s not in the mood for company tonight.

Her boots make no sound on the stone as she moves, fingers loosely laced behind her back, counting the long windows she passes out of sheer habit. The sky outside is navy, stars barely peeking through a shroud of clouds. She should be asleep, she knows, but rest feels unreachable, and wandering always helps when her thoughts refuse to still.

But something shifts. 

A soft scrape of stone against wood catches her attention—too faint to be anything important, except… there it is again. A hush of movement from behind one of the old portraits that line the corridor. She slows, turning just as the edge of the frame swings open, and—

A leg emerges.

She stares.

Then, like a scene from some half-remembered childhood story, Xaden Riorson stumbles out of the wall.

At least, most of him does.

He’s halfway through the passage, dark hair falling into his face, one arm bracing himself against the side of the frame like he’s unsure if he should step out or duck back in. There’s dust on his cheek. A cobweb in his hair. His expression, usually so carefully guarded, is somewhere between caught red-handed and mid-existential crisis.

Violet blinks once. Just once. It's the only outward sign of her shock. Inside, however, she nearly chokes on a laugh.

Of all the people to find sneaking through a hidden passage at midnight...

And it’s not just anyone. It’s him.

The prince of Aretia. Son of Riorson. Polished, unreadable, usually all poise and shadows and perfectly measured silences—now staring at her like he’s genuinely considering vanishing into the wall forever.

She lets her expression settle into something mild. Calm. Amused, but polite.

He looks at her like he’s been caught committing treason.

“Your Highness,” she says smoothly, dipping into a bow before he can recover enough to speak. There’s a feather stuck in her curls—she can feel it tickling her temple, but she doesn’t bother pulling it free. “Good evening.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mouth opens, but whatever thought he might have had flees before it’s fully formed. He’s still halfway in the passage, halfway out, like he can’t decide whether to flee or brazen it through. His eyes are wide, the barest hint of panic flickering behind the calm exterior he’s so known for. Violet watches him flounder and feels a quiet, wicked sort of delight bloom in her chest.

“I—” he tries again, and it’s the most disoriented she’s ever heard him sound.

Gods, she thinks, biting the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him undone like this. Not in training, not in Assembly meetings she's happened to stumble past, not even when arguing about strategy with that cold bite in his voice. But now? Caught with dirt on his face and absolutely no excuse prepared?

He looks human.

And… oddly endearing.

She pretends not to notice how flustered he is and decides to let him off the hook.

“I should be going,” she says lightly, injecting the perfect amount of indifference into her voice. Her head is still bowed, but she lets her gaze flick up through her lashes, watching him flounder with the same quiet delight she reserves for sparring victories. “Sleep well, Your Highness.”

She turns before he can answer, because if she lingers, she will laugh. Just as she rounds the next corner, she risks a glance back.

And there he is.

He’s still standing there. Still stunned. Still trying to process whatever just happened. Still utterly undone by the most ordinary of interactions.

Violet smiles to herself, slow and quiet and impossible to stop.

So, she thinks, the prince has secrets.

Interesting.

She wonders what he’s looking for, sneaking through hidden corridors after midnight.

And—more dangerously—she wonders what he’d say if she asked to help him find it.

Chapter Text

“You’re up to something,” Imogen says, stepping through the open door without waiting for an invitation—because she never does.

Xaden doesn’t startle. He just lifts his eyes from the paper in his hands with a faint sigh that’s half annoyance, half relief. Her presence is a break from the absurdity he’s currently reading, and while her timing is predictably inconvenient, it’s not unwelcome.

“I’m reading correspondence from King Tauri,” he says, holding the page like it might explain the dull ache behind his eyes. “He’s written to complain that the sun wakes him too early.”

Imogen arches a brow, clearly unimpressed.

“Is that… supposed to be your excuse?”

“No,” Xaden replies, voice dry as dust. “That’s the actual content of the letter.”

Xaden gestures vaguely toward the letter. Imogen stares at him as she leans against the wall, arms folded, smirking. He doesn’t rise to it. Instead, he glances back at the letter and reads aloud in a deadpan monotone:

“'Would it be possible to dispatch as many of Tyrrendor's best earth wielders as can be spared to my residence in Caldyr, such that the palace might be turned slightly to the right, away from the morning light that so cruelly disrupts my rest?’”

Imogen blinks.

“They don’t have curtains in Caldyr?”

“He finds them ‘aesthetically oppressive,’” Xaden mutters. “And—apparently—'symbolically repressive of the dawn’s grace.’”

A beat of silence. Then, flatly:

“How do I phrase ‘I’d rather gouge out my own eyes than accommodate your idiocy’ without starting another war?”

“Sounds like a question for someone with a nicer signature,” Imogen says breezily as she begins to peruse his bookshelf with mock curiosity. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

Xaden tilts his head slightly, watching her without moving from his chair.

“Are you failing at espionage for Garrick, or just indulging in your usual nosiness?”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder.

“Both. I’m a woman of many talents.” There’s a beat of silence before Imogen hums and wanders toward the shelves like she’s only half-listening, trailing a hand along the edge of the book spines. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re scheming.”

“I’m not scheming,” Xaden says, leaning back in his chair and lifting his goblet. The water is cool against his lips. He swallows before adding, “You can tell Garrick that, if he sent you.”

“Please,” she scoffs, picking up a wooden gryphon figurine from the shelf and turning it idly in her hands. “Garrick’s too subtle for this kind of brute-force curiosity. This is purely my own flavour of intrusion.”

He watches her for a moment, the easy way she pretends disinterest while measuring the pitch of his voice, the line of his shoulders. Imogen’s always been able to read him like a map, and she never forgets the terrain.

He exhales quietly and sets the letter aside, reaching for his goblet and taking a long sip. The water’s gone tepid. Everything feels a little out of rhythm tonight, including him.

“You can tell Garrick I’m not up to anything.” Xaden mutters, running a hand through his hair absently, setting stray locks of hair straight.

“That’s a lie,” she says immediately. “You fuss with your hair when you’re hiding something.”

“I run my hand through my hair all the time,” Xaden says, catching himself mid-motion and dropping the lock he’d been idly smoothing. “You’ve made fun of me for it.”

“Exactly,” Imogen says, holding up a finger. “When you don’t realise you’re doing it, it’s just you being vain. When you do realize it and stop yourself—like that—it’s because you’ve been caught.”

Xaden rolls his eyes as he picks up the letter again, and drawls, “Tell Garrick if he wants gossip, he’s welcome to read the letters from King Tauri himself. I think they might be slowly eating away at my sanity.”

Imogen rolls her eyes.

“Deflection. Classic Riorson manoeuvre.”

He sighs and presses the heel of his palm into his eye socket.

“Imogen.”

Her voice softens, almost imperceptibly.

“Xaden.”

He meets her gaze reluctantly. She’s not pushing out of malice, not needling for fun. She’s digging because she cares, because she knows what it looks like when he’s holding something he can’t name, much less share.

Xaden groans quietly and scrubs a hand down his face.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I care,” she corrects, placing a carved wooden gryphon back in its place with exaggerated delicacy. “You’re sneaking around. You’ve got that look—like something’s under your skin and you’re trying to convince yourself it’s nothing. And when you think something’s nothing, that usually means something's going to explode in six different directions.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t deny it either.

Imogen moves closer, her teasing mostly drained away now. She leans against the desk, arms folded again, voice softer. “Xaden… are you alright? Do you need help with whatever it is you’re hiding?”

There it is—the part he’s been dreading. The concern. She couches it in irritation and sarcasm, but he knows it for what it is. The same way she always has. They’ve fought side by side, lied for each other, covered each other’s tracks so often it’s second nature. She sees through him even when he’s trying not to be seen.

He meets her eyes for a long moment. Wants to say something. Anything. But the truth is still a knot he hasn’t managed to untangle, and the last thing he wants is to drag her into it.

Her tone is flippant, but her eyes are sharp—focused in a way that slices through every casual deflection he tries to throw between them. She watches him with that unnerving steadiness she’s had since they were kids, back when they still played with sticks and pretended they weren’t already born into a world that would teach them to kill.

Xaden meets her gaze, holds it, and for a heartbeat he debates telling her the truth—or at least something that brushes close to it. Because she would do anything for him, no questions asked. Not because he’s the prince. Not because he’s her commander. But because she knows him. She always has.

But this—whatever this is—he doesn’t even understand it himself. It’s too fragile, too uncertain, too dangerous to name.

So he lies.

Chapter Text

“I’m… interested in someone.”

The words leave his mouth half-formed, a smokescreen of truth twisted into something safer. It’s clumsy. Imogen will see right through it.

But instead of narrowing her eyes, she snorts—an inelegant, unbothered sound—and flips the end of her hair over her shoulder like a queen waving off a particularly dull courtier.

“Practically everyone in the state knows that, Xaden. It’s hardly something you need to whisper like a confession.”

“What.” He blinks.

Imogen lifts a brow, all exasperated older sister energy now.

“Please don’t make me repeat myself.” He doesn’t say anything, so she continues, already warming to her topic. “You walked straight into a door the other day because Violet was out in the courtyard hosing down the dragons. You didn’t even try to hide it. Ciaran and Eya saw the whole thing. Which means everyone saw.”

Xaden closes his eyes and exhales through his nose like a man contemplating the merits of exile.

“I’m going to murder those two.”

“Sure,” Imogen says breezily. “Just as soon as you’re done gouging your eyes out to spite King Tauri.”

He crumples the edge of the ridiculous letter in his fist, mostly to give himself something to do other than react.

“I told them not to say anything.”

“They didn’t have to,” Imogen replies, folding her arms and tilting her head at him, her expression somewhere between fond and infuriated. “You think you’re subtle, but you’re not. Not when it comes to her.”

He scowls.

“I’m perfectly capable of being subtle.”

“Not when Violet’s involved. You get this… look.” She waves vaguely around her own face, trying to mimic it. “Like someone cast a spell on you and you forgot how to use your legs.”

“That’s absurd.” Xaden glares.

Imogen shrugs.

“Is it? Because you just lied to me—badly—and I still know it’s not just about you being interested in her. Something’s going on. I don’t know what it is yet, but you’re flailing.”

He bristles at the word.

“I don’t flail.”

“You emotionally flail,” she amends, which somehow makes it worse. There’s a beat of silence, then—softer now, quieter, the teasing temporarily set aside: “You can tell me if something’s wrong, Xaden. You know that, right?”

He does. Of course he does. But he also knows there are some things that can’t be spoken aloud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he gives her the smallest nod. Not a lie. Not quite the truth.

Xaden’s face burns—hot enough that, for a moment, he’s genuinely afraid he might ignite his own clothes. It wouldn’t be the first he's destroyed items of clothing. He used to do that as a child, when his magic was still erratic and too tightly tethered to his emotions. And just this same week when he and Garrick were sparring.

Imogen is staring at him like she can see it—the way the heat rolls off his skin, the way he’s unraveling in front of her with nothing but a few careless words. There’s amusement in her expression, yes, but beneath it lies something far more dangerous.

Pity.

And Gods, that’s worse. Far worse. He can stomach her sarcasm, her exasperation, even her relentless teasing. But not this: not the soft, quiet look of someone who understands. Who sees more than he intended to show.

He wishes—fiercely, suddenly—that he’d lied more convincingly. Or offered her a different truth. Or kept his mouth shut altogether. Because this—this slip of truth he allowed to fall—is the worst kind.

Because it is the truth, no matter how he tries to deny it.

He likes Violet.

He likes her roguish grin and the quiet intensity in those striking hazel eyes. Likes the way her hard edges soften whenever Sgaeyl is near, the way she moves through the world like light has no choice but to follow her. Xaden likes her despite knowing how dangerous that is.

Or perhaps because of it. He’s never been good at obeying the rules.

“It’s foolish to even entertain the idea,” he mutters, letting King Tauri’s ridiculous letter slip from his fingers. It flutters to the floor, forgotten, as he leans back in his chair and tips his head against the polished wood and letting his eyes slip shut. “Nothing could ever come of it.”

Imogen clicks her tongue in disapproval, settling into the chair across from him with the casual grace of someone who’s always known exactly where she belongs.

“I’ll never understand you,” she says quietly, her voice almost lost to the silence between them. “You’re allowed to want something for yourself, Xaden. Something reckless. Something yours. You deserve that much—something that’s not about duty or legacy. Even if that something is complicated. Even if it doesn’t last. Even if she’s a commoner and you’re a prince, and the whole court sets itself on fire over it.”

Xaden says nothing.

But in the silence that follows, his thoughts drift—to warm fur against his cheeks and his mother’s voice humming lullabies he can barely remember. To the glint of gold in his father’s dark hair, the stern weight of his expectations, and the way every pair of eyes now follow him with the same expectation, the same hunger. He thinks of a stranger’s hand brushing his own, of a touch that lingered too long at his shoulder, of Violet’s mouth pressed to the fabric of his cloak, her eyes closed, a soft smile ghosting her lips.

Imogen is wrong.

It’s not okay. It’s never been okay.

To want something you cannot have is to invite ruin. It’s not strength—it’s a fracture waiting to deepen, a longing that hollows you out until there’s nothing left but echo and regret. He knows this. He’s been taught this lesson too many times to forget.

“Most people would enjoy a brief romantic indulgence,” Imogen says, her tone light, but her eyes intent—studying him like she’s trying to unravel a language written in smoke. “You’re a prince. No one would question it.”

“I don’t want—” A fling, he nearly says, but the word curdles on his tongue, too brittle and small for what he feels. He clears his throat instead, the motion rough and defensive. “I don’t want to talk about it, Imogen. I’ve work to finish. And I’m late for a fitting.”

She watches him for a moment longer, her gaze unreadable. Then she rises with a quiet sigh, smoothing the sleeves of her robes like she’s brushing the conversation away with them.

“Alright,” she says at last, her voice quieter now, the usual edge softened into something more careful. She turns toward the door, fingers brushing the frame. But then she pauses, casting a glance over her shoulder. “But—” she says, her voice threading the silence, “you do know you can talk to me, don’t you? Or Garrick. Or Bodhi.” Her smile, when it comes, is unguarded—small, sure, but soft around the edges in a way she rarely lets him see. “You’re not alone in this. You never have to be.”

Xaden doesn’t answer. He can’t. His voice has gone to ground, buried beneath everything he doesn’t know how to say. He simply nods, throat too tight to speak. Imogen nods back, her expression unreadable, and slips out without another word. The door clicks softly shut behind her.

Silence follows. Thick and motionless.

He stares at the door as if expecting it to reopen, as if she might change her mind and press him once more—but no. She’s gone, and with her, the weight of expectation. What’s left behind is a quiet ache, a simmering frustration he can’t seem to rid himself of, no matter how many times he circles this same thought, this same person.

Violet.

Every time he tells himself to stop thinking about her, he ends up deeper in the mire than before—trapped in memories, fantasies, fragments of conversations and glances that loop endlessly through his mind.

Worse still is the traitorous part of him that likes it.

He likes the way his stomach flips like a child’s, caught sneaking glances at the Riders training in the courtyard. He likes the thrill of catching Violet’s eye, the slow, deliberate way their hands brush when Violet passes him something. He likes the idea—no, the hope—of making her laugh again. Again, and again, until she forgets why she ever stopped.

With a low breath, Xaden scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mutters into the stillness, thinking of silver scales flashing in the moonlight and of Violet’s crooked grin—all teasing confidence and hidden warmth.

The kind of smile you want to earn.

With a sigh that’s more resignation than relief, Xaden pulls a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and dips his pen. His reply to King Tauri is firm, if not entirely diplomatic: 'There is no scenario in which Tyrrendor will lend its support. I suggest you concern yourself less with your sleeping habits and more with your people’s well-being'.

It isn’t particularly polite. But it’s satisfying.

He signs his name with a flourish—a dramatic curl at the end, a subtle parody of the duke’s ostentatious signature—and leans back to admire it.

Violet would find it funny.

That thought lands soft as a bruise. He hates himself, a little, for letting it matter. For wanting her to laugh. And for the way that wanting still makes him feel alive.

Chapter Text

Despite his growing fixation with hidden corridors and half-remembered whispers behind the walls, Xaden is forced to abandon his quiet investigations—for now.

The estate stirs from its early-winter slumber, coming to life in anticipation of the annual Winter Hunt. Every hallway hums with movement: servants rush past carrying armfuls of furs and riding tack, couriers relay last-minute instructions, and the scent of pine and burning tallow drifts from chamber to chamber as fires are lit and hearths coaxed to life. With so many eyes and so little privacy, skulking through shadowed passageways has become impractical, if not impossible.

The Winter Hunt marks the final flourish of the season’s social calendar—a last grand gathering before the deep freeze of true winter settles in and the nobility scatter to their own secluded manors to wait out the snow. Most will not return to Aretia until the Winter Solstice, if they return at all. In the aftermath, the estate will quiet once more, its once-bustling halls reduced to the steady presence of year-round courtiers and retainers too entrenched in royal affairs to flee the cold.

Xaden harbours conflicted feelings about the hunt. For many, it is a performance—an exercise in showmanship and competition, a means of securing bragging rights over the rarest game brought down in the northern woods. But for him, it is a haunting echo of something far more personal.

It had been one of his mother’s favourite traditions: not merely for the thrill of the chase, but for the rituals embedded within it. She had revelled in the cold, in the clean bite of wind across her face, in the satisfaction of teaching her son how to move with silence and precision through a world ruled by instinct. He remembers the way she'd bundled him into layers of heavy fur, far too large for his small frame, her arms strong as she lifted him up to sit before her on her dragon’s seat. They would lead the hunting party together, sweeping low through the trees until the branches turned to blurs and the frost stung their cheeks.

He can still feel the weight of her hand resting gently on his elbow, steadying him. Her voice is a phantom that never quite leaves him—Be patient, Xaden. Let them come to you. Her words had guided his breath as he aimed his blade, taught him to listen, to wait, to act only when the moment ripened.

Those memories are carved into him with the bittersweet clarity of old joy. The hunt, for all its pomp and pageantry, is a tether to her—to the version of himself that existed when she was still alive, when the world still made sense in the warm circle of her arms.

So yes—he attends the Winter Hunt, as he must. But each year, it feels less like tradition and more like mourning. A celebration wrapped in grief. A reminder, sharp as a blade hidden in velvet, that the best of what once was is long gone.

Mixed feelings, indeed.

Morning arrives cloaked in frost, the world hushed beneath a veil of crystalline dew that clings to the tall, yellowing grasses beyond the estate’s manicured courtyard. In the early light, the ground glitters faintly, each blade tipped in ice, delicate as spun glass. The air holds a brittle stillness, broken only by the hurried footsteps of servants weaving back and forth, their arms laden with baskets and gear. They move with practiced urgency, making ready for an early departure, determined to return before midday to the great hall where a feast—two days in the making—awaits.

Xaden lingers on the wide front steps of the estate, the stone beneath him still clinging to the night’s chill. He blinks blearily, resisting the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes. Leaning subtly against the stone balustrade, he keeps his posture relaxed but his gaze alert, watching the preparations unfold. Across the frost-kissed lawn, Garrick is already deep in conversation with one of the guards, his usual exuberance unmistakable. He gestures animatedly with his left hand, laughter curling into the morning air like smoke.

“You didn’t have to be up so early.”

Xaden turns, unsurprised to find Imogen at his side. She’s quiet as ever, hand resting absently on the pommel of her dagger, gaze fixed on Garrick with a faintly furrowed brow.

“The rest of the nobles won’t surface for another hour,” she adds.

“I know.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest, jaw tightening against the cold. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Imogen glances at him sideways, a question hovering in her expression, but she lets it pass unsaid. She doesn’t press. She never does when his voice sounds like that. She’s learned to choose her battles. In the silence between them, a girl strides past with a half-dozen hunting dogs straining against their leashes, all jostling and tangling themselves in an enthusiastic knot. The girl, unbothered, walks on with the calm ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, her fingers deftly untangling the lines with deft hands as she whistles a tune that stirs something faint in Xaden’s memory—a lullaby, old and Tyrrish.

“Will you take a dog?” Imogen asks, her eyes following the girl’s retreating form.

“No,” Xaden replies, too quickly. His mother had never needed dogs. The wolves had always found her in the woods, stepping from the trees like shadows drawn by her presence. The dogs had known, somehow—they’d trembled and whined in her wake. She never brought them. And though the wolves hadn’t come to him in recent years, he hunts as she taught him: silent, alone.

“I thought not,” Imogen murmurs. Then, casually: “I’m riding with you today.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

His tone is sharper now, not out of anger but instinct. His mother had never permitted guards when she hunted—not even when Xaden was young. Those memories are etched in quiet, in sacred solitude. Even the suggestion of a companion now feels like an intrusion, an echo made discordant.

“Garrick insisted,” Imogen replies with a shrug and a crooked smile. “He’s staying with your father, so I drew the short straw and got assigned to you.”

“It’s the northern woods,” Xaden says, exasperated. “Not a trek to the Navarrian border.”

“Please. The border has acid ponds. These woods? They have bears. And worse—noblemen with blades and bows.” Imogen lifts an eyebrow. “Fewer things are more dangerous than that combination,” she says blithely. “So that’s a poor argument."

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she says, without missing a beat.

He groans.

“It was one bear, and it didn’t even chase me—it chased Garrick.”

“Details.” Imogen shrugs.

He exhales heavily, tipping his head back against the stone and closing his eyes.

“I must be mistaken—I thought being heir to the throne meant I had some authority.”

She laughs, unbothered. It’s not the polished, courtly laugh expected of someone in her position, but something real. Rough-edged. Human. It cracks the shell of his mood before he can stop it.

“It’s precisely because you’re the heir that I’m coming with you,” she says. Then, gently, she bumps her shoulder against his in quiet camaraderie. “Don’t worry. I won’t hover. I’ll walk ten paces behind, carry your kills, and applaud graciously when you manage not to stab yourself.”

“Your loyalty warms me to my core,” he replies flatly.

Imogen grins, stepping forward into the sunlight, her silhouette briefly framed in golden light.

“Where are you going?” he calls after her.

“The stables,” she tosses over her shoulder. “That’s where the interesting people are.”

“I hate you,” he mutters, feeling the heat rise to his ears.

She turns just long enough to offer a shallow, mock-formal bow.

“I know.”

And with that, she disappears down the path, laughter still dancing in the morning air behind her.

Chapter Text

Xaden lingers near the wall, half-lost in the rhythm of the morning.

Around him, the estate shifts into motion—tables are dragged across flagstones and draped with dark linens, their corners fluttering in the breeze. A small boy darts between clusters of servants, handing out warming charms to anyone not already stationed near the braziers glowing at the perimeter.

The din—clattering metal, murmured instructions, laughter echoing off stone—gradually fades into background noise. He feels his body sway slightly with the pull of fatigue, lulled by the slow, clumsy efforts of two children teaching a younger girl how to juggle pebbles. He thinks, absurdly, that he could fall asleep standing up.

Then, suddenly, someone barrels past him, jarring him awake. The motion startles a nearby man carrying an armful of apples, who stumbles and spills them in a cascade down the castle steps.

Xaden blinks, catching a glimpse of a wide-brimmed hat, a flash of brown eyes, long hair tumbling past flushed cheeks—Quinn, from the stables.

She disappears into the estate, the heavy door thudding shut behind her, and he stares after her with a furrowed brow, unsettled. Behind him, the sound of scrambling hands on stone draws his attention—the servant, now on his knees, trying frantically to gather the scattered apples.

Xaden steps forward quickly, dropping into a crouch and reaching for the nearest wayward fruit.

“Your Highness, you don’t have to do that,” the man says in a rush, trying to shove the apples back into their basket.

“It’s fine,” Xaden says, placing two apples inside and picking up another, turning it in his palm to check for bruising. His eyes flick toward the closed door. “I just wonder what had her in such a hurry.”

The man exhales, lifting the basket.

“Busy day. We’ve got a dozen pies to make before noon, and the flour delivery’s late.”

“Right,” Xaden murmurs, nodding, though the explanation doesn’t sit quite right. Something in Quinn’s expression, the urgency in her stride, suggests she wasn’t racing for pie dough.

The servant offers a grateful bow and hurries off toward the kitchens. Xaden straightens and resumes his place by the wall, barely settled before Quinn comes running back out of the estate—this time with someone following close behind.

A healer.

Xaden recognises her from the days she spent tending the Riders after training injuries, often including Bodhi. His stomach lurches, a sharp ripple of unease running beneath his ribs, and without thinking, he moves to follow—briskly, but not running. Not yet.

He keeps his pace just shy of urgency, the whisper of polished boots against stone his only sound. By the time he rounds the path toward the stables, both women are gone.

But Garrick is there. And so is Violet.

They stand just outside the stable doors, their faces shadowed by grim expressions. Garrick speaks quietly, his brow furrowed in concern. Violet doesn’t respond, not at first—just nods once, her jaw tight.

Xaden’s heart skips, then surges upward in his throat.

Something’s wrong.

“Garrick?” Xaden calls out as he approaches, and Garrick turns at once, offering a tired smile. As soon as Xaden is within reach, Garrick lifts his left arm and rests a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Violet stands beside him, silent and still, her eyes steady on Xaden—watchful, withholding.

“Xaden,” Garrick murmured, the sigh in his voice as much exhaustion as reassurance. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong.”

“I just saw Quinn sprint past with a healer,” Xaden said, brows drawing together in a deepening frown. “What happened?”

“It’s Imogen,” Violet answers softly, her voice composed but edged with the faintest trace of concern. “She and I were talking while I was mucking out Glane’s stall. He startled—pushed her hard against the wall. She hit her head and seemed disoriented afterward. Lost consciousness briefly, but she came to quickly.”

“Is she alright?” The words left Xaden sharply, his feet already shifting, ready to push past them and go see for himself. But Garrick caught him gently by the elbow, halting his momentum with a firm, measured grip.

“She’s alright,” he said, voice calm but deliberate. “A healer's with her now. They asked everyone to clear the space so she could focus. They're just administering relief for any pain and checking for any signs of head trauma—purely precaution.”

Xaden exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face as he offers a silent thanks to the stars that Imogen hadn’t been seriously injured. Menders and healers could work wonders, but even their power had limits. He’d grown up among wounded Riders and labourers maimed by accidents in the dark corners of keeps and outposts—he knew too well how a simple fall could turn fatal.

When he lowers his hand, his gaze finds Garrick’s with quiet reproach.

“Then why did you look so grim when I walked over?” he asks, voice dry. “For a moment, I thought someone had died.”

Garrick huffs a short breath, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was trying to convince Violet to go with you on the hunt, since Imogen will need to rest.”

Xaden’s mouth falls open before he can catch himself. He looks between the two of them, startled—and Garrick’s weariness briefly lifts as his grin deepens.

“Yes,” he says, amused. “That was exactly her expression, too.”

“I’m not a guard, and I’m not a Rider,” Violet says before Xaden can speak, her voice quiet but firm. She stands stiffly, arms crossed, eyes cast downward. There’s a defensiveness to her posture that seems at odds with the moment, a thread of tension drawn too tight. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. There are others more qualified to protect the prince.”

“Xaden doesn’t need protecting,” Garrick says evenly. “He’s more than capable of defending himself. But he shouldn’t go alone. Not into those woods—not anymore. He’s a crown prince now, and that means something, whether you like it or not.” He glances at Violet, then adds, “I thought you might be a decent compromise—better than sending a stranger, better than letting him go without anyone at all.”

Xaden looks at Garrick, blinking once. He’s not sure whether he’s being underestimated or overestimated—maybe both.

“Garrick…” he starts, but the older man lifts a hand to stop him.

“I know what you’re about to say,” Garrick says gently. “I know what the queen chose to do. But you’re not her, Xaden. And for what it’s worth—she was never really alone, was she?” His eyes soften. “She had you with her. This is no different.”

Xaden swallows the protest rising in his throat—because Garrick is wrong. It is different. In every way that matters.

But he doesn’t say it. Garrick already knows, or at least understands enough not to press further. And besides, Xaden has no desire to speak of his mother here, not in front of Violet, who’d never even met her. It feels too raw—too intimate—to lay bare while she’s standing there with arms crossed and eyes turned elsewhere. Especially when thoughts of his mother had already weighed heavily on him this morning.

Violet, for her part, remains quiet, her reluctance drawn plainly in the set of her shoulders and the way her lower lip is caught gently between her teeth. She refuses to meet either of their eyes, and the silence grows, drawn taut between them. Garrick waits, unhurried, but Xaden can feel something coiling tight in his gut—an unsteady, unwelcome realisation:

He doesn’t want her to say no.

Feelings, he thinks bitterly, are a godforsaken curse.

Finally, Violet sighs. Her arms fall to her sides, and the faintest of smiles curving her lips. The tension that had gripped her moments ago dissipates behind a carefully arranged composure—one Xaden recognises immediately. It’s a mask, and he knows the weight of wearing one all too well.

“As you wish,” she says, her voice light but measured. “I’d be honoured to ride with the prince for the hunt. If, of course, he has no objections.”

Then her eyes—those mercurial hazel eyes—lift to his. They hold him there, still and speechless, the question in them unguarded and real. The practiced mask vanishes, and the question in her eyes is startlingly sincere.

'It's strange,' Xaden thinks. 'How much of herself she reveals without meaning to—and how little of her I truly know.'

They’re both watching him now—Garrick with a quiet, irritating awareness, and Violet with something far gentler, more open. He clears his throat, finding his voice.

“It’s alright with me.”

Garrick claps his hands together with quiet triumph.

“Excellent. I’ll go check on Imogen and make sure she’s properly resting. We’ll head out within the hour. Violet, you’ll be ready by then?”

“What should I bring?” she asks, eyes still lingering on Xaden, though the question is directed at Garrick.

“A blade,” Garrick replies with a grin, stepping backward toward the stables, “and your patience.”

He vanishes through the doors before Xaden can reach out and swat him for it.

Violet laughs softly, the sound gentle as it slips between them, and when she glances at Xaden, a flicker of her familiar humor has returned to her expression.

“Are you certain you’re alright with it?” she asks, eyes steady on his. “Imogen said you’d prefer to hunt alone.”

Xaden swallows, then answers—more honestly than he intends, the words landing heavier than they should. “What I want and what’s expected of me are rarely the same.” He hesitates, then lifts his gaze to meet hers, his voice steadier now. “But yes. I’m alright with it. You won’t hover, or treat me like I’m incompetent.”

Violet dips her head, and when she lifts it again, something quiet and sincere lingers in her eyes.

“I’ve never thought you were, Your Highness.”

Xaden's hand finds the barn door behind him without looking, fingers curling around the edge like it might ground him. There’s something fragile swelling in his chest—something that beats in rhythm with his pulse and doesn’t quite have a name yet.

“I’ll see you later,” he says. “I want to check on Imogen first. I’ll meet you at the edge of the woods when it’s time.”

Violet’s smile is small, but it’s real—warm in a way that stays with him.

“I’ll see you there, Your Highness.”

Chapter Text

The hunt begins not with a horn’s blare, nor the stamping of hooves, but with the gentle swell of music.

Scattered clusters of minstrels dot the dew-kissed meadow, their melodies threading through the crisp morning air like silk ribbons. Flutes trill in bright, spiraling tones that dart like larks overhead, while strings sing in lively harmony, coaxing the last remnants of sleep from limbs still sluggish with the chill. The court has gathered in full regalia—nobles draped in rich fabrics and Riders standing sentinel beside their dragons, each of them adorned in their finest, all vying for one last moment of admiration before the season draws to a close. This year’s fashion, it seems, is ruled by whimsy and vanity alike—absurdly oversized hats bob and tilt precariously in the breeze, monuments to the wearers’ desperation to be seen.

Amid the bustle, Xaden stands beside Sgaeyl, feigning interest in adjusting a set of her armoured scales with a care that borders on obsessive. She tolerates the fuss, eyes half-lidded and tail twitching, knowing full well it is not her plating he is truly focused on. His new riding leathers are—as expected—an uncompromising shade of black. But for once, there is embellishment: silver thread glinting at his cuffs and collar, and across his shoulders, a fan of embroidered feathers rendered in fine detail, a quiet echo of wings in flight. The design is his own—requested personally, much to the giddy delight of his tailor. It’s the most ornate garment he’s worn in public, and he wears it now not out of vanity, but obligation. After all, he has never led the hunt before.

He can feel the scrutiny pressing in on him from all sides—curious glances, veiled assessments, the unspoken hunger for triumph or failure. The court watches not simply to admire, but to judge. Expectations curl like smoke in the space around him, thick and stifling. A slow churn of unease coils in his gut, hot and restless, daring to boil.

“Your Highness.”

The voice cuts through the hum of conversation, smooth and calculated. Xaden schools his features into something cordial, swallowing the sigh that tries to rise, and turns to greet the speaker with a smile that is polished, if not entirely sincere.

“Good morning, General Melgren. I trust you’ve had a restful night? You’ll want to be at your best for the hunt.”

Melgren strokes a hand along the edge of his beard, the motion slow and theatrical. His gaze flicks, just briefly, to Sgaeyl—who stares back with narrowed eyes and a baring of teeth, her ears drawn back in a silent threat. The general’s smile falters for half a breath before he smooths it over.

“I’m quite ready,” he replies with a confidence that borders on smug. “Planning to bring down at least a dozen pheasants today. That ought to settle the matter with Lady Hixen once and for all.”

Xaden suppresses the snort that rises unbidden. In truth, he suspects the general has a better chance of regrowing his long-lost hair than of besting Kylynn Hixen in anything involving precision, speed, or wit. But diplomacy demands restraint.

“Then I wish you the best of luck,” he says, inclining his head.

But Melgren, predictably, is not finished.

“We’re all rather curious to see how you perform this year, Prince Xaden,” the general continues, his voice smooth as polished stone, but with a glint beneath the surface. “Of course, we’ve all heard stories of your prowess in past hunts. But now, well—this year carries a different weight, doesn’t it? All eyes are on you. Expectations are... substantial.” He offers a smile that dances on the edge of patronising. “Should you find yourself in need of a little advice—”

“Your Highness.”

The interruption comes like a blade through silk—swift, clean, and perfectly timed. And indeed, it is a blade.

Xaden turns just as a sword is offered to him, its hilt presented with deliberate grace. His gaze follows the familiar hand to Violet, who stands beside him with a radiant smile that borders on dazzling, the kind of expression meant to be seen—and interpreted—by the onlookers.

“I’ve sharpened your blade,” she says with disarming ease, as though she hadn’t just rescued him from conversational purgatory. “And brought a second, just in case.”

“Thank you, Violet,” Xaden replies, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the formality like sunlight through fog. He accepts the larger weapon first, slinging it over his back in a practiced motion. “General Melgren, I appreciate your time, but I should prepare. The hunt waits for no one.”

He offers a final, impeccably civil smile as he accepts the second weapon from Violet, pretending to study its balance with the gravity of a seasoned hunter, though they both know the real point has already been made.

Melgren pauses, clearly nettled by the dismissal but unwilling to make a scene. With a stiff nod, he turns on his heel and stalks toward his own party—who are, with varying degrees of subtlety, failing to pretend they weren’t watching the exchange.

“Was that alright?” Violet asks, her hand sweeping gently beneath Sgaeyl’s chin in a soft, familiar arc. “I know I interrupted a noble, but—”

“If he’d dared to reprimand you,” Xaden replies, a flicker of amusement playing at the edge of his mouth, “I’d have silenced him myself.” His gaze lingers where hers does, on Sgaeyl’s gleaming scales. “He was fishing for favour—clumsily, at that. Honestly, he could have waited until after the hunt to start posturing. But then, Melgren was never known for his sense of timing.”

“How terribly uncouth,” Violet intones, lifting her chin with theatrical hauteur. Her tone is so dramatically prim that Xaden lets out a sharp, surprised snort before he can stop himself. The sound escapes him like a spark—unexpected, honest.

He immediately clamps his mouth shut, as if he could catch it and tuck it back where it belongs. But the damage is done—Violet’s eyes are alight, delighted.

“Well now,” she says, her voice all silk and mischief. “That was an interesting sound.”

“You didn’t hear anything,” Xaden says flatly, though the edge of a reluctant smile tugs at his lips, softening the denial.

Violet opens her mouth, clearly ready to press her advantage with another teasing remark—but the music fades then, drawn away like a tide. A horn pierces the morning air, bold and echoing. All around them, hounds erupt into motion, their barks wild and eager, legs straining against their leads as sunlight glints off slick coats and ready eyes.

“It’s time,” Xaden murmurs, gaze shifting toward the dais.

There, his father stands in quiet conference with Ulices, his broad frame half-turned away. And just like that—like cold water down his spine—it hits him.

He is meant to speak.

The opening words of the hunt. The ritual speech. He’s heard it every year since childhood, each line etched into his memory like grooves in stone. He knows how it’s supposed to sound—resonant, commanding, practiced.

But now, standing beneath the weight of so many watching eyes, the knowledge deserts him. His breath sticks somewhere between his chest and throat, brittle and insufficient. His mouth goes dry.

Say something, urges a voice in his mind, hushed and familiar. You have to say something.

It sounds like his mother.

But no words come.

Then—quiet as breath—a touch at the bend of his arm.

He turns his head slightly.

Violet hasn’t moved her gaze. Her eyes remain on Sgaeyl, calmly tracing the elegant line of scale that arcs across the dragon’s shoulder. But her arm is pressed gently to his, her fingers just brushing his elbow. A touch so small, so deliberate, it barely registers to anyone else.

She doesn’t look at him. But she doesn’t move away, either—not when he leans, almost unconsciously, a fraction closer. Just enough to feel her warmth, her steadiness.

“Say what you know,” she murmurs quietly. “Not what they want to hear. Just what’s true.”

He swallows. The nerves don’t vanish, but they settle. And so does he.

Xaden straightens slowly. He lifts his chin, feeling Violet’s touch still resting just enough to keep him grounded.

And then, when the crowd fully quiets and turns to face him, Xaden speaks.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Xaden calls, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp morning air, “thank you for joining us for the Winter Hunt.”

A beat follows—then applause, warm but muffled through layers of wool and leather. He can’t tell if it lasts longer or shorter than when his father gave this speech… or his mother. Is it more subdued this year? Or is it just the pounding in his ears that dulls the sound? He forces the thought aside, focusing instead on the words he’s memorised, the cadence he rehearsed in silence.

“On this cool winter morning, we gather to mark the end of another long, bountiful year—to celebrate our unity, to test our skill, and to honour the traditions that have carried us this far. Let this hunt be a chance to push ourselves, to support one another, and to revel in the wild beauty of our land.”

He pauses—just long enough.

“We are all eager to begin,” he continues, steadier now. “So let’s make this a hunt to remember. Good luck to you all… and may your aim be true.”

“May your aim be true!” the crowd echoes, voices rising like a wave across the field. There’s another swell of applause—fleeting, spirited—before the gathered nobles and Riders turn back to their dragons and companions. Most look away quickly, already shifting into the rituals of preparation. Only a few eyes linger on him.

Xaden exhales slowly, careful not to let it show in his posture. The weight in his chest lifts, just enough.

He turns, and finds Violet watching him. Her smile is quiet, full of warmth.

“Are you ready, Your Highness?” she asks softly.

“I’m ready,” he replies—and, to his surprise, it almost feels true.

Chapter Text

Violet selects her dragon with quiet confidence, moving past the restless daggertails until she finds the one she wants—an elegant creature with scales the deep, burnished red of hearth fire and a star-shaped scar etched proudly across the bridge of her nose. The mark does nothing to mar the dragon’s beauty; if anything, it lends her an air of seasoned grace, the kind earned rather than inherited. Violet murmurs something low and affectionate to the beast as she fastens her riding harness, her touch light but assured.

She’s armed, though not in the way the others are. A pair of blades ride low at her hips, and more are strapped in an X across her back—functional steel, well-worn and wholly unadorned. The hilts are wrapped in common leather, scuffed from use, and lacking the embellishments of status or ceremony. These are soldier’s weapons, plain and utilitarian, and they say what Violet herself does not: she is not here to partake in the hunt. She’s come as protection, perhaps, or as presence—but not as one of the nobles riding out in pursuit of blood and sport.

By contrast, Xaden’s own armament gleams with ceremonial precision. His twin blades are sheathed in fine black scabbards set with glimmering crimson gems, the red catching and refracting the light as he swings them onto his back. But the moment he mounts Sgaeyl, he realises his mistake.

The blades jostle against his side as he hoists himself upward, clattering loudly in the still morning air. Too late, the memory surfaces—his mother, always waiting until she was fully seated before settling her blades into place. He’d once thought it a peculiar bit of formality. Now he understands.

As he leans forward to adjust his seat, one of the blades begins to slip free of its sheath. He curses under his breath, scrambling to catch it before it falls, rebalancing himself awkwardly atop Sgaeyl’s back. The dragon shifts beneath him, sensing his tension, and Xaden feels heat flood his face.

He exhales sharply and pivots Sgaeyl toward the forest edge, praying no one caught the graceless display. There’s no laughter, no snide comment from the riders nearby, and he allows himself to hope that his brief clumsiness went unnoticed.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement—graceful, fluid. Violet swings effortlessly onto the back of her dragon, settling into place with such elegant control that her blades barely so much as shift. Every movement is deliberate, precise. Balanced.

Xaden stares, momentarily forgetting himself.

“How did you do that?” he asks, his brow pulling into a puzzled furrow. His voice betrays a mix of awe and irritation—not at her, exactly, but at the contrast she so easily displays.

Violet turns her head just enough to glance back at him, the corner of her mouth curving in that maddening, knowing smile of hers.

“Mounting a dragon isn’t an arcane art, Your Highness,” she replies sweetly. “Even those of us outside Basgiath's Riders Quadrant manage from time to time.”

Her words are light, teasing, but there's something sharper just beneath the surface—an edge to the playfulness that suggests she knows exactly what he’s thinking. That she always seems to know.

He wants to question her. To press. To finally demand the truth behind the thousand questions circling her like crows—where she learned to move like that, how she carries herself with the calm authority of someone who’s seen battlefields she refuses to speak of. But before he can open his mouth, the horn sounds again.

A sharp, clear note that cuts through the dawn like a blade.

The hounds erupt in wild song, barking and howling as they strain against their tethers, and the gathered dragons snap to attention, wings twitching with restless anticipation.

The hunt has begun.

And Violet—whatever secrets she holds—rides silently at his side.

Xaden leans forward and puts his heels to Sgaeyl’s sides, loosening his restrain on her power just enough to grant her freedom—real freedom, not the calculated precision he usually demands of her. The dragon surges forward at once, lifting into the sky in a blur of blue scales and wings that slice through the cold morning air with exhilarating speed. She flies low at first, skimming just above the treetops, the sharp scent of pine and frost filling Xaden’s lungs. He doesn’t glance back—doesn’t need to. He can hear the rhythmic wingbeats of Violet’s dragon behind him, close enough to match their pace, far enough to keep her distance.

Around them, the rest of the hunting party bursts into motion, the air filled with the thunder of wings and the ragged chorus of hounds baying below. Branches whip past in a blur. Someone off to Xaden’s right shouts a curse, followed by the raucous laughter of others—likely one of the younger nobles who hadn’t ducked in time. Xaden drops low just in time to avoid a thick limb himself, smirking faintly at the sound of a second muffled curse behind him. The hunt has begun in earnest, and the forest is alive with it.

But after only a few minutes, once they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the worst of the chaos, Xaden pulls back gently on the reins and leans into Sgaeyl’s descent. She drops low, her wings folding slightly to reduce drag as they glide in a wide arc over the trees. Then, with a final powerful beat, she lands in a narrow clearing, talons sinking into the frost-hardened ground.

The world falls quiet.

Xaden is breathing hard, flushed with the thrill of the flight, and Sgaeyl is too, her nostrils flaring as she shakes out her wings, preening.

It’s only a moment before Violet arrives.

Her red daggertail dragon breaks through the treeline at a controlled glide, landing with a rustle of leaves and a scattering of frost. Violet leans low over her dragon’s neck, laughter already spilling from her lips before they even come to a full stop.

“She’s so fast!” she exclaims, grinning broadly at Sgaeyl as she dismounts. “I had no idea she could fly like that.”

Xaden swings down from Sgaeyl’s back, running a steadying hand along her neck as she chuffs, pleased with herself. The dragon nuzzles into the touch, soaking in the praise like it was owed to her from the beginning.

“I don’t let her do it often,” Xaden admits, voice softer now that they’re alone. “She gets wound up. Once she starts flying like that, she doesn’t want to stop. We end up circling the skies for hours until she finally wears herself out.”

“She’s a natural,” Violet says, her eyes still on the dragon, admiration clear in her tone. “You’re lucky to have found her.”

Xaden’s head tilts slightly at that, her words catching him off guard.

“Found her?” he echoes.

Violet meets his gaze easily, untroubled, still catching her breath.

“I mean… I still can’t believe you stumbled upon her in the wild. She’s extraordinary.”

A strange tension creeps into the moment. Xaden straightens. His brows draw together in quiet confusion.

“How did you know that?”

The story of how Sgaeyl came into his life wasn’t public knowledge. The official record stated she was a gifted hatchling, a rare but noble-blooded dragon bonded to the young prince. Most of the court believed it. Perhaps a few of the older handlers suspected otherwise—her temperament, her reluctance to follow standard cues—but none would have dared voice it. He’d never confirmed the truth aloud, not even once.

Violet blinks at his expression, then tilts her head, frowning slightly.

“Garrick told me,” she says slowly. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

Her voice is soft, a touch uncertain now. Not mocking. Not prying. Just genuinely unaware she’s stepped into territory he hadn’t meant to share.

Xaden doesn’t answer immediately. He’s too busy watching her, trying to read the layers beneath her words. How much she knows. Why she knows. How easily she moves through walls he didn’t even realise he’d left unguarded.

It unsettles him. And yet… it doesn’t feel threatening.

“It’s not exactly a secret,” Xaden says at last, his brow still drawn as he watches her. “More that it’s… not widely known.”

There’s a pause—measured, weighty—as if he’s sifting through the implications of her knowing, and through Garrick’s decision to tell her. It wasn’t like Garrick to speak out of turn. But then again, Garrick had always had a good read on people, and he clearly got on with Violet. He’d even suggested she be the one to care for Sgaeyl when Xaden was away—a recommendation Xaden had accepted, albeit with some reluctance at the time. Perhaps Garrick had believed she needed the context. Perhaps he was right.

Xaden lets out a slow breath and glances toward Sgaeyl, who’s sniffing at a patch of frost near a root-cluster, entirely unbothered.

“She’s not considered 'purebred',” he says quietly. “Which means, by certain standards, I shouldn’t be riding her. Especially not as heir.”

Violet tilts her head at him, the faintest crease forming between her brows.

“Well, that seems ridiculous,” she says without hesitation. “She’s extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a horse, or dragon, or anything move like that. Who cares where she was born or what her bloodline is?”

Xaden’s lips twitch faintly, but there’s little humour in it.

“Plenty of people. Nobles, mostly. Tradition matters to them. Appearances. Lineage. The idea that a creature like her—unclaimed, untamed—could be bonded to me, let alone carry me into battle, undermines the neat little hierarchy they’ve built their power on.”

He doesn’t say it bitterly. Just matter-of-fact, like someone long since used to the weight of rules that make no sense but are no less binding for it.

Violet meets his gaze, unfazed.

“I’m not going to say anything,” she says simply.

“I know,” Xaden replies. And to his own surprise… he does.

Chapter Text

Violet tilts her head, eyes drifting around the clearing, one brow arching in question. The light here is dappled and dim, fractured by the thick canopy overhead, casting shifting patterns across the mossy earth. Her voice is quiet, curious.

“And what, pray tell, prompted us to stop here?”

“I’ll need to dismount if I’m going to track properly,” Xaden replies, already swinging one leg over Sgaeyl’s sleek flank. His boots land with a soft thud on the damp forest floor, and the dragon snorts once, contentedly, before wandering a few steps away to nose through the tufts of grass that somehow thrive beneath the heavy shadows.

Kneeling, Xaden lowers himself into the undergrowth, fingers brushing over a patch of disturbed dirt and a few snapped twigs. He studies the marks with a soldier’s intensity, dark eyes flicking from one scuffed impression to the next.

“And what is it you're hoping to find?” Violet asks, her voice softening to match the hush of the trees, reverent almost, as though afraid to break the spell the woods had woven.

“A deer,” he murmurs, chewing lightly on his bottom lip in thought. “A young buck, by the look of things. See there?" He nods toward the edge of the clearing, pointing at the gnarled trunk of a pine tree, "He’s been marking that pine—see the scarring on the bark? It’s recent. The antlers aren’t large yet, but they’ve been rubbing hard against the trunk. He’s not fully-grown yet, but it seems he's maturing nicely.”

Violet follows the line of his gesture, her eyes narrowing slightly at the tree in question. The bark had been stripped away in rough patches, exposing pale wood beneath like bone beneath torn skin.

“You can glean all that from a few gouges?” she asks, not with doubt but with quiet admiration.

Xaden rises, brushing his hands clean on his trousers.

“The forest speaks, if you know how to listen. The creatures leave trails behind—stories carved into the ground, the trees, the silence.” He takes a breath and glances deeper into the woods, where mist curls like silver threads between the trunks. “I want to—”

A crack.

Something moves—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of sound that doesn't belong to wind or bird or falling leaf.

Not loud, but sudden. Definite.

Both of them freeze at once.

Somewhere to the east, behind a screen of bramble and fern, the underbrush shifts again—barely audible, but unmistakable.

Sgaeyl and Violet’s red daggertail stop mid-motion, their sleek heads swivelling toward the sound. Ears pricked, bodies still. Even the mist seems to hold its breath.

Violet’s hand remains suspended in the air, fingers splayed, as though she’s been turned to glass in the middle of a movement. Her eyes are locked on the shadows beneath the trees, utterly unmoving, her body attuned to something ancient and instinctive.

Xaden doesn’t breathe. Slowly, without a word, he lets his dagger slide down from the sheath hidden in his sleeve and into his waiting palm, the familiar weight of it grounding him like a lifeline. His heart is pounding—not fast, not yet, but hard enough to send a subtle tremor through his limbs. The logical part of his mind whispers that it’s probably just the buck. It has to be the buck.

“It won’t be a bear,” he tells himself. “It’s too early. Too light.”

But instinct is louder than reason.

Cold blooms beneath his ribs, coiling tight. His mind is already calculating. How to defend himself. How to protect Violet. How to keep the dragons from panicking if it’s something worse than a startled deer. How to intercept whatever may come from the brush before it has a chance to reach them.

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, unhurried and precise as it slides along his temple and down his jaw—an anchor in the stillness, as every heartbeat stretches thin.

And then, another breath of silence.

Waiting. Watching. Listening.

Chapter Text

Xaden doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath until it escapes him all at once in a sharp exhale, his shoulders dropping as the foliage parts to reveal a familiar shape—sleek and sure, a golden snout nosing through the underbrush. The feather-tail steps carefully into the clearing, her gait cautious but unafraid, and when her golden eyes find his, her tail lifts in recognition. Her tongue lolls from the side of her mouth in what can only be described as a grin, her ears twitching with curiosity.

'She remembers me'.

The thought unfurls slowly, almost disbelieving, as warmth spreads through his chest. He begins to smile, the corners of his mouth lifting without permission, stunned by the familiarity of her presence. But before he can call her name—or any name at all—the feather-tail's entire posture shifts. Her hackles bristle, her teeth flash in a half-snarl, and her golden eyes narrow.

“Xaden—don’t move.”

The command slices through the quiet, low and urgent. He turns toward the voice and finds Violet still astride her dragon, blade drawn and levelled with unnerving precision at the feather-tail's chest. Her expression is hard, unreadable save for the sharp focus in her eyes.

The small dragon lets out a low snarl, deep in her throat, and the red dagger-tail beside Violet begins to shift uneasily, claws stamping at the earth. Her muscles tense, nostrils flaring as she catches the feather-tail's scent.

“Wait—don’t!” Xaden shouts, instinct driving his body before thought can catch up. He throws himself between Violet and the dragon, arms raised, shielding the creature with his own body.

Violet lets out a furious curse and jerks her blade back with lightning speed. The feather-tail halts at once, teeth vanishing behind a closed jaw, the snarl dying in her chest. Silence falls again, but it’s taut and vibrating, strung between them like a wire pulled too tight.

“I could’ve hit you!” Violet snaps, breathless. Her eyes are wide, and for the first time since he’s known her, there’s something unsteady in them. “What were you thinking, throwing yourself in front of me like that?”

But Xaden barely hears her.

He drops to his knees in the grass, and the dragon, with an almost delighted chuff, presses forward without hesitation. Her massive body leans into him, warm and solid and unmistakably familiar. She rubs her head against his chest, nosing up beneath his chin with a low, rumbling whine of pleasure.

Her breath reeks of blood and carrion, the unmistakable stench of a fresh kill clinging to her tongue. But he doesn't flinch, doesn’t draw back. Instead, he closes his eyes and presses his face into the shallow of her scaled neck, holding her tightly, reverently, as if she might disappear should he let go.

His arms don’t quite reach around her breadth, but she allows it—allows him to embrace her with the kind of trust that animals don’t extend lightly. Her pleased chortle vibrates against his chest, and he swears he can feel it in his bones.

“Um,” Violet says slowly, still holding her blade—though now it droops at her side, clearly forgotten. “Are you hugging a wild feather-tail?”

“She’s not wild,” Xaden murmurs, his voice muffled by scales. “She’s… an old friend. I knew her when I was younger.”

The dragon's tail gives a slow thump against the earth as though to confirm the sentiment.

Violet stares at the pair of them, utterly dumbfounded.

“This country is deranged,” she mutters, sheathing her blade at last. “Singing rocks. Secret passageways. Rogue princes taming forest dragons with hugs. What in the gods’ names have I gotten myself into?”

Heat blooms at the base of Xaden’s neck, creeping up to his ears. He groans into the dragon's scales.

“I forgot you were witness to my midnight sojourn,” he mutters.

The feather-tail shifts in Xaden’s embrace, twisting gently to free herself. He releases her at once, and she pads away with fluid grace, giving Sgaeyl a wide berth before settling a few feet off, lowering herself onto her haunches. Her golden eyes remain fixed on him—unblinking, perceptive, and impossibly knowing.

Violet exhales slowly, resettling the blade into the sheath on her back. The tension in her shoulders eases, and she watches the dragon with a sort of wry admiration.

“Your Highness,” she says, arching a brow with a half-smile, “that’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

The title stings more than it should. Xaden shifts slightly, brushing the grass from his hands as he stands, and clears his throat.

“You called me by my name. Just now.” The words come out quiet, but firm. He hadn’t registered it at the time—had been too preoccupied with the threat, the moment—but now, hearing ‘Your Highness’ again in her voice, the contrast is jarring. When she’d said his name, there’d been urgency in it. Fear. Care. It had struck through him like lightning.

And he realizes, with sharp clarity, that he doesn’t want the space between them that formality brings. Not from her.

Violet’s cheeks color immediately, her gaze dropping as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. It’s disarming. Her flustered expression, the soft curve of her mouth—it all strikes him as so breathtaking he nearly forgets to breathe.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to be so—”

“I didn’t mind,” he says quickly, cutting across her apology. His voice catches slightly, so he clears it again. “Truly. I don’t mind… if you use my name.”

Violet looks up at him, startled. Her lips part, but no sound emerges at first.

“I— I couldn’t,” she stammers. “It wouldn’t be—”

“You found me half-hanging out of a portrait frame with dust in my hair and a questionable plan in motion,” Xaden replies, deadpan. “I think, by now, calling me by my name would be the least scandalous part of our acquaintance.”

A beat passes.

Violet lets out a soft, uneven laugh, her fingers threading through her hair as she looks off into the forest. There's a furrow in her brow, a thoughtful crease that doesn't quite match her smile.

“I can’t figure you out,” she says quietly. “I thought I had you pinned. Had some idea of what to expect. But you keep…” Her voice trails off, then returns with a quiet sort of wonder. “You keep shifting. Changing. Every time I think I understand you, you become someone else.”

Xaden watches her, momentarily at a loss.

“I’m not trying to change,” he says, the words escaping more vulnerably than he means.

'I just have too many roles to play, he thinks bitterly. Too many masks. And I’m not sure anymore which parts of myself are truly mine.'

“I know,” Violet says, her gaze returning to him. There's something in her expression—softness, perhaps, or understanding. “Still, it’s strange, trying to let go of the formalities. After all this time.”

“If Sgaeyl can warm to you in the space of an afternoon, I think you’re more than capable of adjusting,” Xaden replies, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. The tension that had held him taut seems to ease, as though he’s finally stepped back from the cliff’s edge onto solid ground.

Violet snorts, then laughs properly, the sound curling into the misty air between them like music.

“All right. Then tell me,” she says, her voice lilting with teasing elegance. “What are we supposed to do with a feather-tail, Xaden?”

The way she says his name—deliberately, like a secret she’s testing the weight of—makes something flutter behind his ribs. He feels as though he’s drunk on the sound of it, light-headed and foolishly warm.

“She’s here for the hunt,” he says, glancing toward the feather-tail dragon, who is now watching them both with quiet patience. “She’ll guide us.”

Violet lifts a brow, all faux gravity and theatrical understanding.

“Ah, naturally. A hunting feather-tal. Of course. Why didn’t that occur to me immediately?”

Xaden chuckles under his breath, his shoulders relaxing further as he watches her.

“You’re adapting already.”

Violet lifts her chin, a crooked smile playing at her lips.

“Adapting,” she repeats. “Is that what this is?”

Xaden tilts his head, studying her face—how the sunlight filters through the trees and catches in the burnished strands of her hair.

“It’s what we’re all doing,” he says softly. “Surviving means learning how to shift.”

She turns toward him then, fully, her expression unreadable for a moment. The teasing’s gone from her voice when she speaks again.

“And what happens when you run out of things to shift into?”

Xaden’s breath catches.

Her words strike too close to a truth he rarely names, and for a moment he can’t look away from her eyes—so open, so devastatingly sincere. He’s standing close enough now to feel the warmth of her body, to see the delicate rise and fall of her chest, and gods help him, he wants to close the distance. Wants to touch her the way she looks at him—like she’s not afraid of what she’ll find beneath the surface.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, his voice low. “Maybe that’s when someone reminds you who you really are.”

The silence that follows is thick and golden. The small dragon shifts again at the edge of the clearing, but neither of them move.

Violet’s voice is a whisper when she answers.

“And who’s reminding you, Xaden?”

He doesn't speak. Instead, he reaches out without thinking, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, letting his fingers graze her cheekbone. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into his touch.

Her breath hitches. So does his.

“I shouldn’t—” he starts, the words hoarse and unfinished.

“Then don’t,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it. Her eyes drop to his mouth, flicker back up to meet his gaze again.

He feels suspended in that moment, caught between wanting and restraint, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. Every inch of his body is aware of hers, every instinct screaming to close the last sliver of space between them.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he lowers his hand and says, voice barely steady, “Come on. Let’s find that buck.”

Violet exhales shakily, a small smile curving her lips—but it’s softer now, tinged with something deeper, unspoken.

She walks beside him in silence, but when their fingers brush, neither of them pulls away.

Xaden casts Violet a sideways glance, his expression dry but tinged with something softer.

“As for the feather-tail—I told you. She used to accompany my mother and I on the hunt, when I was a boy.”

The dragon's ears flick forward, as if recognising the mention of old memories. Her head tilts, golden eyes bright with awareness, and for a heartbeat, she looks less like a wild predator and more like a loyal hound waiting for a command. The sight stirs something deep and aching in Xaden’s chest—an old, childlike longing to belong to something, or someone, without needing to earn it.

He swallows it down like he always has. Turning, he gestures toward the tree, where pale bark is exposed in long vertical scrapes.

“Find,” he says simply.

The feather-tail lifts her muzzle to the wind, breathes in the cool air, and then slips back into the forest without a sound—fluid, effortless, a shadow returned to the trees.

Violet watches her vanish, then looks back at Xaden, one brow raised.

“Do you speak to all beasts of the wild, or just the noble ones?”

There’s a glint of amusement in her tone, but something curious beneath it, too—an edge of wonder, like she hasn’t decided yet if he’s entirely real.

Xaden chuckles, the sound quiet and genuine.

“Only the ones who listen.”

Her mouth quirks in a smile, but she doesn’t look away.

“You keep doing that,” she says.

“Doing what?”

“Surprising me.” Her voice is quieter now, thoughtful. “You talk to dragons and follow deer tracks like it’s second nature. And you say it so simply, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

He shrugs one shoulder, trying not to look too pleased by the fascination in her eyes.

“Maybe it is. Or maybe I’m just better in the woods than in courtrooms.”

Violet takes a step closer, leaves crunching beneath her boots.

“Maybe you’re better than you let on.”

He meets her gaze, and for a breath, the forest seems to hold its breath too. Neither of them moves. The trees sway, and the distant sound of the feather-tail padding through underbrush is the only thing that breaks the stillness.

“I don’t know what I am when I’m not trying to be something for someone else,” he says at last, the honesty rough-edged but real. “But I know I used to feel like myself here.”

Violet’s brow softens.

“Then maybe we should stay here a little longer.”

Xaden blinks at her, startled.

Not by her words—but by how much he wants that. Wants her to mean it.

Chapter Text

The feather-tail's easy lope stretches into a graceful run by the time Xaden catches up, her movements fluid as water, threading through the underbrush with wild purpose. But she doesn’t vanish—never pulls too far ahead. Her golden tail flashes between the trees like a banner, something familiar to chase, to trust.

Above, the sun breaks through the forest canopy in golden shafts, piercing the winter gloom with sudden, breath taking warmth. She weaves through the light like a spirit made of it, a creature born not just of flesh and bone, but memory and myth. And for a moment, Xaden forgets he’s riding, forgets everything but the primal rhythm of the chase—his breath quick and sharp, blood thrumming, the thrill of the hunt wrapping around him like an old song.

It’s like being part of a pack again—like the years have fallen away, and he’s the boy with muddy boots and a sharp-eyed mother, running after the feather-tail with wind in his lungs and joy so fierce it feels like a kind of pain.

Behind him, he hears the steady beat of wings—Violet. Closer now. Her presence is like a second heartbeat beneath his own, her nearness a weightless pull on the edges of his awareness. His chest swells with it, impossibly full—too much and not enough. Like the sky itself might crack open from holding everything he feels.

He feels like one of those lanterns they set adrift during the summer solstice—glowing, untethered, trembling on the edge of flight.

He still can’t believe the feather-tail had returned. That she’d found him again, after all these years. It feels less like coincidence and more like fate, deliberate and quietly miraculous.

She never strays from her course, though now and then she slows to lift her nose to the breeze, inhaling, deciding. They move as one: man and dragon overhead, bound by the instinctive silence of the hunt. Even the birds seem to hold their breath—no chirp, no flutter, as if the whole forest knows what’s unfolding, and dares not interrupt.

The feather-tail finally draws to a complete stop at the edge of a break in the trees, her tongue lolling from her mouth as she pants, sides heaving from exertion. But her eyes are bright, alert. Expectant.

Xaden slides from his seat in a single motion, already reaching instinctively for the hilt at his waist. His fingers close around the worn leather of the grip, the familiar weight steadying him. He scans the trees out of habit—movement, shadows, the feel of something unnatural pressing too close—and doesn’t notice at first that Violet has dismounted, too.

“Aren’t you going to tie Sgaeyl off?” she asks, her voice hushed.

Xaden glances toward her, startled. He hadn’t heard her move—hadn’t even sensed her at his back—and now she’s standing beside her mount, all fluid grace and sharp intent, her gaze flicking from him to the woods like she already knows what waits just beyond.

“If something happens,” he says quietly, “I want Sgaeyl to be able to flee. She’ll fly back to the estate if it comes to that. Your dragon would do the same.” His gaze lingers on her, unreadable. “But I won’t stop you from tying her if it makes you feel safer.”

Violet shakes her head once, solemn.

“Lead on,” she whispers.

The smaller dragon dips her head as if in agreement, waiting just long enough for them to fall in behind her before she starts forward again—low and silent, nose to the ground, the picture of ancient precision.

Xaden draws his blade in full now, every muscle alive with tension. Beside him, Violet moves with spectral ease, her steps so soundless he has to glance at her once, just to make sure she’s truly there. She is. And not only there—but close. Too close. Her shoulder brushes against his arm with each step, her warmth bleeding into him until his skin prickles beneath his leathers.

The forest opens gradually around them. Light dapples the underbrush in slanted ribbons, and ahead, the delicate sound of running water threads through the stillness. A stream—narrow and quick-moving, too small for fish but enough to glint like glass between the roots and rocks.

The feather-tail pauses. Still. Watchful. Then glances back over her shoulder, tail swishing once, and Xaden understands.

He presses forward, slowly now, Violet keeping pace at his side. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at him, but he can feel her breath, warm and even, just under his jaw. The line of her arm touches his from elbow to wrist, and it’s maddening how steady she is, how calm she makes him feel even when his blood is surging like thunder through his veins.

They stop behind the wide trunk of a moss-covered tree. Xaden peers around it first, then eases to the side just enough to let Violet lean with him. Their bodies align instinctively, her hip brushing his thigh, their shadows nearly overlapping.

Then he sees it. The buck.

It drinks from the far side of the stream, one slender hoof dipped into the water. Its antlers are impressive, more sprawling than Xaden had expected for a creature still in its youth—its flanks are lean, almost too narrow for the length of its legs, but there’s strength there. Promise.

A breath catches in Xaden’s throat. It’s not just the deer. It’s the moment.

The stillness. The closeness.

The fact that Violet hasn’t moved away, hasn’t said a word, hasn’t broken the fragile thread of tension that hums between them like drawn wire.

The deer is alone.

Strange. A creature so young, wandering without its herd. Unusual enough to make him hesitate. His instincts twinge—years of hunting, surviving, reading patterns—but the only thing his mind truly latches onto is the pulse of Violet beside him. The way her eyes narrow slightly, as if she senses it too. That something here doesn’t quite fit.

“Why’s he alone?” she breathes, just barely audible.

Xaden shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t know.”

And though the answer should’ve sounded like strategy, like caution, it feels like something else entirely. Something deeper. Something that could just as easily have been about the deer.

Or about him.

“Xaden,” Violet whispers, her breath brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. The sound of his name in her voice makes something twist low in his gut. “Are you—?”

He nods, sharp and tight, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his blade.

Everything else drops away.

The forest, the light, the air—none of it matters. Only her hand pressed steady against his shoulder, grounding him. Only the weight of the blade, familiar and solid in his grip. Only the bubbling stream that seems suddenly too loud in the silence. Only the taste of nerves on his tongue, dry and metallic. Only the deer, impossibly unaware of the pounding rhythm of Xaden’s heart or the breath he can’t quite get to sit right in his lungs.

The buck lowers its head again to drink. Its tongue flicks delicately across its nose, catching drops of water. And for a moment, Xaden sees himself in the animal’s stillness. Alone. Watchful. Young and already too worn down by the world.

It should’ve been simple.

He knows this rhythm. He grew up on it—stalking through leaves with his mother beside him, her whispers more instinct than sound. The point was never the kill. It was the lessons. The patience. The quiet. How to move with the world instead of against it.

But this?

This doesn’t feel like the hunt. This feels like a choice.

The fire that normally stokes itself higher in his chest—burning hotter the closer the prey gets—barely glows now. Instead, it’s Violet’s fingers on his shoulder that feed the heat, slow and steady. The gentleness in the air between them. The eyes of a creature that doesn’t know what’s coming.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he does, and he’s waiting anyway.

Let go, Xaden thinks. Just let go.

His blade trembles once in his hand. Just once.

Then it flies.

The sound is sharp—a clean whistle through the air, and then the solid 'thunk' as it embeds deep into a birch tree on the far side of the stream. A few birds burst from the nearby branches in protest, wings slapping the air.

Violet lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for a lifetime.

“You missed on purpose,” she says, wonder curling into the edges of her voice. Her hand tightens briefly on his shoulder. He can feel her eyes on him, but he can’t look away. Can’t move. His body is still, his blood still, his very breath caught halfway between now and something else.

The deer jolts violently at the sound, water splashing up around his legs as he pivots with startling grace. His body tenses, and for a moment, Xaden thinks he’ll bolt—vanish into the woods and be nothing but memory.

But he doesn’t.

He makes a low grunting sound, guttural and strange, and Xaden’s stomach drops.

“Wait—” he starts, but it’s already too late.

The buck lowers his head. And charges.

Water flies from his hooves as he barrels toward them, antlers gleaming like carved bone, sharp and brutal. The quiet of the moment shatters as instinct surges back through Xaden’s limbs, cold and violent.

“Move!” he barks, already stepping in front of Violet, his hand outstretched—empty now, the blade too far to reach.

The hunt is over. Now it’s survival.

Chapter Text

Violet’s hand shoots out to grip the front of his shirt, yanking Xaden backward just in time. The feather-tail snaps her teeth in warning, but the deer charges on, unrelenting—whether from fury or madness, it’s impossible to tell.

The buck does not slow. Does not startle. Does not fear.

He charges onward with dreadful purpose, as though untouched by reason, blind to pain, deaf to death itself—driven by the raw, unthinking ferocity of instinct.

Xaden stumbles, breath lodged somewhere deep in his throat—and then the world careens sideways. Agony erupts through his right leg, sharp and incandescent, and he crashes to the compact earth with a jarring, guttural cry. The breath flees his lungs; the impact cracks through bone and sinew with blinding force. Sight fragments. Sound splinters. The sky reels.

He folds inward on reflex, the pain consuming. Around him, chaos descends—feral snarls, wings beating in a wild rhythm, Sgaeyl roaring in the distance. Beneath the ringing in his ears, something breaks through: high, thin, and ragged like splintering glass.

Violet.

The thought of her strikes through the haze like a flare, and he forces himself upright, groaning as cold earth braces his palms. His vision swims, edges bleeding into whiteness—until, at last, the world returns.

Stillness. Sudden and grave.

Violet and the small dragon stand before him, sentinel and shadow, their bodies tense, shielding his broken frame. Her breath mists the air, ragged and fast, and his blade—his blade—is clenched between her trembling fingers.

And across the clearing, the buck lies still. Xaden's prize weapon buried clean through its throat.

Xaden stares.

Something fragile inside him splinters further, cracks echoing through his chest. The sound he makes is low, hoarse, unbidden. At once, Violet turns to him—eyes wide, glistening, frantic—and falls to her knees, her hands framing his face like she can will him whole again.

“You’re alright,” she whispers, voice taut between command and desperation. “Xaden—please. Tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” he says—though the words taste like ash. Pain sears through his leg, dull and hot, but it's nothing compared to the pressure building beneath his ribs, to the hollowness spreading through his chest. “I’m fine.”

Still, his gaze drifts—drawn back to the deer. To the way its limbs are folded. To the silence now draped over the clearing like mourning cloth.

“You killed him.”

“He would have killed you,” Violet replies instantly, her voice firm, clear, immutable. She doesn’t so much as glance at the body. Her focus is absolute—on him, and only him. On the way his skin has paled, on the tremble in his limbs. Her touch stays gentle but resolute, as though if she lets go, he might unravel.

The feather-tail steps forward, slow and silent, lowering her head to scent the fallen buck. But Violet remains still, unblinking.

“Xaden,” she murmurs, softer now. “Look at me.”

He does. Because he cannot bear not to.

“You had a perfect shot,” she says, the words catching like wind in a taut sail, her hands tighten slightly on his face, grounding him. “I saw it. You were aiming for the throat. So why—why did you miss?”

He says nothing. Because there is no answer he can give. Not yet. Not aloud.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and dense with all the things he cannot name.

But in the marrow of him, he knows; He didn’t miss. He chose not to kill.

Because the deer was young. Alone. Because its eyes held a flicker of something familiar—something he recognized in himself. Because not everything that runs must be brought down.

Xaden’s throat constricts as he swallows, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Violet’s tunic before he even realizes he has moved. Only when his knuckles protest does he become aware of how firmly he clutches her.

“I just…” His voice is rough, frayed at the edges. “I don’t know why. I just did.”

A small, strained sound escapes Violet—a laugh, though it’s tangled with disbelief and exhaustion. She lets her hands fall from his face, slow and reluctant.

“You truly are the most perplexing of princes,”  she murmurs, her words soft and shaking with something he can’t name.

Xaden lets his head bow forward, relief stealing the tension from his spine. A breath escapes him, half-laugh, half-sigh—until a sharp pulse of sensation surges down his leg and he groans aloud as feeling returns.

Violet reacts instantly, her brow knitting as she follows his gaze—then draws a sharp, involuntary hiss through her teeth just as Xaden fully comprehends what he’s seeing.

His foot is twisted at a sickening angle, caught tight between two jagged roots at the base of the tree they’d sheltered behind. But that’s not the worst of it.

The young buck’s antler is still embedded—puncturing clean through muscle and bone.

A cold wave crashes through him. Nausea curls low in his gut at the sight of his own mangled limb. He has to look away.

He finds Violet instead.

She’s biting her lower lip so hard it’s gone bloodless, her eyes wide and stricken.

“Do you think we can get the boot off without cutting it?” Violet asks, her voice low, laced with concern.

“I sure hope so,” Xaden replies, though the words are slow and uncertain. He reaches toward the boot—only for Violet to move first, already kneeling, already sliding careful hands beneath his injured foot.

Before he can protest, she begins to ease the leather down his calf.

The pain is instantaneous—a white-hot agony that sears through him like fire. His vision narrows to the blur of branches overhead and the sound of his own fractured breathing. Thought vanishes. Language dissolves. Only pain remains.

He tries not to make a sound, but the broken grunts escape anyway, ripped from somewhere deep and helpless. Violet is as gentle as she can be, her movements precise and painstakingly slow—but even the faintest shift is a dagger driven into the meat of his leg.

Tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. He bites down hard on his tongue, the copper taste of blood blooming in his mouth. He blinks rapidly, forcing the tears away, not wanting her to see, not when she’s concentrating so fiercely. Not when she’s doing this for him.

The boot resists her every effort, the leather tight against flesh already swelling and discoloured. When it finally comes free, it peels away with a sickening slowness, revealing an ankle already blossoming with purples and deep, livid blues.

Violet exhales a sound between a wince and a sigh, her fingers hovering just above the bruise. She doesn’t press, only brushes the edge of the swelling with a feather-light touch, careful and reverent.

“This isn't good… your ankle is badly broken, twisted, and it's too swollen for me to be able to try and re-set it,” she murmurs. “You need a healer, Xaden.”

He doesn’t respond—can’t. His chest is rising too fast, his jaw locked against another groan.

Then she looks up at him through the veil of her lashes—and blinks, startled.

“You’re crying,” she whispers, more wonder than reproach. Her hand lifts gently to his cheek, and with the barest sweep of her thumb, she brushes away the tears he hadn’t known were there. Her touch is unbearably tender. “I’ll get help,” she says softly. “I’ll bring them back to you."

“No.”

The word rips from Xaden’s throat, harsher and louder than intended, echoing like a shot through the stillness. The feather-tail's ears twitch at the sound, and Violet flinches back a step, her expression flickering with surprise. But he barely sees her—his mind is spiralling too fast, caught in the undertow of dread.

“No,” he repeats, breathless now, like the very thought is poisoning the air in his lungs. “Violet, you don’t understand—” His voice is fraying, unravelling thread by thread. “You can’t possibly fathom what it would mean if I returned like this. I wouldn’t just be wounded—I’d be unmade. They would tear me apart. I’m meant to be king next year. King. And I can’t even finish a ceremonial hunt—can’t bring down a single deer, and now look at me—laid out like some shattered thing.”

He swallows hard, as if the words are blades.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he breathes, anguish sharpening every syllable. “To wear a crown they’ve already placed on your head and feel the weight of it crush you before it's ever even touched your brow. I must be unshakable—without flaw. Not just for myself, but for them, my people, my kingdom."  Xaden says quietly, the words deliberate.

His hands tremble, fingers flexing against the frozen earth like he needs to ground himself, like he’s trying to hold the world still beneath him. But it’s already tilting, spinning. He shakes his head in sharp, frantic jerks, unable to stop even as he knows how he must look—unravelled, unfit, undone.

"If I falter, if I show even a moment of weakness, I risk losing everything; Their faith, their trust… the right to lead, even when there is no one else to take up the mantle.” His voice trembles under the weight of the truth he’s long carried alone. His admission falls heavily, the words barely audible, cracked down the middle. His eyes squeeze shut against the weight of it all—against the shame, the fear, the unbearable pressure bearing down on his chest like a collapsing star. He can’t look at Violet. He doesn’t want to see pity on her face. Or worse—understanding.

“I would sooner crawl from this forest on shattered bone than let them see me like this,” he murmurs, each word tasting like blood and truth. His voice hitches, but he pushes on, softer now, as if the admission might fracture him. "I have to shape myself into the god they already worship. Because if I don’t… they’ll tear the man beneath apart. I must become a myth in flesh. Because if I’m anything less—if I bleed, if I stumble—they’ll turn on me and without my people, I am nothing.”

His voice breaks on the final word, raw and ruined, and still he cannot stop. Because this is the truth no one is allowed to speak: that the crown doesn’t wait for weakness. That thrones are carved from bone and held by fear. That kings are not permitted to bleed.

He squeezes his eyes shut, unwilling to witness the look on Violet’s face, too ashamed to meet the truth in her gaze.

“I have to be who they expect me to be. There’s no other choice.”

The silence that follows is fragile, suspended—broken only by the shallow, uneven cadence of Xaden’s breath, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender. Panic claws at his throat, his thoughts spiralling into a darkness he cannot seem to climb out of.

And then—with a touch as gentle as falling snow—a hand finds his neck. Her thumb presses gently beneath his jaw, anchoring him with quiet certainty. He opens his eyes, and Violet is there, kneeling before him, calm and steady. Her smile is soft, small—but it reaches her eyes, warm and sure and impossibly kind, like she’s offering him a place to rest. There’s no pity in her gaze. no shock, no fear, no disdain. Only warmth. Only her. Xaden finds no judgment in those hazel eyes. Only understanding, clear and unwavering, as if she’s seen the storm inside him and chooses to ride it out than turn tail and run.

“All right,” she says at last, her voice even and sure, like a thread pulling him back from the edge. “I understand. Do you have any healing salve with you?”

“In my pack,” he replies, barely above a whisper. There’s a raw edge to the words, but Violet doesn’t falter. She doesn’t ask him to explain himself. She doesn’t press or pry. And that—gods, that—means more than she could possibly know.

She’s already moving, rising to her feet with purpose, rifling through his things with deft fingers. A quiet hum of triumph escapes her when she finds the small, bluish-green tin, and she returns, unscrewing the lid to release the sharp, clean scent of mountain herbs and bitterroot.

Kneeling again, she scoops a bit of the salve between her fingers.

“This will sting,” she murmurs, glancing up. “Though perhaps not as much as whatever’s bruised that impossible pride of yours.”

Despite everything, Xaden huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh.

“That’s already in ruins.”

“Good,” she says, her tone light, but her eyes serious. “Ruins are honest and within them, there's nowhere to hide." Violet’s touch is careful as she applies the balm to the angry swell of his ankle. "You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His breath catches.

“If I fall apart now, Violet… there won’t be anything left when it’s time to put myself back together again.”

Her touch slows, then stills. And when she speaks, her voice is a whisper of silk and steel.

“Then let me be what holds you together, even if just for a little while.”

His gaze snaps to hers, startled by the depth in those words.

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation. “I do.”

Silence stretches between them again, but this time, it’s no longer heavy. It’s sheltering.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she says softly. “Not here. Not with me. Let them worship a king. I’ll take the man beneath the crown.”

Chapter Text

Relief spreads through Xaden’s body like a tide of cold fingers brushing up his leg—strange, numbing, but blessedly welcome. The ache dulls to something distant, the edge of agony softened by the salve’s faint magic and Violet's soothing ministrations. He exhales through gritted teeth as the worst of the pressure ebbs. The swelling diminishes slightly, though the bruising deepens, the skin around the injury now a grim palette of purples and blackened blue. It’s not healed. Not even close. But it’s enough—enough to ride, enough to keep him upright until they reach a healer.

Violet is already moving, efficient and calm, as if the weight of what had just happened hasn’t touched her at all.

“I’ll set a marker so someone can retrieve the buck,” Violet says, her voice composed, almost gentle. “Then we’ll return to the courtyard. We’ll say you grew restless after your kill and chose to ride back early.”

Xaden blinks, his brow drawing faintly.

“My kill?”

She meets his eyes without flinching, her words firm and measured.

“It would have been yours, had you not been gored through by said buck. That’s the truth I’ll speak, and there's no reason for anyone to doubt it.”

“You carry different blades than I do,” Xaden remarks, his voice rough with lingering pain but laced with something else—something warmer, rougher around the edges. He watches her closely, eyes narrowed not with suspicion, but with a growing sense of wonder tinged in disbelief.

And then she smiles.

Not a polite smile, not a gentle curve of lips meant to soothe. No, this is the kind of grin that sparks across her face like lightning striking dry earth—mischievous and knowing, utterly unrepentant. It transforms her, ignites her from the inside out, as though the very gods of chaos and cunning had pressed a kiss to her brow at birth and said, this one belongs to us. In that moment, Violet doesn’t just seem alive—she seems mythic, a trickster goddess drawn straight out of the oldest songs, made flesh in the wicked slant of her mouth.

“True,” she says airily, one brow arching as if to challenge him further. “If I had used one of my blades, they’d know it wasn’t your kill. The craftsmanship gives it away.”

A strange prickle climbs the back of Xaden’s neck. He blinks once—twice—then turns his gaze slowly back to the fallen deer. His breath catches.

There, embedded cleanly in the buck’s throat, is a dagger he knows as intimately as his own heartbeat. The hilt glints with unmistakable crimson in the pale forest light, its gem catching on what little sun filters through the canopy. One of his. Without question.

“You stole one of my daggers?” he asks, incredulous, his voice pitching slightly higher in his disbelief.

But Violet has already turned away, her braid swinging lightly behind her as she strides toward the dragons tethered farther off. There’s something so casual in the motion, so unconcerned, that it leaves him gaping in her wake.

“Borrowed, Your Highness,” she calls over her shoulder, her tone infuriatingly light. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m no thief.” Xaden just stares at her. “Your blades were closer than my own,” she adds, as though that excuses it, throwing up a hand in half-hearted defence.

He wants to argue. Gods, he wants to demand an explanation. Not because she used his blade—he couldn’t care less about that—but because he never even felt her take it. And he should have. Every moment of that fight is seared into his memory in painful, vivid clarity: the blinding jolt of agony when his ankle buckled, the heavy drumbeat of dragon wings above, the rasp of his own breath clawing at his lungs, and then—Violet. The feel of her hand in his for a fraction of a second. The way she slipped away, so swiftly, like smoke between his fingers.

He hadn’t seen the blade leave its sheath. Hadn’t felt it. She had taken it and struck down a buck mid-charge with all the grace and precision of a seasoned killer—and he had missed every second of it.

But he doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he glances down at the deer, at the bloodied hilt still gleaming like a signature scrawled across the moment, and manages, “I suppose it’s fortunate they were.”

“I’ve never put much faith in fortune,” Violet replies, glancing back with a smirk that borders on wicked. “But if you insist.”

Xaden exhales through his nose, something that’s half sigh and half reluctant laugh, and lets himself roll his eyes—because that’s what she’s waiting for, and because he doesn’t have the strength to pretend he doesn’t find her endlessly maddening. And endlessly brilliant.

“Come on,” Violet says, her voice softening as she returns to his side, gentling without losing its edge. “Let’s get you back onto your dragon.”

And somehow, in the shade-dappled quiet of the forest, it sounds less like a command and more like a promise; a promise that says she'll be there with him, come what may.

Xaden reaches out a hand, fingers curling weakly around the rough bark of the nearest tree. His arm trembles as he tries to lever himself upright, jaw clenched against the throb of pain radiating up his leg. He barely gets halfway before Violet makes a sound of exasperation—an incredulous little tsk that cuts sharper than any reprimand. She swats his hand away with a surprising amount of force for someone so small.

“Don’t be stupid,” she mutters, already stepping into the space beside him.

Before he can protest, she ducks her head beneath his arm with seamless precision, wrapping one arm behind his back while the other braces across his front. In one fluid motion, she lifts, anchoring him against her with a strength he hadn’t quite accounted for.

The shift is so effortless, so practiced, that it takes Xaden a full breath to realise he’s no longer bearing the majority of his own weight. She’s all but carrying him, guiding him gently but firmly toward Sgaeyl, each step a quiet refusal to let him fall.

He blinks, a little dazed, and glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together like she’s working through a math problem instead of hauling half his body across the forest floor. She doesn’t complain. Doesn’t gloat. Just moves like this is something she’s done before. Something she would do again.

“You didn’t actually believe I was going to let you walk on this, did you?” Violet asks, cutting him a sidelong look. Her voice is tinged with disbelief, edged with that same sharp, familiar irritation she wears like armour whenever he pretends he doesn’t need help.

Xaden exhales slowly, more out of embarrassment than exhaustion.

“I can make it to my dragon,” he insists, though his voice comes out thinner than he’d like. He keeps his gaze pointed forward, too aware of how close she is, how her scent lingers faintly of cedar and ash, how his arm is wrapped around her shoulders and his hand has somehow found purchase at her waist. Her presence is grounding, infuriating, and all-consuming.

He swallows, willing the heat climbing up the back of his neck to subside before it betrays him entirely.

“But,” he adds dryly, “getting into my seat is going to be the real challenge, Violet.”

A huff of laughter escapes her—more breath than sound—but her expression softens just slightly. And though she doesn’t look at him, he sees the faint curve of her mouth out of the corner of his eye.

“Good thing you’ve got me, then,” she murmurs, her tone quieter now. 

And as they inch their way toward Sgaeyl, Xaden holds onto that—her voice, her presence, her steady grip—as tightly as he holds onto her.

Xaden scarcely has time to question Violet’s unwavering confidence before she’s moving with sure, fluid purpose—bearing his weight as though he weighs nothing at all, which is far from reality. There’s no hesitation in her posture, no stumble in her footing, only the firm press of her body against his, and the subtle tightening of her grip as they reach the towering side of Sgaeyl.

He braces instinctively, half-expecting the inevitable moment when reality asserts itself—that she’ll misjudge the height of the dragon or the weight of the man leaning heavily on her. But the moment never comes.

There is no misstep. No collapse.

Violet adjusts her stance with practiced ease, muscles shifting beneath the curve-hugging leather of her riding gear. The cut of her jacket accentuates the strength in her shoulders, and Xaden is caught, spellbound, by the way those muscles bunch and flex as she braces him against the dragon’s scaled flank. She moves like someone who has done this before. Like someone who could carry him, if need be, all the way back to the estate.

He blinks, dazed. Whether from the lingering magic of the healing salve or the heat rising beneath his skin—coiling in his chest and neck and flooding his face—he can’t be sure. It might be the pain. It might be something far more dangerous.

Then Violet’s hands are at his hips.

A sharp jolt of awareness tears through him as her fingers press with unwavering intent, steadying him as he wobbles slightly, his injured leg hesitating. Her thumb settles just at the sensitive curve of his hipbone, the pressure gentle but firm, grounding.

“Let’s try to get your leg over the other side,” Violet says, utterly unbothered, her voice calm and clinical as though she isn’t standing impossibly close, holding him like she’s been sculpted to fit him perfectly.

Xaden swallows hard. His mouth is dry. He’s perilously aware of every point where their bodies touch, of the curl of her fingers through the fabric of his tunic, the faint scent of sweat and herbs and whatever that unplaceable note is that clings to Violet like storm-charged air.

She glances up at him.

“Xaden?”

“Yes,” he blurts, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Right. I’m—fine.”

A flicker of amusement crosses her face, but she doesn’t comment on the pink flush high on his cheekbones. Instead, she tightens her grip slightly, clearly preparing for the next motion.

“If it hurts too much,” she says, entirely straight-faced, “we’ll just pretend you’re inventing a bold new method of riding. Maybe the next generation of cadets will thank you for it.”

There’s a twinkle in her hazel eyes—teasing, warm, and effortlessly disarming. It’s so casual, so her, that Xaden almost forgets how close he is to simply combusting where he sits. He exhales, caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and lets her guide him the rest of the way up.

If he survives this ride back, it won’t be the injury that kills him. It’ll be Violet's goddamn hands.

"Ah yes, because I’m known far and wide for my fashion-forward thinking in court," Xaden deadpans, the dryness in his voice earning a soft laugh from Violet.

That sound—genuine and unguarded—warms something inside him despite the ache in his body. It draws a brief grin from his lips before he exhales and steels himself once more, turning his attention to the painstaking task ahead. Every movement feels like dragging iron through sand. He shifts, jaw tightening, as he begins the slow, clumsy process of lifting his injured leg over the curve of Sgaeyl’s neck.

Violet is there immediately, without hesitation. She steps in close, her hands bracketing the back of his knee and calf with practiced care, cradling the injured limb as if it were something precious. Her fingers are warm and sure against his skin, and her touch is gentle—but it doesn’t dull the pain. Together, with a quiet, wordless rhythm between them, they guide his leg into place, until he is once again astride Sgaeyl.

“I’ll get your boot,” Violet says, already turning before he can respond. She retrieves it, along with his blade, from where they’d fallen—cast aside in the chaos of the hunt.

As she moves, the feather-tail circles close once more.

She doesn’t snarl, doesn’t bare teeth, doesn’t seem disturbed by their proximity. Instead, she stands still for a long moment, golden eyes locked on Xaden’s face with an expression so uncannily perceptive it steals the breath from his lungs. Her ears twitch, tail moving in a slow, contemplative sway, and then she tilts her head just slightly—as though studying him.

'I’m sorry', he thinks, not knowing whether she could hear him, not knowing why it feels like he owes her something. 'I didn’t finish the hunt.'

The small dragon shifts her gaze. She looks at Violet next, eyes narrowing as if considering her, too. Then she takes a measured step toward Xaden, pauses, and fixes him with a look that is far too knowing to belong to any ordinary beast.

And suddenly, without warning, Xaden sees her.

His mother.

Not in form—no, the golden dragon is entirely herself—but in presence, in something unspoken that cuts straight through him. In the intensity of that gaze. In the way she sees him, in a way he hasn’t felt seen in years.

And then she lifts her head and howls.

The sound rises from her chest, echoing through the trees—a long, low lament that rolls through the clearing like fog, ancient and lonesome and full of things that ache. It carves a hollow space into his ribs where grief once burned hot, and now sits cold and quiet. A final goodbye.

As the last note fades, the feather-tail turns without ceremony and melts into the brush. Her padded feet whisper over leaves and moss, and within seconds, she is gone—vanishing as swiftly and silently as she arrived.

Xaden stares after her, unsure whether the pounding in his chest is from the pain or from something deeper that refuses to settle.

A rustle to his left makes him look down. Violet is back at his side again, crouched slightly, boot in one hand.

“This is going to hurt,” she murmurs, her voice gentler now, as though she feels what’s hanging in the air around him. “But if we’re fully committed to this, it's probably best you don't go riding back to the estate with only one boot on.”

“I’ll be fine,” Xaden replies, though the words feel distant on his tongue.

She doesn’t argue. Just nods, and begins the careful work of sliding the boot back onto his foot.

The swelling has eased enough that the fit is less brutal than he feared, but pain still slices through him—sharp enough to make his vision pulse at the edges. He clenches his jaw to keep from cursing aloud, the healing salve's numbing effect too thin to spare him now.

But oddly, there’s a kind of reassurance in the agony. The pressure of the boot, the weight of it snug around his ankle, grounds him in a way that even the charm couldn’t. He breathes through it, inhales the scent of pine and blood and leather, and lets the pain anchor him.

Later, he knows, he’ll have to do this all over again. But for now, he lets himself rest in this moment, half-leaning into Violet’s touch, and silently thanks whatever gods might be listening that she’s here at all.

Chapter Text

Flying out of the forest is a test of endurance Xaden would rather not dwell on.

Every breath seems to pull against the ache in his leg, every shift of weight a reminder that his body is not his ally today. He grits his teeth and keeps his gaze fixed ahead, focusing on the slow, deliberate wingbeats of Sgaeyl beneath him. She flies in an unusually gentle rhythm—almost sluggish, if it weren’t for the subtle adjustments in her flight that reveal the truth: she’s trying to protect him, just as Violet is.

Beside him, Violet fills the air with stories. He knows she’s trying to distract him, and he in this instance, he finds himself grateful for her efforts. Her voice cuts through the haze of pain like a breeze through smoke—steady, warm, familiar.

She’s in the middle of telling him a tale that sounds half like legend, half like a report out of one of the Scribes’ more embellished records. Something about Navarre’s infamous thief—the elusive woman who has apparently spent decades pilfering magical relics and state secrets for the country’s rulers.

“She’s supposedly been at it for years,” Violet says, leaning forward a little, the sunlight catching on the strands of hair escaping her braid. “Stealing from rebels, royals, even the Empyrean. And no one’s ever caught her.”

Xaden lets out a low sound of disbelief.

“Wouldn’t that make her—what—over six hundred years old?” he asks, his words tight as he adjusts his leg slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like it's being stabbed through.

Sgaeyl lets out a soft huff of breath beneath them, as if in agreement.

“Navarre’s thief is obviously a creature of magic, or myth, depending which way one looks at things,” Violet replies, her tone overly reasonable, as though explaining simple facts to someone who’s missed an entire history lecture. “No one’s ever seen her while she’s actually working. But she shows up in Basgiath sometimes. I saw her once.”

Xaden blinks at her, startled out of his pain just long enough to register what she’s said.

“You saw her?” he repeats, scepticism thick in his voice. “How?”

“I have a friend in the Archives,” Violet says casually, like this is a completely ordinary conversation topic. “I was delivering a message for her one night and—” she flashes him a grin over her shoulder, “—there she was. In the forbidden wing. Gone by the time I blinked.”

He raises a brow, too tired to argue, but not so tired he’s going to let that pass without comment.

“What? Do you want me to guess she looked like?” he asks, voice dry.

Violet's grin turns sly, mischief sparking in her hazel eyes.

“Come on. Take a guess.”

Xaden exhales sharply through his nose. He’s aching in places he didn’t know he had, and the salve’s magic is starting to thin around the edges. But she’s looking at him like she’s inviting him into something secret and warm and utterly hers, and it’s impossible not to answer.

He tilts his head toward her.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Most beautiful person you’ve ever seen?”

There’s a brief pause, the kind that stretches just long enough for Xaden's breath to catch—then Violet laughs, bright and unrestrained. Her head tips back slightly with the sound, her braid shifting over her shoulder, and it echoes around them like sunlight threading through the canopy, scattering warmth in its wake.

“Close, but not quite," Violet chuckles before adding, "I suppose we can only ever guess what she really looks like,” Violet replies, amusement still lacing her voice. “After all, one could argue she’s just a fairytale.”

Her eyes remain on the horizon, but the edges of her grin linger—like she’s watching the idea slip from her fingers into the wind.

And somehow, despite everything—his injuries, the phantom ache of the feathertail’s roar still lingering in his chest—Xaden finds himself smiling. Not much, just a flicker. But it’s real.

“And what a thrilling tale she makes,” he murmurs, the words half-breathed, more amused than sceptical.

Violet shrugs one shoulder, her posture easy despite the strain of the last hour.

“A tale which got us through this forest nonetheless,” she says, nodding toward the thinning tree-line just ahead.

Music is rising in the distance again—notes drifting on the breeze, mingled with bursts of laughter and the cadence of familiar voices. The clearing is close now. The end of this ordeal, or at least this part of it, feels within reach.

“I’ll grab Garrick the second we land,” Violet adds. “You can stay in the stables until we track down this healer.”

Xaden lets out a breath and leans slightly into her again, whether out of pain or something softer, he doesn’t stop to examine.

“You make it sound like you think I’ll actually stay put.”

She glances sideways at him, arching an eyebrow.

“You’ll stay put.”

It isn’t a request.

“Make sure you tell him it has to be Suri,” Xaden says, then forces himself upright in the saddle despite the sharp, punishing bolt that shoots up his leg. The pain flares hot and unforgiving, but the roar of the crowd drowns it out as they cheer his return.

“Your Highness!”

“Prince Xaden, how was the hunt?”

“Already finished, Prince?”

The voices come from all directions, eager and familiar. Xaden manages a smile, lifting a hand to smooth his hair back into place, the motion practiced, easy. He straightens his shoulders and arranges his features into the expression he’s watched his father wear a thousand times—relaxed, affable, like nothing could touch him. Confidence radiates outward in slow, deliberate waves, even as his leg seeps blood and his ankle throbs inside his boot with every pulse of his heart.

“We found a decent-sized deer,” Xaden says, projecting his voice just enough to carry, “and decided that was enough for the day. I was too eager to return to the real festivities.” He gestures toward the music and flickering mage lights ahead. “It’s our last chance to share each other’s company for the year, after all.”

A soft ripple of murmurs follows, whispers he can’t quite make out—but the crowd’s response is mostly smiles and nods, a scattering of polite applause rising to meet his words. It’s enough. He exhales slowly through his nose, dips his chin in a gracious nod, and lets Sgaeyl guide them forward, Violet’s red daggertail trailing obediently behind.

He keeps his gaze ahead, careful not to lock eyes with anyone.

If Suri can get to him quickly, he might just disappear from sight long enough for no one to notice.

Chapter Text

The barn is nearly deserted—most of the dragons are still out with their riders for the hunt, and the usual hustle and bustle of those that tend to the dragons is absent, replaced by the faint sounds of laughter drifting in from the servant’s celebration tucked in the estate’s furthest courtyard. Every Winter Hunt, they hold their own revelry—usually loud, chaotic, and riddled with whatever trouble Ciaran and Eya can stir up.

In the barn, only Quinn is present, half-lost in the hayloft above. She’s curled up with a book, legs swinging idly as she flips a page without so much as glancing down at the sound of the arriving dragons and riders.

Violet dismounts first, her movements smooth and unhurried. She steps up beside Xaden and lifts a hand toward him, offering her palm without a word. The gesture is simple, practical—but it still sends an unwelcome flutter through his chest, followed quickly by the sharp pulse of pain in his leg. He takes the offered help anyway, because it’s the fastest way down and out of view of any potential prying eyes.

She steps closer, her voice pitched just above a breath as she leans in.

“Garrick’s still with your father in the courtyard. I’ll sneak him a message and track down this Suri myself, alright? Can you manage here?”

Xaden casts a quick glance at the loft. Quinn turns another page and lets out a quiet yawn.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs.

Violet’s fingers press briefly to his shoulder—warm, comforting—before she’s gone again, vanishing through the open doors in a flash of motion and purpose.

Left behind, Xaden leans back against the barn’s wooden slats and exhales slowly. The air smells like straw and old leather, and the silence settles around him like a second skin. His eyes drift shut for just a moment, long enough to hear the faint, fading echo of Violet’s footsteps.

Long enough to remember the roar.

The hunt loops in his mind like a bad dream—disjointed, vivid, inescapable. The golden feather-tail emerging from the shadows. The deer, ankle-deep in the stream. Violet standing over him like some hero pulled from myth, blade poised and gleaming. The buck collapsed in the water, blood-red rivulets painting the ground; his? The deers? He doesn't know. The searing pain. The humiliating tangle of his own legs.

Xaden shuts his eyes and exhales hard through his nose.

“All right there, Your Highness?” Quinn calls lazily. Another page rustles.

“I’ll double your wages today if you just go to your room,” he mutters, not bothering to look up.

There’s a pause. Then a snap of a book closing.

“Deal.” She jumps down from the loft—ignoring the ladder completely—and saunters past him, a piece of hay tucked between her teeth like she’s chewing over some private joke. “Hope you had a good hunt, Your Highness,” she adds with a smirk.

The barn door thuds shut behind her before he can think of a response.

Just as well—he isn’t sure what he would have said. The hunt had moments of joy, yes. That first glimpse of the feather-tail had sparked something in him, something sharp and eager. And Violet’s hands steadying him, touching him, had made his heart stutter in ways he can’t admit aloud.

But it’s all dulled now, eclipsed by the ache in his leg and the hollow humiliation of not being able to finish the kill. Of needing help. Of falling.

And for all the wonder in those stolen moments, he can’t forget the truth: Violet had stood like a legend, and he... had not.

The heavy door to the barn crashes open, and Xaden instinctively winces at the sound.

“Gods, Xaden,” Suri mutters, her tone sharp with irritation as she strides inside, her presence as brisk and commanding as ever. “And here I was, foolishly thinking you were finally past this phase of self-destruction.”

She sweeps into the quiet space, her coat swirling around her ankles, with Violet following close behind—slightly breathless, her expression caught somewhere between concern and apology.

“Now, now, Suri,” Xaden says, summoning a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been months since I gave you anything real to worry about. I figured I was overdue.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she demands, already dropping to a crouch at his side. “Do you and Bodhi make wagers on who can give me more grey hairs? This one—” she gestures curtly to Violet “—insists that I keep this quiet. Even from your father.”

“She’s following my orders,” Xaden replies calmly, though something about the way Suri dismisses Violet as ‘this one’ makes his jaw tense. Still, seeing Violet here—safe and near—steadies something inside him.

Without waiting for permission, Suri places her hands at the edge of his boot. Even the slightest contact sends a wave of searing pain up his leg, and it takes everything in him not to make a sound. She notices—of course she does—and immediately lightens her touch, frowning as her fingers hover with practiced delicacy.

“This is no sprain,” she says quietly, more to herself than to him. “It’s fractured. Badly. I’ll need at least an hour to mend it properly. And even then, you should stay off it entirely.” Her gaze flicks to the bloodied tear in his breeches. “And that gaping wound in your shin? You’re lucky you had salve with you. Without it, you’d be on the verge of sepsis.”

“I still have to finish the hunt,” Xaden replies, his voice low but firm. Suri’s lips part, clearly ready to argue—but he raises a hand, cutting her off before she can begin. “I won’t dance. I won’t even stand unless I absolutely must. But I need to be there. You know as well as I do what’s at stake.”

Suri studies him for a long moment, her sharp edges softening by some degree. Her shoulders relax, and when she reaches out to place a hand on his knee, the warmth of her touch seeps through the fabric like a quiet benediction.

“Xaden,” she says gently, her voice low and steady, “you do know you don’t have to keep pushing yourself like this, don’t you? I’ve patched you up too many times not to see the pattern. This need to prove something, to keep going no matter the cost—it’s what gets you hurt. I know what Garrick says. And what the King expects. But Xaden… your choices matter, too. You matter.”

There’s something unwavering in her gaze—quietly fierce and achingly familiar. It’s the same expression she wore the day he first met her, all composed grace and clear-eyed scrutiny, her hands clasped neatly behind her back.

Xaden has trusted Suri with more than just his wounds. She’s kept his secrets without fail—the ridiculous injuries he gave himself training with blades far too heavy, the midnight catastrophes in the palace kitchens when he tried to bake out his frustration, the truths he couldn’t even confess to his father for fear of being a disappointment. The nightmares that plagued him after his mother had vanished—Suri had kept them, too, locked away behind the promise of silence and the calming draughts she would slip into his hand without judgment.

He reaches out and covers her hand with his own, offering her a rare, quiet smile that reaches the place behind his eyes he guards so carefully.

“I swear to you,” he murmurs, “this is something I want to do. For myself. I need to see it through, Suri.”

For a moment, silence reigns, thick with things unspoken. Then Suri exhales sharply through her nose, already pulling salves and bandages from her satchel with the muttered frustration of a woman resigned to patching up a fool she loves too much to scold properly.

“Very well,” Suri sighs. “You’re the prince—your decision stands, even if it flies in the face of my considerably more educated opinion.” She squares her shoulders, her gaze settling on his leg with clinical precision. “Now, you said your name is Violet, yes? I’ll need you to help keep him distracted.” She doesn’t wait for a reply before turning back to Xaden, her expression darkening. “Just so you’re prepared—this is going to hurt. A great deal. And I’ll have to rush the healing if we want to avoid drawing attention.”

Violet hesitates, concern flickering across her features.

“How exactly am I supposed to—?” 

Without so much as glancing away from Xaden’s foot, Suri extends a hand and nudges Violet closer, her tone absent but reassuring.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she murmurs. “A story, perhaps. Something worth clinging to.”

“A story,” Violet repeats, arching a brow at Xaden. He lifts his own in reply, amusement flickering in his onyx eyes. It’s rare to see her caught off guard, and something about it—her poised composure nudged just slightly askew—makes him want to smile.

“A story,” she says again, slower this time, her gaze drifting toward some far-off recollection. Then she smiles, soft and sudden. “What about the story of when I met Garrick?”

Xaden smirks.

“Didn’t that happen in some shady back alley?”

Violet gives him a sharp look.

“It was a tavern in Chantara, actually,” she corrects coolly.

Xaden's just opening his mouth to deliver some cutting remark about vagabonds and questionable drinking establishments when Suri clamps both hands just below his knee—and pain, wild and unrelenting, floods through him like molten ice. His foot goes numb and searing at once, the agony blooming deep in the bone and twisting like fire.

He doesn’t cry out—but only barely. His mind fuzzes at the edges, consciousness flickering like a candle in wind. He floats, disoriented, untethered—

Then something touches his hair. Another touch—his hand. Warmth. He’s holding Violet’s hand.

The realisation steadies him. Her fingers are threaded with his, grounding him in the moment, and when he meets her gaze—wide-eyed, startled, fully present—it draws him back into himself.

He breathes in slowly. The pain is still there, raw and blinding, but he feels anchored again, like a blade sliding home into its scabbard.

“Tell me about how you met Garrick,” Xaden says through gritted teeth, the pain still lancing through his foot. Below him, Suri hums a soothing note, and the ache recedes just enough for him to catch his breath.

Violet glances down at Suri, then back up at him, clearly uncertain. But after a beat, she begins, her voice hesitant.

“Well... Garrick was just about to get into a bar fight—”

“Garrick?” Xaden cuts in, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. The skepticism in his tone draws a small snort of amusement from Suri.

His foot still feels as if it’s been plunged into a frozen lake and then thrust into fire, but there’s a distinct sensation—like bones grinding gently into place, tendons pulling taut and aligning. It’s unsettling to dwell on, so instead he lets his mind drift to the warmth of Violet’s hand still folded in his. She hasn’t let go.

Violet exhales and starts again, her tone more relaxed now.

“Well... it was less that he started the bar fight and more that he got caught in the middle of it. He was trying to break things up. Noble, really. But the men involved were both twice his size, and one of them flung him straight over a table. She pauses, and a rueful smile tugs at her lips. “Unfortunately, it was my table.”

Xaden manages a pained smirk.

“Let me guess—you made a joke.”

Violet’s grin widens, and she leans in just slightly to jab a finger at his shoulder, playful and precise. The touch sparks heat low in his chest, chasing away the fog of pain.

“I did,” she admits, voice light with laughter. “I called out to the barmaid that I’d ordered a mug of lemonade, not a soldier. She shouted back something rather crude, and I figured at that point I might as well help him up.”

Xaden can see it as if it were happening before him—the tavern thick with smoke and voices, the acrid stench of alcohol and regret clinging to the walls, coiling in every breath. Violet, all golden poise and sharp-tongued charm, her voice smooth as honey. The dim flicker of candles and half-dulled crystals casting warm light across her pale skin. She lifts a mug of lemonade to her lips, drinking deep—just as she had in the northern hills nearly a month ago now.

“My apologies,” Suri murmurs suddenly.

Xaden has only a heartbeat to wrench himself from the memory, to steel himself, before agony cleaves through him like a blade. His breath catches—bone grinds against bone with a sickening sound that all three of them seem to hear. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes.

This time, Xaden cries out—his composure shattered beneath the blinding pain of bone knitting back together, the unnatural tug of sinew rethreading beneath his skin.

“Fuck,” Violet breathes, her voice tight, the curse slipping out as her fingers clench around his hand. She leans in instinctively. “Shit—just—”

Xaden folds into her, his body too heavy with pain to hold upright, pressing his face to her shoulder as he gulps in shallow breaths. She smells like hay and sweat and soot—like life.

“Keep going,” he rasps, the words scarcely audible, frayed and trembling in the space between them.

“Xaden,” Violet says gently, her voice barely a breath over the blood rushing in his ears. He feels the faintest brush of her fingers through his hair again, and with eyes squeezed shut, he buries his face deeper into the curve of her shoulder. The coarse weave of her flight leathers scratches faintly against his cheek, but he clings to the warmth radiating from her skin beneath the fabric, anchoring himself to it—anything to pull focus from the raw, searing pain where Suri still works.

Violet inhales slowly, the rise of her chest lifting him slightly with it. She exhales, and then, with a brittle kind of brightness, begins.

“So—Obviously I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. But it was pretty clear we didn’t stand a chance against those guys barehanded. So I flashed them my best smile and asked what Infantry Battalion they were with. Turned out it was the Second Battalion.”

She shifts a little, voice gathering strength as she goes on.

“I told them I knew someone in the Second Battalion—Halden—and when they said they did too, I ran with it. Started talking about how Halden and I were friends back in Navarre. And before they had the chance to realise I was making half of it up, I’d ordered them a few more beers and was halfway into a story about some training mishap. They were laughing like old friends by the time Garrick and I slipped out the back door.” She pauses, breath catching. “He thanked me for the help. Said he owed me a favour if ever I found myself in Tyrrendor.”

The words tumble out in a single breathless rush, and by the time she falls silent, the pain in Xaden’s leg has dulled to a faint echo. Suri exhales, the tension easing from her posture as she gently pats his knee.

“I still need to treat the bruising,” she says, sounding tired but satisfied. “But the fracture’s mended. It went about as well as it could. Normally, I’d take twice as long, and you wouldn’t have felt more than a twinge.”

“Thank you, Suri,” Xaden breathes, his voice hoarse. His lips graze Violet’s neck as he speaks, brushing against the salt of her skin—sweat and heat, despite the cold air surrounding them. She shivers beneath him, and the fingers still laced with his tighten.

“Violet,” Suri adds, “thank you for keeping him grounded. And for saving Garrick’s reckless hide in that tavern. He never seems to mention the number of near-death situations he walks himself into.”

Violet huffs softly, concern threading through her voice.

“Did I just get him into trouble?”

Suri chuckles.

“That’s Garrick’s permanent state of existence.”

Xaden pushes himself upright, bracing his palms gently on Violet’s shoulders. Her hands come up to steady him, fingers curling around his forearms with a quiet surety that grounds him more than he’d like to admit.

“I need to get back out there,” he says, tilting his head toward the distant sound of music and raised voices. “They’ll be returning with the deer soon, and I’m expected.”

“I’ll just be a moment,” Suri replies as she rises, flexing her fingers with a practiced shake. “I need a bit of time to recharge, then I’ll see to the bruising. That should hold you for the next few hours. But I am checking in again tonight, and don’t even think about disappearing on me.”

“Fine,” Xaden mutters, more resigned than anything else.

Violet glances up at him, amusement gleaming in her eyes.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you so agreeable.”

Xaden shoots her a look, heat creeping up the back of his neck — not just from her words, but from the way they’re still touching, the way her hands linger on his arms. He’s suddenly, painfully aware of it. Of her. Of the fact that no one touches him like this anymore. Not since—

Not since the masquerade.

Her hands are small, almost delicate, fingers wrapping easily around his arms, while his own could encompass both her wrists with room to spare. He shouldn’t be thinking about the way those same hands once cradled his face, or clung to his waist, or trembled slightly when she reached for him in the dark.

This day feels impossibly long. And strange. And something else he doesn’t want to name.

“Don’t get used to it,” he manages at last, the words falling too late, the moment having already passed. But Violet doesn’t press. She only smiles, quiet and enigmatic, and doesn’t release his arm until Suri deems him steady enough to stand unaided.

Much later—after the speeches and the toasts, the ceremonial offering of game to the king, after the warmth of his father’s praise and Garrick’s silent, concerned glances and Suri’s hovering fingers pressing against his side—long after the noise has died down and Xaden is tucked beneath the heavy weight of blankets, the cold still lingering in his bones—He still feels it. The heat of her hands on his skin. And it burns.

Chapter Text

It isn’t the sound that haunts her. Not really. It’s the way he tenses the instant it comes.

That sickening, splintering noise—bone grinding against bone—ringing through the air like a blade, causing Violet to flinch despite herself. But it’s not the sound that undoes her.

It’s him.

It’s the way Xaden shudders beneath her touch, breath hitching, back bowing ever so slightly as if trying to escape the agony he can’t outrun. His jaw is locked tight, clenched so fiercely she half-expects to see it fracture too, and still—still—he doesn’t make a sound. His skin has gone grey, tension rippling through every line of him like a cord pulled taut. She can feel the effort in him. The sheer, brutal restraint.

And all she can do is hold on.

Pain, she understands. Pain is familiar. Predictable. Just another constant in a world defined by loss and consequence.

But this? This is different.

This is watching someone like Xaden—a storm made flesh, all fire and defiance and unshakable will—break apart in silence. Something inside her twists painfully at the sight of it. Like her ribs are being bent inwards. Like her heart is caught in a vice and being turned slowly, methodically, until it bleeds out.

She shouldn’t feel this way. She doesn’t know why she feels this way.

It’s just a broken leg. Suri is healing it. He’ll be fine. He will.

And yet, when another breath rattles out of him—sharp, wounded, raw—she tightens her grip on his hand without thinking. Xaden's palm is slick with sweat. Her own fingers tremble against his. But she holds on anyway. Holds tighter even.

“Keep talking,” he rasps, voice a broken thing against the curve of her shoulder.

And Gods help her—she does.

Violet starts talking—babbling, really—even as her throat dries and her tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth.

She wants to scream at Suri to hurry. Wants to shake the stable walls and beg time to move faster. Because Xaden is slipping—gritting his teeth, grunting in pain, holding himself together with nothing but sheer will—and she doesn’t know how long she can keep pretending that none of this is unravelling her, too.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

She’s seen people in pain before. She’s held pressure on wounds, watched comrades bleed out on battlefields, knelt beside friends with broken ribs and worse. But this—this—is something else entirely.

Because it’s Xaden. Because he presses his face into her shoulder like she’s something safe, something steady, and Violet feels herself fracture.

He leans on her like she’s the only solid thing in the room—like in this haze of fire and agony and magic and noise, she’s the constant. And that trust, unspoken and unbearably heavy, feels like the sharpest thing of all.

He trusts her. And gods, that shouldn’t rattle her the way it does. But it does.

She doesn’t say any of this aloud. Of course she doesn’t. She just keeps talking, keeps the story going, keeps her voice smooth and almost playful even as her fingers stay laced with his, gripping tight enough to leave an ache. She keeps her body steady. Keeps her face calm.

Keeps pretending her pulse isn’t loud enough to drown out everything else.

“Fuck,” Violet murmurs under her breath as Xaden flinches again. He sags forward without meaning to, and she steps in before gravity can take him, steadying him as his forehead presses into her shoulder. His weight is solid, heavy with pain and the effort of not giving in to it, and Violet holds him without hesitation. She can feel him shaking — not violently, but just enough to make her want to gather him up and make it stop.

Violet hates this.

She hates seeing him like this—worn down and unravelling under someone else’s hands. She hates how useless she feels. How she can’t do anything except anchor him while Suri works, relentless and unflinching.

And most of all, she hates how much it bothers her.

It shouldn’t.

He’s Xaden. The heir to Tyrrendor. Unyielding. Razor-edged. The kind of man who would sooner bleed out than ask for help. Stubborn to a fault. Brilliant in ways he tries to hide. He’s sharp in all the ways that matter — clever, proud, exasperating — and soft in ways he rarely allows others to see. 

And here he is, bracing himself against her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright—and she’s not ready for what that does to her.

Her throat’s tight. Her pulse won’t settle. Her thumb moves over the back of his hand again, small and steady, and she tells herself it’s nothing. A reflex. Just something to do while they wait for the pain to ease. But the truth is, she doesn’t want to let go.

It’s not enough. It never is. But she can’t bring herself to stop.

She can’t stop replaying the moment he leaned into her as they crossed the courtyard to re-mount their dragons—his weight slung heavy against her side, his gait uneven, jaw clenched against the pain, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his brow. He hadn’t protested. Not really. Hadn’t tried to pretend he wasn’t hurting. Not when it counted.

And once Suri had started her work, once the real agony began, it wasn’t the floor or the fire or even the pain itself that he’d looked to.

It was her.

Like somehow she could steady him through it.

It shouldn’t matter. Gods, it shouldn’t matter. She barely knows what to make of him most days—let alone this version of him, raw and faltering and trusting her more than she knows how to carry.

But it does matter.

And when he gasps again—a sound torn from somewhere deep and unwilling—Violet reacts before she can think. She starts talking. Reaches for the first story that comes to mind. Anything to anchor him.

“So,” she says, too bright, too forced, “obviously I couldn’t just sit there…”

The words tumble out. About the tavern, the bluff, about how she’d plastered on her most charming smile, lied through her teeth, and bought a round of drinks for the infantrymen who’d nearly broken Garrick’s jaw just to keep them distracted. She tells it fast, without pausing, letting the rhythm of the memory smooth the edges of the moment. Her voice is steady, even when she isn’t.

And slowly, she feels him ease. Not all at once, not fully—but enough. The tension in his shoulders loosens by degrees. He doesn’t let go of her hand, not even for a second, but the grip softens. Like the pain is less consuming. Like her voice is enough to keep him tethered.

Like maybe she is.

When Suri finally leans back with a quiet breath and murmurs that the fracture is healed, something in Violet loosens—some knot she hadn’t realized she’d tied. Her spine softens. Her hands unclench. The tension she’d been holding so tightly in her chest spills out in a slow, invisible exhale. She doesn’t think she breathed properly the entire time Suri worked, not with the way Xaden gritted his teeth and clung to her like she was the only steady thing in reach.

“Thank you, Suri,” Xaden murmurs.

The words brush against her skin, low and rough, more breath than sound as his mouth barely grazes against the hollow of Violet's neck. It’s a fleeting touch, incidental, but it scorches her anyway. Not with pain—never that—but something sharper. Quieter. Immediate. The lingering feel of him sears with the kind of heat that sinks under the skin and stays there, long after the moment’s passed. She shivers, not from cold, but from the quiet burn it leaves behind.

Violet swallows hard, but the echo of his voice lingers in her chest like smoke in a sealed room.

Suri says something about checking in again tonight. Xaden agrees, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He doesn’t fight the offer of care. Doesn't protest. Doesn’t deflect with sarcasm or raise a single objection.

That’s what strikes Violet most.

The Xaden she’s come to know always has something to say; some stubborn refusal cloaked in sarcasm or charm.

But now… now he simply nods. And something about that—Xaden's quiet surrender—somehow, unnerves her more than all the pain he tried to hide.

Xaden pushes himself upright with a slow, deliberate breath, his hands finding purchase on Violet’s shoulders. Instinctively, her fingers wrap around his forearms, steadying him. His skin is warm beneath the fabric of his sleeves—steady, grounding. Familiar in a way she knows she shouldn’t notice.

But she does.

And when his eyes meet hers, something shifts. The weight of everything that just passed between them lingers, unspoken but unmistakable, settling into the silence like ash.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you so meek,” Violet says, her voice light, teasing—an attempt to stitch the world back together.

To her surprise, colour touches his cheeks.

Xaden Riorson doesn’t blush.

Not over pain. Not over proximity. Not over stable hands and a girl with no reason to hold onto him. And yet—He does now.

Because they’re still touching. Because she hasn’t let go. Because he knows she noticed—and maybe because, gods help them both, she wanted him to.

Violet’s gaze drops to where his fingers encircle her wrists with quiet ease. They’re long, elegant, calloused from a life built on steel and expectation. And she should not be thinking about what those hands would feel like brushing her cheek, gripping her waist, anchoring her like she’s something worth staying for.

She swallows, hard, and looks away before the thought can take root.

The day feels brittle now. Frayed at the seams, like it could come undone with the wrong breath.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says finally, his voice low and a little uneven.

Violet turns back toward him, managing a faint smile instead of an answer. It’s safer than admitting the truth—that she already is. She’s getting used to the way he looks at her when he’s too tired to pretend. To the way her name sounds in his voice. To the strange, steady certainty that even when he’s bleeding, even when he’s leaning into her like she’s the last solid thing left—she feels safer with him than without.

Xaden turns to say something to Suri—something dry, no doubt, his voice still a little hoarse around the edges. She answers with a smirk, teasing him in that offhand way only someone like Suri can. Violet manages a smile, tries for a joke, something easy and forgettable, anything to make the air between them feel normal again.

But it’s not.

She can still feel the ghost of him—where his skin met hers, where his weight pressed into her shoulder, where his breath shook against her collarbone. The heat of him has settled under her skin like embers left smouldering in the hearth. Quiet, but impossible to ignore.

And the worst part is—she doesn’t know why. Why she cares so much.

And later, when the crowd cheers and the king claps a hand on Xaden’s back in that too-loud, too-familiar way, when the firelight catches in the dark planes of his face and his mouth curves into something like a smile, Violet watches.

Watches too closely.

Watches for the limp that never comes, the flinch he doesn’t let slip, the sharp edge of pain behind his eyes that—mercifully—is no longer there.

And only then, when she’s sure, when he stands tall and composed and untouched by what he endured earlier, does she let out the breath she didn’t realise she was still holding.

That’s when she knows. This is going to ruin her.

Because she doesn’t just want him to be okay.

She wants him to be whole.

And she thinks—no, she knows—that if she ever has to watch him break again, something in her will break along with him. Quietly. Irrevocably.

She shouldn’t feel this way. It’s too much. Too soon. Too complicated. 

But Gods help her—she does.

And if this is what it means to start caring for someone—really caring—then she thinks she's already in trouble.

Because she doesn’t know how to stop.

Chapter Text

Sleep doesn’t come.

Violet lies in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the faint lines of the rafters overhead in the dark. She tries to count her breaths. Tries to name every constellation she can remember, even though there’s no sky to look at. Tries to slow the rhythm of her heartbeat. She lies on her side, then her back, then her side again, restless and still somehow too aware of her own heartbeat. The sheets feel too warm. The air too still. She turns again, tugging the blanket higher, but it doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

She tries to run through the history of the Great Houses of Navarre in order of ascension—twice. Tries to picture plants and animals she hasn’t seen since crossing into Tyrrendor’s borders. But even thoughts of home can’t ease her mind tonight.

Every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. The way his brow pinched, his shoulders hunched tight with pain. The way his voice broke. The way his fingers curled around hers like he didn’t want to let go. And worse—how she hadn’t wanted to let go, either.

If Violet's learnt one thing since coming to Tyrrendor it's that Xaden, the Tyrrish Crown Prince, never asks for help. He rarely even accepts it when it’s offered. And yet tonight, he had let her hold him. Had leaned into her like she was something solid in a world that kept shifting under his feet.

And now—now she doesn’t know how to stop thinking about it.

Eventually, she gives up all together. The blankets tangle at her ankles as she throws the blanket aside and sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Violet stands, barefoot, the cold flagstone floor jolting her into wakefulness. The estate is quiet at this hour, thick with the kind of silence that only comes just before dawn. The kind of silence that makes you feel like even your thoughts are too loud.

She tells herself she just wants to make sure he’s all right. That Suri's work held. That he’s resting.

She doesn’t bother to pretend it’s about anything else.

Violet pulls on her cloak and slips into the corridor. Her steps are quiet, practiced, familiar. There are ways through this place that no one outside Tyrrendor’s inner walls should know, but she’s made it her business to learn. A loose stone here. A hidden stairwell behind a tapestry. Hallways too narrow to have ever been meant for more than servants or spies.

The corridors beyond her chamber are cloaked in shadow, but she’s walked them often enough that she doesn’t need the light. Her steps are soft and careful, even though the keep is quiet—still and breathless in the way that only comes just before dawn. The hush feels expectant. Like the whole castle is holding its breath.

Violet moves like she’s slipping between moments, keeping close to the edges of the walls. There are hidden ways through the estate, narrow servants’ passages and forgotten corridors that snake behind grand halls and carved stone. She’s memorised all the ones that matter.

She doesn’t hesitate as she ducks through a low archway, fingers brushing the rough stone for balance. Past the library annex. Past the shuttered balcony overlooking the training yard. Her footfalls echo faintly in the narrow stairwell behind the tapestry, but no one stirs.

It doesn’t take long to reach the upper floor where she knows Xaden's private rooms are kept. The stone feels warmer here, the air carrying the faint scent of smoke and salt and something sweeter—is that, chocolate?

She slows her pace as she nears the final bend. Xaden’s quarters are just around the corner. Two turns and a carved oak door. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say when she gets there. Maybe she won’t knock at all. Maybe just hearing that he’s sleeping will be enough.

But she doesn’t make it that far.

Because she hears voices. Muffled, low. One is his—rough and quiet, the sound of it making something twist in her chest. The other is Suri's.

Violet freezes. She’s close enough to hear the scrape of a chair, the low murmur of Suri’s words, something about bruising and blood flow. Healing techniques. A curse muttered softly as something stings, followed by Xaden’s tired laugh.

The sound of it makes Violet’s breath catch.

She retreats before she can think better of it.

Turns back the way she came, cloak sweeping behind her like a ghost. She doesn’t let herself walk faster than she needs to, even though everything in her is telling her to run. Her chest feels tight and strange, full of something sharp and sour and not entirely rational.

She’s relieved, she tells herself.

Of course she is. He’s being looked after. He’s not alone. He’s healing.

That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To know he was all right?

But it shouldn’t sting, the way it does. That she went searching. That she cared enough to come. That she was ready to knock on his door—gods, ready to see him—and instead found herself standing in the corridor like a child overhearing something she was never meant to.

By the time she slips back through the passage and into her own wing, the first light of dawn is starting to slip between the stones.

She lies down again, blanket pulled to her chin, but sleep still doesn’t come.

And this time, she doesn’t bother trying.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Xaden tries not to visit the kitchens when others are around. It’s not out of secrecy—at least, not exactly—but because there’s something about being there in the quiet hours that makes the space feel his. Untouched. Undisturbed. So he waits. Always. For the last scullery maid to scrub the final pan, for the hearths to be banked and the floor swept clean. He knows the rhythm of it by now—the head cook won’t arrive until just past four to begin her long morning of doughs and fires and batter. Which gives him a narrow window: sometime after midnight, when the castle sleeps but the embers still burn.

He slips through the darkened corridors like a shadow, footsteps light, careful not to disturb the hush that has settled over the stone. He tells himself he’s only going to clear his mind. Maybe to walk off the conversation he overheard in the library. Maybe to forget the heaviness of the words war and legacy still echoing in his skull.

But still, somehow, his feet find their own way. And they bring him here: To the kitchens.

He doesn’t know why he’s always been drawn to them. He’s a terrible cook—utterly hopeless, if he’s honest. Even eggs defeat him more often than not but he’s not here for the food. Not really.

It’s the warmth.

Not just the heat from the two massive hearths that flank the far wall, though that alone could be enough. The fires here are never fully extinguished, only coaxed low, so even in the dead of night, the entire room glows with the soft, flickering light of coals. Shadows dance across wooden counters and hanging pans. It’s always warm, always golden. Like stepping into a memory.

And for Xaden, it is.

He used to come here when he was younger. Before the secret passageways and hidden hidey-holes. Before he’d grown tall and serious and started worrying about things like politics and perception. Back then, the kitchens were a sanctuary. A place to escape lessons, tutors, and the crown's expectations. He would burrow under sacks of potatoes and flour-dusted grain, hide behind barrels of root vegetables while giggling servants played along and shook their heads when the more impatient scholars came looking.

The cooks had indulged him.

They’d let him stir pots, crack eggs, roll dough—badly. One even tried to teach him how to knead bread properly, though he’d fumbled it so many times she’d just laughed and handed him a piece of chocolate cake instead. There were always sweets. Always praise. Always warmth. It had felt like being someone else for a little while. Not the heir. Not the prince. Just a boy in a kitchen where nothing was expected of him except curiosity.

He doesn't come here much anymore; lack of time, mostly. His need to uphold his duty. Embarrassment, maybe. The servants would never say anything, but he’s older now, and it feels different to fail in front of people when they no longer find it endearing.

Still… tonight, without meaning to, he finds himself here again.

The door creaks softly as he pushes it open. The familiar scent of firewood, flour, and mixed spices greets him like an old friend. The room is empty, save for the hush of banked fires and the faint crackle of coal shifting in the grate.

He steps inside.

The warmth wraps around him at once. Not just the heat, but the memory of it—the ghost of laughter and whispered stories, of flour-dusted fingers and stolen pastries. And he lets it hold him, just for a moment.

He crosses to the old table at the centre of the room and runs a hand along its surface. The wood is scarred and worn smooth from years of use. He exhales, low and quiet. His father’s words still echo inside him, chasing themselves in circles.

This cannot be my legacy. I will not make it Xaden’s.

But what if he had no choice? What if, no matter how hard they tried, war still came?

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t reach for anything. Just stands there, the warmth soaking into his bones, until the weight in his chest settles into something quieter. He knows he’ll leave soon. He always does.

But for now, he lets the stillness hold him. Lets himself pretend—just for a little while—that this place, this moment, belongs only to him.

And that peace, in some small way, is still possible.

The room is still, steeped in the hush of sleeping stone and the low crackle of the hearth. Xaden moves toward the fireplace without fully realising it, drawn to the faint heat radiating from the embers, like a moth seeking shelter from the night. He kneels at the sooty threshold, one hand bracing the warm stone as he leans in. The scent of something sweet lingers in the air—cinnamon, maybe, or nutmeg—clinging to the thick silence like the last ghost of a memory. It curls into his lungs with each breath, grounding him in the present even as his mind drifts aimlessly at the edges.

His fingers are still cold from the long walk here, but the fire slowly coaxes the chill from them. Ash shifts and sparks leap lazily into the flue as a blackened log caves inward, its collapse throwing brief golden flecks into the air. Xaden watches them burn, one after another, and lets his thoughts go quiet. His body remembers how to breathe.

He stays there for a long while, still as the stone beneath him, until the ache in his knees tells him enough time has passed. He’s just begun to consider standing—maybe even heading back to his chambers, now that the knot in his chest has finally begun to ease—when a sound cuts through the hush.

Stone brushing against stone. Then, soft footfalls.

He turns his head toward the noise, muscles tensing before he even sees her.

And then Violet steps into the room.

She doesn’t notice him at first. Her gaze is lowered, her brows drawn slightly in thought, her movements cautious but purposeful. Xaden’s breath catches—not from surprise, but from something stranger. She looks different. She’s wearing black. Not the uniform of her stable hand station, not the soft earth tones he’s used to seeing her in, but dark Tyrrish clothes—a fitted shirt tucked neatly into black trousers, her figure sharper, her presence more striking. She looks like she belongs here, in this house, in the night.

She looks like a ghost of a future he hasn’t let himself imagine.

He must make some sound—he’s not sure what kind, or if it betrays the thoughts racing through his mind—but Violet’s head lifts sharply. Her hand twitches toward the small knife at her belt before she registers him, and then her body eases.

“Xaden,” she says, and the way she says it—unhurried, unguarded—almost makes him forget to breathe. No titles. No distance. Not like it’s been lately, with company listening. She says his name like it’s just the two of them.

He tries not to show how much that affects him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, a hint of surprise still softening the edge of her voice.

He leans back from the fire a little, trying to mask the fact that her sudden presence has entirely thrown him off.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he counters. “It’s past midnight. You’re supposed to be out in the servants’ wing.”

Violet hesitates—just for a second—and then offers him a shrug paired with a small, practiced smile.

“I was talking with a friend and lost track of time,” she says casually. “I was heading back to my quarters. This is just a shortcut.”

The words are light enough, but there’s something else beneath them. Something she’s not saying. He can’t quite put his finger on it—just the way her shoulders rise too slowly when she shrugs, the way her gaze lingers a little too long on the fire before returning to him. Something’s off. She’s hiding something. But then her smile grows—warmer this time, teasing.

“Are you having one of your midnight cooking sessions?” she asks, tilting her head toward the hearth. “You know, the ones where you burn everything but still insist it’s edible?”

It takes him a beat to realise what she’s referring to. And another to stop the flush that creeps up his neck. He’d told her about that once. Back when they’d first met. When things had been simpler. He hadn’t thought she was paying attention. Clearly, she had been.

“No,” he says, shifting where he sits on the cool flagstone. “I wasn’t cooking. I just needed to be somewhere quiet.”

She nods as if she understands. And maybe she does. They’ve always shared that—an instinct to flee to the corners of a place, to find the quiet in the cracks.

“I can leave, if you want,” Violet offers, her voice lighter than her eyes. “You look like you came here to be alone.”

He looks at her then—really looks—and in the quiet space between heartbeats, he wonders how she found him. Wonders if her steps led her here because of some unspoken pull, the same one that led him.

And he doesn’t know how to answer her.

Because yes, he had come here to be alone.

And yet now that she’s here, he’s not sure he wants her to go.

Chapter Text

Xaden glances at the fire, watching as the embers shift and settle with a faint hiss, the last of their warmth seeping into the cold stone around them. The hearth glows low, casting the room in dim, flickering gold, and when he lifts his gaze again, Violet is still standing there. Her eyes, ever expressive, catch the firelight—gold bleeding into green, green giving way to midnight. She watches him not with suspicion, nor even curiosity, but with that quiet, familiar attentiveness that always seems to disarm him.

“I don’t mind if you stay,” he murmurs at last, voice low and rough. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” she echoes, arching a brow as she steps closer. “Or thinking?”

The way she says it—wry and knowing—draws a huff of surprised laughter from him, and Xaden leans further into his folded arms, hiding half his face against the crook of his elbow.

“What’s the difference?” he asks, feigning nonchalance.

Violet hums as she drifts closer, the soft scuff of her boots nearly swallowed by the crackle of the fire.

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “thinking is the kind of idle, harmless variety—like wondering what kind of bird that was outside your window this morning. Thinking with a capital T, however, is full of existential spirals, brooding sighs, and a deep desire to fling oneself off a cliff.”

Xaden lets out something between a scoff and a laugh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever just… thought then,” he admits, the words dry but honest. “It’s always the capital-letter version with me. Drama and frustration included.”

“You are a prince,” Violet concedes, stepping closer still, until the firelight paints her in soft amber, climbing the black fabric of her shirt and catching on the edge of her collarbone. “I imagine it comes with the territory.”

Xaden turns to look at her fully. Her voice isn’t mocking. If anything, there’s understanding in it—like she knows what it is to carry something heavy and wear it lightly, to walk around with pressure stitched into every seam. For a moment, he just studies her, watching the way the light makes her hair gleam and her eyes catch shadows like secrets. He doesn’t know how to respond. So instead, he gives her the truth, stripped down.

“Yes.”

He turns back toward the fire, because it’s easier than looking at her and trying to explain the weight pressing against his ribs. He doesn’t know how to tell Violet that his thoughts aren’t just complicated—they’re relentless. He doesn’t know how to say that most nights he lies awake replaying diplomatic conversations, memorising the names of visiting nobles, trying to remember who needs flattery and who responds better to sharpness. That every day is a calculation, a performance, a chess game that he can’t afford to lose. He trains until his muscles scream, studies treaties written in three dead languages, navigates the subtle, poisonous intricacies of court. And now… now there’s talk of war. The kind of war no one of his generation was meant to face, or are prepared to. The kind his father had promised would never come again.

And all of it is coming for him. All of it is his to bear.

He swallows hard, jaw flexing.

The silence between them stretches, not awkward but heavy, thick with things unsaid.

Then, Violet sits.

She lowers herself beside him without asking, without pretence, folding her legs beneath her with practiced ease. Her knee brushes his, just slightly, and when she leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, she mirrors his posture like she’s always belonged there beside him.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t press him. She just waits.

And something in his chest eases—not because the weight is gone, but because for the first time in a long time, it feels like he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Violet asks after a moment, her voice tentative, as if unsure whether she has the right to ask. The question hangs in the air between them like a thread spun too fine to pull.

Xaden’s gaze drops reflexively to where their knees are brushing—an accidental contact, maybe, but grounding all the same. He looks up at her, at the faint furrow between her brows, the soft sincerity in her expression. Her words aren’t offered lightly. There’s a tension in her voice—not the kind born of nerves, but of personal familiarity. She speaks as someone who knows what it is to carry too much for too long, to bottle things inside until they ache.

And for a moment, Xaden wants—needs—to ask her more. This girl who moves through his thoughts like a half-remembered melody, who disarms him with nothing more than a glance. He wants to understand why she looks at him like she sees something worth knowing. He wants to ask what she’s afraid of, what she’s running from. He wants to know who she is beneath all that quiet strength.

But the words catch in his throat. Everything that rises in his chest feels too sharp, too exposed.

So instead—

“What’s your favourite colour?” he blurts, voice rougher than intended.

Violet blinks. Her eyebrows lift in surprise, clearly thrown off by the abrupt change in topic.

“Um,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “It’s actually… gold?”

The uncertainty in her voice makes him grin despite himself. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Mine’s blue,” he offers quickly, before she can read too much into the awkwardness still clinging to his tone. “I know that was weird. I just…” He trails off and scrubs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her. “You seem to know a lot about me, and I barely know anything about you. I guess I thought… maybe I’d start there. With something simple.”

She doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t tease. Instead, she watches him for a beat longer than is comfortable, and then she nods slowly, almost thoughtfully.

“No,” she says softly. “I get it.”

Her gaze drifts back toward the fire, and the light flutters across her features like candlelight in the wind—glimpsing her eyes, then leaving them in shadow.

“I guess I’m used to people either knowing everything about me,” she says, voice quieter now, “or nothing at all.”

Xaden says nothing, sensing there’s more.

“I grew up in a place where everyone knew everyone’s stories, their secrets,” Violet continues, her tone tinged with something wistful. “There wasn’t really such a thing as privacy. If you were quiet, it was noticed. If you kept secrets, someone would find them out eventually. I used to hate it.” She huffs a laugh, small and humorless. “But then when I left… it was like no one cared enough to even ask why. So I stopped offering anything.”

Xaden studies her as she speaks, not interrupting. The words come slowly, like she hasn’t said them aloud before, like she’s only just now realising the truth of them herself.

There’s a certain sadness in it—this idea of becoming invisible not because you want to be, but because the world around you has decided it doesn’t need to see you anymore.

He wants to tell her she’s wrong, that he sees her, that he’s been seeing her since the moment she stepped through the gates in sunlight and shadows with her chin raised and her secrets tucked tightly behind her teeth.

But he doesn’t say that either.

Xaden swallows hard, already regretting the words before they’re fully out of his mouth.

“I care,” he says softly, and it sounds too raw, too earnest in the quiet glow of the kitchen.

Violet’s gaze snaps to him, surprise flickering across her face.

“About my favourite colour?” she asks, her tone light but edged with something more uncertain beneath.

“About whatever it is you want to share,” he says, managing a small shrug that feels inadequate. “And whatever it is you don't. I just…" Xaden trails off, lost in thought momentarily before he continues, “It’d be nice to listen to someone else’s thoughts for a while. Get out of my own head.”

“Ah,” she says with a crooked smile. “So you’re looking to commiserate.”

He huffs a small laugh, grateful for the levity.

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m afraid my problems probably pale in comparison to yours,” Violet says, though her voice is gentle, not dismissive. “You’ve certainly got… far more to carry.”

Xaden shakes his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the fire.

“I’ve been lucky, honestly,” he murmurs. “At least so far. I lead a few hunts. I manage correspondence. I sit in on assembly meetings and let my father tell me when I’ve spoken out of turn.” His lips quirk without humour. “Compared to him, I do very little.”

There’s a shift beside him, and then Violet leans in—not overtly, just enough that her presence feels unmistakable, solid, warm. The point where her leg touches his is suddenly, absurdly, the only place he can feel.

“I don’t believe that,” she says softly, intently. “Being the heir isn’t a ceremonial title, Xaden. I’ve seen you working. I’ve heard the others talk about how much you’re involved. You train before dawn, then you vanish into meetings that last all afternoon, and somehow you’re still seen in the stables, still answering people’s questions, still present.” She hesitates, then adds, “It’s not nothing. You’re not doing nothing.”

Xaden ducks his head again, the tips of his ears prickling with heat. There’s something unbearable about the quiet pride in her voice, something that makes him feel exposed.

“I’m still not the king,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “There are things I can’t do. Not yet.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t say the rest—that he doesn’t know how to lead his people through something like war, that his father has been quietly preparing for a conflict Xaden hadn’t even known existed until earlier in the day. That, while he’s learning how to wield influence, there are already forces in motion that may tear everything apart. That the weight of a crown he doesn’t yet wear is already bowing his shoulders.

But he doesn’t want to think about that now. Not here. Not with her.

And definitely not when her gaze is fixed so openly on his face, and her hand has come to rest gently on his knee. The touch is tentative, hesitant. But it grounds him more than anything has in days.

He stares at her fingers. There’s ink smeared across her knuckle, a ghost of whatever she’d been working on before she found her way here. The sight is achingly human.

“Xaden?” Violet asks quietly, her voice drawing him back to her. There’s concern in her tone, but not pity.

He shakes his head, the decision sudden and sharp.

“It’s nothing,” he says first—too quickly, and then again, firmer this time, like he’s convincing himself. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I want to make something. Here. Tonight.”

Violet’s brows rise, and she lets out a delighted, surprised laugh.

“Oh? Feeling brave?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he mutters, pushing to his feet and offering her a look that’s more daring than it is confident. “But I figure I can’t be worse than last time.”

“You say that,” Violet says as she follows him to the counter, “but I’m fairly certain we’re about to find out just how wrong you are. I’m useless in a kitchen.”

“You can’t make it any worse,” Xaden tells her—famous last words, it turns out.

Because within fifteen minutes, they’ve broken half a dozen eggs, spilled an entire sack of flour across the tiles, and managed to set off a temperamental water charm that blasts the counter—and the chocolate cake they were attempting—into a steaming, half-dissolved disaster.

The batter is ruined, the kitchen is a wreck, and Xaden’s tunic is soaked straight through. He leans against the counter, breathless with laughter, watching as Violet tries and fails to wipe flour off her cheek, only managing to smear it further.

“This is a disaster,” she gasps between giggles, and Xaden finds himself laughing harder at that—at her incredulous face, at the sheer absurdity of the situation, at how good it feels to not be perfect.

And somehow, impossibly, the weight that had pressed against his chest since the moment he left his father’s study feels just a little lighter.

For tonight, at least, the war can wait.

Chapter Text

The cake is a failure.

They both know it. It's collapsed in the centre, burnt at the edges, somehow both raw and overcooked—and still they eat it.

Or try to.

Xaden’s flat on his back on the warm stone floor, arms sprawled out, legs stretched toward the hearth. His tunic clings damply to his chest, and he smells like cinnamon, smoke, and scorched sugar. Violet’s sitting cross-legged beside him, a crooked slice of cake balanced precariously on a tin plate. She takes a bite, grimaces, and wordlessly offers him a piece like a peace offering.

He tears it off with mock solemnity, chews with exaggerated slowness, and immediately regrets it.

“That’s awful,” he says, coughing.

“Truly, impressively bad,” Violet agrees around a laugh, falling back beside him with a dramatic groan. “We’ve insulted every baker on the continent.”

They lie in silence for a moment, the fire crackling behind them, the night outside pressed against the windowpanes. The kitchen’s a disaster—smeared with flour, trails of sticky batter along the cabinets, water charm still hissing faintly in the background. But the warmth lingers. The kind that only comes when you’ve made a mess with someone and somehow enjoyed every second of it.

“My face hurts,” Violet murmurs.

Xaden turns his head.

“From the fire?”

“From laughing.” Violet confides.

“Mine too.” He hums, soft and pleased.

She tilts her head slightly toward him, cheek resting against the stone.

“Do you ever wish things were simpler?”

He glances at her, his brows lifting.

“Like… what? No wars? No crowns? No responsibility?” He asks.

“Perhaps,” she says. “Or even just… simpler feelings." Violet sighs heavily before adding, "I think I used to believe people were either good or bad, or brave or afraid. And now everything just feels like… a knot I'm incapable of untying.”

Xaden shifts, resting his head more comfortably, eyes on the ceiling beams overhead.

“I used to think my father was unshakable. Like nothing could ever reach him. But tonight—” He cuts off, then exhales. “He looked tired. Not just physically. Tired in his soul. And I didn’t know what to do with that. Didn't know what I could do to alleviate some of his suffering.”

Violet doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she reaches over and nudges his hand with hers—just a touch, a whisper of connection.

“You don’t always have to know. Sometimes just noticing is enough.”

They fall quiet again. It’s not uncomfortable. The silence between them has taken on its own shape, soft-edged and unhurried, a space where neither of them has to pretend.

“So,” Violet says eventually, “if this cake is the pinnacle of our culinary career, what’s the backup plan for our futures?”

“Clearly not a bakery,” Xaden deadpans. “Maybe mercenaries. Or professional tasters, if people want to know what not to eat.”

“Or court jesters,” Violet adds, voice rich with amusement.

“You’d be better at that than me.” Xaden notes.

“Flattery?” she teases, turning her face toward him again.

“Just honesty.”

He looks at her then, really looks—at the way the firelight dances along the strands of her hair, still slightly damp where the water charm caught her; at the flour smudged on her cheek, the soft crease at the corner of her mouth from where she’d smiled too much tonight.

He doesn’t mean to hold her gaze as long as he does.

But she’s looking back at him too.

And something shifts in the quiet—no wind, no strings, no dramatic swell of music—just a moment folding in on itself, so effortless and sudden it feels like it had always been waiting there between them.

Xaden isn’t sure who moves first. Maybe neither of them really does.

One breath, and then another. And then their mouths meet.

It’s a soft, tentative thing at first—like the idea of a kiss more than the kiss itself. A brush of lips that tastes faintly of chocolate and burnt sugar, of laughter and something unspoken that neither of them knows how to name.

Violet pulls back first, eyes wide, like she hadn’t expected it either.

But she doesn’t move away, she just stares at him, breath caught somewhere between a question and an answer.

Xaden feels his heart stutter in his chest, and for a moment, he thinks about apologising—about finding something witty to say, something to deflect, to unwrite what just happened.

But he doesn’t. Because she’s still here. Because her hand is still brushing his. Because that kiss—light, fleeting, gentle—felt like something more real than anything he’s been told in the past week.

Violet’s lips quirk slightly, like she might laugh again. Or cry. Or lean in.

Instead, she simply says;

“Well. That wasn’t part of the recipe.”

Xaden’s answering smile is soft.

“No,” he agrees. “But it might be the only thing that didn’t go wrong tonight.”

And when she doesn’t pull away, he knows he’s right.

Chapter Text

The kitchens feel different after.

Quieter. Softer. As though the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Xaden steals another glance at Violet as they clean up what little mess they can manage—mostly stacking bowls and wiping away the worst of the flour with damp cloths. Neither of them speaks about what happened. The silence isn’t awkward, exactly. It’s… suspended. A thread of something new stretched taut between them.

Eventually, Violet yawns and murmurs, “I should probably get to bed before someone mistakes me for a ghost wandering the halls.”

Xaden doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll walk you back.”

She glances at him sidelong, lips curling.

“Chivalry, Your Highness?”

“I’d rather not get blamed if you disappear into some shadowy corridor,” he counters, dusting his hands on his trousers. “Besides, I’m not ready to be alone with my thoughts just yet.”

Violet doesn’t argue.

They slip out into the cool corridor beyond the kitchens, the stone floor cold beneath their boots, the sconces low with dying flame. Most of the castle is asleep—only the quiet echo of their footsteps and the occasional distant creak of the walls settling keeps them company.

The castle is asleep, but the air hums.

Xaden walks beside Violet in silence, each of their steps softened by the cold stone underfoot and the hush of torches burning low in their sconces. The mess of the kitchen is far behind them now—flour-streaked counters and a ruined cake abandoned in the glow of dying embers—but laughter still lingers faintly in his chest, warm and rare and hard-earned.

He steals a glance at her, the way she moves with quiet confidence even in the dark, the faintest curl still tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

Not with her. Not when everything about her presence here is temporary. Not when everything about his future is already spoken for.

Their shoulders brush. Then their hands. A fleeting touch. A spark.

He lets his fingers drift just close enough to hers that they almost meet. And then—accident or intention—her pinky finger links with his.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

Xaden keeps his gaze forward, but his breath shifts. The silence between them stretches, not empty but brimming with the unasked question that neither of them dares to voice.

What now?

He is a prince. The heir. Everything he is has been shaped by the weight of what he must become.

And Violet… Violet isn’t from here. She’s not anyone’s heir. Not even a citizen of Tyrrendor. She’s a stable hand. She's so much more. A girl from somewhere else. Someone who, by every law that governs this kingdom, doesn’t belong.

And yet—she’s one of the only people who’s ever looked at him and seen something beyond his title or duty. She's seen him. She sees him.

She's the only one he wants to keep looking.

They walk in silence down the eastern corridor, where shadows pool against the high-arched ceilings and the moonlight filters in through slitted windows. Outside, the wind shifts softly across the rooftops. Inside, the air is thick with a quiet tension neither of them names. It’s ridiculous how loud his heartbeat is. How the mere brush of her skin sends sparks of heat down his arm. He feels like a boy again, caught somewhere between uncertainty and want.

“You’re quiet,” Violet says at last, her voice hushed, intimate in the stillness.

He looks over, his heart kicking once in his chest.

“So are you.”

“Yes, but I’m usually quiet when I’m trying not to ask a question I don’t want the answer to.”

His lips twitch despite himself.

“Are you going to ask it?”

“No,” she says, “not tonight.”

The way she says it—soft and certain—feels like a door gently closing.

They reach the end of the corridor, the place where the castle gives way to the narrower halls of the servant quarters. Her door is just ahead, unassuming, set into a wall of rough stone. There’s a name chalked there in a scrawl he’s seen before. He knows she’s only been here a few weeks, yet somehow the space already feels like hers.

She turns to him. Their hands are still linked.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For walking you back?”

“For everything,” she says simply, and that single word lands like something heavier than it should. Something that means: the fire, the mess, the laughter, the kiss.

He dips his head, trying to hide how raw he feels.

“I should be thanking you,” he murmurs. “I haven’t laughed like that in longer than I care to admit.”

Violet watches him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

“This feels like standing on the edge of something,” she says.

He nods, because it does. Something unsteady. Something inevitable. And maybe something impossible.

She reaches for the door handle, but doesn’t turn it. The silence gathers again, thick with everything they aren’t saying.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, barely louder than a breath. “But I do know what it can’t be.”

Xaden’s throat tightens.

“Because I’m a prince.”

“And I’m… me,” Violet says, with the smallest shrug, as if that fact doesn’t matter and somehow still means everything.

He could lie. He could say titles don’t matter. That she’s not just anyone. But they both know the truth.

There are rules. Expectations. Paths already drawn in ink long before she arrived in his life.

But there’s also this—whatever fragile, fleeting thing exists between them.

“I wish I didn’t care,” he says quietly. “About what it can’t be.”

“I know,” Violet replies, and this time, she doesn’t smile.

He lifts her hand to his lips without thinking, pressing a gentle kiss to her ink-streaked knuckles. It’s nothing like the earlier kiss—this one is reverent, uncertain. A promise with no shape.

“Goodnight, Violet.”

She closes her eyes for a heartbeat, then nods, pulling her hand slowly from his.

“Goodnight, Xaden.”

She slips inside, and the door closes softly behind her.

Xaden doesn’t move. Not for a long time. He stands there, in the hush of the corridor, where her presence still lingers like the ghost of something that hasn’t happened yet.

And eventually, when he does turn away, it is with the aching knowledge that something in him has changed. And that nothing about what comes next will be simple.

Chapter Text

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“Let me see your stance again?” Violet asks lightly, already holding a blade, another resting against the curve of her hip. Xaden hadn’t even heard her move. One moment she was ahead of him, and the next—she was simply there.

He sighs, lifting the blade in a practiced arc.

“It’s the same stance everyone uses,” he mutters, but even he hears the defensiveness in his voice. Still, he steps into it, shoulders rolling back, hand anchoring the hilt close to his cheek, blade tilted just so.

It’s instinctive, ingrained. And yet, his muscles protest slightly, aching at the pull of motion that isn’t quite right. A strand of hair drifts into his vision, catching the light before the wind whisks it away again.

“Commendable effort,” Violet murmurs, voice low and far too amused for his comfort. She circles behind him like a hunting cat, each step deliberate. “But here—”

Her fingers brush his elbow, firm and warm as she coaxes it straighter. The contact is brief, but it sends a ripple through him. She doesn’t immediately pull away either—her hand hovers, like she’s testing the tension in a bowstring.

“And this.” Her palm settles at his waist now—just her fingertips, featherlight—and Xaden stills. Then, without fanfare, she steps in front of him, fitting her frame close against his. She doesn’t press, doesn’t crowd—but she’s there, aligning her posture with his until the motion turns fluid and natural. She guides his hips to pivot with hers, her spine straight, her balance sure, and Xaden finds himself leaning forward, their faces nearly level.

He breathes in—and nearly chokes on it.

Because Violet is right there.

Her presence is undeniable. Her scent—hay, sun-warmed leather, and something sweeter—wraps around him, seeps beneath his skin. The crown of her head rests just at his collarbone, close enough that a single breath would send his lips brushing through her hair. Her hand at his waist is more memory than weight, but it brands him all the same. She’s not even really touching him now—not fully—but every part of him is aware of her. Of the way she moves. The way she waits.

Xaden’s blood roars, a thundering pulse that drowns out everything else. His shadows writhe restlessly at his fingertips, testing the edge of his self-control, searching for an escape.

And all he can think—absurdly, helplessly—is that she probably tastes like strawberries. That if he closed the distance between them, just a fraction more, he’d know if the sweetness on her lips matched the curve of her grin.

But he doesn’t. He holds still. Barely.

Violet, entirely unaware of the chaos roiling just beneath Xaden’s skin, continues her impromptu lesson as if nothing is amiss.

“This should give you a cleaner shot,” she says, tone calm and instructional. “And bracing yourself like this means the recoil won’t strain your muscles as much.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, the way someone speaks when they’re entirely comfortable inhabiting another’s space—like she’s done this a hundred times, stood this close to a body that isn’t hers, curled in and guided it with such easy precision.

Xaden thinks that if he dared to speak right now, the only sound he’d manage would be a shallow breath dragged through trembling lungs.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Violet murmurs, and her hair brushes his cheek—a whisper of a touch, but it lingers like a brand.

The blade slips from Xaden’s fingers before he’s fully aware of making the choice. It sails through the air and lands with a solid thud against the paper target, jarring enough to startle a few birds from the underbrush in a flurry of wings. The steel has sunk deep, just shy of the centre. A good throw. Too good, considering the distractions.

“Excellent,” Violet says, sounding genuinely pleased. The pressure at his elbow fades as he lowers his arm, but she still doesn’t step back. Her continued nearness is disorienting—equal parts comfort and torture. Xaden can barely tell whether he wants her to move away or never move at all. “Again,” she says, gently. No command, just invitation.

He draws a breath and reaches for his second blade, grasping it more tightly than necessary.

“How did you become so proficient with wielding blades?” he asks, partly to distract her—mostly to distract himself. Her hand returns, this time settling higher up his arm. She doesn’t correct his form now—just rests it there, warm and still, like she belongs.

“My brother,” Violet answers absently. Her breath is warm against the back of his neck, stirring the fine hairs there. “Good form. Just anchor it a little lower—yes, like that.”

“Your brother?” Xaden echoes, though his thoughts are scattered. The wind tugs a loose lock of hair across his face again—but before he can react, Violet’s fingers are already there, tucking it behind his ear with deliberate care. Her fingertip trails lightly along the strand as if smoothing it into place, and Xaden forgets how to breathe. Sparks ripple through him in every direction, lighting up nerves he didn’t know were waiting.

“Yes,” she says again, a soft smile curling her voice. “He was a great teacher. Strict, though—especially when I was being difficult.” Her grin turns sly. “Which, to be fair, was often. I was… precocious.”

She says it with all the mischief of a child who knew exactly how much trouble she was causing. Xaden doesn’t need her to elaborate. He can picture it too clearly—Violet with tangled curls and stubborn hands, eyes wide and alight with defiance, refusing to stay still no matter how many times her brother scolded her. The image brings an unbidden smile to his lips, small and genuine.

He shifts his weight, feeling steadier now, and lets the second blade fly.

It hits—closer to the centre this time. Not perfect. But better.

And yet, all he can focus on is the lingering heat of her fingers on his arm and the echo of her breath at his throat, the thought of how easy she makes it look to get past every wall he’s ever built.

“It was mother who taught me,” Xaden says quietly, eyes fixed on the target as he unsheathes another blade. “She was proficient with all manner of weapons, though she favoured the blade.”

The admission comes easier than he expects. The pain is still there—always there—but this time, it feels softer somehow. Like speaking her name aloud doesn’t rip him open, just leaves a slow, familiar throb behind.

He adjusts his grip, shifts his stance. The movement feels more fluid now, the memory of Violet’s touch guiding him still fresh in his body.

There’s a pause. Then a small sound from behind him—indecipherable, thoughtful.

“The Queen,” Violet says carefully. “You were ten when she… disappeared?”

The word lands with quiet reverence. Not died. Disappeared. Like maybe, just maybe, someone like her could still be out there, untouched by time.

Xaden doesn’t answer right away. He lets the blade fly instead.

It hits wide—buried far from the centre this time, the worst of his attempts so far. He clenches his jaw as the disappointment hits, sharper than he meant to let it. Violet exhales softly behind him and steps back. And strangely, the distance makes his chest ache more than the question did.

“Yes,” he says finally, his voice low. He draws another blade, forces himself into the stance again. His movements are stiff this time, deliberate. He doesn’t want to talk about this. And yet—he does. “It was years ago,” he says, lining up his aim. “But the ache hasn’t dulled. Not really. It’s quieter now, less sharp around the edges, but it lingers.” He draws in a slow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest, the weight of something long buried and still bruising. “She left a hollow in me,” Xaden murmurs. “One I’ve never managed to fill. It’s always there—just under the surface.”

He releases the blade. It flies straight and true, the sound of its landing sharp in the stillness that follows and then he stands there in the clearing, surrounded by trees and paper targets and the quiet ghost of a mother who still hasn’t returned.

“I remember when word reached Navarre,” Violet says softly, a distant look in her eyes. “None of us could believe it. Your mother was… respected, even among us. Our leading General always spoke highly of her.”

Before he can speak—before he can press again or even breathe deep enough to try—Violet says quietly;

“Xaden, your mother…”

The words make him shift, instinctive, as he angles toward her. It’s the first time he’s truly looked at her since the throwing began, since the lesson turned into something far more fraught than form and stance.

And Violet—Violet is wind-tossed and sun-warmed, her hair an untamed halo around her face, lips still stained red from strawberries, brows drawn together like the weight of her thoughts is just barely being held in check. She’s close enough that he has to tilt his head down to meet her eyes, and when he does, the expression he finds there is one he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again—just the faintest quiver of uncertainty—and the words still don’t come. He watches the effort of it, sees her fingers twitch as though they want to reach out and steady something between them. She looks like she’s standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure whether she’s meant to fall or pull him back from it.

“What is it?” he asks. The question comes out softer than he intends, almost fragile.

And that—that—is what makes her flinch. A slight, unmistakable shift.

Xaden’s heart stutters, something tight forming behind his ribs. It’s not often people flinch from kindness.

Violet lifts her gaze to his with eyes that gleam like wet amber, not quite crying but holding more than enough unshed emotion to fill the space between them. Her lips part again, then press together like she’s swallowing something sharp. She exhales, and it’s not frustration—it’s grief, borrowed or remembered, maybe both.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” she says at last, voice thick with quiet sincerity. “I haven’t known that kind of loss. Not like that. But I can imagine… and I do. I just… I wish you hadn’t had to carry it so young.”

The ache of it is immediate and precise. Xaden turns away. He doesn’t trust himself to hold her gaze any longer—doesn’t trust that he won’t say something raw or wrong or worse, true. He draws a slow breath and lifts another blade. The weight of it grounds him for only a second before it settles just as heavily into his chest.

He throws.

The blade lands, but he doesn’t look to see where.

Because the words—I wish you hadn’t had to carry it—are already carving themselves into him, slicing deep in places that never quite healed right.

Sympathy is one thing, but pity—especially from her—burns.

He sets his shoulders against it, jaw clenched, and tries not to let it show.

“Her absence is felt every day,” Xaden says quietly, voice low but steady, and releases the blade. It whistles through the air and strikes the centre of the target with a solid, echoing thunk—a perfect shot, but Xaden doesn’t stop to acknowledge it. His hand is already reaching again, muscle and memory working in tandem. “In everything I do,” he continues, another blade flying, embedding itself beside the first—just off the bullseye but still precise, still viciously close, “everything that I am, I think of her.”

Another shot. Another shuddering strike.

“She was a great leader.” His voice tightens, deepens. “A good mother. A kind person. And if I could’ve taken her place on that diplomatic mission—” A fourth blade cuts through the air and lands near the heart of the target, joining the cluster. “—I would have. A thousand times over. Without hesitation. Because she’s the one my country needs.” The last blade slips from his fingers like a final breath. It lands with a jarring, perfect hit, dead centre. “Not me.” His voice breaks on the last two words, as if saying them aloud fractures something in him. “Never me.”

There’s a pause, and in it—a soft, barely audible noise from Violet. The sound is faint, like someone had been holding their breath and forgot to keep doing so. Like she’s just taken a blow that didn’t land on her body but somewhere far more vulnerable.

Xaden blinks, startled, breathing uneven as the fury drains out of him. His hands reach instinctively for another blade, but the sheaths at his side are empty. His fingertips graze over the leather uselessly, the echo of motion futile now. His hands burn, smarting from the repetition, from the force of his own anger made manifest. His chest aches deeper than any wound, like something inside him has collapsed inward.

And then—a touch. Light, barely there. One fingertip against the pulse at his wrist. Then another. Then the rest of her hand, all five fingers wrapping around his forearm with a gentleness that shouldn’t be able to hold him up, but somehow does.

The breath he draws is shuddering. His shoulders slump. The scalding bitterness that had risen like bile begins to retreat, slowly, back into the hollow in his chest where it normally lives. Contained. Controlled. Tolerated.

Violet doesn’t speak, she just stands there, breathing with him, her presence like a balm and a storm all at once. Too much and not enough. Steady and shattering.

She’s everything he shouldn’t be thinking of—shouldn’t be feeling—especially not now, not when he’s bleeding in ways he can’t show. But she’s also the only thing grounding him in this moment, the only thing real.

And when he finally lifts his gaze to her—really looks at her—she doesn’t flinch.

She holds him in her silence. And somehow, it’s more comforting than any words could ever be.

“I’m sorry,” Xaden mutters, and the words feel both too heavy and not nearly enough. There’s a hundred layers to that apology, a thousand fractures beneath the surface he doesn’t know how to name—let alone offer up to someone else. So he says only those two words, hoping they might be enough to hold the shape of everything else he can’t explain “I don’t know how to do this,” he adds, softer still, and it’s unclear even to himself whether this means grieving or trusting or standing in front of someone with his soul laid bare.

Violet’s breath catches, and then she’s reaching for him—fingertips curling in the fabric of his leathers, tugging gently at the seam near his elbow. But it’s not a strong grip. He slips easily from it, not pulling away exactly, but not stepping forward either.

When he chances a glance at her, her gaze is cast downward, the line of her shoulders caved inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her mouth is pinched, brows drawn tight with regret. She looks like she’s trying to think of the right words and failing, and that’s a feeling Xaden knows too well.

“I didn’t mean to—Xaden, I’m the one that's sorry,” she says finally, and her voice is quiet but clear, cutting through the hush of the trees like a thread of silver. “I didn’t mean to upset you by speaking of your mother. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s alright,” he says, forcing the words into the space between them and hoping they land more convincingly than they feel. He even manages a small smile, crooked and a little forced at the edges, but Violet doesn’t quite meet it. Her eyes stay fixed on the earth between them, like the grass might offer an answer he can’t. “I’ve had a long time to get used to it, Violet. I promise.”

“Don’t go,” she says suddenly, and though she doesn’t reach for him again, her voice alone is enough to make him still. It’s not loud, not pleading in the desperate sense—but it’s earnest, a quiet tether he hadn’t expected to feel tug so tightly at his spine. “Stay. Please. There’s more blades, and… I’ve got other things I could teach you.” She swallows, her expression softening with something like shame. “You don’t have to leave just because I’m an insensitive idiot.”

His smile comes a little more easily this time, the tension in his chest loosening—not gone, not yet, but not quite so sharp.

“If I hightailed it out of every situation where you were an insensitive idiot, as you so eloquently put it,” he says, voice dry with affection, “we’d have never exchanged more than a sentence, let alone everything else that has come to pass between us.”

“Xaden,” Violet says in that patient, warning tone that manages to carry her exasperation and amusement in equal measure. But the guilt has already begun to drain from her eyes, and the corner of her mouth lifts with reluctant humour. “Please stay,” she says again, gentler now, eyes meeting his with something open and unguarded. “There’s more chocolate cake. And I swear this one is actually edible.” She offers the promise like a peace offering, like sweetness might make up for old wounds, and for a moment, it almost does.

Xaden tucks his hair behind his ear, gaze flicking toward the target. All the blades are clustered near the centre, bristling like quills, and the sight of it grounds him a little—proof of control in a moment where so much else feels like it’s slipping.

He doesn’t move yet, but he doesn’t turn away either. Doesn’t walk. The silence stretches between them, soft now, not strained.

And slowly—almost imperceptibly—Xaden breathes in and lets himself stay.

“All right,” Xaden says, and the word feels like surrender—not in defeat, but in quiet permission. And then Violet smiles.

Not just a smile. A beam. Wide and radiant and utterly unguarded, so bright that it hits Xaden like a burst of sunlight straight to the chest. For a moment, he can do nothing but stare, breath caught behind his ribs, stunned by how easily she lets joy show on her face.

“What’s next?” he asks, voice rough with a steadiness he doesn’t quite feel.

The next hour passes in a blur of movement and instruction, the rhythm of blade and voice and touch settling into something that almost resembles peace. Violet is a tireless teacher—methodical, precise, unyielding when it comes to posture and placement. She corrects Xaden’s stance over and over, nudging his shoulder back with steady hands, shifting his elbow, tilting his hips. She circles him like she’s mapping the angles of his body into memory, and every time she brushes against him, Xaden flushes hotter than before.

She laughs when he groans in protest—something about his spine being too stiff, or his grip too tight—and the sound of it bubbles up like it doesn’t belong in a world that’s so often cruel. It’s warm and unburdened, and it makes something in him ache.

He doesn’t think she notices his reactions. Or maybe she does and simply misreads them, chalking the heat in his face up to frustration. That would make sense. Because frustration is easy to explain. Longing isn’t.

Violet demonstrates with a few blades of her own—graceful and efficient as she moves. She rolls across the clearing with the fluid confidence of someone who’s practiced every motion a thousand times, rising to her feet mid-throw, her dagger sailing effortlessly into the centre of the target.

Xaden tries to pay attention to her technique. He really does.

But it’s difficult when his gaze keeps catching on the way the muscles of her forearms shift beneath her sleeves, the way her hair sticks to the sweat at her temple, the quick flick of her wrist, the subtle gleam of her skin where her collar slides askew. There’s nothing seductive in her movements—she’s focused, all business—but that’s part of what makes it worse. She’s beautiful without meaning to be, and Xaden is helpless not to notice.

It’s strange, he thinks, standing there with the hilt of a blade pressed to his palm and her laughter still echoing in his ears. Strange that being here—being with her—makes the chaos in his mind quiet for a while. That for the first time in what feels like weeks, he isn’t thinking about war or borders or betrayal or blood.

He’s just here, in this sun-dappled clearing with a girl who throws knives like poetry and smiles like she doesn’t know how much she shines.

And even stranger still—he doesn’t mind forgetting the rest of the world for a little while. Not when she’s the one standing in front of him.

Chapter Text

The sun dips low in the sky by the time Violet throws her last blade.

Xaden watches as it embeds itself neatly beside his earlier cluster, her fingers lowering in a smooth follow-through. She’s breathing hard, loose strands of hair clinging to her damp skin, the flush of exertion painting high across her cheekbones.

“That’s enough for today,” she says with a grin, pulling the final knife from her boot and sliding it back into the sheath at her thigh. “Any more and your muscles might stage a rebellion.”

Xaden chuckles as he exhales, rolling his stiff shoulder and ignoring the pleasant ache blooming in his back.

“They already have. You just couldn’t hear the mutiny over your gloating.”

Violet smirks as she stoops to begin gathering the targets from the trees, and Xaden moves to help, retrieving their scattered belongings. The remains of the picnic—half-eaten cake, crumbs of bread, a few bruised strawberries—are quietly packed away, the basket lid snapping closed with finality.

They fall into a comfortable silence as they work, the kind that only comes from shared effort and mutual understanding. When everything is packed and the clearing bears no trace of their presence, Xaden hesitates. His eyes track the slanting sunlight across the treetops, casting golden bars of light between the boughs, and something unspoken wells in his chest.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly, slinging the strap of the basket over one shoulder.

Violet turns toward him, brow arched.

“Where?”

Xaden doesn’t answer—not with words. Just meets her gaze, and holds it. Whatever she sees there must be enough. Xaden holds out a hand to her. She studies it for a moment, then steps forward, her steps light on the grass, and takes it. When she reaches him, she places the blanket back in the basket and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

They don’t speak as they walk. Violet doesn’t ask questions, and Xaden is grateful. He needs the quiet to ready himself.

The path narrows and rises, winding through groves of whispering grass and wildflowers, until the trees fall away and the world opens up around them.

The hilltop isn’t grand, but it rises just high enough to see the Aretian valley spill open below them in all directions—soft plains and clusters of trees, the rivers threading through like silver veins, the distant mountains standing sentry beyond. The wind is stronger up here, cool and constant, tugging at their clothes and hair. Wildflowers blanket the hill in clusters—small, fragile things in blues and violets and pale yellow.

Xaden drops the basket beside a flat patch of rock and stands at the crest, his silhouette cast long against the golden field behind him. Violet comes to stand at his side, her fingers brushing his. For a moment, he closes his eyes.

“This was hers,” Xaden says, his voice barely more than a murmur, fragile with memory. “My mother’s. Or... it became hers, I think. A place she returned to, again and again. A place that felt like her. A place she claimed without ever needing to mark it. A place she loved.”

He crouches near the edge of the outcrop, fingers brushing through the wildflowers that sway gently in the breeze. He plucks a slender stem of pale violet blossoms, turning it slowly between his fingers, not really looking at it—like his hands need something to hold while his heart tries to speak.

“After she...” The words falter on the edge of his tongue. He swallows, steadying himself. “After she was gone, I kept coming back here. I don’t know if I was searching for her ghost or just… the echo of her presence. I used to sit right where you’re standing and try to conjure her laugh. The sound of her humming while she played with my hair. I didn’t want to forget it. Forget her.”

Violet remains quiet, offering him the only thing she can—her silence, her stillness. She knows better than to fill the space with platitudes. Some griefs are too sacred for interruption.

Xaden stands and exhales slowly, his gaze drifting out over the vast stretch of the valley below, gilded in the warm hues of late sun.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he says at last. “Not a single soul. This place has always belonged to me—to the part of me I’ve never wanted to share. But now...”

He stops again, the pause heavier this time. Violet’s eyes are on him, soft and steady. She doesn’t prompt him, but her presence urges him forward anyway.

“But now?” she asks quietly.

His eyes flick to hers, and something raw flashes through them—vulnerability, maybe. Or something close to reverence.

“Now it feels like a confession, bringing you here,” he says, voice low, raw. “Like I’ve laid something bare I never intended to.”

The wind tugs gently at Violet’s hair as she studies him. Her expression softens—not with pity, but with something quieter. Something deeper.

Xaden lifts the flower once more and holds it out to her. Not as a grand gesture, but simply—offered. A piece of something he’s never shared before. A boyhood memory. A grief that never dulled. A heart that still bleeds behind all the armour.

And Violet, silent still, reaches out and takes it.

The wind stirs around them, cool and carrying the scent of earth and bloom, and Violet shifts to look at him. He’s still holding the flower, but his eyes are on her now, intense and unwavering.

He turns to face her fully. She stands against a backdrop of wind and sky, the evening light catching in her eyes—so bright, so uncertain. Her fingers toy with the edge of her sleeve, a restless motion that betrays the turmoil she’s trying to keep quiet.

“I don’t know what this is between us,” she says at last, her voice scarcely louder than the breeze. The words seem to cost her something. “I don’t even know what it could become. You and I… we stand on opposite sides of a divide that feels impossible to cross.”

“I know,” Xaden answers, his voice a hushed confession. “But Gods, Violet—when you’re near, it’s like the weight of all that disappears. Even if only for a moment, you let me forget it.”

Her expression falters, softens—some fragile thing flickering in her gaze. A question. A fear. A longing.

“And when the remembering comes?” she asks, barely audible. “What then?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, taking a quiet step closer, as if any louder movement might break the spell. “But if I’m allowed one selfish thing—just one, in all the chaos and duty and grief—” He lifts his hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she doesn’t. She lets him take her hand in his, their fingers fitting together like something inevitable. “Let it be this,” he breathes. “Let it be you.”

Violet’s breath catches—just enough to tremble in the silence between them. She studies him with a kind of aching reverence, as though committing every detail to memory: the hard lines softened by sorrow, the scar at his eye that he never speaks of, the storm in his eyes that hides a quieter kind of yearning beneath it all.

Chapter Text

They make the descent in near silence, their steps slow, almost reluctant to surrender the quiet solace of the hilltop. The world around them has slipped deeper into twilight’s embrace—the last hues of dusky rose fading from the sky as night unfurls above them in shades of ink and velvet. A scatter of stars begins to bloom overhead, their silver light faint but steady, while the estate far below glows soft and golden, lanterns flickering like fireflies caught behind glass.

Violet walks just to Xaden’s left, close enough that their shoulders brush with every few paces. The contact is brief, incidental, but neither of them pulls away. There’s a quiet tension to it, a shared understanding too fragile to name aloud.

Gravel shifts beneath their boots as they follow the winding path back toward the manor’s heart. The sound is gentle, rhythmic, grounding. And then, as they round the final bend and pass beneath the shadow of the outer archway, Violet notices the silhouette of a man leaning against one of the columns just outside the circle of lanternlight—still as a statue, though unmistakably watchful.

Fen Riorson.

He doesn’t move at first. His arms are folded loosely, his frame relaxed in the way only someone deeply in control of a space can afford to be. But there’s nothing idle about his gaze. It finds them both—lingers just a heartbeat longer on Violet—and assesses without accusation, without hostility, yet with all the precision of someone trained to see more than what is offered.

Violet’s pace slows, almost imperceptibly. She’s suddenly, acutely aware of the warmth still blooming faintly on her lips—the memory of that kiss not yet cooled.

“Evening,” Fen greets them at last, his voice smooth, low, and calm—carrying the casual confidence of someone who commands without raising his tone. He pushes away from the column with fluid grace, the gesture unhurried, though unmistakably deliberate. “You’re back late.”

Xaden doesn’t falter.

“We went past the eastern rise,” he says simply. “Training. Talking.”

Fen’s brows lift by a fraction. He shifts his attention to Violet, his gaze narrowing—not out of suspicion, but with curiosity sharpened by instinct and paternal caution.

“Is that so?”

Violet offers a small nod, keeping her voice even.

“We lost track of time; I apologise for keeping Xaden from his duties, Your Majesty.”

A beat passes before Fen gives a thoughtful hum, his eyes studying her not unkindly. Then, a slight quirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you’ve had better success getting him to talk than most,” he says at last, the words edged with dry amusement. But when his gaze slides back to Xaden, there’s something deeper behind his expression—less teasing, more searching.

Xaden doesn’t respond. He’s grown used to these moments—his father’s tendency to draw meaning from silence, to dig beneath the surface with quiet precision rather than force.

“I should go,” Violet murmurs, stepping back with soft deference. Her gaze flicks between them. “It’s late. Thank you… for today.”

She doesn’t specify whether she’s speaking to Xaden or Fen, but something in her voice suggests it’s meant for both. The time. The trust. The ache of possibility.

Xaden meets her eyes, holds them just a moment longer than propriety allows.

“Goodnight, Violet.”

Fen inclines his head toward her with courtly ease.

“Sleep well.”

She departs without another glance, her steps light as she disappears beneath the glow of the lanterns—fading into the night like a secret entrusted to the dark. But Xaden watches her go. Just once. Just long enough.

Fen sees.

The quiet stretches between father and son, thick with unspoken questions. Finally, Fen draws in a slow breath, then releases it with a tired sigh.

“Come,” he says, gesturing toward one of the stone benches nestled beneath the old tree that shadows the courtyard. “Walk with me.”

There is no command in the words. No reprimand. Just an invitation—weighted with the complexity only a father can carry, and the understanding that some conversations must be had beneath the stars, where truth has a better chance of being heard.

They settle onto the stone bench in silence, the kind that stretches not from discomfort, but from the gravity of words waiting to be said. Around them, the night deepens, cool and still, the air laced with the scent of weathered stone and the ghost of lilac—carried in from the garden’s edge on a gentle, passing breeze.

Fen’s gaze lingers on the torches lining the courtyard, their flames guttering low as if reluctant to surrender to darkness. Beside him, Xaden stares ahead, his expression unreadable, his thoughts a storm just beneath the surface.

Eventually, Fen speaks.

“She’s Navarrian.” The words are quiet, almost contemplative. But each syllable is weighted. “I assume you’ve considered what that means,” he continues after a moment, clasping his hands behind his back and rising to pace with slow deliberation. “A girl from across the border. Of no particular title. A stable-hand, if the rumours are to believed.”

He glances over his shoulder, a faint curve of dry amusement tugging at his mouth.

“Your mother would’ve found the romance of it endearing.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“She was kind, your mother,” Fen adds softly. “But kindness is a poor guide in matters of state. And sentiment…” He turns, folding his arms as his eyes narrow with memory. “Sentiment makes fools of rulers and corpses of soldiers.”

“I’m aware,” Xaden murmurs, the words clipped and low.

“Are you?” Fen asks, pausing mid-step. There’s no accusation in the question—only an echo of paternal doubt. “Because love—real love—doesn’t just ask you to see someone. It demands that you protect them. Build your world around them. Even if it threatens everything else you stand for.”

Silence stretches between them like drawn wire.

“I ask only because I know the cost,” Fen continues at last, his tone gentler now, almost weary. “And because love, for all its beauty, has a way of clouding duty. I’ve seen it happen. We both have.”

Xaden exhales slowly.

“What’s your point?”

“My point,” Fen says, turning fully to face him, “is that she’s sharp. Smarter than she lets on. Careful, but not timid. Hides her teeth beneath softness. She’s not without wit or warning.” He tilts his head slightly. “I see why you’d be drawn to her.”

Xaden doesn’t rise to the bait. Doesn’t confirm or deny.

“We’re not—” he starts, then falters, running a hand down his thigh as if he could steady his thoughts through motion. “It doesn’t matter.”

Fen regards him quietly, then nods.

“It may not matter now. But it will. If not to you, then to those who watch you. Because when something involves you, Xaden, it eventually becomes part of the conversation. Part of the strategy. And Gods help her if someone decides she’s your weakness. A liability.”

Xaden’s shoulders tense, but his reply is iron-clad.

“She’s not a weakness.”

“I didn’t say she was,” Fen replies. His voice lowers a notch, quieter now, but no less firm. “But the world won’t care what she is to you. It will care what she is to us. What she could become. Especially if you let her too close without preparing her for what that means.”

He lets the words settle before continuing, eyes fixed on his son with rare clarity.

“You’re straddling a line, Xaden. One foot in your birth-right, the other in something far less stable. And I don’t begrudge you that—Gods, I envy it. But those lines have a way of splitting. And when they do, they don’t wait for you to choose which to hold onto.”

Xaden looks away, his silence louder than any protest.

Fen rises, brushing invisible dust from his tunic sleeve with measured care. He doesn’t look at Xaden right away—he lets the quiet breathe between them, the same way a swordsman lets an opponent swing first.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says at last. “But you owe yourself the truth. If you care for her, truly care for her, then don’t hide it behind half-spoken words and denials. Either walk away before she becomes a target—or be ready to stand between her and the storm when it comes.”

Xaden’s voice, when it comes, is low but steady.

“There’s nothing between us for you to concern yourself with.”

Fen studies him for a long moment. Then he nods once, solemn.

“Perhaps. But if there ever is… you’ll be expected to remember where your loyalties lie.”

With that, Fen turns, his footfalls slow but deliberate as he walks back toward the manor. His boots strike the marble with a muted finality, each step echoing like a closing door behind him.

He doesn’t look back.

And Xaden—Xaden doesn’t move.

He sits there long after his father’s silhouette disappears into the dark, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed, the scent of wildflowers still faint on his skin.

Chapter Text

Xaden’s temper surges like a tide breaking loose, rising too fast, too hot to contain. His fists clench at his sides as he watches his father retreat toward the manor, that ever-steady gait, that infuriating calm. It’s always like this—measured words, half-glances, and silence that bites harder than any accusation. Always walking away like he’s said all there is to say.

“You could just say it,” Xaden calls after him, the edge in his voice sharp as a drawn blade. It echoes across the stone walls of the courtyard, cutting into the stillness of the night.

Fen slows but doesn’t stop. He tilts his head fractionally, enough to show he’s listening, but not enough to offer the dignity of a full glance back.

“Say what, exactly?”

Xaden strides forward, boots scuffing the gravel, the brazier’s light catching the tension in his shoulders.

"That I’m being reckless. That I’ve completely lost whatever sense I had left, running headlong after something I was never meant to hold. Chasing a hope I have no right to. A future that could never be mine to begin with."

Fen exhales through his nose, a long and measured breath. When he finally turns, his expression is unreadable—too many years of politics and war and burying the softest parts of himself beneath duty and restraint.

“Why say aloud what you already know?” he says, voice quiet but firm. 

Xaden lets out a breath that might once have been a laugh, but there's no humour in the sound. Now carries none of the warmth that a laugh does. It’s jagged, hollow—frustration turned brittle under the weight of something that feels too close to grief. 

“She’s different,” he says, more quietly this time. As if saying it aloud might soften the blow he’s bracing for.

Fen doesn’t react—not in the way Xaden expects. No scoff, no dismissive retort. Just a quiet acknowledgment: “I know.”

That throws Xaden for a moment, enough for the anger to stutter at the edge of his ribcage. He turns slightly, brow furrowed in disbelief.

“You don’t know her,” he says, and there’s no venom in the words, only a strange, hollow ache. “You haven’t spoken to her. You haven’t seen the way she is. She’s not a weapon to be used against me. She’s not just some pretty distraction. She's not a weakness or a liability.”

He shakes his head once, voice growing steadier, more certain.

“She’s sharp. She listens more than she speaks. She reads between the lines. And Gods—when she looks at me, she sees something real. Not the heir to a Kingdom. Not the crown. Not a piece on some political board. Just... me.”

Fen regards his son for a moment, the firelight catching in the silver threading his hair. His face softens, barely, with something that looks almost like sorrow.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “I don’t know her.”

He lets that hang in the air before continuing.

“But I know you. I know the way you carry the weight of everyone else’s expectations and refuse to ask anyone to carry yours. I know what it’s cost you to get this far. And I know what you’ll give—without hesitation—when the time comes to choose between love and duty.”

The words land heavier than any reprimand ever could. Not cruel. Not angry. Just... true.

And Xaden suddenly feels unmoored. Because deep down, maybe that’s what he’s always feared—that someone who knows him so well might also know the ending to this story before he dares let it begin.

He doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. Because Fen already sees the truth flickering in his son’s eyes like a reflection in flame.

And that, perhaps, is what breaks Xaden more than any warning could—the knowledge that Fen understands. And still cautions him all the same.

When Fen speaks, his voice is quiet, steady.

“Whilst she may see you, does Violet understand what seeing you might cost her?”

The question is gentle, but it lands like a weight between them.

Xaden doesn’t move. His hands, still curled loosely over his knees, go slack. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade—it merely shifts, as though preparing for a different kind of blow.

Fen doesn’t press. He simply watches the fire, as if its flickering shape might spare them both from harder truths.

“Does she understand,” he continues, “what it will mean to stand beside you when the tides turn? When Aretia is no longer poised at the edge of conflict, but swept into its heart? When names whispered behind closed doors become names scrawled in blood across maps—and eventually carved into stone?”

His voice doesn’t rise. There is no condemnation in it. Only the quiet, exhausted grief of a man who has watched history repeat itself too many times. The grief of someone who has outlived peace by years, and hope by decades.

“I see the way you look at her,” Fen says, softer now. “I see the way your jaw relaxes when she’s near. How your shoulders settle. How the weight you’ve carried for so long suddenly sits a little lighter on your frame. Gods help me, Xaden, I’ve waited your entire life to see you look at anything that way.”

Xaden lowers his head, eyes fixed on the ground. He doesn’t speak. His throat is too tight, his chest too full of things he can’t seem to name without shattering.

“I want that for you,” Fen says. “I want you to have something that’s yours. Not forged from obligation or shaped by legacy. But chosen. True. Something that makes you feel alive—not just useful. Not just necessary. But seen. Loved.”

The words unravel slowly, weighted with a father’s longing—for joy, for relief, for the things he was never allowed to keep, and never dared to hope his son might find.

“You’ve already given more of yourself to this country than any boy should’ve had to. You’ve buried parts of yourself no one even knew were alive. If there is a single thing left that you can keep—then, by all means, keep it. Clutch it like breath. Like fire.”

He sighs then—a low, hollow sound, as though something inside him has caved in softly.

“But you must understand, Xaden… Violet is not of Aretia. She was not born into our bloodlines. Her family is not buried in our soil. She’s Navarrian. And that makes her visible. Vulnerable. A weakness, in the eyes of those who are always searching for one. If her presence becomes a liability—if she becomes a way to strike at you—the Assembly will not hesitate. They will use her without remorse. Without warning. Not because she’s guilty, not because she’s wrong. But because she matters.”

There’s a terrible stillness in the air after that—like the hush before a blade falls.

Xaden’s voice is hoarse when it finally comes.

“She will always matter.”

Fen turns his head, meeting his son’s eyes fully now. And for a moment, it’s like looking into a mirror through time—two men shaped by duty, hollowed by loss, still hoping against reason for something gentler.

“Then tell her,” Fen says, with the quiet finality of a man who knows how rare choices truly are. “Tell her everything. While it’s still a choice she can make, freely. Before it becomes something she’s trapped in. Or something that’s taken from her.”

He rises slowly, bones stiff, steps soft as he crosses the courtyard toward the manor.

Xaden remains on the bench, alone again beneath the stars. The brazier flickers. The night presses in.

And though he can still feel the ghost of Violet’s touch on his skin, still taste her on his lips, what lingers in his mind now is his father’s voice—

Let her choose.

And in the marrow of his bones, Xaden knows: he will.

Fen rises with the deliberate slowness of a man who has carried more years than he’s counted, his joints offering a quiet protest as he straightens. He pauses for a moment, the magelight casting long shadows across the courtyard stones, then turns to face his son.

He looks at Xaden not with reproach, but with a deep, worn tenderness—something closer to grief than judgement. His gaze is steady, his voice low when it comes.

“I have no intention of denying you happiness, son. Not after everything you’ve endured. I want that for you. More than anything, I want to see you claim something for yourself that isn’t born of sacrifice.” He pauses, the weight of his next words settling into the hush between them. “Just make sure it’s not something you’ve built on shifting ground.”

His hand finds Xaden’s shoulder—warm, solid, familiar. A father’s anchor in a world that offers too few of them. His grip isn’t firm, but it’s grounding, steadying in the way only a lifetime of shared silences can be.

“You’ll need clarity soon. The world is already changing around us, whether we’re ready for it or not. Old walls are cracking. Old oaths are being tested. And when the tide comes in—and it will—you need to know what you’re standing on. Who you’re standing for.”

He gives Xaden’s shoulder one last squeeze before letting go.

“Just make sure… Make sure you aren’t reaching for something only to have it torn from you again. Be certain that whatever it is you’re holding on to, you’re ready to fight for it. Not someday. But when the time comes.”

Then he turns, his footsteps measured and deliberate as he makes his way toward the manor, the lines of his back drawn tight with thought, with memory, with love too fierce to speak aloud.

Xaden remains seated, motionless. The courtyard feels impossibly quiet in Fen’s absence—like even the stones are waiting.

Above him, stars blink slowly into existence. The scent of violets cling to the hem of his coat. And beneath it all, deeper than reason, louder than warning, clearer than fear, one truth burns steady in the silence.

If I only ever get to keep one thing in this life…

Let it be her.

Let it be Violet.

Chapter Text

The corridor is quiet. Too quiet.

Violet hadn’t meant to linger. Truly, she hadn’t. She’d said goodnight, offered her gratitude, turned away with every intention of walking the long stretch back to her room in the servants wing. But her steps had slowed—slowed at the sound of a voice that wasn’t Xaden’s. Slowed again when she recognised the deeper register of the man who had only just wished her a courteous goodnight.

Fen Riorson.

By the time she reaches the curve of the marble corridor that opens into the magelit courtyard beyond, she’s already heard enough to stop moving. Just long enough to listen. Just long enough to slip into the deep alcove carved into the stone wall—an architectural flourish likely meant for sculpture or floral arrangement, but one that now houses her guilt like a second heartbeat.

She shouldn’t be here. She knows that. But still, she stands, frozen in shadow, the words threading through the open archway like falling embers. But then Fen speaks.

"She’s Navarrian. I assume you’ve considered the implications."

Violet freezes.

Not from fear. But from the sting of truth threading through his words, delivered with the same smooth precision as a blade laid on a table—offered without threat, but with full awareness of what it could do.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t so much as dare to breathe. She simply listens, each word slipping through the hush like falling leaves, quiet and inevitable.

“She’s not a weakness,” Xaden says, sharp as steel.

And gods, it hurts—how quickly he comes to her defence. How fiercely he speaks the moment her name is used like a calculation.

And then Fen: steady, heavy, the weight of a father and a ruler folded into each syllable says:

“I didn’t say she was."

A moment of silence passes and then Fen speaks again.

"I see why you like her," he says, but Violet hears what he doesn’t say more clearly: that liking her might be dangerous. That wanting her—loving her—could be ruin.

Her fingers curl against the cool stone of the alcove, breath caught tight in her chest.

She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked to be the reason Xaden is caught between duty and desire, between the kingdom etched into his blood and the softness he only ever seems to show her.

Still, she stays.

“You’re straddling a line, Xaden. One foot in your birth-right, the other in something far less stable. And I don’t begrudge you that—Gods, I envy it. But those lines have a way of splitting. And when they do, they don’t wait for you to choose which to hold onto.”

Violet’s hands curl into fists at her sides, not from anger—but from the ache that spreads low and wide in her chest. The ache of knowing that she is the line.

That her presence in his life—her love, her loyalty, her very name—is the tightrope he’s being forced to walk. She wants to storm back into that courtyard and tell them both that she’s not fragile, not someone to be spoken about like a risk assessment. But the truth is, she understands. Gods, she understands too well.

Something less far stable.

The phrase strikes something deep in Violet’s ribs.

She doesn’t need a name for it. She knows what this something is. She knows what it feels like to see him—really see him—beneath the armour, beneath the name, beneath the weight of who the world demands he be.

And Gods, she wants him.

Not just the heat of his hands or the press of his mouth on hers, though she wants that too. But him. All of him.

The rare laugh that curls out of him when he let his guard down. The way he shifts his stance when he is trying not to worry. The quiet way he listens when no one else thinks to ask.

She wants the man who holds a sword like it is part of his soul. The man who speaks with fire in his eyes when justice is at stake. The protector who’s let her in, even when it went against every bone in his body to trust again.

"If you plan to love her," Fen says at last, the words softer, laced with a quiet gravity, "then make sure you’re strong enough to protect her when the time comes."

Violet squeezes her eyes shut.

Because she knows exactly what it would cost him to do that.

She is Navarrian. That will always be a mark against her in this place, in this world. And Xaden—Xaden carries the future of Aretia, of Tyyrendor, on his shoulders, whether he wants to or not. He doesn’t have the luxury of choosing for himself, not really. Every choice he makes will echo. Every weakness will be exploited.

And she—she is becoming the greatest weakness, one he simply cannot afford.

“There is nothing between us to concern yourself with.” Xaden states simply.

It’s a lie. A beautiful, heart-breaking lie. And he tells it with that calm, impenetrable voice of his, like he's trying to convince himself, more than anyone else.

And then—Fen’s final blow.

“Perhaps. But if there ever is… you’ll be expected to remember where your loyalties lie.”

The words drop like iron. Violet flinches as if struck, though no one sees. No one hears the small breath she lets out, the quiet collapse of her composure behind stone walls and shadows. She shouldn’t be here. She knows she shouldn’t be here. But her feet don’t move.

Because she’s just heard everything.

The silence that follows is longer this time, heavier. Violet closes her eyes as Fen’s footsteps retreat, boot falls echoing along the marble like thunder made distant by time.

When the courtyard quiets again, she dares a glance through the carved stonework. Xaden remains seated, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed low as if the ground beneath him is the only thing keeping him upright.

Violet watches him for a long moment, her heart in her throat as she realises, not for the first time this evening, that she wants him. Not just his mouth or his hands or the heat of him beneath linen and leather. She wants him. As he is. Not the heir of Tyrrendor. Not the commander of Aretia’s skies. Not the name the world fears and crowns in the same breath. Just Xaden.

The man who watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

The soul she sees too clearly—and loves too deeply.

And now, Violet understands, that love may very well be the thing that undoes him.

Because he wants her too. Desperately. Recklessly. Enough to defy logic. Enough to lie to the one man who sees straight through him.

And she doesn’t know what to do with that.

Tears threaten, but she blinks them away before they can fall. She won’t cry here. Not when he’s still sitting so close, not when his silhouette is so unmistakably weighted with everything he refuses to say.

She presses a hand to the wall, grounding herself. Her other hand rests just below her collarbone, where the ache lives.

If she stays, he might find her. If she leaves, she’ll carry him with her anyway.

So she stays one heartbeat longer. Just long enough to whisper, so softly the shadows themselves have to strain to hear it:

“Gods, Xaden. What are we doing?”

She slips to the floor, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle—not to keep the world out, but to keep her feelings in.

Because love shouldn’t feel like treason. But tonight, it does.

She presses a trembling fist to her lips, biting down against the pressure that builds like a tide behind her ribs. The ache in her throat claws its way upward, sharp and insistent, demanding to be felt. But she won’t let it. Not here. Not now. Not when her pulse is thundering in her ears, so loud it feels like a drumbeat of panic inside her chest.

Because the cruellest truth is this—He would fight for her. Gods, he already is fighting for her.

He would raise his voice in the assembly chambers. He would draw his sword against tradition, against power, against blood itself if it meant she could remain beside him. He would burn everything down just to build a world where she could be safely loved.

And that terrifies her more than anything else ever could.

Because she never asked for that kind of devotion.

Never wanted to be the reason he might lose a kingdom he never sought, but now shoulders like armour. A crown that doesn’t yet rest on his brow, but is already pressed into the lines of his future. A weight not of his making—but one he bears, regardless. Proudly. Stubbornly. Quietly.

She never wanted to be his ruin. She only ever wanted to be his refuge.

The place he could return to when the world had taken too much. When the fire had scorched too long. When the banners had fallen and the dust had not yet settled—and all that remained was the echo of what had been. She wanted to be the one constant. The warm room. The steady voice. The home.

But how do you ask someone to fight for something that will never be safe?

How do you offer your hands when they’re already shaking?

How do you ask the future to bend when the past has taught you that love is the first thing the world rips away?

Her back finds the cool curve of the stone wall as her knees finally give. Slowly, wordlessly, she sinks to the ground, folding in on herself as if she can press the ache deeper, hide it beneath her skin where it can’t be seen, can’t be used, can’t betray her.

The marble is cold against her spine. Steady. Indifferent. And somehow, that’s a comfort.

She stays like that. Curled into the silence, long after Fen’s footsteps fade into the deeper reaches of the estate, swallowed by shadow and stone. Long after Xaden stills into silence, unmoving on the bench, his frame slouched, elbows braced against his knees, like the only thing holding him together is gravity.

The stars burn bright overhead. Cold witnesses to a conversation she was never meant to hear. And still she listens. Still she aches. Still she stays.

Because no matter how deeply he loves her—No matter how fiercely she wants to return it—No matter how many whispered nothings they’ve traded in darkened halls or stolen moments between the crush of duty—There is a truth neither of them can outrun.

The world may not let them keep it.

And what terrifies her most… is that they might try anyway.

Chapter Text

Xaden manages to avoid Garrick for a full day and a half—an impressive feat, all things considered. A small miracle, really. Especially given that he'd only counted on buying himself a few hours of distance, maybe a night at most. He suspects Imogen had a hand in it, likely urged Garrick to give him space, to let the heat bleed from his temper before they spoke again. But Garrick has never been particularly good at waiting, no matter how calm he might appear to his subordinates.

So it’s not exactly a surprise when, after a long, bone-tired day of cramming equations and ancient treaty clauses into his skull, Xaden swings open the door of his study and walks directly into the immovable wall of Garrick’s chest.

His sigh is immediate. And heavy, because the truth is—he’s exhausted.

His shoulders ache from the hours he spent hunched over a desk, poring through texts to make up for his recent absences. Formulas still swim behind his eyes, tangled with the political weight of historical precedent and the gnawing realisation that there is always more he’s expected to know. His arms are still sore from the punishing session of target practice two days prior, and his chest—his chest is a mess of things that no amount of study or sweat can fix.

Desire. Hurt. Frustration. Longing. All of it centred around Violet in ways that are equal parts breath-taking and unbearable.

But layered beneath it—deeper, heavier—is the betrayal. The quiet, festering kind. The kind that lingers like a bruise under the skin every time he looks at Garrick. It’s not loud. Garrick didn’t scream. Didn’t lie. Didn’t choose sides in a way that made it obvious.

But Xaden feels it all the same. And worst of all—Garrick looks tired too.

There are deep shadows etched beneath his eyes, the kind that don’t come from a single sleepless night but a series of them. His normally crisp shirt is wrinkled, collar askew, a detail that wouldn't normally survive five seconds under Garrick’s standard of presentation.

Which means this isn’t easy for him either.

It should make a difference, but it doesn’t.

Xaden stiffens, jaw clenched. Not ready. Not now. Not when his body is aching and his heart feels like it's been hollowed out and filled with smoke. But Garrick doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even move—just watches him with that steady gaze, unreadable as ever, and waits.

And Gods, that might be worse.

“Xaden,” Garrick says, voice firm with intention. Not a greeting—an opening move and when Xaden instinctively steps to the side, intending to slip past, Garrick mirrors the motion, blocking his path with quiet determination.

He’s not letting this go. Of course he’s not.

Xaden exhales slowly through his nose, the urge to walk away curling through his spine, but one look at Garrick’s face is enough to stop him. That expression—steadfast, weary, stubborn as all hell—tells Xaden what he already knows deep down: this confrontation isn’t optional. Not anymore. Garrick has dug his heels in, and Xaden won’t get out of this hallway without bleeding for it.

“Xaden,” Garrick repeats, softer this time but no less insistent, stepping closer, palms open in a gesture that might be conciliatory if it weren’t also a trap. There’s nowhere for Xaden to go, nowhere to run that wouldn’t make him look like a coward, and he’s too proud for that.

So he stays.

He crosses his arms over his chest—not just in defiance, but as armor. As a wall. The illusion of control where none exists.

“Hello, Cadet Tavis,” Xaden replies coolly, the words dipped in frost, his tone deliberately formal. Distant. A knife drawn not to cut, but to warn.

Garrick flinches—barely, but it’s there. His frustration spikes, flashing behind his eyes as he rakes a hand through his white-streaked hair.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply, tension fraying the edges of his voice. “Xaden, you know why I—”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” Xaden cuts in, his voice low but sharp, each word honed to a point. “Garrick, I don’t know a Gods damned thing.”

And he means it. He means every word.

There’s a sick, fleeting satisfaction in the way Garrick recoils slightly, as if the words landed like a blow. It’s a petty thing, that flicker of pleasure—but it’s real. He wants him to feel it. Wants Garrick to know what it’s like to be betrayed by the one person you thought would never stand on the wrong side of the line.

I want you to feel the way I do, Xaden thinks savagely. Bruised. Unmoored. Alone.

And Gods help him—part of him really does mean it. He wants Garrick to carry the weight of it, to wear the guilt like a second skin. Wants him to hurt.

But another part—a quieter, older part—hates it. Hates the look in Garrick’s eyes, the way the light that normally shines within them has dimmed just a little, as though Xaden’s words carved out something that might never come back.

Because this is Garrick. His right hand. His oldest friend. His best friend. The one person who’s stood beside him through fire and blood and worse. And even now, even this angry, Xaden isn’t immune to the guilt curling in his chest at the sight of Garrick’s shoulders sinking under the weight of silence.

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Xaden continues, the bitterness catching on the back of his tongue like ash, “but I can’t think of a single one that doesn’t feel like betrayal.”

The word hangs between them, jagged and unforgiving. A fracture. A dare.

And still, Garrick doesn’t look away.

“It was to keep you from doing exactly this,” Garrick says quietly, the words weighted with a tired kind of sorrow. His mouth draws into a tight, downward curve—less anger than regret. “I knew you’d obsess over it. Twist yourself in knots. And it’s not something you need to—”

Chapter Text

Garrick leans back slightly, his shoulders heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

“There honestly isn’t much to explain—at least, nothing concrete. You already know more than you think.”

Xaden raises an eyebrow, sceptical, but Garrick presses on.

“The droughts, the food shortages, the missing caravans along the eastern roads—those aren’t just unfortunate coincidences. The thefts along the borders you’ve read about in your reports, the so-called ‘bandit raids’—they're suspected to be orchestrated by Navarrian forces. But we have no evidence. Nothing we can hold up in council without looking paranoid or eager to ignite something we can't contain.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens as he bites down on his lower lip, one hand pulling absently at the end of his braid in thought. He glances to the side, eyes distant, working through the threads.

“But why?” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Why would Navarre risk this? The borders have been quiet for years.”

Garrick exhales through his nose.

“General Sorrengail has a reputation,” he says, cautiously. “Ambitious. Pragmatic. Some say ruthless, though that could just be a smear from rivals. It’s possible she sees our trade alliances as a threat. Or maybe she’s looking for leverage. Expansion.”

Xaden’s brow furrows.

“It doesn’t fit. From everything I’ve read, she’s strategic to the point of obsession—she wouldn’t risk a confrontation without overwhelming advantage.”

“I agree,” Garrick says quietly. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing makes sense. And without proof, we can’t afford to assume anything. Not when the wrong move could spiral into something far worse.”

“And my father won’t act,” Xaden says bitterly. “Not unless he’s cornered. Not unless he has irrefutable proof he can put in front of the council.”

“No,” Garrick agrees. “He won’t. Because if we strike first without confirmation, if we even suggest Navarre is behind this without something solid, the whole continent could fracture overnight. The alliances we’ve managed to hold together for the last decade? Gone. The moment we look like aggressors, we’ll have three smaller kingdoms nipping at our borders and opportunists flooding in from across the sea.”

Xaden exhales sharply, pacing a step away, then turning back. “So we just wait? While our people starve and supplies disappear and our roads go red?”

“We investigate,” Garrick says, voice firm. “Quietly. Thoroughly. And when we act—if we act—we do it with truth behind us. Because if we’re wrong, even by a hair, it won’t be a skirmish. It’ll be a war.”

A long silence stretches between them—taut and uneasy. And Xaden doesn’t say it aloud, but the thought rings in his mind anyway, unrelenting.

And if Violet’s Commanding General is behind it… what then?

What happens when duty and loyalty crash headfirst into the one thing he might not be willing to sacrifice?

And worse—what if Garrick already knows?

Garrick exhales with visible relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as he breaks into a tired smile. He slings an arm around Xaden’s shoulders like nothing’s broken between them, tugging him into an easy stride down the hallway.

“Come on,” he says, steering them toward the great hall. “Cook’s done some miracle with salted lamb again, and Imogen’s been complaining she hasn’t seen your brooding face for nearly a week. I think she’s ready to break into your rooms and drag you out herself.”

Xaden hums a reply, the corners of his mouth tugging upward just enough to pass for amusement. He answers where needed—asks a perfunctory question about dinner, nods when Garrick gripes about Council paperwork—but his mind is already elsewhere. It spins, fast and furious, even as his feet fall into step beside Garrick’s. Each thought is a sharp piece of the plan slotting into place.

What they were facing was bigger than reports and rumours. Bigger than chain-of-command and protocol. And if the whispers about Navarre’s involvement were true—if General Sorrengail really was behind the border raids—then every second they delayed gave Felix more time to pressure the Crown into striking first.

And if that happened, war wouldn’t be theoretical anymore.

His father was deliberate and calculating, but even he wouldn’t wait forever. He couldn’t. Tyrrendor’s people needed certainty, not patience. And Felix knew that. Would exploit it. Would push until they were the ones who took the first step.

So Xaden would have to move before then.

He’d always known he might have to carry this kingdom differently than his father did. Quiet diplomacy wasn’t in his nature. Waiting didn’t sit well in his bones.

Sometimes, his mother’s voice whispered, soft and unwavering; a good leader must break the rules to protect the people the rules were meant to serve.

And Gods, he missed her. But in moments like this, he could still feel her. As if she were walking just behind his left shoulder, her presence folding into him like a second shadow. Not pushing him—but giving him permission.

His mouth tilts slightly, thoughtful. Dangerous.

It would be monumentally stupid. Risky. Possibly diplomatically suicidal.

But he couldn’t sit here, training for a coronation that might never come, while the borders of his country burned quietly in the dark.

So he nods to Garrick, still listening to the conversation about Imogen and the lamb, but he tilts his head back just slightly.

And starts to plan.

Because if the future is already uncertain, he may as well shape it with his own hands.

Chapter Text

Xaden waits two full days—just long enough for Garrick’s watchful gaze to soften, for Imogen to stop lurking around corners like a storm cloud trying not to burst. Long enough for the oppressive weight of their suspicion to ease, replaced by the kind of cautious relief that makes his chest ache with guilt.

He goes to every meeting. Trains with the other riders like nothing’s wrong, his movements precise, focused, carefully unremarkable. He even lets himself lose once, taking a bruising fall that earns him a wince and a rare laugh from the others. He doesn’t mind. It keeps the questions at bay.

And every night, he eats dinner beside them. Smiles back at Imogen when she glances over with a hopeful sort of warmth, her fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of her wine glass. Garrick looks visibly lighter, even cracks a joke about Xaden finally looking “less like he wants to punch the sun.”

It’s meant to be comforting. It isn’t.

Because they would never forgive him if they knew what he planned to do. Garrick would sooner lock him in the estate’s highest tower, and Imogen would throw the key into the proverbial abyss without hesitation.

But they can’t stop him. Not this time.

They’ve spent years trying to protect him from the weight of the crown, shielding him like the boy he once was—not the man he’s become. But their protectiveness, however fierce, has its limits. And he’s found his edge.

No, he’s not ready to be king. Not yet.

But this? This he can do.

And it helps—having a plan, a purpose, something solid beneath his feet for the first time in days. It gets him through the hours without faltering. He buries himself in his duties, inhabits the polished version of himself that the court expects to see. The obedient heir. The diligent student. The formidable rider.

He becomes the role, down to the last gilded thread.

He nods thoughtfully at the nobles who angle for his favour, gives just enough interest to keep them guessing. He sits through lessons on ancient border disputes with Dralor, sketches out strategic troop placements upon maps, even though he knows where best their resources are spent already.

At every fitting, he stands still and lets the tailors pin heavy fabric around his frame, smiles when they murmur about his shoulders broadening, about how regal he’s beginning to look.

He dines. He trains. He studies. He listens.

And all the while, he waits. Not aimlessly. Not passively.

He waits for the perfect moment—for the stretch of silence where no one is looking too closely. When Garrick is distracted by an emergency drill. When Imogen is caught up in logistics for the summer manoeuvre trials.

When he can slip free. Because it’s coming. The moment always does. And when it arrives, he’ll already be halfway gone.

The perfect moment comes a little after midnight on the third day.

The estate is asleep in the kind of silence that feels ancient, the kind that cloaks shadows in secrets and makes even the stone walls seem complicit. Xaden moves through it like smoke.

Slipping past the guards is easy—easier than it should be. He’s known their rotations since he was a boy, used to map them in chalk on his desk as a child more interested in escape routes than arithmetic. Tonight, all that preparation feels like prophecy. His boots make no sound on the marble as he ducks into a forgotten servant’s corridor, one he hasn’t used in years, the narrow passage pressing in like a memory.

The pack slung over his shoulder bumps his ribs as he squeezes through the final arch and out into the open air. It’s colder than he expected. Tyrrendor is slipping fast into winter now, the chill biting at his knuckles and stealing his breath in fogged puffs. But he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate.

The guards patrolling the grounds move like clockwork, predictable and slow. Servants drift between wings, most on their way to bed—others, from the looks of their dishevelled clothes and flushed faces, heading toward or from someone else's. None of them notice him.

He presses his back to a wall, every muscle held still and tight. The brick is damp from the frost, leeching the heat from his skin through his clothes. He waits until the last soldier rounds the far corner, then darts across the lawn like a shadow with purpose, each footstep calculated to avoid leaves, sticks, gravel. His shadows wrap tighter around him in silent camaraderie, muffling even the faintest scrape of leather on earth.

He can’t risk being careful out here—not in the open. Not this close.

So he doesn’t look back. Just ducks his head and runs.

His hair is tied back the way it had been that night at the masquerade, a deliberate echo. A trick of familiarity to throw off recognition. But he knows—knows—that if someone does see him, really sees him, they’ll know.

Not because of his face. Not even because of the way he moves.

But because of the way the shadows cling to him, follow him, are him. They always give him away.

He slips past the edge of the training fields, skirts the ridge that leads toward the outer gate. There’s a gap in the old stone wall near the southeast quadrant, hidden by overgrowth and half-collapsed from time. He discovered it when he was fourteen, thought it the greatest treasure in the world. Tonight, it feels like betrayal and freedom both.

One more glance over his shoulder. No one’s there.

He crouches low, breath caught in his throat as he slides through the gap and out into the dense trees beyond.

This is it. No turning back now.

Halfway across the courtyard, it happens—movement. Close. Too close. And a sound that doesn’t belong at this hour: a lilting whistle, careless and light, winding its way into the night like a ribbon of song.

Xaden doesn’t wait to see who it is.

He abandons all pretence of stealth, surging into a sprint that eats up the rest of the courtyard in a matter of heartbeats. His pack thumps against his back with each pounding step, and his boots—quiet on stone, quieter on earth—thud against the grass in a rhythm far too loud for his liking. His shadows surge with him, curling close as if to muffle the noise, to shield him just that little bit more.

He doesn’t stop until the stables rise before him, hulking and familiar. The shadows it casts are thick and deep, draping over him like a second cloak. He ducks into them just as a soldier rounds the corner of the keep, whistling a tune that doesn’t match the hour—bright, oddly cheerful, wildly out of place.

Xaden flattens himself against the wall, holding his breath.

The guard’s boots scuff the path, slow and steady. The whistled melody grows clearer as he comes closer, a slightly off-key version of a bawdy old tavern song Xaden hasn’t heard in years—something about a sailor, a priest, and three barrels of brandy.

He can’t help it. A smile breaks through the tension knotting his jaw. Not because it’s funny, really, but because of how absurdly normal it all is. A soldier, bored on patrol, singing into the dark like the world isn’t teetering on a knife’s edge.

The guard passes by without pause, disappearing down the path and around another corner. Xaden gives it a full minute—just long enough for the sounds of footsteps and song to fade—before slipping from the wall and pulling open the stable door.

It creaks softly as it slides on its track. He winces but doesn't stop, slipping inside and easing it closed behind him with a gentle click.

Darkness greets him.

Not the pitch-black kind—there are a few mage lights bobbing faintly overhead, barely illuminating the long corridor of stalls—but enough to cast everything in shifting shadows and soft gold. He waits, letting his eyes adjust. The air is thick with the scent of hay, damp earth, old leather, and dragon musk. He breathes it in like it’s home.

Somewhere to his left, a tail flicks against a wooden wall with a heavy thump. A low snore rumbles from another stall. The dragons are asleep, or close to it—except one.

Sgaeyl stands in her stall like a statue carved from midnight. Her scales catch the faint light, casting subtle glints of indigo and violet, her wings tucked neatly against her sides. Yellow eyes gleam in the dark as she watches him approach with a knowing tilt to her head, like she’d been expecting him. Like she always does.

The moment their eyes meet, a pulse of calm flows through him—soothing, grounding. He doesn’t need words. He never does with her.

He lifts the latch and pulls the gate open slowly. It groans in protest, but Sgaeyl doesn’t move. She just watches, breathing deep, her tail curling once as he steps into the stall and presses a hand to her neck.

“You knew,” he murmurs, barely more than breath.

She rumbles softly, not quite a growl—more like agreement. Or admonishment. Or both.

His shoulders drop a fraction. For the first time in days, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Chapter Text

“Ready for an adventure?”

The voice is soft, almost teasing—but not unfamiliar.

“An adventure?”

Xaden spins, heart leaping into his throat. His pulse pounds in his ears as he whirls to his left and finds the source of the sound—Violet—leaning casually against the frame of the stall, a scale brush loosely held in one hand. Her expression is a study in composed curiosity: one dark brow arched, her gaze sharp and expectant even in the dim glow of the mage lights.

Xaden's right hand flies instinctively to his chest, pressing against the spot where his heart still hammers, his other having reached for the dagger he keeps sheathed at his waist.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, his voice low, breath shallow from the scare.

Violet lifts the brush in her hand and gives it a little wave.

“Taking care of your dragon?” she offers sweetly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, her tone layered with unspoken amusement. “And what are you doing here?”

“That doesn’t concern you, Violet,” Xaden bites back, sharper than he means to. He’d braced himself for the possibility of a patrol, a nosy servant, even a younger guard returning from a one night stand—but not her. Never her. She’s the one variable he didn’t account for. And why, for the love of Gods, is she in the stables after midnight? Do stable-hands keep hours like this now?

Violet's lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.

“I suppose the fact that Tyrrendor’s Crown Prince is planning a very unapproved, very unescorted midnight escape doesn’t concern me either?” she says, gesturing to the travel-worn pack slung over Xaden's shoulder. The tilt of her head is casual, but her hazel eyes are alight with the same fire that’s always unsettled him—too sharp, too perceptive, too close to the truth.

Xaden scowls. Of course she noticed the bag. Of course she’s put it all together.

Did she always have to be so damn observant?

“I really don’t have time for this,” he mutters, shifting his weight toward Sgaeyl, hoping Violet will take the hint and leave. “Please let us go.”

Something in her changes at that—her smirk drops, her teasing edge softens. She lets the brush fall to the straw-covered floor with a quiet thud and takes a slow step forward, not blocking their path, but placing herself gently in it all the same.

Violet's fingers reach for the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she’s grounding herself. Her lips part, as if she’s going to speak—then close again. For a moment, she says nothing. Just looks at him.

And that’s worse.

Because what’s in her gaze isn’t challenge. It’s concern. Genuine, raw, unguarded concern. The kind that guts him faster than any blade.

His breath catches.

She’s going to be his undoing. She always has been. He can face court politics, impending war, even betrayal—but this? Her? He doesn’t stand a chance.

“You don’t have to go alone,” Violet says finally, her voice hushed.

And Xaden—Gods help him—doesn’t know if she’s talking about tonight, or about everything that comes after.

“Violet, please,” Xaden says, and there’s more strain in his voice than he wants her to hear. “Just… return to your room. Pretend you didn’t see me. Forget that this conversation ever happened.” The plea lodges somewhere tight in his throat, wrapped in desperation. Gods, why does she always seem to find him in the very moments he is most determined to disappear? “I’ll be back by morning,” Xaden adds, trying for reassurance, but even to his own ears it sounds like a lie told out of habit.

Violet's gaze travels to the pack on his back and then lifts again, unimpressed.

“Your pack says otherwise,” she retorts, arms folding.

Xaden grits his teeth.

“Are you going to make me order you to leave?”

Her chin lifts.

“I’d rather risk the consequences of ignoring a prince,” she says evenly, “than let you vanish into the night without so much as a goodbye.”

The breath leaves his lungs like a punch. Xaden stares at her—really stares—and something in his chest shifts, unwillingly and all at once. There’s nothing performative in her stance, nothing strategic in her words. It’s not posturing, or stubbornness, or rebellion for rebellion’s sake.

It’s care. Real, undiluted, furious care.

And Gods, it shouldn’t make him feel this way—shouldn’t spark something warm and unruly in his chest—but then, Violet has never made sense. She’s never played by the rules Xaden has tried so hard to live by.

She’s always made him feel more than he’s supposed to.

Her hand is still curled lightly around the edge of his sleeve. It’s a small thing, barely pressure at all, but the gesture is grounding. Real. Her voice softens, and with it, something in him falters.

“Please,” she says. “Let me help you.”

They’re standing so close now, too close for anything but the truth. Xaden can feel the heat of her skin through the thin layers of their clothing. Smell the leather and sun-warmed parchment that always seems to cling to her. Hear the quiet, steady cadence of her breath. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, to press his lips upon hers once more.

His heart answers hers like a thunderclap in a cavern and in that moment, Xaden makes a decision. He tells himself it’s strategy, not sentiment. He lies to himself because the truth—that he simply can’t bear to be without her—is too dangerous.

“I’m heading to the Navarrian border,” he says quietly. “To confirm or disprove a rumour for myself.”

“A rumour?” Violet's voice is hushed, wary. Her hand tightens ever so slightly around his sleeve, and her gaze sharpens. “Isn't it the Assembly's job to stamp out any such rampant rumours?”

Xaden shakes his head once.

“None of them have been able to do so. And time is running out. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

She watches him closely, studying every crack in his expression, every breath he draws between words.

“What kind of rumour?” she asks, though she already seems to know the answer. Her brow draws tight as she touches a hand to her mouth, her mind racing ahead. “Something to do with Navarre,” she says slowly. “It must be serious if you’re willing to leave your bed—leave your title—" Violet pauses, looking over at him, her expression bleak, "you think there’ll be conflict between us.”

The words hang heavy between them, cold as the night air.

Xaden doesn’t answer right away. Because saying yes means acknowledging that the knife they’ve both felt hovering just out of sight may finally be finding its mark. It means admitting that the only home he’s ever truly fought to protect, may soon be at war with hers.

It means involving her, again, in the choices that could destroy them both.

But she’s already involved. She always has been, since the moment she arrived in Tyrrendor.

Xaden closes his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opens them again, there’s no hiding in his voice.

“I think war might be closer than anyone wants to admit.”

Violet's hand recoils as though she's been burnt.

“War?” Violet’s voice is sharper now, cutting through the stale hay-scented air. “What cause would Navarre possibly have to go to war with Tyrrendor?”

Xaden doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing once before he replies, careful and steady: “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain the unrest festering along the borders, or the way Felix’s voice had risen in the Assembly chamber, raw with frustration. He doesn’t mention the reports, the shifting allegiances, or the bloodless skirmishes being passed off as “bandit activity.”

And he certainly doesn’t say that fear—real, heavy, crawling fear—is starting to grip even the most stalwart of Tyrrendor’s leaders; his father.

“I’m going,” he says again, firmer this time. “You can come with me if you choose, but whether you do or not, I am leaving—and I’m not letting you stop me, Violet.”

His hand grips deliberately at the hilt of his dagger, fingers curling around the worn leather grip. It’s not a threat. Not really. There’s no universe in which he could raise a blade against her. But it’s a signal, a boundary—one he hopes she won’t test.

Violet, to her eternal credit—or perhaps, to his eternal doom—doesn’t so much as flinch. Her bright eyes remain fixed on his, steady and unflinching, reading far more than he wants her to see. The light from the mage lights catches the ends of her braid, silvering them in the gloom like threads of moonlight. She is beautiful and sharp and impossible. And she’s not afraid of him.

Of course she isn’t.

A memory stirs, unbidden: her mouth curving in a challenge across a ballroom floor, the weight of her waist beneath his hand, the feel of her breath at her ear, the gleam of her eyes beneath a silver scaled mask.

Before he can grab hold of the thought, it vanishes.

“I’ll come with you,” Violet says, as if it’s the simplest decision in the world. “I know the border better than most,” she says with a shrug, already moving. “I might be able to help.”

Relief floods through Xaden fast and hot, though he doesn’t let it show on his face. He only gives a short nod and glances toward the door. The guard will circle back soon, and the opportunity they’ve carved into the night is already shrinking.

“Then get ready,” he says briskly. “We don’t have much time. Choose a mount. I’ll meet you outside.”

Violet pauses, raising a brow.

“Not going to share Sgaeyl with me?”

There’s a flicker of humour in her voice, faint but unmistakable.

“I think that might make her lose the little respect she has for you,” Xaden replies, already reaching for gear hanging neatly along the wall.

“Please,” Violet scoffs as she heads toward the next stall, “she loves me. She just hides it under layers of feigned disdain.”

He smirks, watching her for a heartbeat longer than he should as she gently coaxes a red daggertail awake with a whisper-soft touch to its scaled forehead. There’s something strangely intimate in the way she moves—efficient, focused, and completely in control. His eyes linger, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

He turns back to his own work, fitting his pack into Sgaeyl's seat with practiced ease. There’s a war brewing at the border and a hundred things that could go wrong before sunrise, but for now—for this stolen moment in the dark—it feels like maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to face it alone.

Chapter Text

They work in silence, urgency humming between them like a taut wire ready to snap. Even Sgaeyl seems to understand the stakes; she doesn’t shift or grumble as Xaden runs a firm hand down her side, checking scales with the efficiency of long practice. Her molten-yellow eyes remain on him, steady and unblinking, and when he makes for the barn doors, she follows without hesitation as he leads her from her stall.

At the barn doors, Violet is already waiting, her dagger-tail alert beneath her steady hand. The silver threads in her braid catch faint moonlight as she turns toward him, eyes glinting.

“Where to?” she whispers, breath forming soft clouds in the cold air.

“Wait for the bell,” Xaden murmurs back, keeping his voice low. “Then count to one hundred and twenty. That’ll give us just enough time to get the dragons across the field and into the tree line before the next rotation passes the outer wall.”

She nods but arches a brow.

“Aren’t there guards on the perimeter?”

Xaden blinks, caught off guard. No one outside the highest ranks of Tyrrendor’s defence command should know about the northern patrol line, especially not a visitor from Navarre. That section of the estate is rarely watched during daylight hours; only the night rotation covers it, and even then, it’s considered a soft edge, a blind spot.

“There are,” he says cautiously. “But I know how to avoid them.”

The bell tolls, a deep, resonant sound that rolls across the grounds and into the forest beyond. It’s a haunting echo in the quiet night, a reminder of structure and order, of everything Xaden is about to upend.

They go still. Even the dragons seem to hold their breath. From somewhere nearby, laughter floats faintly through the air; two guards sharing a joke on a night watch, unaware that their Crown Prince is about to vanish into the darkness beneath their noses.

A pang twists low in Xaden’s chest.

He thinks of Garrick, of the relief in his face just days ago, of Imogen’s tentative smile over dinner. He can already picture the fury when they discover he’s gone. And beneath that fury: betrayal. Hurt.

But this, this risk, this choice, isn’t something he can ignore. He has to act. Has to see the truth for himself, rather than let the Assembly delay and debate until it’s too late.

He counts the last few seconds in his head.

“Now.”

Violet is already moving before the word leaves his mouth, her body coiled and ready like she’d been tracking the time herself. She opens the door with fluid precision and leads her dragon out, quick and silent. Xaden follows with Sgaeyl, closing the door behind them with a muted thud, his heart a steady drumbeat in his ears.

This side of the courtyard is shrouded in deeper dark; fewer lanterns hang here, fewer windows glow with mage-light. The buildings are quiet: rider barracks, shuttered servant quarters, and the dim glow of the guardhouse where shifts rotate through the night. No movement. No alarm.

“Quickly,” he whispers.

Sgaeyl moves at his side, each step unnervingly silent for a creature her size. Violet is only a pace behind him, her silhouette haloed faintly in mage-light as the dragons’ breath mingles with the cold.

Xaden casts a veil of shadow around them; not perfect concealment, but enough to muffle their outlines and dull the sound of their steps. The grass is slick with dew, and Xaden winces at every sodden footprint they leave behind. They glimmer under moonlight, undeniable evidence of their passage.

If he were a water or earth wielder, he could reform the field behind them, pull the moisture back into the blades of grass, reform the earth at a molecular level and erase all trace of their exit. But shadows are not so generous. All he can do is flatten the wet grass as they pass, pressing down every footprint as best he can with careful steps and low murmurs. It’s slow, tedious work and not enough. Not really.

In the end, someone will see. Garrick will know. He always does.

But by then, Xaden hopes he’ll be far enough away that it won’t matter. That whatever answer he finds, truth or illusion, will justify the cost of disappearing.

He glances at Violet. Her eyes scan the path ahead, sharp and calculating. Maybe she’ll think of a better route. An alternate path through the woods or a more discreet approach to the border. She’s spent enough time out there to know its weaknesses better than most.

Later, he tells himself. That comes later.

For now, they just need to get off the estate. Out of the Crown’s shadow and into the night, and then the real work will begin.

The forest rises before them like a living wall, dense and endless.

In daylight, it might have looked merely vast but now, beneath the thick veil of night, it looks like something else entirely; ancient, breathless, a shadowed thing with secrets buried in its roots. The darkness here isn’t just absence of light, it’s presence, heavy and deliberate, as though someone had taken a brush and painted out every last hint of colour, leaving only black and grey behind.

Xaden doesn’t hesitate. He leads them toward that darkness at a quiet jog, his hand firm on Sgaeyl’s leg as they pass beneath the first low-hanging branches.

They’ve barely slipped into the underbrush when a voice cuts across the quiet, sharp, hushed, and far too close.

“What was that?”

Xaden stops dead.

The voice is familiar, though he can’t yet see the speaker through the brambles. He knows that tone, knows the slight hitch in it, it belongs to one of Garrick’s squad-mates. Of course it does.

“Did you see something?” another calls, just as low, more cautious than alarmed.

“Maybe. There was movement near the treeline.”

Violet hisses a curse through her teeth, so soft it could’ve been the wind, but Xaden can feel her tension beside him like it's a palpable thing. He clenches his jaw, silently echoing her curse. They’re too exposed. Still too near the edge, only a few paces from the last line of trees. Moving now would all but guarantee discovery, no matter the shadows cloaking them, two dragons do not go unnoticed, but standing still won’t help either. When the guards get closer, and they will, they’ll see them, frozen or not.

“We might have to run for it,” Xaden breathes, barely audible. He hates the words even as he says them. He’d hoped for hours. A wide berth, time to disappear before Garrick even realised he was gone. Being caught now would not only undo everything, it would humiliate him, and worse, risk Violet.

She turns toward him, mouth half-open to respond—And then a sound cuts cleanly through the stillness.

A roar; long, mournful, and loud enough to make the leaves tremble.

The feathertail stands only metres away. She emerges from the underbrush like a spectre, no warning, no sound of her approach, head thrown back as her voice shatters the silence. Her scales look molten in the moonlight, rippling like liquid gold, and her eyes glint with something that feels too deliberate, too aware.

Xaden recognises her instantly; It’s the same feathertail who followed them during the hunt. Who’d lingered on the edge of the clearing like a question. Now she roars again, louder, longer, and in the distance, the guards freeze.

“That sounds like one unhappy dragon,” one says, unsure.

“Should we do something about it?” The second voice is higher this time, with the faint edge of fear. Superstition runs deep in Tyrrendor.

“No.” A pause. “The dragons in this forest are to be left alone.”

“Why?” the other guard quips.

“They were the queen’s favourites,” the other voice answers roughly. “They've been around a lot longer than we have, and will continue to be long after we're gone.”

Silence and then, a begrudging,

“Right. So what should we—”

“Ignore it. We keep to the patrol.” 

Their voices fade into the distance, swallowed by trees and mist. Still, Xaden doesn’t move. He’s watching the feathertail, caught in the quiet gravity of her gaze.

Her golden eyes find his through the dark, unblinking.

There’s something strange in that look, something almost like understanding.

He doesn’t believe in omens, doesn’t believe in divine signs or fate-made guardians. But still, he wonders: Is she watching us go? Or watching us leave something behind?

“Xaden,” Violet says, a whisper now pressed tight with urgency. “We should go.”

He nods, but his eyes remain on the golden feathertail.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to her.

She doesn’t reply, of course. Just watches a moment longer, then turns soundlessly and slips into the brush, melting into shadow, silent, swift, and gone. Only her tail lingers in sight for a heartbeat longer, flashing gold in the gloom before vanishing too.

They mount their dragons in silence, and this time, no one stops them.

Chapter Text

The moon hangs low in the sky, its silver crescent a fragile sliver among the inky shadows of the night. Half-hidden, its light filters in fragments through the thick lattice of treetops, dappling the forest floor with fleeting glimmers that seem almost hesitant to exist. Xaden and Violet move cautiously at first, their mounts’ steps muted by the soft carpet of fallen leaves and moss, each careful placement of claw measured against the darkness. The dragons’ breathing rises and falls in steady rhythm, but even that could betray them if they misstep.

As the estate’s distant lights shrink behind them, swallowed by the forest and the rolling hills, the pair begins to pick up the pace. The tension in Xaden’s shoulders eases slightly, replaced by a surge of urgency that propels them eastward. Each step carries them further from the world of expectations, of titles and responsibilities, and deeper into a wild space where only instinct, courage, and the trust between them guides the way.

“What part of the border are we heading to?” Violet’s voice drifts back, carrying easily over the low thrum of the dragons’ movement. Moonlight catches the strands of her braided hair as they whip in the night wind, and for a moment, Xaden catches her profile flickering in the shadows, soft and luminous. Her lips curve into a private smile, one he can just make out, a quiet spark of mischief and anticipation that seems wholly hers.

“Montserrat,” Xaden answers, lifting his voice just enough to carry over the rhythmic pounding of claws against the earth. The name feels heavy, weighted with purpose, but light on his tongue in the thrill of the flight.

The cold bites at his fingers, biting deeper than it should through gloves and leather, and yet, despite the ache, he feels warmth rising from somewhere deeper, an unexpected pulse of exhilaration threading through his veins. It courses through him in waves, making the dark forest around them seem electric, alive. The danger, the secrecy, the recklessness of it all, the absurdity of riding at night into lands they know so little of, should be terrifying, and perhaps, in any other circumstance, it would be, but alongside Violet, leaning into the rhythm of their mounts, racing toward an uncertain horizon, it feels impossibly, intoxicatingly right. Every instinct hums with it; the thrill, the fear, the desperate hope that somehow, through courage or sheer recklessness, they might tilt the course of what’s to come.

Xaden allows himself a smile, small and unguarded, the first in days that is entirely his own. It is a smile born of impossibility and certainty at once: impossible because the night is so full of danger, and certain because he is here, beside her, and for this one stolen moment, nothing else matters.

A thought crosses Xaden’s mind in a rush, and his face warms almost painfully; People will assume, he knows they will, that they’ve run away together. Felix might even lean into that story, encouraging speculation, regardless of whether or not anyone else believes it. Imogen, Liam, Bodhi, Garrick, and even the King will know better, of course, but the whispers, the glances, the imagined scandal, that alone twists his stomach into complicated knots.

He sneaks another glance at Violet. She rides ahead slightly, her face tilted up toward the fractured canopy above, eyes tracing the pale silver sliver of the moon as it drifts lazily through the swaying branches. There’s a quiet serenity about her in the dim light, the kind that makes the world shrink down to nothing but her and the rhythm of the forest around them.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, she turns toward him, and a slow, knowing smile curves her lips. Xaden curses under his breath; he knows he’s been caught staring, yet even now he can’t bring himself to want to look away. With a deliberate effort, he drops his gaze to the forest floor, feeling heat rise to his ears and the faintest lurch of something like giddiness in his chest.

“I know someone who lives in Montserrat,” Violet says, her voice soft but steady, carrying clearly over the muted sounds of claws and the low hum of dragon breaths. There’s no teasing in her tone this time, no playful jab at his flushed cheeks or racing heart. “We should find her. She might be able to help us.”

Xaden’s plan had been far simpler; reach the border, cloak himself in shadow, and begin asking questions. He had expected nothing but careful observation and discreet inquiries, not the relief that floods him at Violet’s words. He tries not to portray it, though, keeping his voice level, controlled.

“Sounds good to me,” he replies, and somehow the simple agreement feels weighty, like a quiet truce between them, a shared understanding that they are now in this together, fully and irrevocably.

Violet’s grin widens ever so slightly, one of those smiles that teases without saying a word, a knowing curve that makes him want to forget everything but this moment. He swallows hard and glances at her again, catching the glimmer of moonlight in her eyes, before turning his attention back to the path ahead.

They ride on, the night pressing in around them, the forest deepening in shadows, the pale, watchful moon casting fractured silver across their path. Each beat of the dragons’ feet on the forest floor carries them forward, deeper into uncertainty, yet also into something undeniably theirs; a journey that neither caution nor duty can stop.

Montserrat rises before them in the early light, a settlement that hums with life and movement. Though technically no more than a village, it sprawls wide, its streets thick with the restless pulse of trade. Stalls and wagons line the cobbled thoroughfares, bursting with goods that catch the sun—glinting fabrics, hammered metal, baskets of fresh produce. Beyond its edges stretch neat rows of farmland, tilled earth and grazing pastures feeding the smaller hamlets scattered further along the border.

Much of the town is Navarrian, the familiar cadence of their voices threading through the din. Montserrat’s position, nearest to Basgiath on this side of the border, makes it a natural hub, drawing merchants from every direction. Xaden notices them as he and Violet slip into the press of bodies: a cluster of Tyrrish traders straining under crates of precious ore, their heavy boots scuffing the dust; a Poromish caravan draped in silks, their wagons shimmering with crystal and delicate chains of jewellery that catch the morning light like droplets of rain.

It’s exactly the kind of place he needs; too many faces, too many tongues, too many stories interwoven to make sense of. In the chaos, no one looks too long at strangers. Here, they can blend in.

They leave the dragons tethered in the shadow of the trees beyond the town’s edge, the beasts hidden where branches hang low and the air smells of pine. Xaden pauses for a moment, glancing back, making certain the creatures are concealed before turning to follow Violet. Together they step into Montserrat’s restless tide, swallowed quickly by the crush of buyers and sellers.

The noise is overwhelming; bartering voices raised above the jangle of carts, the laughter of children darting between stalls, the clipped impatience of travellers eager to push through. They keep close, brushing shoulders more often than they should, navigating the press of bodies with a carefulness that feels deliberate. Each touch, however accidental, anchors them against the threat of separation in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

For all its bustle, Montserrat feels like the perfect disguise. And yet, Xaden can’t shake the quiet thrum of vigilance beneath his skin, the sense that even here, among so many, their presence could be noticed.

Stalls and slim timber-front shops lean against one another in a precarious balance, as though vying for every inch of space without quite spilling into the street. Fabrics ripple from rafters in cascades of dye, deep crimson, pale gold, cobalt so rich it seems to drink the sunlight. The air is thick with smells that clash and twine together: roasted meats, crushed herbs, hot oil, and the faint tang of iron from weaponry displayed in neat, glinting rows. Every surface seems to hold something; rings and necklaces spilling from trays, silks folded in gleaming stacks, furs draped carelessly over wooden beams, tools and trinkets and instruments made of wood and bronze.

The voices are the loudest of all. Vendors bark their wares with the desperation of competition, each one straining to be heard over the next. Buyers haggle with sharp tongues, some in good humour, others with the grim insistence of people who cannot afford to lose a single coin. The crowd moves like a tide, pressing and parting, bodies brushing shoulders and elbows without apology.

Xaden knows that this chaos is only the surface of Montserrat. Somewhere behind the riot of colour and sound are the quiet, shuttered buildings where the real deals are struck, where nobles barter land and countries weigh alliances, far from the din of the street. But this, this melee of hawkers and customers, the thick knot of humanity pressing together in one place, is what always comes to his mind when he thinks of Montserrat. It is the village’s true heartbeat.

He keeps a watchful eye on Violet, alert for the cutpurses and swindlers who thrive in crowds like these. But if she notices the jostling hands or the chaos around her, she doesn’t show it. She moves through the press with ease, her braid catching light when the wind shifts, her gaze sharp but untroubled.

When a boy, hardly more than ten, sidles up with quick fingers toward her coin purse, Xaden tenses. He’s ready to intervene before Violet even realises what’s happening. But she does. Her hand snaps out with surprising speed, catching the boy’s wrist mid-motion. He freezes, wide-eyed, his face pale as though he expects to be struck.

Instead, Violet presses a silver coin into his palm. Her expression doesn’t soften, if anything, her tone holds the quiet steel of command as she turns him gently by the shoulders and nudges him on his way. The boy stumbles, staring down at the unexpected gift in his hand, before disappearing into the tangle of people.

Violet steps back into stride without so much as a glance behind her, her lips curved in a small, triumphant smile. Xaden bites back a grin of his own, but he can’t quite stop the warmth from curling in his chest at the sight of her smugness. He doesn’t say anything, if he did, she’d only double down on the expression, but he files the moment away, etched as clearly as any memory.

Chapter Text

They’ve barely been in Montserrat half an hour before Xaden notices it; the glances that linger too long, the sidelong looks from people pretending to browse wares but whose eyes keep drifting back to him. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that distance alone might shield him,  that being so far from Aretia, his name and face would carry less weight. But recognition is its own kind of currency, and it seems he’s not as invisible here as he’d thought he would be.

A woman ahead of them slows her steps, whispering something to her companion, and though she tries to be discreet, Xaden catches the quick point of her finger in his direction. His spine stiffens, unease threading cold through his chest.

“I need to disguise myself,” he mutters under his breath.

Violet follows the motion of the woman’s gesture, her hazel eyes narrowing with sharp disapproval. The glare she levels at the onlookers is so cutting it could draw blood, but she doesn’t say a word until they’ve passed by when she then gives the faintest nod, a quiet assurance that she agrees.

Xaden wastes no time.

At the next stall, he buys a strip of leather and ties his hair back, though strands escape and fall into his eyes, softening the severity of his face but doing little to mask its familiarity but it's not enough. He needs something more.

At another stand, he purchases a small pot of pigment. The vendor, without question, slides him a polished scrap of metal to serve as a mirror.

He works quickly, dipping a thin brush into the paint and dragging a line along his cheekbone, curved in the style he remembers from Lucerish traders who had passed through Basgiath years ago. The trend has spread since then, becoming common enough now to make him look more like a passing merchant than an infamous, soon to be crowned, son.

Beside him, Violet watches with clear amusement.

“Pink is a lovely shade on you,” she teases, her voice pitched low so only he can hear. Her lips curve as she studies his painstaking effort, her eyes bright with a quiet mirth that threatens to undo his concentration.

When his brush slips, her expression shifts into a mixture of fondness and exasperation. She makes a small, dismissive sound, then plucks the pot and brush from his hand with the sort of casual confidence that makes resistance futile.

“Let me,” she murmurs. “You’re taking too long.”

Xaden huffs, half-grumbling, half-relieved.

“You try doing this with a mirror the size of a coin then,” He says, but still, he obeys when she tilts his chin, lifting his face toward her.

Her fingers are steady as they brush against his skin, guiding the fine bristles of the brush with ease. The closeness is disarming and Xaden tries to keep his focus fixed anywhere but her eyes, settling on her nose instead, but the choice betrays him. The bridge of it is scattered with freckles, pale constellations he has never noticed in such detail before. Each one distinct, like points on a map, and before he can stop himself he wonders how long it might take to count them.

Violet's breath ghosts against his cheek as she leans closer, intent on her work, and Xaden forces himself to remain still, jaw tight, pulse unsteady. For all his plans and all his control, it is moments like this, small, simple, devastating, that undo him most completely.

“There,” Violet says at last, stepping back just enough to survey her work. Satisfaction warms her voice, a quiet glow of triumph. “It looks good on you.”

Xaden inclines his head, fighting the ridiculous urge to flush under her scrutiny.

“Thank you,” he manages, though his throat feels tight. He hesitates, almost offering the brush back to her. “Did you want to—”

But Violet shakes her head before he can finish, her expression softening into something wry.

“No one will know me here,” she says. “I’m not meant to be noticed in the first place.”

The words make him frown, a small furrow forming between his brows. There’s something in the way she says it, light on the surface but with a weight buried underneath, as though being unseen is a fact she’s long since resigned herself to. He wants to press her on it, but before he can shape the thought into words, she continues, already moving them forward.

“My friend is usually in Montserrat this time of year,” Violet explains, her tone practical now. “She stays here through the winter to help her family with their business. Let me find a courier to pass on a note, and I’ll see if she can meet with us somewhere.”

Xaden gives a short nod, though doubt coils faintly at the back of his mind. And later, as they linger at the edge of the market, watching a young girl with quick feet dart into the crowd with Violet’s letter tucked between her fingers, he voices the thought.

“Are you sure she’s going to help?”

Violet doesn’t answer immediately. She leans subtly toward him instead, her shoulder brushing his as if she belongs there. The faint warmth of her presence spreads through him like fire seeping into cold stone. When she does speak, her voice is steady, assured.

“Rhiannon is as fierce as she is friendly. People underestimate the things she notices.” A small smile ghosts across her lips as she continues, “There’s a good chance she’ll at least know where we can start looking into this rumour of yours. Better than wandering around without a plan.”

Her casual leaning into him could undo him if he let it. Xaden swallows down the grin tugging at his mouth and, instead of stepping away, lets himself shift just a little closer, close enough that the line of his arm nearly presses against hers. He doesn’t say anything, but he suspects she knows.

“You’re right,” Xaden concedes after a long pause, the words leaving him like a reluctant exhale. “I should have made plans for my own contacts, but I’m just—”

“—a little impulsive,” Violet cuts in smoothly, her grin wide and merciless.

Xaden shoots her a look, caught between annoyance and amusement, but she only leans into it further.

“Your Highness, I’ve known that about you since the moment we met.”

“Surely not the moment we met,” he mutters, heat creeping up the back of his neck. His shoulders dip slightly as though he can fold himself smaller, hide the sudden flush that wants to betray him.

“The moment,” Violet insists, her voice shifting from playful to something softer, quieter, almost reflective. The teasing is still there, but beneath it lingers a note of truth, and Xaden feels it catch at him unexpectedly, tugging at something low in his chest. He glances at her, searching her face, curious about what exactly she means—what she remembers about that first meeting that he doesn’t. But Violet doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she blinks, clears her throat, and abruptly claps her hands together with a brisk cheer that feels deliberately lighter. “Anyway. Should we find something to eat while we wait for Rhiannon?”

Her voice is bright, her smile easy, but Xaden can still feel the weight of the word she left behind—moment—humming between them, echoing long after she’s tried to banish it.

Slightly bewildered, Xaden nods his agreement, and before he can think better of it Violet has already slipped her hand into his, tugging him toward the maze of food stalls scattered along the narrow street. The air is thick with competing scents; savoury smoke, frying oil, the tang of spice and every few steps a vendor calls out, thrusting skewers or baskets toward passing hands.

They snack as they go: crisp fried dough twisted around sticks, still too hot to eat but impossible to resist, and fruit from a family whose stall is half-hidden beneath a canvas patched in a dozen colors. The youngest daughter, no older than eight, thrusts a small basket of strawberries up toward Xaden with the gravity of a knight bestowing a sacred gift.

“I grew them myself,” she says, chest puffed with pride.

Xaden accepts them with solemn thanks, as though she’s just entrusted him with the kingdom’s future, and when he glances sideways he catches Violet biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Violet makes a game of daring him to try increasingly bizarre foods: skewers of roasted insects lacquered in honey glaze, dumplings dyed in unnaturally bright colours, a cup of something that steams like it might still be alive. He declines each one with growing suspicion until Violet arches a brow and remarks, far too casually, “I suppose you’re just too scared.”

That, of course, Xaden cannot let stand.

He snatches the next offered skewer and takes a bite before he can think better of it. The texture alone is alarming; rubbery and oddly resistant, and he has just enough time to realise that what he’s chewing used to be an eyeball before the taste hits. Salty, oily, but undercut with a cloying burst of unexpected sweetness. He nearly gags, coughing against the back of his hand, determined not to give Violet the satisfaction of seeing him spit it out.

Violet’s eyes are bright with glee, but she gamely takes the skewer from him and declares she’ll share the burden. She manages exactly one bite before making a strangled sound and spitting it so forcefully that half of it arcs through the air and lands squarely on the brim of a woman’s hat. The woman squawks in outrage, swatting at the mess, and Violet mutters an apology that only makes her laugh harder.

Xaden, meanwhile, is doubled over, laughter tearing out of him so unexpectedly that his ribs ache and he nearly chokes again. The more he tries to stop, the worse it gets, until he’s gasping for breath, tears in his eyes, and Violet is clutching his arm to keep herself upright.

For a moment, in the middle of Montserrat’s crowded chaos, it feels like it’s just the two of them; breathless, foolish, and far happier than they have any right to be.

Chapter Text

Violet is in the middle of noisily gulping down a cup of water—so noisily, in fact, that Xaden thinks she might be doing it more for dramatic flair than actual thirst—when someone suddenly appears at her elbow. A lithe young woman steps into the space beside her, her presence sharp enough to cut through the din of the crowd. Her hair is wound into neat dreads that sway gently with her movements, and though her beauty is striking, the frown carved across her face doesn’t belong on someone who looks like that.

“Violet,” the woman hisses under her breath, brows knitting as her gaze fixes on her with disbelief. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—”

“Rhiannon,” Violet blurts, cutting her off swiftly, her tone laced with both urgency and warning. She gestures hastily toward Xaden. “This is my friend, Xaden.”

The word friend hangs in the air like an ill-fitting cloak. Rhiannon startles, her expression flickering as her gaze slides to Xaden. The moment her eyes land on him, her colour drains, leaving her complexion pale and unsettled.

“Your… friend,” she repeats faintly, the word breaking apart as though she can’t quite reconcile it with what she sees. Her mouth works around the name with a kind of dazed reluctance. “Your friend… Xaden.”

“Yes. That’s what I said,” Violet replies, clipped and tight, her voice low, teeth gritted in a warning not to make a scene.

Xaden observes the exchange with undisguised curiosity. There’s no mistaking the recognition that flashes across Rhiannon’s face, but what intrigues him more is that she seems far less interested in the presence of a prince than she is distraught by Violet’s unexpected arrival.

“Can you help us with a rumour we’re here to confirm?” Violet presses, her tone brisk, as though she might be able to drag Rhiannon back on course through sheer determination.

“A rumour?” Rhiannon echoes, her eyes narrowing. Her exasperation is plain, though it seems directed more at Violet than anything else. “You mean the one about the bandits who aren’t really bandits?”

Her sigh carries the weight of someone who’s been here before, who’s had this exact argument in a hundred different ways.

“Do you know anyone who claims to have seen them, Rhiannon?” Violet asks pointedly.

Rhiannon opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get a word out, Xaden interjects.

“Actually,” he says, his voice calm but firm, “do you know where they’re supposed to be hiding, these… bandits?”

The interruption makes Rhiannon blink at him. For a moment, she just studies him as though trying to puzzle out what kind of man he really is.

“You mean to tell me you want to find them yourself?” she asks, surprise sharpening her words. “But you’re..."

“I came here to confirm rumours, not to hear them repeated,” Xaden says, his tone steady, leaving little doubt that he means every word.

Violet makes a soft, indignant sound at Xaden's side, but neither he nor Rhiannon acknowledge it. Rhiannon studies him instead, her sharp gaze narrowing as though she’s trying to weigh his sincerity against the stories she’s clearly heard. She reaches up and idly twists one of her dreads between her fingers, tugging at it as she examines him in silence.

“You weren’t kidding, huh?” she murmurs at last, though her eyes flick back to Violet when she says it. Her meaning isn’t lost: this isn’t about Xaden so much as it is about Violet; about all those insistences she must have made that no one ever fully believed.

“Rhi, please,” Violet says, her voice low and strained, the kind of plea born of exasperation and affection tangled together.

“I mean, you said it often enough,” Rhiannon goes on, shaking her head with a kind of disbelieving wonder. “But hearing it is one thing. Seeing it—”

“Rhiannon.” Violet cuts her off, sharper now, the ache in her tone unmistakable. “Can you help us, or not?”

For a moment, Rhiannon just stands there, shoulders tense, as though she’s balancing two different instincts; her protectiveness toward Violet, and her curiosity about the dangerous man beside her. Then, with a soft exhale, she lets the tension ease. Straightening, she settles her stance with quiet resolve, and a small smile tugs at her lips. It’s not directed at Violet. Instead, she turns it on Xaden, her expression unexpectedly warm.

“I can help,” she says simply. “But I’ll need a little time. Reconnaissance first. Meet me at the southern end of Montserrat in an hour. I’ll have what you need by then; information, and a map.”

“Thank you, Rhiannon,” Xaden replies, and there’s no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. “It means a great deal to me.”

Her head tilts, studying him in that careful way again.

“Yes,” she says slowly, a flicker of knowing in her eyes. “I can see that.” A pause, deliberate, heavy with something unsaid. “I suppose it really is true.”

“What is?” Xaden frowns.

Before Rhiannon can answer, Violet jumps in with forced cheer, her voice rising a touch louder than necessary.

“Xaden, why don’t we see if we can pick up some supplies while we wait? I imagine it’ll take us time to sort through everything that’s happening here.”

“You do that,” Rhiannon says lightly. She reaches into the satchel at her hip, pulls out a dark knitted cap, and shoves it over her hair with careless ease. The transformation is almost comical—her striking features muted, her sharp edges hidden beneath wool.

“I’ll meet you both soon,” she says. Her smile shifts toward mischief as her gaze flicks back to Violet. “Try not to cause too much trouble in the meantime, hm?”

She winks, quick and teasing. Violet makes a mock-grab for her arm, but Rhiannon is already darting away, nimble as a cat. She slips through the crowd with practiced ease, her laughter spilling behind her in bright, bell-like notes until she disappears from sight.

“She’s…interesting,” Xaden mutters, his mouth pulling into a scowl as he stares at the place Rhiannon vanished from.

“She’s a gossip,” Violet sighs, shaking her head as though resigned. “She hears things she isn’t meant to, always has. But it isn’t just idle chatter; she picks up on truths that matter, whispers about enemies and allies alike. It makes her useful…and dangerous.” Violet breaks off suddenly, her eyes darkening as she scowls at nothing in particular. “Never mind. We should go; we don’t have the luxury of time.”

They thread their way back through the crowded market, restocking their food supplies with whatever they can carry. Dried meats, fruits wrapped in cloth, hard cheeses sealed in wax, necessities for travel. When Violet tries to brush off the need for anything more, Xaden insists, his jaw set.

He drags her toward a stall where cloaks of every cut and colour hang in overlapping rows. Violet protests, but Xaden is unmoved; he has seen the state of her cloak; patched, frayed, and more hole than cloth in some places. It barely shields her from the night air, and he refuses to let her wear it another step farther.

When she resists, he threatens, quite seriously, to hand her his own cloak again. Only then does she relent, though not without a glower. In the end, she stands there bundled in a new one, heavy and lined with soft fur. Her hands vanish into the deep pockets, her shoulders hunching slightly under the weight. A half-smile pulls at her lips despite herself, betraying her satisfaction.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks tinged pink, as though the words cost her something to admit aloud.

Xaden swallows against the sudden urge to lean down and press his mouth to that warmth blooming across her skin. She looks uncommonly pretty like this; her hair swept back, the winter light catching in strands of gold, her slight frame swallowed by fur and wool until only the delicate line of her shoulders shows through. Two days on the road should have left her ragged, her beauty dulled by fatigue and travel. Instead, she seems more vivid than ever, unfairly so, while he feels every knot in his tangled hair, every stiff line of exhaustion in his own face.

It isn’t right, he thinks, that she can look like this—effortless, striking—while he is left undone by the chaos of his own appearance. His hair is tangled, his face stiff from days of travel, and yet here she is, radiant without trying, every line of her form commanding attention even beneath the heavy cloak. It’s infuriating and unfair, and a little unbearable, that two days of wind, rain, and hard riding have left her untouched, while he feels worn and ragged down to his bones.

He swallows a bitter chuckle, aware of the tension coiling in his chest, the mixture of admiration, longing, and something sharper, something that stings like the cold night air. Her presence is a quiet accusation, a reminder of the ease with which the world seems to bend around her, while he struggles to keep even his own composure.

And yet…he can’t look away. Each subtle movement, the sweep of her hair, the way her eyes glint in the dim light, the faint, natural poise in her shoulders; he drinks it in, knowing it is both a gift and a torment, a vision of something he can admire but cannot claim.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon’s head tilts, her eyes narrowing with something between curiosity and suspicion.

“Do you not trust your father’s men?” she asks lightly, though the weight beneath her words is unmistakable, “or is it more a case that you simply think yourself the better spy?”

The edge in her tone hooks at him; it’s not just her challenge, it’s the way Violet stiffens beside him, so subtle that only someone sitting this close would notice. That alone warns him that Rhiannon’s question is more than idle provocation.

“I’m here to confirm rumours,” Xaden repeats evenly, refusing to look away. “I will be King, and a King’s duty is to safeguard his people. My rank doesn’t exempt me from that obligation; it demands it. If there are threats festering at the edge of my borders, I will see them with my own eyes, and eliminate them. Personally.” His voice softens only fractionally, though his resolve does not waver. “My mother lived the same way. She travelled to other countries to strike deals, to confirm trade agreements, to ensure alliances were more than just words inked onto parchment.”

At the mention of Queen Tahlia, both women incline their heads ever so slightly, the silence between them carrying the weight of remembrance. Her death—her disappearance—was legend by now, and the knowledge that she had been lost while pursuing exactly this kind of duty was never far from people’s minds.

Tahlia of Tyrrendor had always been unconventional: a Queen who never hesitated to walk among farmers and merchants, who valued truth spoken by common lips as much as counsel whispered by nobility. She was unafraid of dirt beneath her fingernails or of late nights poring over contracts until her eyes burned. She listened. She gave. She belonged wholly to her country, as if the marrow of her bones had been shaped for it.

As a boy, Xaden had resented that devotion. He had envied the time she gave away to others, the long absences that carved holes into his childhood. But over time, he came to understand what she had given him in return. Every time she gathered him into her arms, every story she told of distant cities and the people who lived there, she was planting within him the certainty that Tyrrendor’s pulse was his as well.

She made duty sound like wonder. She made sacrifice sound like love. And for the first time, he had wanted it; not out of obligation, but out of longing. To be the kind of ruler who could make people feel the way she had made him feel: seen, remembered, cherished, even in her absence.

Before his mother, kingship had felt like a burden strapped to his back. But she had transformed it into something else, something vast and bright and difficult, yes, but also worth everything he could give. The best kind of challenge. The kind that could shape not only the ruler he might be, but the man.

“I suppose I can't very well argue against that,” Rhiannon says at last, drawing out the words. There’s a faint curve to her mouth, something that sounds almost like approval but feels more measured than that. “I don’t know if you’ll fare better than the men who’ve already passed through, but these were their last known whereabouts. East.” She taps the map where the trail curves just beyond Montserrat, southward.

Chapter Text

They linger in low voices, words exchanged in a hurried rhythm that Xaden can’t decipher. The quiet murmur between them sharpens his awareness, each glance, each movement of their mouths reminding him how deliberately shut out he is from whatever passes there. Then, with a flash of exasperation, Violet throws her hands skyward, her voice carrying just enough for him to hear:

“I’ve got it under control, Rhi.”

The declaration rings with stubborn confidence, but Xaden doesn’t miss the way her stance tightens, as if bracing herself for a blow that never comes.

Rhiannon’s answer is delivered with an infuriating calm. She studies Violet with an expression so unreadable it might as well be carved from stone, and at last Violet’s shoulders sag beneath the weight of that silence. A sigh escapes her, soft and weary.

“I know,” Rhiannon says, this time pitched loud enough that discretion is abandoned. She closes the space between them in one step and pulls Violet firmly into her arms. The embrace is not perfunctory; it’s the kind that speaks of history, of knowing precisely where the other’s fault lines are and choosing to hold them together anyway. “I know you do. I know you’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you,” Violet murmurs, voice muffled against her friend’s shoulder. Her arms tighten, clinging for a moment as though reluctant to let go.

Then something passes between them, a secret folded neatly into the curve of their embrace. Rhiannon must whisper it directly against Violet’s ear, because the next sound is Violet’s sudden laugh—quiet, sharp with self-mockery. The sound cuts through the air like a spark. Rhiannon leans back, eyes glinting with amusement, and raps her knuckles lightly against Violet’s chest, twice, in a gesture that feels both intimate and resolute.

Only then does her attention shift. Her gaze lifts, locking on Xaden.

He isn’t prepared for it. The sudden clarity of her focus startles him, the blaze of determination in her eyes, the sense of being seen through and weighed, not as a prince or rider but as something far more precarious. For an instant, he has the disquieting impression that she knows something about him he hasn’t yet chosen to reveal.

And then, with quiet deliberation, Rhiannon steps closer.

“Your Highness, please look after Violet,” Rhiannon says at last, her voice carrying both formality and fierce intent. She extends her hand to him, palm open and steady.

Bemused, Xaden takes it, his larger hand closing around hers. There’s nothing ceremonial about the gesture; it feels more like an oath being extracted than courtesy offered. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Violet’s expression; thinly veiled resignation, the look of someone who knew this was coming and is determined not to make a scene over it.

“I’m the one meant to be watching out for him, Rhi,” Violet interjects, her tone clipped.

Rhiannon answers with a scoff that rings bright and unbothered, the kind of sound that says she has no intention of humouring Violet’s protest.

“I’ll keep her safe,” Xaden replies simply, the words spoken with a steadiness that brooks no argument.

For that, Rhiannon rewards him with a beaming smile, as though his words had confirmed some suspicion of hers. Then, with startling boldness, she tugs his hand forward and, before he can quite process it, throws her arms around him. She is smaller than he expected, lithe and wiry, yet her grip is unyielding, her embrace fierce. It leaves him oddly still, caught between surprise and something that feels suspiciously like gratitude.

He returns the gesture awkwardly at first, a tentative pat along her back. But the longer she holds on, the more he senses it: this is not about him. Not about titles or crowns or the Riorson name. Rhiannon hugs him as one might clasp an ally by proxy: a measure of acceptance born from fierce loyalty to the woman standing beside him.

When Rhiannon finally releases him, she seems entirely unbothered, stepping back with brisk composure. She busies herself with practicalities, carefully folding the map and sliding it into Xaden’s pack with exacting precision, as though ensuring he has no excuse to lose it.

“Stay safe, both of you,” she says, her voice carrying that same blend of authority and tenderness. The look she levels at Violet, however, is pointed enough to need no words. Violet, predictably, pretends not to notice, her chin lifting with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Tell your family I said hello,” Violet says instead, her smile softening, gentler now.

Rhiannon inclines her head once, an acknowledgment weighted with something unsaid, and tucks the spare cloak back under her arm. With that, she pivots lightly and disappears between the trees, her step light and sure, her figure swallowed quickly by the shadows as she makes her way back toward Montserrat.

For a moment, the clearing feels quieter without her, as though she’s taken some of the air with her.

“She’s a wielder, isn’t she?” Xaden asks, his tone light but his eyes intent as they flick toward Violet.

Violet glances sidelong at him, her mouth curving in an amused smile.

“She can summon objects straight through solid brick walls,” she replies, voice threaded with a fond exasperation. “Which is downright terrifying when you’re not expecting a carving knife to float abve your head while you’re minding your own business.”

Xaden huffs a laugh, the sound sharp and short, before the corner of his mouth lifts.

“I’ll admit, that would get my attention," He says before asking, "How did you meet her?”

For a moment, Violet doesn’t answer. She ducks beneath a low-hanging branch, her braid brushing against her shoulder as she tilts her head. The fading light filters down through the canopy, gilding her features in a dim glow as they weave their way through the forest. The path is narrow, overgrown, and the air smells of pine and damp earth.

They had agreed earlier to avoid the busier roads, to keep their dragons hidden as best they could, and for most of the day they had managed it. But the sun is bleeding toward the horizon now, and Xaden knows as well as she does that flying would be faster, safer, cleaner when night does finally fall. Even so, neither of them seems quite ready to abandon the quiet rhythm of walking side by side.

“Through… school,” Violet says at last, the pause before the word almost too slight to notice. Almost. “She’s one of my best friends. We’ve known each other a long time.”

Xaden studies her in profile, catching the flicker, the barest hesitation in her voice, the subtle tightening around her mouth, the way her eyes remain fixed on the uneven ground instead of meeting his. He’s come to recognise those tiny fractures in her speech, the careful omissions that ripple like disturbances beneath still water.

There’s more. There’s always more.

Lies by omission, he thinks. Half-truths wrapped up in a smile. Not false, never that, but not the whole truth of it either. It has become a pattern with her, a rhythm he can’t help but notice, and it needles at him even as he admires the precision of it.

But he doesn’t push.

Because he’s keeping his own secrets too, ones heavier and sharper than anything she’s hinted at. He suspects Violet has guessed at more than he would like her to, but until he knows where she stands, until he knows what she’s willing to share in return, he will not strip himself bare first.

So instead, he merely nods, as though satisfied, and lets the silence linger between them, filled only by the crunch of leaves beneath their boots and the distant call of some bird settling down for the night.

Chapter Text

There’s nothing at the site of the last raid.

No scorched wood, no shattered weapons left behind, not even the faintest trace of blood on the earth. Xaden hadn’t truly expected otherwise; two weeks was more than enough time for any sign of struggle to be scrubbed clean by weather and scavengers, but the lack of findings gnaws at him, sharp with frustration.

He swings down from Sgaeyl’s back, boots crunching against the underbrush, and releases her with a low command. She fully extends her wings once before slipping off toward the stream glinting in the shadows beyond, dipping her talons into the water with an indifference he envies.

“So they headed east from here,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. His gaze drifts to the horizon, where the last light of the sun burns against the tops of the trees, a dying flame giving way to dusk.

“It’s been two weeks since then,” Violet says, following him down from the back of her dragon with a practiced ease. Her boots land softly on the earth, her hair catching fire in the golden light as she squints into the same distance. “They’ve probably moved on by now.”

“Whoever's responsible for these raids has been lingering on the outskirts of Montserrat,” Xaden answers, quieter this time, almost as if testing the words aloud. He bends, dragging his hand through the dirt, studying the faint depressions in the ground though he knows they’re too old to read. “The outlying villages have been the target of these attacks—these raids—for months now. Whoever we're facing knows what they're doing. Their attacks are calculated, coordinated. Intentional.” He straightens, his jaw tight. “Whoever it is, they aren’t bandits, and they aren't moving on.”

When he finally looks up, Violet is staring at him. Not startled by his reasoning; he can see in her eyes that she has thought the same thing herself, but at the fact that he’s admitted it, that he’s let her in on something he’s been holding close to his chest for months now.

Her voice is light, careless in tone, but he doesn’t miss the way her hands curl slowly into fists at her sides when she asks;

“Who do you think is behind it then? Navarrians?”

The question lingers between them, sharp as a blade’s edge.

“There’s something about the way the attacks have been happening that’s bothering me,” Xaden says at last, his tone deliberate, careful. He knows he isn’t answering Violet’s question, not directly, and from the faint crease in her brow he can tell she knows it too. But she doesn’t press; she simply waits, hazel eyes fixed on him, patient and unblinking. “It’s like I’ve seen this pattern of attack before,” he adds, quieter now, his gaze slipping past her shoulder toward the treeline. The thought gnaws at him, the familiarity of the patterns, the precision of the strikes. “Somewhere. Somehow.”

But the truth, the frustrating, humiliating truth, is that he doesn’t know where or how that would have been. He doesn’t know if it’s the Navarrian's orchestrating this, or if something else, something farm ore dangerous, lurks in the shadows along the border. He doesn’t know how any force, no matter how skilled, could strike so cleanly, so consistently, without drawing the full scrutiny of the Assembly. He doesn’t even know what he expects to find out here, or why Violet, bright, relentless Violet, is here with him, following him into the dark with such steady resolve.

When his eyes return to her, he finds her watching him still, unflinching, her expression unreadable in the fading light. The steady weight of her gaze unsettles him, not because it threatens him, but because it feels like she sees more than he wants her to, more than he can manage to see in himself.

And in the silence that stretches between them, Garrick’s voice intrudes from weeks ago, ringing in his memory, giddy with disbelief and faint amusement: You like Violet.

It had felt ridiculous at the time, laughable even. But now? Gods, it’s true. To a terrifying degree, it’s true. The problem, the jagged edge Xaden can’t dull, is that even as the admission takes root inside him, another thought rises unbidden, stubborn and sharp:

I don’t even really know her.

“Let’s make camp,” Violet suggests, already moving off the road toward the cover of the trees. “If we go further in, you can make a small enough fire to keep us warm without drawing attention.”

“Alright,” Xaden replies, summoning Sgaeyl with a thought to shadow them.

Camp is a generous word for what they manage.

The dragons slip off into the dark to hunt, silent as phantoms among the trees. Xaden clears a patch of earth with meticulous care, sweeping aside leaves and brush before coaxing a small flame into being. His shadows gather twigs and kindling with quiet precision, feeding the fire just enough to give them light and heat without a plume of smoke to betray their presence.

Violet sits across from him, her gaze intent on the play of shadow and fire.

“How long can you keep that up? The shadows, I mean.”

“Where there is light, there is also dark,” Xaden answers evenly.

She tilts her head, studying him as though weighing the words. He doesn’t elaborate, but he can feel her curiosity pressing against him like a hand.

The truth is complicated.

Shadow-wielders are rare and at Xaden's level, rarer still. In theory, he can wield endlessly. In practice, the strain gnaws at his reserves too quickly to be sustainable. Control doesn’t change the cost. It’s why most wielders keep sources close at hand: skins of water, pouches of earth, even bottles of air compressed in glass if they’re desperate enough. Shadows are different; they exist wherever light does, but bending them, living in them the way he does, demands more than he cares to admit.

Normally, he’d never risk a fire at all under their given circumstances. Smoke, however faint, is a signal. A risk. His father has had plenty of time to send soldiers, or worse, the Assembly itself, after them. At best, he and Violet have half a day’s lead. But the night is already sharpening with cold, and unless they want to share a bedroll, this is the only warmth he can give her.

He doesn’t let himself think too long on which of those options he’d rather.

“I’ll see if I can find something small to cook,” Violet says, tugging the cloak tighter around her shoulders, effectively putting a stop in Xaden's wandering thoughts. “That way you can conserve your strength. It doesn’t feel like it’ll be too cold tonight.”

Xaden arches a brow. The fire is already throwing out enough heat, yet she sits bundled as though bracing against frost.

“This is just me admiring the quality of the material,” she insists, defensive, clutching the cloak tighter still.

He hides his smile behind a sip of water, though she must catch the gleam of amusement in his eyes because a reluctant grin tugs at her lips. She wraps her arms around herself, shaking her head.

“Fine. I admit, it's cold but I know I’ll warm up by hunting. Back in a minute.”

The dagger at her hip glints as she rises; a new acquisition from Montserrat. The merchant had sworn it was worthy of a prince of Aretia, and Xaden, though sceptical of most sales pitches, had to admit it bore the look of truth. The blade is dark and gleaming, its edge etched with runes as intricate as those carved into his own ancestral steel.

He watches her draw it free, testing its weight in her hand before vanishing into the dim weave of trees. The soft crunch of leaves fades until the twilight swallows her whole, leaving only the flicker of firelight and the quiet pull in his chest that follows her wherever she goes.

Chapter Text

The night lies still around him, quiet and sharp with cold. The fire is no more than a modest flame, little more than a flicker of orange light warding off the darkness, yet he finds himself clinging to its warmth. It licks at his toes and fingers, banishing the ache of numbness only in shallow bursts. Beyond the small circle of heat, the forest stretches endless and impenetrable, a wall of black trunks and whispering leaves that feels almost alive.

Xaden pulls his cloak tighter across his shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to stifle the restless churn of his thoughts. They whirl like a river meeting a whirlpool, a current tugging him under, insistent and relentless until he feels as though the pressure might crack his skull. He exhales slowly, closes his eyes, and finds himself staring once again at the memory of the map spread out across the ground. Rhiannon’s hand tracing each blot of farmland, her fingertip pausing, moving again, drawing that near-perfect arc around Montserrat.

'They want us to think they’re bandits', he tells himself firmly, a silent mantra to keep the pieces from slipping. 'But bandits don’t plan like this. They’re using military tactics, organized patterns. They want us uncertain—want us questioning—but they’ve missed something'.

The memory needles at him, refusing to let go. The movements weren’t haphazard; they curved and spiralled, never direct, never point to point. He has seen this before. The thought clings to him with the stubborn persistence of burrs caught in a cloak hem. He can almost picture the lesson halls of his youth, the tall wall maps unfurled, his tutor’s long pointer tracing the red ink of troop movements and the blue of scouts dispatched across enemy terrain. A history of war committed to parchment, methodical, inevitable.

He drags his hands across his face and presses the heels of his palms hard against his eyes until sparks flare bright behind the darkness of his lids. If he pushes hard enough, maybe the image will come into focus—maybe it will clarify, slot into memory with the precision of a blade into its sheath. But the harder he presses, the worse the pounding grows in his temples, stubborn and unforgiving.

Navarrian? Tyrrish?

He turns the names over like weights in his mind, neither settling into place. The rhythm doesn’t fit. The patterns don’t match. And still, the answer hovers maddeningly out of reach, like a shadow in his periphery—always there, but never close enough to catch.

The sparks behind his eyelids fade into black, but the pounding remains, thick and insistent, an ache that threads from his temples down to the tightness in his jaw. He drags in a breath, slow and steady, then another, but it does nothing to quiet the whirlpool of thoughts dragging him under.

A crunch of leaves pulls him back. Light footsteps, measured but not cautious—Violet’s. He opens his eyes just as she pushes through the tree line, a pheasant dangling neatly from one hand, her dagger gleaming faintly in the other. She moves with a purposeful ease, like the forest itself had parted to let her slip through, but when her gaze lands on him, the casual confidence falters.

“I only managed to nab a single rabbit,” Violet announces, her voice low but carrying easily over the hush of the woods.

The sound startles Xaden out of his hunched position, shoulders tightening instinctively before he looks up to find her stepping into the glow of the fire. She holds the bird by its wings, its feathers ruffled but otherwise unmarred, save for the precise strike through its throat. She lowers it carefully to the ground beside him.

“Sorry,” she adds quickly, as though aware she’s caught him in a moment he hadn’t meant to share. She slides the blade from her fingers with practiced ease, wiping it clean before sliding it back into its sheath. The motion is fluid, elegant. The kill so exact that if Xaden hadn’t seen her steady hand draw and release, he might have thought she’d staged the blade afterward for effect.

“There's plenty here for the two of us,” Xaden replies, his voice rougher than he intends, the ghost of a smile tugging weakly at his mouth. The pounding in his skull recedes with her presence, not gone, but eased as though she’s pressed some unseen hand against it.

Violet studies him for a moment in silence, then tilts her head, hazel eyes narrowing just slightly. She lowers herself gracefully to the ground and rests a hand against his knee, her touch light but steady, an anchor against the restless churn of his thoughts.

“Are you alright?” she asks softly, concern etched into the lines of her brow. “When I came back… you looked like you were a million miles away.”

Xaden exhales slowly, the weight of her scrutiny both grounding and disarming.

“I'm just… trying to piece things together,” he admits at last, his tone frayed at the edges. His gaze flickers toward the fire, unable to hold hers for long. “If I can’t find them, those responsible for the attacks, if I can’t make sense of any of this—then all of our efforts will have been for nothing.”

Violet’s hand tightens briefly on his knee, the chill of her fingers seeping easily through the rough fabric of his trousers. The pressure is gentle but deliberate, a wordless command that stills the restless tension in him.

“Xaden.” Her voice is soft but steady, a tether cast across the fog in his head. She waits—patient as only Violet can be—until he drags his gaze from the fire to meet hers. When he does, she offers him a small, certain smile, one that holds none of the doubt currently gnawing through him. “We’ll figure out what’s going on,” she promises quietly. “Together. I swear it.”

The knot in his chest pulls tighter at that, some dangerous mixture of relief and ache, and he forces down the urge to tell her how much he wants to believe her. Instead, he swallows hard, steadies himself, and lays his hand over hers. The contrast is striking—his skin warm, hers chilled from the hunt—and the instant their palms touch, he feels the shiver of connection chase up his arm.

Beneath his touch, her hand twitches, then unfurls with deliberate slowness, long fingers spreading until they press firmly against his thigh. Not accidental. Not hesitant. A choice.

The air between them shifts.

Xaden risks a glance upward and finds her eyes already locked on him. There’s nothing casual in the way she looks at him—her gaze dark, intent, holding him as if she can strip away every mask he’s so carefully built. For a heartbeat, it feels as though she sees all of him, and doesn’t flinch.

The weight of her gaze pins him in place, but it isn’t heavy; it steadies him. It threads through the ragged edges of his composure, holding him together where he’s been coming apart. He’s been unravelling for days, weeks, if he’s honest, strung too tight with worry, stretched thin by the endless questions that gnaw at him in the dark. But here she is, sitting in the dirt beside him with her braid coming loose, a pheasant at her side, and the smoke curling soft and silver between them.

Gratitude burns sharp in his chest, so fierce it borders on pain. Not the simple kind owed for help or companionship, but something deeper—something that roots itself in his ribs and aches with every breath. He’s grateful for her, not for the promise of answers, not for her precision with a blade or the steadiness of her aim, but for Violet herself. For the way she meets the world without hesitation, for how she gives her devotion as easily as she draws breath, for the quiet conviction in her voice when she tells him they’ll face it all together.

No one has ever said that to him and meant it.

He doesn’t think. He can’t. The thought itself feels too fragile, too fleeting, as though if he pauses to examine it, the spell will break.

Xaden leans forward, the world narrowing to the fragile distance between them. The whisper of wind through the trees fades, the crackle of the fire dimming until all that remains is the sound of his heartbeat, thick and steady in his ears. His hand shifts from where it rests atop hers to her jaw, his thumb brushing gently along the soft curve of her cheek. Her skin is cool from the night air, her pulse steady beneath his touch. He traces the line of hr face once, as though to memorise the proof that she’s real—that this is real.

And then, before reason can reassert itself, before fear can remind him why he shouldn’t, his mouth is on hers.

It’s not cautious. It’s not calculated. It’s desperate, fierce in its honesty, filled with everything he cannot bring himself to say aloud. Her lips are cold at first, but they soften beneath his almost instantly, answering him with a startled sound that sinks straight into his bones.

For a suspended heartbeat, the world holds still. The ache of duty, the burden of maps and strategy and ghosts—gone. The crown, the weight of expectation, even the shadows clinging to his thoughts—gone. There is no war, no mission, no past. Only Violet, only the warmth of her mouth, the soft catch of her breath, and the dizzying, impossible reprieve of being seen.

He kisses her because he has to. Because gratitude and longing and disbelief collide into something unbearable, something that has nowhere else to go. He kisses her to thank her, to tell her that her steadiness is the one thing holding him upright. He kisses her because if he doesn’t, the words pressing at the back of his throat—I need you—might escape instead.

And when she doesn’t pull away—when instead her fingers tighten against his thigh, anchoring him to the earth even as the ground tilts beneath them—he realises with a sharp, breathless certainty that he’d go to his knees for her if she asked. That for all his restraint, all his walls, all the distance he’s fought to keep, she’s already undone him completely.

Chapter Text

A heartbeat hangs suspended between them — poised on the knife’s edge of hesitation and surrender. The air itself seems to tremble with it, a breath held too long by the world around them. Xaden’s pulse falters in his throat, his thoughts scattering when Violet’s lips part from his, glistening faintly with the trace of him.

Her hazel eyes drink him in, wide and luminous, alight with something he’s not sure he’s ever seen there before—something raw and unguarded that seems to reach straight through him. It steals his breath, that look. 

Her hands find him next, uncertain only for a breath. Fingertips trace the sharp line of his jaw, testing, learning, before sliding up to the back of his neck where they linger, the pads of her fingers pressing gently against his skin, curling in the loose threads of hair that have come to rest there. The touch is so careful that it almost undoes him—soft, reverent, as though she’s committing the shape of him to memory, the way his pulse thrums just beneath her touch.

And then she leans in, closing the distance in one breathless heartbeat.

Violet's lips find his again, surer this time, the warmth of her mouth igniting something deep within him that he can no longer contain. The kiss deepens before he realises he’s moving, his hand rising to cradle her face as if drawn by instinct alone. A low, rough sound escapes him when she yields, her mouth parting beneath his, the slick heat of her tongue meeting his in a clash that steals his breath, the contact sparking through him like fire meeting wind.

The taste of her—smoke and wild wind and something achingly sweet—rushes through him like fire catching on dry tinder.

Every part of him bends toward her, drawn by a gravity he couldn’t fight even if he wanted to. The world beyond them blurs and falls away, until there’s nothing left but the feel of her, the warmth of her breath, and the quiet, shattering truth that he’s been wanting for this far longer than he’d ever dare to admit.

The fire crackles beside them, the sound soft and rhythmic—like the echo of their own unsteady breaths. Its glow dances across Violet's skin, gilding her in molten light, painting her in shades of amber and gold that shift with every flicker.

Xaden can feel the warmth of it radiating against her cheek as he pulls away only to draw her closer, the edge of the firelight tracing the outline of her face, her throat, the delicate rise of her collarbone. His hand follows the same path, slow and reverent—sliding from her jaw to the slender curve of her neck, his thumb brushing the quickened beat of her pulse before drifting down to rest at the hollow of her back.

She exhales, the sound catching between them, and when she leans into him, it’s effortless—like she’s always known the shape of his body, the space he leaves for her. She fits there perfectly, impossibly so, and for a heartbeat the world narrows to nothing but that—her warmth pressed to his, and in this next moment, he somehow forgets how to breathe.

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks into the night, but even that can’t break the spell she’s woven around him.

Violet’s breath brushes his cheek—uneven, trembling—and it’s enough to pull him under again. Xaden’s hand slides higher, fingers tracing the line of her spine through the layers of fabric until he feels her shiver. The sound that escapes her is quiet, almost a sigh, but it pulls at something deep inside him.

He leans in again, his mouth finding hers once more, the kiss no longer tentative but hungry, urgent in the way that only comes from holding back too long. Violet meets him without hesitation this time, her hands threading through his hair, tugging him closer as though proximity alone could steady the chaos sparking between them.

The world tilts, the ground beneath them forgotten. The firelight flickers across their faces, gold bleeding into shadow. Every brush of her fingers, every soft gasp, seems to fold the night tighter around them, until it feels like they’re the only two people left breathing in the world.

When they finally part, it’s only because they have to. Xaden’s forehead rests against hers, breaths mingling, both of them caught somewhere between need and disbelief. The moment hums with unspoken things—fear, longing, something dangerously close to hope.

He could drown in this. In her. And for the first time, he doesn’t think he’d fight it if he did.

When she pulls back, it’s only by the tiniest fraction—just enough to let her gaze meet his. Her hazel eyes linger on him, wide and searching, alight with a quiet astonishment that makes his chest tighten and his pulse stutter. There’s something in that look, a fragile kind of wonder, as if she’s seeing him for the first time and memorizing every detail.

“Xaden…” Her voice is a tremor, a whisper that barely rides the air between them, but it carries weight enough to make him pause.

He swallows hard, his throat tight, and studies her face as if trying to etch it into memory. The firelight dances across her features, catching in her lashes and tracing the curve of her cheek. There is no fear in her eyes. No hesitation. Only trust. Only want.

“Tell me to stop,” he finally says, voice rough, low, threaded with every restraint he’s been holding in—desire, fear, longing—all of it pooled into that single, vulnerable plea.

But Violet doesn’t.

She tilts her head, brushing her nose against his in the faintest, most intimate of gestures. It’s almost imperceptible, yet it strikes him with the force of a confession. That single, wordless motion unravels him more completely than any answer could. His forehead drops to hers, and a long, shuddering exhale escapes him—as if he’s been holding the weight of it all, waiting for this exact moment, for far too long.

When he kisses her again, it’s slower, deeper—less a collision and more a claim, a merging of breath and intent that leaves neither of them untouched. Every movement is deliberate, every brush of lips a promise that speaks louder than any words ever could. His hand rests against her back, fingers splaying to draw her impossibly closer, memorising the curves and angles of her as if committing her to memory in a language only their bodies understand.

Her heartbeat thrums beneath his palm, steady and insistent, matching and echoing his own in a rhythm that seems to pull the world inward, narrowing it until there is nothing beyond the rise and fall of her chest, the tang of her breath, the heat radiating from her. Her fingers thread into his hair with a delicate insistence, tugging him closer, urging him to give himself fully, without thought or hesitation.

Desire hums between them like a low, unstoppable current, quiet yet all-consuming, each touch and sigh drawing them closer to a precipice neither wants to step away from. The fire beside them sputters low, shadows stretching across the walls, but neither notices; the glow of the embers cannot compare to the heat that radiates from their joined bodies. Time seems to fracture and fold, minutes stretching into endlessness as they linger, lost in the gravity of each other.

When she presses her forehead to his, whispering his name in a voice that trembles with need and certainty, the world falls away entirely. All that remains is this fragile, fierce connection—the kind that consumes reason, yet leaves them somehow whole. Every hesitation, every doubt, every unspoken thought vanishes, replaced by the singular truth of their closeness.

Only this moment exists—sharp and tender, intense and intimate, utterly theirs. The rest of the world can wait. For now, there is only them.

Chapter Text