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Chapter Text

“Trust no rider who hides his power, for secrecy is the first step toward corruption. The Venin began with concealment, and every secret since has cost us more lives than their touch.”
— Lieutenant Colonel Asher Sorrengail (née Daxton), Rebel Dispatches (Redacted)

VIOLET

The sun hasn’t even cleared the mountains, and already the courtyard hums with whispers. They ripple through stone and shadows, impossible to ignore. Venin. The word sticks in every glance that catches mine, every hurried silence that follows my steps.

I woke in gravel last night with blood in my hair, a ring on my finger, and hours missing from my mind. A wedding during a battle I can’t even remember. What kind of political strategy is that? What province could possibly be won with vows muttered between lightning strikes? Bodhi was already prepared to lead if Xaden fell. So why am I suddenly duchess of Tyrrendor, a kingdom that isn’t mine, whose people look at me with frost in their eyes?

Xaden is gone. Vanished like smoke. And Imogen looked me in the face and told me I begged her to strip the memories away. Because I asked. As if I’d ever choose ignorance over truth.

The weight of it all clings heavier than the soot on my uniform, than the bruise spreading across my ribs. Everyone’s looking for someone to steady them, to command them. But all I can think is how I can’t even steady myself. How Tairn’s voice is missing in my mind, thinner than it’s ever been, as if the bond itself is slipping.

“Andarna?” I reach for her, searching for the warmth of her younger voice. She came back for me. She’s mine again. The bond thrums faint and familiar in my chest, an anchor I thought I’d lost.

“Why won’t you answer any of my questions?” Silence. Just silence, cold and endless, until it feels like I’m talking to ghosts.

So I run. Past Riorson House, past the walls, into air sharp enough to cut. Running is the only thing that feels real. Because if I stop, I’ll have to face the truth whispered on every tongue: that my husband is Venin, that riders are missing, and that I might already be too broken to lead anyone at all.

The run slows only when the ground beneath my boots changes. Smooth gravel gives way to churned mud, the grass worn thin by too many feet. Smoke still hangs in the air, bitter with ash and the metallic bite of blood. Somehow I’ve crossed the walls without realizing, and I’ve stumbled straight into the refugee encampment.

Rows of makeshift tents stretch into the distance, canvas sagging under the weight of exhaustion. Healers hurry between cots. Children cry into the crooks of strangers’ arms. Riders sit hollow-eyed beside the wounded with their leathers scorched.

Did I fight for them? Did I bleed for them? Did I stand beside them or fail them entirely? What kind of duchess chooses to forget her own war?

Movement draws my eye. At first I think it’s another hallucination but then I see him. Dain Aetos. Bloodied, soot streaking his jaw, his uniform ripped nearly to shreds. His arm curves steady around two terrified children, guiding them carefully over rubble as if the world isn’t collapsing around him. I freeze. For half a heartbeat I’d convinced myself he was gone too, another body swallowed by the ruins. But he’s here. Alive. Solid.

An ugly gash splits his forehead, blood slicking down his temple into the soot on his cheek. The wound looks brutal, painful enough that any sane rider should be flat on their back in the infirmary. Yet Dain Aetos is upright, carrying one small child against his hip while his other arm guides another to walk steadily ahead, his voice low and even as he coaxes them forward.

“Easy steps,” he murmurs, gentle but firm. “One at a time. Don’t look back.”

The smallest sobs, fists tangled in the torn fabric of his jacket, but his tone never wavers. “You’re safe now. Do you hear me? Nothing’s getting through to you, not while you’re with me.”

That voice. That tone. The same calm I’ve known since the age of five, when scraped knees and nightmares felt like the end of the world and he always knew how to steady me with a single word. He’s using it now, for them, because that’s what Dain does. He steadies.

My instinct is to run to him, to drag him straight to the healers before he bleeds out right here in the rubble. But I stay rooted, watching him for minutes that stretch long and strange. Letting myself breathe in his presence.

And then a thought strikes, ugly and sharp: only months ago, I’d flinched from him, convinced he’d kill me when it came to orders. My stomach twists. How could I have believed that of Dain? When he’s standing here, unyielding as ever, bloodied and battered, still protecting children when the rest of the world is falling apart. When he helped save Mira’s life.

I can’t reconcile it. The boy who steadied me, the man who betrayed me, the friend who has never once stopped holding the line.

His head lifts mid-sentence and they lock on me. Relief, sharp and unhidden, washes over his expression at the sight of me standing here.

He doesn’t call out. Just tightens his grip on the smallest child, guiding them the last few steps toward a triage tent pitched at the edge of the rubble. He kneels, settling the boy gently into the arms of a waiting healer, then sets the second child down and crouches so they’re eye level.

“I’ll find your parents,” he tells them, voice gentler now. “And I’ll be back before you know it. You did well.”

The children cling to his sleeves, reluctant to let go, but finally they’re coaxed into the safety of the tent. And then Dain straightens, scanning the field until his gaze fixes back on me.

He doesn’t walk, he runs. Across ash, past bodies and wreckage, heedless of the blood still dripping from the gash at his temple. Up close it’s uglier, a jagged tear across his brow that should have blinded him, yet somehow hasn’t slowed him.

“Violet,” he breathes, stopping just short of me, chest heaving. His eyes search mine, frantic in a way I’ve never seen before. “Are you…are you okay?”

I nod, though my throat is too tight to speak. He’s the one bleeding, staggering on his feet, and still he asks about me.

His gaze flicks over my shoulder, back to the battlefield, then settles on me again, urgent and unrelenting. “Tell me what happened. What he did out there. I need to hear it from you. About Xaden.”

The words land heavy, the truth I’ve been choking on since I woke in the courtyard. Venin. Husband. Duchess. All of it. But not here, not while his blood is still dripping down his jaw and soaking the collar of his ruined uniform.

“I—” My voice cracks. “Not now. Please, not like this.”

“I’ll tell you everything,” I whisper, stepping closer, needing him to believe me. “I want to. There’s so much to say.”

For a moment, I expect him to push. To press me the way only Dain can, relentless and overbearing, demanding an answer I don’t have the strength to give. Instead, his mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile.

His brow creases, then dry as ash he mutters, “And here I was bracing for at least a little resistance. Seems splitting my head open has its uses.”

The words fall rough, half-conscious, but they drag an unwilling laugh out of me all the same. It feels jagged, out of place, but for one fragile heartbeat, I almost feel steady again.

Just as I reach for Dain’s arm, another figure cuts through the haze of smoke and tents, running hard with a satchel bouncing against her hip. She stops dead when she sees us, one hand flying instinctively to the wound slashed across her neck. Blood has crusted dark at the collar of her leathers, but her chin is high, her eyes unflinching as they flick between us.

“Is Mira—” her voice catches, then steadies, rough with exhaustion. “Is Mira alive?”

“She is,” I answer quickly, my chest tightening. “Thanks to you. Thanks to both of you.”

For the first time in a while, something like relief softens Sloane Mairi’s face, though it vanishes as quickly as it comes. She nods once, curt but decisive, like anything more might crack her composure.

Dain’s gaze narrows immediately. “Mairi—that wound? You shouldn’t be running around like this.”

“It’s fine,” she shoots back, dismissive, though her hand presses briefly to her neck. Then her mouth quirks, sharp despite the blood and ash. “Besides, kind of rich coming from you when you look like one of those death eaters out of Tyrrish folklore.”

A startled snort escapes me before I can swallow it. Typical Sloane, bleeding out and still picking a fight.

Dain exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “At least I’m not the one leaking all over the supplies.”

Sloane arches a brow, unimpressed right back. “You’re concussed. I’d trust a half-drunk first-year to walk straight before I’d trust you to give orders right now.”

His jaw flexes, but the tiniest flicker of amusement flashes across his face before he smooths it away.

“You need to be stitched up immediately,” I cut in, fussing before she can slip away again. “And don’t you dare try to shrug it off and pretend I can’t see how deep that is.”

Sloane exhales sharply, but she doesn’t move, which is as close to surrender as I’ll ever get from her.

Dain straightens, his shoulders squaring even though his balance wavers for a moment. His voice, when it comes, is steady in that clipped, commanding way he’s worn like armor since the day I entered the Rider’s quadrant. “As your superior officer, Mairi, I’m ordering you to the healers’ tent.”

Sloane’s eyes roll so hard I’m half surprised they don’t lodge in the back of her skull. But she doesn’t argue, not really. She just mutters something under her breath, sharp enough that I catch only the edge of it, and shifts her satchel higher on her shoulder as if to prove she’s not about to collapse.

“You should also go see Imogen,” I add quietly, reaching out before she can slip away. “When you’ve been patched up. She…she needs you. And she has a lot to tell you.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “Quinn is dead.”

The world stills. Sloane’s body goes rigid, the color draining from her face. Dain’s jaw locks hard enough I can almost hear the grind of his teeth. The air itself feels heavier, pressing down with the truth neither of them was ready to hear.

For a moment I can’t bear to look at either of them, so I fix my gaze on the tents and let my thoughts consume me. Mira lives, but Quinn is gone. Garrick, Bodhi, Aaric—all missing. Xaden vanished. Tairn a whisper. Andarna silent. And somehow, impossibly, I’m the one left standing here, expected to lead a kingdom that has never truly wanted me.

Dain’s blood is still dripping down his temple. Sloane’s neck is still bleeding. And yet both of them stand straighter, as if refusing to bend to one more loss. That same stubborn defiance burns in me, too. I can almost hear Liam’s voice, clear as if he were beside me again.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” I’d asked, just to keep the conversation going.
“Alive.”

Alive. That’s what we have to be.

Chapter Text

“One recorded attempt at joint gryphon–dragon squadrons ended in failure not for lack of skill, but for lack of trust. The mathematics of air was sound. The politics of men was not.”
— Fragment from the Basgiath Tactical Annals, 527 AU (section sealed)

DAIN

Her rant hits like arrows through fog, slow and jagged, my concussion dragging them down. I blink against the throb in my skull as Violet presses cloth to my temple, fingers careful but trembling. The sting drags a hiss from me, but I rasp out, dry as ash, “Either I’m bleeding out, or you just said a lot of confusing things. And that you married a Venin.”

Her laugh cracks halfway, brittle, more grief than amusement. But it’s something. A flicker of the girl I grew up with, though her hands are steadier binding my head than her voice is defending her choices.

And then the truth settles. Venin. And she still married him. Fury burns through the haze.

“He endangered all of us,” I bite out, my voice low, dangerous. “You. Mira. Every rider who trusted him. You’re telling me the Quest Squad, the wild chase, was all for him. While you made the rest of us march at his side. You might not care about me, or Cat, or anyone else, but your sister was there.”

Her chin lifts, defiance carved into every line of her face. “He saved us, Dain. He saved everyone at Draithius. Without him, we’d all be dead.”

“I’d rather be dead,” I snap, and I don’t say it lightly. “Because what you’re asking me to believe is that the only way to win this war is through Venin corruption.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You didn’t see what he gave up, what it cost him. You didn’t see him hold the line when no one else could. You didn’t see him bleed for it.”

Of course she’d say that. Of course she’d defend him. My jaw grinds so tight I feel bone creak. “Of course. Everything he does is right to you.”

The bitterness cuts deeper than I meant, but I don’t pull it back. Why should I? The fracture between us was carved months ago, and neither of us has stopped bleeding from it.

“Steady.” Cath rumbles in my head, gravel deep and unwelcome. I clench my teeth. He’s right, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Silence stretches brittle between us until I grab onto the one thread that’s been gnawing since the battle. “I saw Imogen. Turning things to stone. And Garrick vanishing into thin air. Those weren’t their signets.”

Violet swallows, then nods. “The marked ones. They’ve manifested second signets. Imogen, Garrick…” Her voice breaks on his name, and my stomach knots. Garrick. Missing.

I force myself to process it like a soldier, not a grieving man. Cataloging. Weighing. “So the rebellion’s been hoarding power,” I say flatly, “and no one thought to tell the rest of us.”

She doesn’t argue. She just looks away.

The old anger stirs, not at her, not even at Riorson, but at the damn pattern of my life where everyone hoards their truths like treasure in a vault. To hide what they are, as if deception were strength. My father, Violet, even Cath with his clipped half-liners. That’s why, when they branded my signet classified, I didn’t lock it away. I let it spread. Let people whisper. Not to be clever or coy, but because I wanted them to know. No rider should step onto a battlefield blind to what weapon stands across from them or where someone’s loyalties lie.

“What’s Riorson’s?” The question comes out colder than I intend, but I don’t stop it. Her lips part. Then close. The silence tells me everything. So it’s dangerous. Of course she won’t say.

I shove the ache in my chest down where it belongs. She doesn’t need my resentment; she needs steadiness. And if there’s one thing I can still give her, it’s that.

“The other Wingleaders are looking for someone to follow,” I say, pushing her hands gently away, sitting upright though the room tilts. “Rally them, Violet. I’ll stand behind you. If they hesitate, I’ll make them.”

Her breath hitches, relief breaking through for a heartbeat. It doesn’t however bridge the space between us. I know I didn’t deserve Violet’s trust before. But I’m tired of stretching myself thin, waiting for her to wake up one day and decide I’m worth telling things to. Or even worth the effort of her asking me a single question about myself. Anything.

If she asked for deliverables instead of absolution, I could hand her a plan—altitude tiers, relief rotations, gryphon heat-ward trades for dragon lift. But she asks for trust. Harder thing. Loyalty I can give. But comfort? The validation she doesn’t ask for but still needs? That, I can’t. Not anymore.

My head pounds with every step, bandage itching, but I’ve had worse. The children still need their parents found. Something I can do, something simple, instead of choking on the secrets people keep burying in my lap.

But the first thing I see when I step back into the camp isn’t their faces. It’s hers. Sloane fucking Mairi. Still upright, still bleeding, hauling a crate half her size like the entire war depends on her back. On that damned, too-perfectly toned back—

I clamp down hard. Not going there.

I’ve dealt with cadets of every shape and stripe during my stint as squad leader, and now as wingleader, but none quite like her. She should’ve been a specter. Liam’s shadow. A reminder of my greatest mistake, the crack that split me and Violet forever.

Instead, she became something entirely her own. And somehow, she takes up a grossly unjust amount of space in my life.

Her eyes catch mine across the path, too big for her face, blue so sharp they look like they could cut. Always glaring, always animated, like she’s mid-argument even when she hasn’t opened her mouth.

Her gaze flicks to the mess of bandages Violet left across my forehead. I let my disappointment show, a pointed look at the blood running down her collar. She bristles instantly, chin tilting like I’ve accused her of treason. “I— the healers’ tent is full. I’m not doing this for fun.”

The moment softens despite myself. “At least sit then.”

“And do what? Reflect? Pass.” she snaps, still marching with the crate.

She’s pale beneath the dirt, swaying more than she realizes. She needs iron. Rest. Broth. Anything but another crate strapped to her arms.

I step forward before I think better of it. “Let me see.” My fingertips brush toward her neck where the gash angles dark against her collarbone.

She jerks back. “I don’t think you want to touch me.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” Brilliant, Aetos. Randomly reaching for her like an idiot cadet without asking. Dunne’s teeth.

Her gaze sharpens, reading me too well. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to touch me. After what happened yesterday.” Her throat works, her voice lowering. “I could feel your pain. When I ripped shreds of your magic with my hands. You didn’t let it show on your face, but I felt it. And it was my fault. All of you tried to get me to train. And I was too in my head, too afraid. I could’ve killed you.”

“You didn’t.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “I knew you wouldn’t. I told you as much then.”

Her eyes flicker, remembering. “You said a lot of things…”

And Zihnal forbid, she’s right. I practically recited a whole sonnet in her ear while she siphoned, steadying her as if words could keep her from unraveling me. No wonder she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“You weren’t going to kill me, Mairi,” I say more quietly this time, holding her gaze. “You were scared. You were hurting. But you still fought through it. That’s what matters.” Her lips part, like she wants to argue, but no words come out.

“You think fear makes you weak?” I shake my head. “Fear means you care enough not to let go. If I didn’t trust you, I never would’ve let you touch me in the first place.”

Something flickers across her face then—relief, maybe, or something sharper. She looks away too fast for me to pin it down, shoulders rigid under the weight of my words. Before she can get away, I take the crate from her arms and drop it onto the nearest barrel. “Sit.”

“I don’t—”

“Sit,” I repeat, pressing her down until she folds onto the crate like I’ve tethered a wild thing. I peel back the collar of her leathers, exposing the wound. The moment my fingers graze her skin, there it is: the faint pull of her signet. The tug at my magic like a thread caught on a nail.

Her jaw tightens. “Navarrian arrogance really needs to be studied.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, dabbing at the blood. “But don’t mistake your petty insubordination for Tyrrish defiance. Your people fought for a cause, this is for your pride.”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t you dare take their name in your mouth.”

“Why?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “Because then you’d have to stop pretending I’m the enemy? Pretend the lines you’ve drawn between us are still valid?”

Her breathing spikes. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.” The skin around the wound is too hot. Infection waiting to happen. She’ll argue, she always does, but if she doesn’t start eating properly and getting her strength back, Tyrrendor won’t have much of its Mairi left to boast about.

“If you’re done indulging your favored,” Cath’s voice slithers into my head, dry as bone, “we have matters to discuss.”

My jaw locks. Favored. He saddled her with that nickname the first month she bonded Thòirtdara, some cosmic joke that refuses to die. If I were to favor anyone, it wouldn’t be her. Discipline earns my attention. Respect. Not the disdainful way she spits my name like a curse. Aetos, didn’t see you there. Aetos, hope you trip on your way out. Aetos, hope you chortle on your own balls—

I cinch the bandage tighter, just to prove a point. She flinches, baring her teeth like a cornered cat. “Sadist.”

“Spectacle,” I return without thinking, smoothing the strip of cloth against her neck.

Her glare sharpens, those too-bright eyes narrowing until they look almost luminous. “You think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?”

“I don’t have the time or patience to try,” I mutter, smoothing the last strip of bandage with more gentleness than I’d like to admit. “Stay out of the cold tonight, or that cut will split open again.”

“That sounds less like an order and more like a lover’s warning,” Cath drawls in my head, voice bored and unamused.

Sloane pushes to her feet, swaying but refusing to show it. “Thanks for the bandage, Wingleader. I’ll try not to dishonor the proud Navarrian tradition of dying quietly in a corner.”

“That’s aspirational,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

Her head tilts, a dangerous little smile ghosting her mouth. “Good. I’d hate to make things too easy for you.”

And then she’s gone, weaving back into the crush of cadets and crates, blonde hair catching light and hips swaying just enough to be distracting. Too distracting for my already fractured skull.

“Bastion.” Cath’s voice slams through me, sharp as a whipcrack. “I’ve called for you three times. Stop gawking at her ass and pay attention. We have politics to dismantle.”

I drag a hand down my face, cursing under my breath. For the love of Dunne. “Where are you landing?”

“North ridge. And don’t dawdle.”

Most riders are content to trade words mind-to-mind across half a kingdom. Not us. We like face-to-face, Cath looming over me like a storm. He claims it’s so he can roast me if I annoy him. I say it’s because he’s clingy.

By the time I climb the ridge, he’s already there, impossible to miss. Cath dominates the skyline, wings but still stretching wider than the ridge itself, crimson scales dulled with soot like an ember banked but never dead. His talons gouge the stone, each bigger than my arm. His head lowers as I approach, like a mountain bending down to crush someone. Without hesitation, I press my palm against the heated plate of his jaw. “You’re still stiff.”

“I am still alive,” he rumbles. “Which is more than most can claim. Do not fuss. I am no hatchling.”

“That wasn’t fussing,” I mutter, checking the joint of one wing anyway.

He huffs smoke on my face. “You coddle like a nursemaid; you are meant to be more. Stronger. Sharper. A fortress no storm can break.”

I lean back against the rock. “Or maybe just a Wingleader doing his best.”

“Just.” His eye narrows, molten gold. “Walls that think of themselves as ‘just’ walls are the first to crumble. You are my Bastion. You hold, you endure. It is time others see that.”

I glanced toward camp. “The other wingleaders?”

“Finally, a spark of sense. Eleni Jareth of Second Wing is loyal to Navarre first, not Violet. Tibbot Vasant of Third Wing sees only numbers, no vision. Iris Drue of First Wing owes favors you could call in. Bring them to heel. Make them see you are not your father’s soldier, but my Bastion. If Violet falters, you hold the line.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, head pounding. “And what? Shove my way into Violet’s inner circle like some overeager cadet?”

“No. You stand where you belong.” Cath lowers his head until one massive eye pins me, unblinking. “No more lurking at the edges, nodding along when decisions are made above you. You’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. If you are not in the room, you are forgotten.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw. “She doesn’t want me that close.”

“Want has nothing to do with it.” His tone cuts, all gravel and certainty. “If she is to carry Tyrrendor’s duchy, she will need more than the Riorson boy’s shadow and a fractured squad. She needs walls that will not break. You are those walls. Stand beside her, whether she sees it yet or not.”

I huff a humorless laugh, rubbing at the bandage on my forehead. “You always this invested in my social life, Cath? Half the time it sounds like you want me feared more than you want me alive.”

His eye narrows, molten gold cutting sharp. “I left that delusion behind your first year. Fear burns out quickly. Power that endures is what matters.”

“Which brings us back to you,” I mutter. “Why are you so obsessed with power, Cath? You breathe it like air. You lecture me like I’m one missed step away from being useless unless I’m the strongest thing walking.”

For a moment, silence. Just the rumble of his breath, the shifting of his massive shoulders against stone. Then, quieter, weighted in a way that makes the back of my neck prickle: “Because strength protects things the world deems unfit. And weakness cannot be trusted with it.”

My brows knit. “What does that mean?”

Cath exhales a long plume of smoke that curls between us. “It means there are things in this world fragile enough to be broken if men like you do not stand.” His eye glints with something I can’t place—pride, regret, fear.

“Cryptic as ever,” I mutter, trying for dry but hearing the edge in my own voice. “You could just say what you mean for once.”

“One day,” Cath rumbles, settling his chin on the rock with finality. “When you are strong enough to hear it.”

I scowl out at camp, unsettled in a way battle never makes me. Strong enough to hear it. Gods forbid, what could be so dangerous it requires me turning into the fortress he keeps demanding?

Cath shifts, wings unfurling with a crack like thunder. The downdraft nearly knocks me off the ridge.

“Enough brooding, Bastion. You will return to Riorson House and rest. Your skull is cracked, your body falters. I will not have my rider fall because he mistook exhaustion for discipline.”

I plant my boots against the rock, squinting up at him. “Rest? Now? There are children in camp waiting for me to bring back their parents. I promised them.”

“Promises do not find corpses faster,” Cath growls, lowering his massive head until his teeth gleam in the fading light. “You will rest. Others will search.”

“Others aren’t the ones they trusted.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean, but I don’t take it back. “They trusted me.”

For a moment, his golden eye studies me, deep and unreadable. Then he huffs, a plume of smoke rolling hot over my shoulders.

“Stubborn as stone,” he rumbles. “Very well. But after you have seen them settled, you will sleep. That is not a request, Bastion. It is a command.”

Command. The word scrapes across old wounds. My father never commanded so much as demanded. Obedience carved with ridicule, loyalty measured by how silent I could keep. Cath’s orders feel different, heavier but steadier, as if he expects me to stand taller, not crawl lower. It’s strange when the dragon feels more like a parent than the man who raised me.

I nod once, jaw tight. “Fine. After.”

Cath spreads his wings wide, blotting out half the sky, and the camp below stirs at the sight of him. And I know, whether I want to or not, I’ll listen to him. After the children.

When I finally surface, the light slanting through Riorson House is too sharp, too high. My head throbs, skull pounding like war drums, and my mouth tastes of ash.

Twelve hours. I never sleep more than four at a stretch, but apparently a split skull doesn’t care about my habits. I shove myself upright, every joint protesting, and start pulling on my leathers. The meeting with Violet isn’t until midday, but the other Wingleaders will want a word before then.

I take my dagger from the desk, the one I always take into meetings as if I might need to cut my way out. The grip’s worn slick. Dangerous. I don’t like slippery hands when the world tilts.

I pick up the scrap of leather beside my dagger, dark, flexible, torn from when Mairi’s flight leathers split during training. I should’ve thrown it. Or burned it. But it’s not my fault it provides better friction. I only keep it because it holds true under sweat. A practical choice.

I cut the strip thinner, and wind it tight around the hilt. The edge of the leather bites into my thumb as I knot it off, and for a second, I think of how her teeth would probably bite harder. I guess the concussion remains.

I make my way to the council chamber at Riorson House. Four chairs filled. Violet isn’t here yet, which means for my sins I have the floor.

Eleni Jareth of Second Wing sits ramrod-straight at the far end, braids bound with copper wire, uniform so polished it probably squeaks. Every inch the soldier, every inch impatient with politics. Tibbot Vasant of Third Wing looks like he wandered in from a library, lips moving silently as he runs numbers. Iris Drue of First Wing lounges with one boot on the table, jagged hair, eyes like storm glass. She smiles like she’s already decided who she wants to bleed today.

“Wingleader Aetos.” Eleni’s voice is clipped. “You’re late.”

“I’m concussed,” I answer, sliding into my chair. “You’ll forgive me if I chose survival over punctuality.”

Tibbot doesn’t look up. “You sound well enough to argue.”

“Arguing keeps me awake.” And keeps me from thinking too hard. “Which is why we’re here. Navarre’s crown is gutted. Tyrrendor’s duchess is untested. If we don’t find cohesion, the Venin won’t need to break us, we’ll do it ourselves.”

At Violet’s name, Eleni stiffens. Iris smirks. Tibbot actually stops counting.

“Duchess,” Eleni repeats, bitter as vinegar. “She married a Venin mid-battle. And now she expects us to bow?”

“She’s a Sorrengail,” Tibbot says. “We respect the name. But names don’t erase secrets. My cadets have lived under those secrets for months now. How many of them executed for less than what Riorson has done?”

“My cadets,” Iris cuts in, voice sharp. “Always looking over their shoulders. And now I’m supposed to line them up behind her? Tell me Aetos, what do you think they’ll say when they hear she bedded a Venin before crowning herself?”

Xaden’s face flickers in my head, unbidden. The way he drew people like gravity itself—cadets, fliers, even me. I admired him, gods help me. Admired how he made loyalty look effortless. I’d never have admitted it, but I measured myself against him. And now? Venin. Another standard I anchored my discipline to, crumbled. My father, the system, the kingdom. Now him. Every pillar I leaned on snapping like rotted wood.

I push the thought down. My jaw sets. “She hasn’t asked you to bow. She’s asked you to stand. Violet Sorrengail has bled in every battle, buried more friends than any of us should stomach, and still lived. That’s not just a name. That’s survival. And survival is what keeps wings in the air.”

Their silence almost feels like listening, so I press harder. “She’s bonded to two dragons. The most powerful pairing we’ve seen in ages. She’s bent leadership to her will, even my father. She doesn’t just survive. She protects. That’s what makes her worth standing behind.”

“You’d stake your riders on her?” Eleni asks.

“I already did.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not empty. For the first time since Draithius, the stone under my boots feels like it might hold.

The door creaks open. Violet enters, pale but straight-backed. The room sharpens instantly. And then Cat Cordella walks in with her braid over her shoulder and her eyes cutting like knives.

“Perfect,” Iris mutters. “The Poromish princess.”

“I’m not here as princess,” Cat says flatly. “I’m here because my people are asked to bleed beside yours.”

Violet steps forward, voice steady. “You’ve all earned rest, but there’s no time. Aretia will hold. Basgiath needs its leaders back. You’ll take your wings and your fliers, keep training, keep preparing for when the wards fail again. Because they will. Tyrrendor stands behind Poromiel. Full support including supplies, shelter, joint patrols. That promise is mine.”

Cat laughs, sharp and cruel. “Generous words, Duchess. But forgive me if I don’t swoon over promises made on someone else’s throne. Tyrrendor isn’t yours. You married into it while the rest of us were spilling our guts at Draithius. Convenient timing.”

Violet’s jaw tightens. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you wanted to survive,” Cat spits. “And you’re good at it. But survival isn’t leadership.” The weight of her contempt drags the room taut.

Violet doesn’t flinch. “You’re right. Survival isn’t leadership. But it’s what makes leadership possible. And I don’t need you to bow, Cat. I need you to stand beside me. Nothing more.”

Cat’s smile slips for a breath before she recovers. “We’ll see if your actions match your promises, Duchess.”

Eleni speaks next, voice like iron. “So we march our cadets back, hold court, wait for the next slaughter?”

“Better waiting than panic,” Violet says, steel under her tone. “If panic spreads through Basgiath, we’ll have no one left to fly.”

Iris leans forward, grin cutting. “So we keep them in the dark. Thought you hated secrets, Sorrengail. Or is it just the ones not kept for you?”

The words dig deeper than I want to admit.

“She’s right to keep order,” I say before Violet can break. “But there’s a line between order and silence.” My gaze fixes on her, steady. “If we rally behind you, then when it concerns cadets’ lives…. there has to be transparency. No more watching them fall because we weren’t trusted with the truth.”

Her eyes meet mine, sharp, searching, and for a moment the room fades. Then she nods. “Agreed. No more silence when lives are on the line.”

Eleni inclines her head. Tibbot’s quill scratches again. Iris mutters but doesn’t push. Cat leans back, arms crossed, still weighing.

Not trust. Not yet. But maybe enough to hold.

I find her on the steps outside Riorson House, sitting like she owns the stone, braid coiled over one shoulder. Catriona Cordella: every inch the Poromish princess people sneer at, except her leathers are scuffed to hell and ash streaks her jaw. Regal and ruined, like she prefers both at once.

She doesn’t bother looking up. “If you’re here for a Wingleader lecture, don’t waste your breath. I’ll ignore it.”

“You’re still in my wing,” I say, lowering myself beside her. My skull protests the movement, pain flaring behind my eyes.

Her sigh is pointed, dramatic. “Zihnal forbid.”

I should leave her alone. But my mouth has other plans. “I’ve been drafting a rider–flier integration program.”

That gets her gaze, sharp and incredulous. “A… program.”

“Coordinated altitude maneuvers, shared command rotations, supply-chain redundancies. Gryphon descent rates plotted against dragon wing-loading curves. For example, gryphon glide ratios fall between seven and nine-to-one depending on wind shear, whereas a dragon of Cath’s mass drops closer to four-to-one. Pairing them reduces blind angles, increases interception capacity by thirty percent. It’s all right there in the tables—”

She blinks, then laughs. Actually laughs. “You have tables? You’re out here bleeding from the head and quoting glide ratios?”

I rub a hand over my face. “Apparently.”

“And people think Riorson’s dramatic.”

I ignore that. “It could work. Joint patrols, joint supply routes. No more pretending fliers are glorified couriers while dragons hog the glory.”

Her amusement flickers, softer now. “You actually mean it.”

“Of course I mean it,” I snap, sharper than I intend. “I don’t see treating you like humans as some favor. It’s the bare minimum.”

She arches a brow, lips quirking. “What is this, Aetos? Trying to be noble? Earn points with me by pretending you’re different? Because I don’t hand out rewards for a nerd ramble about glide ratios.”

“You’re right,” I mutter. “That shouldn’t be rewarded.” The honesty tastes bitter, but it’s out before I can stop it. And then there it is. A subtle hum under my skin, my mood shifting warmer, easier. Too easy. My eyes narrow. “You’re using your signet.”

Her lips curl into a wicked little smile. “And you caught it. Impressive.”

I scowl, a little offended. “You don’t even try to hide it.”

“Why should I? It’s useful. And I wanted to see if you’d notice.”

“Congratulations. I noticed,” I snap. “May as well crank up my will to live while you’re at it. Really optimize the concussion experience.”

Her smirk sharpens. “You’re fun when you’re offended. Makes you less… fortress, more man.”

I roll my eyes, though my mouth almost betrays me with a laugh. “I’ve been training my mind to recognize intrusions since…” I cut myself off. Since fliers arrived with their gifts. Since trust became optional.

She tilts her head, reading the words I didn’t say. “Good skill. You’ll need it.”

Then she twists the braid over her shoulder, watching me the way people watch puzzles with half irritation and half interest. “You want joint patrols, joint supply chains? Fine. But your model still reeks of Navarre.”

“How generous of you to diagnose it,” I mutter.

“I mean it,” she says, eyes cutting sharp. “You talk about survival like it’s math. Ratios, load-bearing, who can hold the sky the longest. In Poromiel, we don’t just measure what each person can do for themselves. We measure what they can give. A flier works the rune they’re strongest in, trades the surplus, so every squad has what they need. Shields, warmth, light, flight… it’s all distributed. No one hoards. No one hides.”

The words catch something raw in me. Hoarding. Hiding. Secrets pressed like stones in every corner of my life.

Cat leans closer, voice biting. “You want a real unit? Then stop thinking like it’s every rider clutching their magic like coin. Trust is the only currency that scales.”

I stare at her, and Zihnal forbid, I feel my pulse shifting, her words hitting harder than they should. The hum under my skin again. “You’re doing it again.”

Her mouth curves, smug as sin. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t like that I’m right.”

“Or maybe you’re shameless,” I shoot back.

“And you’re slow,” she says sweetly, leaning back on her elbows. “But even slow men can learn.”

I shift on the step, stone digging into my spine. Silence stretches, too heavy. I blurt, “So. How are you holding up?” Cat swivels her head toward me, eyes narrowing like I’ve offered her spoiled wine. “That’s small talk, Aetos.”

“I don’t know,” I say, defensive. “We were on the Quest Squad. Would it not invite a little…bonding?”

Her laugh is sharp, incredulous. “Oh my gods. You sound like Ridoc.”

I flinch. “That bad?”

“Worse,” she says flatly. “At least Ridoc’s pathetic jokes are meant to be pathetic. Yours are just concussed.”

“Fine. No small talk.” I rub at my bandage, wincing. “Let’s go bigger, then.”

Her brows climb. “Bigger.”

“What do you feel about Riorson and Violet’s wedding?”

The silence that follows could curdle blood. Her head snaps toward me, braid swinging. “Are you serious?”

I spread my hands. “Just gauging morale.”

“Morale,” she repeats, dripping scorn. “Short answer? It’s obscene. That man was supposed to marry me. And now I have to watch him crown his war-bride while I sit here in ash like some maiden. You want my feelings? They’re not printable in your little tactical annals.”

I snort despite myself. “You’re dramatic.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

The jab lands. I should retreat. I don’t. “At least I’m not pretending it doesn’t gut me. I lost my childhood best friend.”

Her smirk flickers. “Childhood best friend. That all?”

Heat crawls up my neck. She doesn’t need the details. The years of postings, the one permanent tether. My home. The way I pushed down every fleeting thought that might’ve cracked what we had. Until Threshing. “That’s all,” I lie, clipped.

Cat studies me, sharp. “I thought you two—”

“We didn’t,” I cut in, harsher than I mean. “Not like that.”

Violet always flirted a little, that was her way. But once she entered the Riders’ Quadrant, it sharpened, turned into something more. Or maybe I only noticed it more then, when I was already losing her. I can picture her smiles, slipping further out of reach while she seemed to shine brighter for someone else. So I had tried to clutch on. Made the desperate, ridiculous move to kiss her, as if that could stake some claim. As if I could win an imaginary competition I never admitted I was even in. I regretted it the second I pulled back. But the damage was done.

“Mine feels worse than your dethroned engagement fantasies.”

For a moment, the air stills. Cat’s smirk falters, bitterness cutting through. “You think I wanted crowns and power just for the gilding? The crown meant security. It meant Poromiel had a seat at the table no one could sweep away. That matters more than any shared giggles on horseback.”

I nod once, quiet. “Fair. We were different kinds of abandoned.”

Her lips twist into something almost like a smile, bitter and wry. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

I walk her down the corridor to the wing assigned to her fliers, boots echoing softer here. She doesn’t thank me, of course. Just tosses her braid and mutters that she doesn’t need an escort. Typical. But the cadets straighten when they see her. They follow her with their eyes. Whatever she says, she leads. That counts for something.

“You bond like a soldier bleeds,” Cath rumbles. “Messy. Loud. Too eager to call the scar worth it.”

I snort. “Go on, say it. You’ve been waiting all day.”

“Waiting?” His amusement is a low rumble. “I am patient as stone, Bastion. I will leave you for an hour.”

My brows knit. “Leave me?”

"Because you are about to set yourself alight over your favored", he says, bored as ever, "and I would rather not suffer through the waves of your adolescent panic. One of us should rest tonight, and it will not be you."

I stop dead on the stairwell. “What the hell does that mean—”

And then I see her.

Mairi. Outside, where the cold cuts sharp, a curl of churam smoke trailing from her lips. My blood spikes just at that—her ignoring every word I told her about staying indoors.

But it isn’t the smoke that stops me.

It’s him.

Some older man I don’t recognize, close enough his shadow spills over hers, his hand loose and casual at her waist. Casual. Like she’s not still stitched together by bandages I tied with my own hands. Heat blasts through the concussion haze, fury so sharp I forget my skull is cracked. That’s mine, some animal part of me snarls, so loud I nearly stagger. My cadet, I correct, choking the word down before it slips too far. My responsibility. My charge. And strange men don’t hang around my cadets. Not when they’re half-dead on their feet.

I march across the courtyard, grip the rail until the wood creaks. My voice comes out low, guttural. “Take your hands off her.”

The stairwell spits me into shadow, cold biting through leather. Smoke hangs thick, sweet and acrid, torchlight catching on the haze until it clings to everything.

“Identify yourself.” My throat works, rage coiled low and hot.

The man glances over, calm, unconcerned, his hand still easy on her waist.

I step closer, boots grinding gravel. “Name and rank. And why the hell you’re loitering around the cadet wing after dark.”

The churam ember flares at her fingers as Sloane exhales, blue eyes cutting through the haze. Watching me. Daring me.

I don’t even realize I’ve closed the distance until my palm is on the hilt of my dagger, leather-wrapped grip biting into my hand. My pulse hammers so loud I can’t tell if it’s my skull or my fury about to split open.

He doesn’t move. His grip on her doesn’t shift.

I draw the blade halfway from its sheath before Sloane moves.

“Stop.” Her voice cuts sharper than the steel in my hand. She shifts, stepping between us just enough that his shadow falls over her and not me. “Put it away.”

Her words land like a command, not a plea. Which only makes my grip tighten.

“Not until he identifies himself.” My teeth grind. “Cadet wings are off-limits after dark. You know that.”

The man finally speaks, voice low and unhurried. “I didn’t realize Wingleaders made a habit of patrolling the steps at this hour.”

That calm needles worse than mockery. My blade comes free another inch. “Name. And rank.”

Sloane exhales smoke, tired, unimpressed. “He’s not a threat.”

The man finally shifts, removing his hand with deliberate slowness. “Second Lieutenant Garran Vey, One of the healers.” He inclines his head, nothing more. “Your cadet needed air.”

“Air?” My voice is a rasp. “You call this air?” I gesture at the churam curling between them, thick enough to choke a stable.

Garran doesn’t blink. “It’s medicinal.” His gaze flicks toward the churam ember glowing between her fingers. “The smoke eases infection, dulls pain. Better than her gritting through fever until it kills her.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then I actually look at her.

Her color’s less gray than it was an hour ago. Her breathing, steadier. Shoulders looser. And something else that twists my gut. That faint luminescence at her skin’s edge, the same subtle glow she carried after siphoning from me. Wrong. Off. But real. Fuck me, he’s not lying.

Slowly, I force the blade back down, though my hand doesn’t leave the hilt. “Fine. Medicinal.” The word tastes like ash. My grip stays iron on the hilt. “But I doubt you hold every cadet by the waist when you prescribe it.”

Garran doesn’t blink. “When a cadet staggers on her feet and nearly topples into the stairwell, I steady her. Waist, shoulder, arm, whatever keeps her upright. If you’d prefer I let her fall and crack her skull open, I’ll remember that next time, Wingleader.”

My jaw grinds until bone creaks. “Next time, you won’t be here. Healers don’t loiter around cadet wings after dark.”

His mouth quirks the faintest fraction, not amusement, something closer to pity. “If you want to file a complaint, write it up. Until then, I go where patients need me. Even when they refuse to sit still.” His gaze flicks sideways at Sloane.

She exhales smoke through her nose, and the glint in her eye confirming she's already high. “I asked him, Aetos. You don’t get to make rules for my lungs, or—”

“Second Lieutenant,” I say, teeth grinding around the word. “You’ve done your part. Now leave.”

He studies me for a long, clinical moment, then inclines his head. “As you wish, Wingleader.” His boots crunch against gravel as he turns, his shadow peeling away from hers until it’s only me and her in the smoke-thick dark.

Sloane grinds the churam out under her heel, lips pressed tight, eyes sharp enough to cut. “You’re out of line,” she says quietly. She folds her arms, stubborn as ever, chin tilting in that way that says she’s two seconds from launching into another argument but too sleepy to follow through. I cut her off before she can start.

“Go back inside, Mairi.” For a heartbeat I think she’ll tell me to rot. But then the wind shifts, cutting sharp through her torn collar, and she shivers without meaning to.

“Now,” I press, softer but no less certain.

Her shoulders stiffen, but she turns. Stalks up the steps without a word, braid swinging, boots grinding gravel. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to. I don’t move until the door shuts behind her, until I’m sure the smoke and the night have no hold on her anymore.

Only then do I turn away, fury still boiling, skull still pounding, but with a new question gnawing at the edges of my mind. Why did that damned smoke make her look like she’d just drained me dry.

Chapter Text

“Magic is neither created nor destroyed; it is merely transferred — from vessel to vessel, from life to death. To siphon is to steal, to imbue is to gamble, and to erase memories is to rewrite what should never be forgotten.”

— On the Boundaries of Power, translated from Krovlish (author unknown, c. 621 AU)

SLOANE

The candle on my desk gutters in the draft, smoke dragging crooked shadows across the walls of my quarters. I sketch another glyph into the air, slow and careful, not because I need to but because precision is the only way to keep my hands from shaking. The mark flickers, catches, and sends a thread of light darting across the room until it snaps against the pitcher balanced on the table. It wobbles, levitates crookedly for half a breath, then crashes down with a hollow thunk. Pathetic. Lesser magics, the sort of thing children get impressed by before they’re old enough to hold steel.

“Why the parlor tricks, Golden Fury?” Thoirt’s voice slides into my head like smoke poured over fire, amused and faintly exasperated.

If a trick works, it isn’t really a trick. At least this way I use the current inside me for something, bend it into motion instead of letting it sit and rot in my veins. Even if it’s not the kind of training Thoirt wants for me. “They’re useful,” I shoot back, studying my magic’s afterglow fading on the stone. “Buy time, distract, blind, bind. You’ve seen me use them.”

Her laugh is a low rumble that makes my chest ache. “Useful, yes. But so is siphoning their strength until they drop like stones.”

The glyph in my hand dies before I finish it, the light collapsing in on itself. I let it. The word siphoning makes my stomach twist in the same way it always does, like touching an old wound that never healed. Thoirt knows it, too.

She softens, though she never backs away. “Let me rephrase. What’s also useful is transferring power. Giving what you have to those who need it. Bolstering your wing, your squadmates, anyone you choose.”

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, as if I can shove the ache back where it belongs. “I know. I told you, I’m ready. I want to train. For you.”

Silence hums between us, but it isn’t empty. It never is with her. Thoirt doesn’t waste time with false comfort or gentle evasions like people do. When she chooses words, they land with the weight of stone. “One day we will get there, Golden Fury. Not just for me. For you, too.”

I want to believe her. Gods help me, I do. But belief doesn’t make it easier when the thing inside me feels wicked, when every time I’ve touched it, it’s burned me from the inside out.

I set the pitcher upright again, fingers drumming against the rim. My eyes fall on the cuff hanging by the door stitched with Tyrrish thread, but lined with a scrap of fabric Aaric had once traded me. His contribution to my “wardrobe upgrade,” he’d called it. Now it just hangs there, lonely, like a relic of a boy who refuses to stay put.

Aaric is still missing. Violet swears he’s not dead, but that’s all she’ll say, and it tastes like a half-truth on my tongue. It’s strange being back here without his odd, distracting presence. Prince Camlaen Tauri. Except to me, just Aaric.

“You wanted to jump him once,” Thoirt purrs into my skull, laughter all smoke and scales.

The memory is ridiculous enough to almost pull a laugh out of me. The very first week here, I’d thought him little more than a spoiled side character in my personal tragedy. Handsome enough in that careless, too-slick way. And I’d been desperate enough to forget my grief for an hour. So I’d tried. Blunt, bold, the way I always am.

He’d shut me down with that casual, lazy grin that somehow stung worse than a slap. I’d shrugged, tossed my hair, and moved on or pretended to.

Until the day he thrashed me on the mats, left me wheezing like a punctured wineskin. He’d sauntered into the infirmary after like he owned the cot, leaned against it, and said, “You were holding your dagger like a spoon, Mairi. And you fight like one too.” Then, as the healers bustled in, he’d just stood there whistling while a too-serious trainee announced something about my “irregular digestion.” Aaric had blinked, turned, and said, “Well, at least now we know you’re full of shit medically.”

I’d sworn right then I could never sleep with him. And to my surprise, I didn’t want to. The flirtation burned out, replaced by something more dangerous. Friendship. The shameless kind, where he’d steal food off my plate without asking and I’d call him a pompous bastard while he grinned like I’d crowned him king. Too crude, too comfortable, but real. I only meant for him to be a hook-up, once, maybe twice if I’d been generous. But somehow he became permanent.

And now he’s gone.

I yank open the chest at the foot of my bed and drag out the crooked pile of books inside. The spines scrape as I stack, restack, unstack. Half of them I’ve never read. They’re trophies more than anything. Proof I can collect knowledge if I want, even if I don’t use it. One slips free, falls on my toe, and I curse loud enough the cadets two doors down probably hear.

“Golden Fury,” Thoirt drawls, warm as a hearthfire in the back of my skull. “Are you at war with inanimate objects now?”

“I’m keeping busy,” I mutter, shoving the book back into the pile too hard.

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Her tone is smug, smoke curling under my ribs. “Better to admit it. The princeling’s absence gnaws at you.”

I roll my eyes, shoving another book into the stack. “He’s probably out there being important. Meanwhile I’m here alphabetizing books like some cadet desperate to look clever.”

“You hate organizing.”

“I hate losing more.”

“That is why you are mine, Little Fury, because you would wrestle the wind itself just to prove you can bite harder.”

The memory of the mats makes my jaw ache. Aaric flattening me again and again in front of everyone. That had burned hotter than his rejection, hotter than any lazy smile when I’d tried to crawl into his bed. Losing. That was humiliation written across my skin.

And did I channel it? Train harder? Prove him wrong? No. I sulked. I stewed. I dug my heels into the dirt and dared anyone to move me. Stubbornness masquerading as principle. Defiance, I called it. But really, it was nothing more than not wanting to be here at all. After Liam, every breath at Basgiath felt like torture on earth.

Dain’s voice snakes up like smoke: Don’t mistake your petty insubordination for Tyrrish defiance.

If his skull wasn’t already cracked open, I’d have done it myself. No shame. And the worst part? He wasn’t entirely wrong.

I had hated Violet Sorrengail so much I could’ve stacked that hatred like kindling and burned the whole quadrant. For her arrogance, for the way everyone in my life, including Liam, seemed to orbit her, for how she held my brother’s letters like a blade at my throat.

Gods, I wanted to claw her eyes out. And yet—

It worked.

I trained. Through muscle that screamed, through lungs that begged for air. And I was good at it. Better than good, once Thoirt barreled into my life, all fire and laughter too big for her wingspan. She made it easy to forget that Violet’s nudge lit the fire under me. Easy to pretend it had always been mine.

But being good at something doesn’t make it your calling. Soldier? Cog in the machine? Never. My calling is Thoirt. My reason to crawl out of bed when grief still tastes like blood. Not these endless politics where everyone fights about who knows best while people bleed into the dirt. Not the game where a handful of leaders choose who gets saved and who gets left to burn.

“I won’t fight for pride,” I whisper to the empty room, to the heap of books that will never be read.

“You fight for me,” Thoirt answers, bright and fierce, no room for doubt.

And gods help me, that’s the only answer I can live with.

The courtyard feels too bright for the hour. Fourth Wing is assembled, half the cadets squinting like they’ve been dragged out of bed at swordpoint, the other half muttering curses into their collars. My skull isn’t pounding this morning, that honor belongs to Wingleader Dain Aetos, standing like a war statue at the front.

“Fourth Wing,” he calls, voice cutting clean through the murmur. “Eyes up.”

The groans quiet. He looks like death in leathers, bandages on his head, but his posture is perfect, of course. He’s the picture of righteous misery.

“We stand,” he begins, “in the aftermath of Draithius and the return to Basgiath not as we were, but as we are forged. Broken in places, yes. Scarred, certainly. But not undone. Because as the Codex reminds us—” Gods save me, he’s really doing it—“Fortitude is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it in service of the unit.”

Around me, a few cadets straighten, wide-eyed. I resist the urge to gag. He goes on, words rolling with that earnest intensity only he can pull off. The cadets drink it up. Doom, but make it inspirational. Dain Aetos’s favorite recipe.

When he finally dismisses us dramatic pause included, everyone spills out buzzing. Sparring matchups loom next, cadets pairing off, stretching, bracing. My squad clusters instinctively, the misfit knot of noise that never quite blends in.

Avalynn and Lynx are already gossiping like they’re running a salon. Normally it’s about Baylor’s arms or Kai’s grin or some upperclass rider with a jawline sharp enough to slice steel. But today, to my absolute horror, they’ve zeroed in on Dain.

“I swear he said cadet in that voice,” Lynx murmurs, eyes bright with mischief. “Like it wasn’t an order but a benediction. Half the wing probably got chills.”

Avalynn hums, dreamy, tapping her chin. “Mm. His arms didn’t exactly ruin the moment either.”

They’re thirsting over Aetos. Casual. Easy. Like he isn’t the most infuriating, rules-stuffed Wingleader to ever walk Basgiath’s halls. Gods. If Aaric were here, we’d pile on, roasting him until he wilted. We'd mock his lectures, repeating in unison, ‘You haven’t met your codified restorative hours.’

But my mouth stays shut. Because after last week, after he almost drew a blade on Garran… I’m still not sure what to make of him. I’d been high on churam, so maybe I misremember, but it seemed more serious than his usual bristling at broken rules. Like he truly believed hanging out with a healer was a capital crime. Then again, I’ve also seen him lose it when Aaric put boots on a table. Who can even tell with him anymore.

Avalynn sighs dramatically. “Honestly, the brooding does it for me. It’s very…” She gestures vaguely toward the horizon. “Wingleader Aetos at Dawn, tragic and determined.”

Before I can gag, Kai and Baylor drift into the circle, both carrying steaming cups from the kitchens like they’ve already bribed someone. “What are you two on about?” Kai asks, squinting at them.

Lynx, who has been quiet too long for comfort, leans forward with a wicked grin. “Ava’s discarding you both for Wingleader Aetos. Says she prefers her men wrapped in bandages and doom.”

Avalynn swats at him. “I did not—”

Lynx barrels on, delighted. “And Baylor, I’m fairly certain you won’t even mind. You told me yourself, quote: ‘Aetos just has that thing about him, you know. All restraint and discipline. It’s… aspirational.’”

Baylor chokes on his drink, spluttering. “I didn’t mean it like that!” His ears are already turning crimson against his skull-trimmed hair.

Kai seizes the opening like a hawk. “She can’t abandon us if we abandon her first.” He turns on Avalynn, chin lifting like a general in a tavern dispute. “New pact: Baylor and I are sworn brothers in arms. No more squabbling over fire-wielders with wandering affections. Especially not in the middle of a gods-damned war.”

Avalynn raises her mug in mock salute, tone sweet as venom. “Hello? I am right here.”

“You hear that?” Kai continues, ignoring her entirely. “No more chasing, no more moon-eyes in the middle of drills. Our loyalty is to the pact.”

Baylor groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You just did,” Kai says smugly, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough that tea sloshes over the rim.

Avalynn mutters something about men being the real children of the quadrant while Lynx nearly falls off the bench laughing.

The circle dissolves as the bell clangs across the courtyard.... sparring matches, the true entertainment of Basgiath. Everyone starts shifting, stretching, rolling shoulders. Baylor cracks his neck loud enough to sound like a boulder split. Avalynn mutters about needing to rebraid her hair if someone scorches it again. Lynx shadows his own hands for practice until Kai swats him with a towel.

Across the yard, Fourth Wing lines up. Dain’s already there, dutiful as sunrise, stretching with Imogen and Cianna. The empty space where Quinn used to stand makes my stomach knot, though no one dares point it out.

It should be normal. It should be routine. Except Lynx and Avalynn couldn’t keep their mouths shut about “brooding looks at dawn,” and Baylor just had to confess his Wingleader-worship. Now my head’s swimming with thoughts I should have locked in the lowest dungeon of my brain.

Because Dunne’s teeth he’s obscene without even trying. He bends forward into a long stretch, sparring tunic riding up to bare a strip of skin above his belt, the deep cut of his back all cord and muscle. The kind of strength that doesn’t puff itself up, just sits there, steady, carved into him like discipline itself. He rolls his shoulders back, slow and precise, as if even his joints are afraid to crack without permission. One hand drags through his curls, pushing it back off his forehead, leaving it damp at the edges. It’s almost enough to make me groan out loud.

Tall, steady, controlled. Always controlled. The kind of man who keeps his shirt on as if baring skin would be a public hazard. Does he honestly think his pecs are the gods’ gift and he needs to keep them under wraps? It’s insulting.

I could make him break.

It wouldn’t even be hard. I’ve been watching him too long not to know the ticks: the way he fixes a crooked chair as he walks past, picks up an apple off the ground and sets it back like he’s preserving order, even nudges a chalk line straighter before crouching. Discipline runs through him like marrow. All it would take is the right pressure in the right place, and he’d snap.

And that’s the thought that has me biting my lip: I could make him lose it. Not with battle, not with rules, not with rank. With my mouth. With my hands. With every dirty little trick he pretends not to know exists. He’s a fortress begging to be climbed, and I’ve never seen a wall I didn’t want to topple.

The images hit fast and filthy. I could crawl into his lap while he’s mid-report, kiss him slow and ruin him softer. Unbuckle his belt with my teeth while he’s trying to lecture me about regulation. Stroke him with my palm flat while he recites the Codex, until he stutters over the clause and forgets what comes next. Gods, I bet he’d beg so pretty.

Or maybe he’d try not to. Maybe he’d bite his fist, press his face into the desk, thighs shaking while I sank onto him wet, unbothered, in full uniform while he came apart under someone who isn’t scared of what he is. I wouldn’t even have to speak. Just ride him until the holy fucking light left his eyes and he forgot where he was.

Heat spikes in my gut, sharp and inconvenient. In another life, if he wasn’t who he was and if I were a slightly worse human, I would’ve tried it, just to prove I could. But I’m not going to touch him. Not now. Not ever.

I roll my shoulders, shake my head hard, stretch until something cracks. Damn Baylor, Avalynn and Lynx. They planted the thought, but I’m the one drowning in it now.

Dain steps into the center, posture so straight it makes my back ache to look at him. Bandage still fresh across his temple, but his voice cuts through the din like steel scraping stone. “Today’s drills aren’t about matching what’s comfortable.”

A few groans ripple through the cadets. Dain ignores them. “You don’t get to pick who stands against you in battle. An elemental won’t politely meet an elemental. A shadow wielder won’t only fight shadows. And energy signets—” his eyes sweep the circle, sharp enough to sting—“you’ll face more than one at a time. Waiting to practice until it happens out there will get you killed.”

I cross my arms, studying him. He’s right. Not that I’ll say it aloud, but the logic’s sound. Most wingleaders pair like against like, measure progress against your reflection. Easy. Predictable. But battle doesn’t work that way. Battle’s chaos.

And this, irritatingly enough, is Dain Aetos actually doing his job well.

“Energy against elemental. Elemental against inntinnsic. Shadow against steel. You’ll adapt, or you’ll fall.” His gaze lingers on Lynx, who visibly swallows.

I try not to smirk. Still my mind ticks the possibilities as he speaks, mapping outcomes like glyphs etched in air. Avalynn against Lynx? Fire against shadow. Messy. Baylor against Kai? Predictable, but entertaining. And me? Two braids tight against my skull, heartbeat thrumming with anticipation. Who’s going to test me today?

And right on cue, Thoirt blazes into my skull like sunrise over a battlefield.

“Good morning, Golden Fury. What did I miss?” A pause, she does a sweep of my mind, the mental equivalent of her nosing open every cupboard. “…Oh, my flame.”

I groan. “Don’t.”

“I step away for one night and you compose an entire field manual on how to unmake the Broody Hen with your mouth.” Her delight crackles. “Innovative. Unorthodox. Poorly hydrated.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are feral,” she purrs, fond as a favorite sin. “Stretch your hips. Drink water. And perhaps do not climb your wingleader like a siege ladder before breakfast.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Mmm. Intention noted, execution doubtful.” She settles deeper, smug as smoke. “Now, go win your little fights, Little Fury. And if you insist on breaking the Broody Hen, do it on the sparring grounds, not his desk. Paper cuts are undignified.”

By the time I settle into Signet Theory, the ache of sparring still thrums pleasantly in my muscles. I’d won today without siphoning. Without touching that dangerous, glittering core of power that Thoirt wants me to wield and I still recoil from. I beat my opponent with nothing but grit, timing, and a well-placed kick that nearly snapped his teeth out. He had raw fire crackling in his palms, hotter than Baylor’s temper, and for a second I thought I’d be ash on the mats. But fire doesn’t matter when your stance is lazy, when you leave your ribs open. It wasn’t grace, not really. Just muscle, instinct, the kind of discipline I never want to admit I’ve learned here.

Professor Carr drones at the front of the lecture hall, chalk scratching out diagrams of nerve clusters and magical pathways along the spine. “Signets are not tricks. They are physiological alterations. The body reshapes itself around the bond, carving channels that direct current as surely as arteries direct blood. Observe—”

I lean back in my seat, arms folded, pretending not to care, but the words lodge deep. “Physiological alterations.” As if the power etched itself into muscle and marrow, whether you wanted it or not.

When I flip through the textbooks, I always linger on the siphon entries even though I shouldn’t. There’s barely anything there. Half-page at most. Dismissed as “unstable, dangerous, parasitic.” Words that get recycled in the same chapters about Venin. Venin drain. Siphons steal. Venin corrupt. Siphons corrupt. It’s all painted with the same ugly brush. The only difference is that siphons are fated and Venin choose. As if that changes the way people look at you.

“Golden Fury,” Thoirt murmurs, voice sliding in warm and unyielding, “you let their books brand you with their fear.”

I shut my eyes for half a breath, letting her heat pool against the cold pit in my chest. “They’re not wrong,” I think back bitterly. “Every time I’ve used it, it’s felt the same... like burning through someone else’s marrow.”

“The difference between a siphon and a Venin is choice, yes, but not in the way you think. They gorge until nothing is left. For themselves. You take only what is given or what you can give back. You are not hollowing the world, Little Fury. You are feeding it.”

I force my hand to a steadier quill, dragging notes across the page as Carr speaks. Most of the cadets copy him word for word, like the Codex itself has descended onto the board. I don’t. I write the parts he skips.

“Signet pathways adapt to minimize bodily strain,” Carr intones, chalk squealing as he sketches a ribcage. “Over time, riders display denser musculature, altered respiration, increased tolerance to heat, cold, and pain. These changes are not optional. They are survival.”

My pen scratches faster. Not optional. Survival. My handwriting turns messier the more I lean in.

Because I’ve felt it too. My body shifting in ways no healer could explain. Heart pounding harder when I channel. Lungs holding more air than they used to, like they’re keeping it for the next drain. Nights when my skin runs too hot, like fire under the bone. It isn’t just the signet carving channels. It’s me. My body accommodating, building around it.

The thought comes sharp, unbidden: churam.

I’d chalked it up to fever haze the first time Garran pressed the ember to my lips, but gods it had helped. Smoke curling through my chest, easing the ache, dulling the fever. And afterward, I’d caught it in the mirror: that faint glow under my skin, subtle but there. The same one that lit me from the inside out when I siphoned from Dain.

My stomach twists. So what the hell is churam doing in my veins? Is it healing? Feeding? Or is it carving me further into the thing they already say I am?

I scrawl the question in the margin before I can think better of it, my notes spiraling:

— siphon = body adapts to handle foreign current
— venin = body rots from overdraw
— churam? = adaptation mimic? tolerance builder? temporary?

Carr’s chalk rakes down the board with a final screech, and half the class flinches. He drops the stick into the tray like it’s offended him personally, then turns, scanning rows of cadets as if he’s searching for someone to nail to the wall.

His eyes land on me.

“Cadet Mairi,” he says, voice deceptively mild.

“Yes, Professor?” My tone is neutral, bored, the one I’ve perfected to keep my own pulse from giving me away.

Carr clasps his hands behind his back. “You’ve heard me outline how signet physiology adapts. Tell us then, what differentiates a siphon’s adaptation from, say, an elemental wielder’s?”

I force my face blank even as my stomach knots. He knows I haven’t trained. For weeks he’s left me alone, as if it’s above his pay grade or too dangerous to touch. And now this.

I could shrug. Pretend I don’t know. But the truth is, I’ve been watching, listening, collecting every scrap of knowledge like it might save me.

“A siphon adapts by… expanding capacity,” I say slowly, the words feeling stolen rather than owned. “Elementals shape themselves around their gift. Their organs and their inner functions shift until fire or shadow or storm is part of their blood. But siphons' bodies don’t just reshape. They extend. Veins widen, lungs strengthen, hearts drive harder, all to hold what isn’t ours. Survival by capacity, not by form. That’s why siphons miscalculate their limits. We tell ourselves our bodies will just keep stretching, keep adapting.”

My voice thins. “Until they don’t.”

Silence stretches. Then Carr’s mouth twists in something that might be approval or pity. “Correct.” And right next to me Baylor, leaning in just enough to mutter under his breath, “Nerd.” Heat prickles my cheeks. I jab my quill into his elbow hard enough to make him flinch, whispering back, “At least I’m not failing vocabulary, meathead.”

Chairs scrape back, parchment rustles, and the steady shuffle of boots fills the room as Carr dismisses us. Baylor claps Lynx on the back hard enough to nearly topple him, Avalynn is already gossiping about something with Kai, and I linger, watching the tide of cadets push toward the door.

My palms are damp. Gods, why am I nervous? It’s just Carr. Stern, stone-faced, the kind of professor who probably eats regulations for breakfast. But today, my feet carry me forward before I can stop them.

“Professor Carr,” I say, voice too steady for the way my pulse jumps. “I want to start training my signet properly.”

The pause he gives me is long enough to make me regret it. His eyes narrow just slightly, as if he’s studying a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the way it should. “Interesting.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” I press, more defensive than I mean to.

He leans back, steepling his fingers. “You’ve made a career of avoiding this conversation. And now, suddenly, you’re eager. Why?”

My jaw tightens. “Because I should be useful.” Because Thoirt deserves better. Because if I don’t, I’ll rot in my own skin. I don’t say any of that aloud.

Carr hums, cool and clinical. “Very well.” He scribbles something on the parchment in front of him, quick strokes that scrape loud in the quiet. Then he tears the sheet free and slides it across to me. “We’ll begin with control thresholds. Not raw siphoning, not yet. Known sources only.”

My brows pinch. “Known sources?”

His tone sharpens, precise, like he’s trimming fat from a cut of meat. “You’ll train with signatures your body has already touched. Predictable currents. Familiar lines. Not random cadets who might panic and be sent to the infirmary. A stable foundation.”

My mouth goes dry. Familiar signatures. There aren’t many. I’ve only siphoned from the Sorrengails. And the other name I am sure Carr is about to mutter.

Carr continues, unbothered by my silence. “Your Wingleader, for instance.”

Of course. Of fucking course.

Because why not. Why not saddle me with the one man who already treats me like a walking risk assessment. Carr says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like Dain Aetos isn’t the last person on this campus I’d want to drink power from again. His voice even warms on the word Wingleader, reverent in a way that makes my teeth grind.

Professors love bringing him up. Carr, Kaori, the lot of them. Dain Aetos this, Wingleader Aetos that, like he’s the breathing embodiment of every codex principle they’ve ever drooled over. And it’s so annoying I could scream. Not because he isn’t good—he is, irritatingly—but because it feels like they’re always holding him up as the standard, and I’m the inevitable contrast. The reminder of what happens when a rider doesn’t color inside their neat little lines.

“That’s it?” I force out of my mouth.

“For now.” His tone brooks no argument. “You’ll shadow another siphon’s early drills. Are you aware of a rider called Naolin? His notes survive in fragments, though most are sealed. That should suffice.”

The name lands like a stone in my stomach. Naolin. The last known siphon. I know only scraps. He was Tairn’s rider before Violet, and he died young. That’s it.

Fragments. Sealed records. My mind gnaws at the phrasing. If he was just another rider who died in battle, why the vaults? Why the missing pages? And why does Carr look like he is carrying something heavy every time his name passes his lips?

Carr straightens the papers on his desk, dismissing me with the smallest flick of his fingers. I’m halfway to the door when his voice follows, cool and clinical as ever.

“And Mairi, stop sharing homework solutions with your squadmates. They need to learn their own craft. Not yours.”

I freeze, then force myself forward before he can see the look that flashes across my face. Homework solutions. As if scribbling rune derivations and elemental matrices is some sacred rite.

The biggest offender in that particular crime? Aaric. He’d leaned over half my parchment with the confidence of a man convinced rules were for other people, quill in hand, humming while he copied answers line for line. When I’d pointed out that was called cheating, he’d grinned, wide and shameless, and said, “No, it’s called delegation.”

But Aaric isn’t here. And Carr’s little reprimand only makes the absence dig deeper.

The hallway outside the lecture chamber is a crush of bodies, cadets spilling out into the cold evening air in pairs and clusters. I slip into the flow, books hugged tight against my chest. Easier to blend. Easier not to hear the snickers that follow me.

Except I do.

“Venin’s pet,” someone mutters, low but sharp enough to carry.

“Traitor,” another hisses, just behind my shoulder.

I don’t have to look to know it’s one of the Third Wing brats. Their shadows lick long on the wall, whispery and smug.

I want to whirl, to show them what real siphoning feels like. Drain some of the light out of their eyes, just enough to watch the smugness drop. But Thoirt’s laughter curls into my head, bright and merciless. “Golden Fury, they are fools who barely know their letters. That is beneath you.”

I exhale through my nose, sharp, and keep walking.

The cadets behind me don’t stop. “Of course she knew,” one says. “Of course she—”

I sketch a quick glyph into the air with the edge of my finger. Nothing lethal, just lesser magics. Their boots tangle in invisible thread, and the two of them go sprawling face-first into the rush of the crowd. Books, elbows, curses everywhere.

Gasps ripple down the hall, and I don’t even bother to hide my smirk.

“Petty,” Thoirt purrs, pleased all the same.

The mutters don’t stop when I keep walking. If anything, they multiply, each one a pebble thrown at the back of my skull.

The words should slide off. I’ve been called worse, louder, with more venom behind it. But Venin sticks. It always sticks. Because Xaden Riorson is a Venin now. That much is undeniable. And all the marked ones knew it before I did.

And Xaden… Gods. Even now I don’t know what I expected from him after Liam died. We’d barely spoken more than a handful of words to each other, even when Liam was alive. We existed in a strange, careful orbit: me, the difficult little sister who bristled like a cat at anyone who came too close; him, the rebellion’s perfect heir, already carrying more weight than he should’ve. There was no room in that balance for anything between us.

Still, when Liam’s body went cold, some part of me thought—no, believed—that Xaden would be there. That he would look me in the eye and say something, anything, to prove the bond he and my brother shared meant I wasn’t alone.

But he didn’t.

And I didn’t go to him. Couldn’t. Every word in my throat turned to knives, every look at him a reminder of Liam, and of the hole Liam left behind. My grief was too sharp, too cruel, and I made myself a nightmare to everyone who tried to come near. Including Violet. Especially Violet. And she was the woman he loved.

Maybe that’s why they call me a spoiled aristocrat. Because somewhere deep down, I still believed he owed me something. That his loyalty to Liam should’ve extended, by default, to me.

A hand clamps warm on my shoulder, firm but not rough, and I nearly swing before I see who it is. Baylor. His black hair is cropped close, his grin a little too loud for the hall, but his eyes flick sharp as he scans the crowd behind me. Protective. Always is, though it’s not just for me. I’ve seen him put the same hand on Kai’s shoulder after someone mocks the flier.

“You good?” he asks, voice pitched low enough not to carry.

“I’m fine,” I lie, shifting the books higher against my chest.

“Sure you are,” Baylor says cheerfully, which is Baylor-speak for I don’t believe a word of it but I’m not pressing.

Kai drifts in on the other side, all sharp edges and wry humor tucked under the weight of his flier leathers. “Ignore them,” he says without looking at me, scanning the knots of cadets instead. “They’re not brave enough to say it loud where anyone important would hear.”

“Brave or stupid,” Baylor mutters.

“Stupid usually wins here,” Kai says, and for once, I don’t argue.

We move together, the three of us slipping toward the archway where the hall thins. For a moment it feels like safety, until Kai sighs and says, “Speaking of stupid... Senarium blocked the Poromish trade deal. Again.”

My head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, though his mouth twists like it leaves a sour taste. “Supply routes. Grain, steel, gods know what else. All choked off. Violet’s pushing, now that she’s holding Riorson’s seat, but it’s messy politics.”

Baylor grunts, annoyed. “Figures. Bunch of old bastards sitting fat while the rest of us break our backs.”

The words rattle loose an ache I didn’t want to touch. The Senarium—six noble seats, one for each province, plus General Melgren. A table meant to represent the whole of Navarre.

Deaconshire has a seat of course. My foster parents sit at it, all perfumed and polished, nodding along with the others. The “progressive saviors,” their smiles so wide when they announced to anyone listening how noble they were, taking in a Tyrrish-blooded girl.

Kai exhales sharply. “If Navarre cuts Poromiel off for good, flier integration will be dead before it begins. And I’d love to see someone explain that to Cat Cordella without losing an eye.”

Baylor snorts, then mutters, “Explaining anything to Cat Cordella is a death wish.”

He’s not wrong.

By the time we split at the stairwell, Baylor’s still chattering, Kai’s muttering about supply chains, and my head’s already halfway gone. The second I’m alone, Thoirt stretches herself across the back of my mind, warm and sharp as always.

“You’re chewing the thought to bits, Little Fury,” she purrs, smug as smoke. “Spit it out before it festers.”

I rub the heel of my palm against my temple. “Obviously the Deacons don’t know shit. They’re probably nodding to everything the Duke of Calldyr says.”

“Mm. Calldyr, the wolf with too many sheep,” she muses. “And your foster pair? Sheep who think themselves shepherds.”

My lip curls. “Deaconshire’s barely even Navarre. A glorified borderland the Crown lets play at independence. All they have to offer is the ore King Tauri wants, and so long as they keep the trade flowing, he showers them with gifts like a doting lover.”

Gifts like me. I was simply another shiny gift. Pretty, polished, paraded before court. A Tyrrish prize wrapped in silks to prove how merciful Navarre could be.

The words taste like ash, but I can’t deny them. My father, Lord Issac Mairi, still had weight when Tyrrendor fell. His bloodline made me valuable enough to parade. When my people burned, I was adopted by Deaconshire as proof of the Deacons’ “generosity.” Behind closed doors, of course, I was regarded with same notability as that of a casual servant.

“You survived anyway. That is what matters.” Thoirt growls.

“Survived. Maybe.”

I remember the library they locked me in as mercy. There were shelves lined with books they never read, just for display. Just like me. And here I am years later, still collecting books I don’t read, as if some part of me hasn’t clawed free from their game.

“You did claw free,” Thoirt corrects, fire and affection twining together. “Because you have me. Because you are mine. And I will not see you waste yourself for their lies.”

Her warmth floods through me, fierce enough that I almost believe it.

I slip down the side corridor, and press through the heavy door into the archives wing, where duty calls me to another long, cold night of cataloguing.

The archives are never warm, never welcoming. Shelves stretch like ribs around a hollow chest, all dry parchment and the faint tang of dust. But tonight there’s another scent of ink and sweat.

And there he is.

Dain Aetos, bent over a spread of papers, candle guttering low beside him. His shoulders curve forward, one hand braced against the desk while the other scratches notes in tight, neat lines. Even from here I can see the furrow between his brows, the stubborn set of his jaw. Dutiful. Exhausting. Gods-damned predictable.

I catch the edge of his parchment as I drift closer. Diagrams—arcs of flight, ratios scrawled in columns, arrows running between dragon and gryphon outlines. The integration program. He’s still at it. Still chewing it down to bones, as if the Senarium’s latest tantrum hasn’t already stalled the entire effort.

He breaks himself against numbers no one else will read, just so he can be ready when someone demands the solution he’s already bled for.

And of course my traitorous brain offers up the last time we were alone together—me smoking churam, Garran’s hand at my waist, Dain’s blade halfway free before I stopped him. I still don’t know if it was fury or contempt in his eyes. Maybe both. The thought burns too close, tangled with those filthy little imaginings from sparring earlier, and I shove it down hard.

“You know,” I say, sliding into the light with the thick tome balanced on my hip, “for someone who preaches rest, you’re terrible at it.”

His head lifts, frown already carved in place. “Mairi.” Just my name, sharp as a reprimand. His gaze flicks to the book I’m carrying, and the crease deepens. “Returning late?”

“Returning heavy,” I shoot back, dropping the massive On the Boundaries of Power onto the table beside his neat stack of diagrams. The thud makes his ink pot wobble. “Carr had me hauling this monster around like it’s part of the syllabus.”

His eyes narrow on the spine, then on me. “You actually read it?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Read is generous. I tried. Got as far as: To siphon is to steal, to imbue is to gamble, and to erase memories is to rewrite what should never be forgotten.” My mouth twists. “Subtle as a warhammer.”

He glances at the page, then at me again. “And?”

“And I hate it.” I fold my arms. “Carr told me not to bother with Krovlish translations anymore. Apparently they’re too biased.”

Dain’s brow furrows deeper. “The bias is in the translators more often than the authors.”

I tilt my head, mock-sweet. “Care to translate that, Scholar?”

Dain doesn’t rise to my needling. He just sets his jaw and stalks toward the shelves like a man hunting prey. His fingers skim across cracked spines until he pulls down a dark-bound tome, thinner, worn from too much handling. He places it on the desk with a care that borders on reverent.

“The original,” he mutters.

I lean on my elbows, grin widening. “What, going to tell me the Krovlish scribes adored siphons after all? That we’re benevolent little saints and not monsters?”

He doesn’t even look at me. Just flips pages, slow and methodical, candlelight catching on the planes of his face. The script is cramped, jagged strokes crammed into parchment that looks like it might crumble if I breathe too hard.

“Language’s old,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Monosyllabic roots. Dense.” He sits, leaning over the text, shoulders curving in, all focus. His finger traces each line like he’s coaxing the words out. Lips moving, whispering under his breath.

I knew he was good with languages—I’d heard enough about his tireless work translating for Violet, like he was her personal lexicon. But hearing stories and seeing him now are not the same. Candlelight pools against his jaw, the crease between his brows, his steady hand as he parses through a sentence so layered it looks like a snarl. There’s something infuriatingly attractive about watching him work.

“It’s fine, you know,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “They weren’t exactly flattering about Imogen’s signet either. Whole section about how memory erasure makes tyrants, blah blah. At least I’m in good company.”

His eyes don’t lift, his frown deepening as he scratches a quick note in the margin with his quill. “That’s not what it says.”

“Sure it doesn’t.”

He exhales sharply, still refusing to bite. Instead, his voice drops, steady and precise as he speaks the translation aloud: “To siphon is to take in what exceeds another’s limit. To imbue is to place one’s strength within an object without guarantee of a return. To erase is to unmake memory’s weight.”

The words land softer than I expect. Less condemnation. More… inevitability.

I swallow, throat dry. “So we’re not thieves. We’re just overzealous collectors?”

This time he does look up, gaze steady in the candlelight, voice low but edged like a blade: “It means words survive longer than men, and the ones who twist them shape how power is remembered.”

Then he adds, quieter but no less sure, “That doesn’t mean people’s voices are worthless. It means you can’t take them as gospel. You investigate. You tear apart the seams. You find the truth for yourself.”

The weight of it hangs there, pressing down like a hand on my chest. And underneath it, always, the bitter crack that will never fully heal: Dain stealing Violet’s memory. Dain reporting to his father. Liam strung up in the aftermath. Logically, I know it wasn’t his hand that killed my brother. But spite has never needed logic. He ripped Liam away from me after years apart, and no neat translation will change that.

I huff out a breath, breaking the spell before it can strangle me. “You sound like a priest,” I mutter, tugging the book back toward me as if the weight of it could shield me.

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Better a priest than a cynic.”

“Bold of you to assume I can’t be both,” I shoot back, but the bite is dulled. My fingers drum against the leather cover, restless. So I tilt my head, let the words slip out before I can stop them. “Why are you killing yourself over this?”

His brow creases. “Over what?”

I wave a hand at the spread of parchment, the neat columns of figures, the half-drafted diagrams pinned under his elbow. “This—your precious integration program. You’re in here half the night, aren’t you? Scribbling ratios and patrol grids while the rest of us are lucky if we bother to sleep.”

“It has to be done,” he says, firmer this time. “Otherwise people suffer. And if I can prevent that, I will. Discipline saves lives, Mairi. That isn’t negotiable.”

There it is. The Aetos Doctrine, polished and handed down like holy writ. I can practically hear the capital letters in his voice.

I prop my chin on my hand, deliberately unimpressed. “Gods, you sound like a pamphlet. Maybe we should nail your speeches to the barracks doors. ‘Discipline saves lives! Tell your friends! Eat your greens!’”

His jaw tightens. “Mock all you want. Order keeps chaos from consuming us.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been on the wrong side of ‘order,’” I snap, before I can stop myself. The words hit hard, sharp. “Easy to preach about discipline when your people have been the one making the rules.”

For a heartbeat, he goes still, too still. His eyes flick up to mine, brown steady and unreadable, but I see the crack there. Just a sliver.

“Chaos isn’t the enemy, Wingleader.” I continue. “And order doesn’t feed people. It just makes starving of a few for the benefit of the rest look neat and tidy.”

Then, quieter, he says, “Okay.”

I blink. “Okay?”

He doesn’t look up. “Then tell me. Teach me something I don’t see. If chaos isn’t the enemy, what do I need to understand? What should I be reading?”

The question knocks the grin right off my mouth. “I don’t read much anymore,” I say, leaning back in the chair. That’s all I can give him. I used to devour books, spines worn thin under my fingers, every margin filled with notes in ink too heavy. Now they sit stacked in my room like trophies I don’t have the strength to claim.

His eyes finally lift, steady on mine. Patient. He doesn’t press thankfully.

Because the truth is a mess I’ll never hand him: that after Tyrrendor burned, when every adult I knew was smoke and ash, I had stopped trying. I spent years hounding my parents about their politics like a girl playing at rebellion with borrowed words. When I’d corner my mother, the great Colonel Mairi, and badger her about her “tactical wisdom.” She’d tell me civilians were acceptable losses for the cause, and I’d slam a book down on the table to prove otherwise—quoting campaigns where compassion won wars. She’d laugh, smooth as steel, and tell me I’d grow out of my bleeding heart.

Or my father, Lord Mairi, talking about crop rotations and land shares with the same pomp he used at court. I’d shove statistics from dusty tomes under his nose, arguing that fairer tithes meant stronger loyalty.

And then they all died. Executed like the traitors Navarre made them out to be. And I was left with my books, my questions, my sharp little corrections that changed nothing.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I should have treated the enemy like monsters instead of searching for better ways. Maybe all I earned with my reading was a pile of ghosts.

So when Dain asks me now, all I can manage is a crooked smile. “You don’t want my recommendations. Half the texts are banned and the other half are boring.”

“Try me,” he says determined.

I tap the edge of one parchment with my nail, pretending to think. “Fine. Foundations of Provincial Stewardship. Dry as sand, but the crop-rotation chapters actually hold up. Fairer yields mean fewer riots. Fewer riots mean fewer patrols. Might even keep your precious supply lines from snapping.”

His mouth quirks, slow, amused. “Practical. Almost lordly.”

I glare. “Don’t start.”

“Why not?” His voice dips just enough to needle. “Lady Mairi, set to inherit your father’s lands while your brother was destined to continue your mother’s legacy. Certainly explains a lot of your attitude.”

My scoff comes out sharper than I intend. “Attitude? I’d call it foresight. Not my fault most of you think leadership means squeezing the last drop of blood from people.”

He chuckles, low, maddeningly fond. “Spoken like a lord’s princess.”

Heat spikes in my chest, but I don’t flinch. “Spoken like someone who mistakes polishing boots for a personality.”

That gets him. His smile flickers, and he goes quiet, brown eyes steady on mine. This is, gods help me, the longest stretch I’ve spent with Dain Aetos without either of us actively staging a walkout. Stranger still—I don’t want it to end.

So I lean back, arms crossed, mouth curled sharp. “Fine, Wingleader. If you’re such a scholar, what do you read when you’re not scribbling your little patrol charts? Please don’t say the Codex.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like I’ve baited him but not enough to rattle. “Didn’t read much for pleasure. Asher used to drill me through languages instead. While Violet’s mother and my father were on duty, he kept me busy with texts.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Violet’s father?”

“Yeah.” His voice drops, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “He basically raised me.”

The words land heavier than I expect. My tongue moves before my brain can stop it. “Why? Your mother—”

His jaw tightens. “She died in childbirth.”

And just like that, he pivots, the shutters dropping behind his eyes. “Anyway. Languages. That’s what he drilled into me.”

I don’t push. Not now. Instead I smirk, leaning on the desk like I’m not letting the silence win. “So? Impress me.”

He sighs, but his mouth twitches like he almost enjoys it. “Common tongue. Krovlish. Old Lucerish. Tyrrish.”

I stop dead, blinking at him. “There is no way.”

His lips twitch again. “Way.”

“You?” My voice spikes louder than I intend. “—speaking Tyrrish? I somehow doubt that.”

His smirk sharpens, infuriatingly subtle. “Kysar venytha.” (Doubt less.)

The words stumble off his tongue, the Navarrian accent clipping the vowels, but gods—it’s Tyrrish all the same. “Your accent is atrocious.” I need that smirk off him immediately.

“Cád e an rud is mó a fearg ort, Mairi?” (Does this make you angry, Mairi?)

Heat flares under my skin. Hearing my name roll off his tongue like that nearly knocks me sideways. But I school my face, lean back slow, and retort in Tyrrish, sharper: “Fir a cheapann go bhfuil siad níos fearr ná mar atá siad i ndáiríre.” (What makes me angry is men who think they’re better than they really are.)

His mouth curves. “So… most men.”

I bite down on a laugh and fire back, “Go háirithe cinn a bhfuil lámhleabhar á thógáil acu faoi conas a bheith foirfe.” (Especially the ones writing a manual on how to be perfect.)

He tilts his head, unbothered, smug as a cat. “Níor chuala mé aon ghearán nuair a shábháil mé do chúl ar an bpáirc.” (I didn’t hear complaints when I saved your ass on the field.)

I bare my teeth in a grin instead. “Drekh tyran.” (Arrogant tyrant.)

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and leans back in his chair, eyes glinting like I’ve just given him a prize.

“Venyasa.”

The word detonates in my skull like a dropped flask of firepowder.

Venyasa.

There isn’t a neat Navarrian translation. Not one anyone with dignity would use, anyway. On the surface, it means something harmless—an infuriating, bratty girl who always gets her way by the wrong means. The sort of word scolding mothers or old tutors hiss when a child pouts too long at lessons.

But among the youth? Among whispered dorm halls and barrack corners? It’s filthier. A curl of slang with edges sharp enough to cut. It means that girl. The one who rolls her eyes at the rules, bats her lashes at the wrong men, wins by slipping where others slog. Spoiled. Shameless. A brat who makes you want to shove her against a wall and ruin her smirk until she’s gasping apologies she doesn’t mean.

And Dunne help me, he had to not know that meaning. He’s a scholar, not a guttersnipe. His Tyrrish is good, but not that good. Too niche, too twisted in slang. There’s no way he meant it like—like that.

Except my stomach flips so violently I nearly choke on air.

My face goes hot, then hotter. “You did not just—”

His brows draw, genuine confusion threading the smugness. “What?”

I force a laugh, sharp and dangerous. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just… you picking words you don’t understand.”

“Venyasa.” He repeats it, slow and careful, tasting the syllables like he’s rolling a wine over his tongue. And gods, it’s worse this time. My thighs press together of their own accord.

My thoughts shuffle around completely wrong. Not me dragging him down, not me making him break, like the stupid little fantasies I indulged in today. No—these are worse.

Him with his hand around my throat, driving into me until the rules blur and I can’t even form a curse in my own tongue. Ruining me until I’m nothing but open thighs and ruined pride as he mutters venyasa like it’s a prayer instead of a curse.

I snap my book shut hard enough the sound cracks through the quiet. “If you ever say that again, Aetos, I swear I’ll siphon you dry and leave you drooling on the floor.”

But my mouth betrays me because even I can hear the heat curling under the threat. He makes a neat little note I can’t read in the margin, completely absorbed, jaw set in that maddeningly calm line of his. Not smug, not playful—just serious.

And from the slow, puzzled tilt of his head, he hears it too.

He gathers his papers slowly, stacking them into neat, merciless order, candlelight catching on the sharp angle of his cheekbones. The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on, until he finally slides the last sheet into his satchel and stands.

“Well then.” His voice is steady, maddeningly even, as he adjusts the strap across his chest. “I’d better be on my best behavior.”

My stomach knots.

He glances back once, brown eyes catching mine in the dying glow of the candle. “Since you’ll be siphoning from me tomorrow.”

The air goes sharp, jagged, every sound in the archives swallowed whole.

Carr’s words slam through me like a strike to the ribs—familiar signatures… your Wingleader, for instance.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just watch him vanish into the corridor, while the echo of his words keep ringing in my head.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll touch that current inside me again. I’ll let it burn through me, crack my veins open and become a conduit for someone else’s strength. His strength.

And the truth curls tighter and meaner in my chest, the one truth I’ve been burying.

I’ll like it.

The pull, the rush, the way power itself tastes when it isn’t mine.

I’ll like it too much.

Chapter Text

“To be siphoned is not only loss. It is release. The body unburdens itself, as if exhaling too long a held breath. One must ask: if giving away what drowns you feels like freedom, how long before you beg for it?”
— Fragment from Naolin’s sealed notes, (c. 625 AU)

DAIN

It starts with a tug. Gentle at first, then sharper, like invisible fingers testing the edges of me. The magic inside my veins pulls toward hers, threads unspooling under her touch.

Heat builds, low and insistent, not from exertion but from the way she holds it, like she’s found something hidden beneath my skin that even I can’t reach. When she lets go, the thread snaps back and I almost stumble, a strange emptiness gnawing at my chest. Like I’m frowning inside my own marrow.

Cath’s power burns hot, relentless, and half the time it feels like my bones can’t contain it. But under her hand, under her control, that weight lightens. My shoulders loosen, my lungs drag in a deeper breath, and the relief feels like sin.

More. My body begs before my mind can stop it. Don’t stop. Hold it steady. Take more.

And then—

“Wingleader Aetos.”

Professor Carr’s voice snaps through the haze, clinical and cutting. I blink hard, dragging myself back to stone floors and cold air, to Mairi’s sharp profile in the candlelight and the meticulous scrawl of Carr’s notes. My fists clench at my sides.

“Describe what you feel.” Carr’s tone is mild. Neutral as always.

The rhythm has become familiar. Third session now, and my body’s learning her cadence: the soft brush of current, the tightening when she grips, the ache when she releases.

I straighten instinctively, forcing the soldier back into my spine. “Cadet Mairi is showing great progress.” My tone tries to match his, but the words slant softer than I mean. “It doesn’t hurt anymore when she reaches. She threads through me clean, as if the current wants her there.”

Carr nods once, notes scraping across parchment. “And when she lets go?”

“Less stable. Like a snapped tether. Like a rope cut mid-climb.”

That earns me the faintest flicker of Carr’s brows, approval or interest or both. He turns to Mairi. “And you, Cadet Mairi?”

Her braids swing forward over her shoulders as she moves. One of them curls in toward the slope of her collarbone, and the other brushes just above her breast. A deliberate choice, I think. Slicing herself into symmetry, yet still letting her wildness show.

Gods. I want to tug them.

“Do you want a poetic answer like Wingleader Aetos’ or a real one?” she says sweetly, voice slicing through me like a thrown blade.

Carr looks up. “Real, Cadet Mairi.”

She rolls one braid between her fingers absently, like it isn’t unraveling me. “His magic’s loud. Too much sometimes. But when I touch it right—” her head tilts toward me, grin going sharp, “he behaves.”

My throat clicks as I swallow.

Carr only raises an eyebrow. “Behaves?”

“Oh, you know,” she waves a hand. “Doesn’t try to resist and burn me from the inside out.”

She means it as a joke. But she’s not wrong.

The silence stretches until Carr’s quill scrapes again. “Then we’ve reached the threshold.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if he hasn’t just set tinder to the room. “I think today is the day we can finally move on to transferring of power.”

“The first time you successfully siphoned from Wingleader Aetos was… not in training. But on the field. In Draithius. Correct?”

Sloane’s smirk flickers, her gaze hardening like she’s bracing for impact. “If you want to call it successful. Mira’s the one who lived. Brennan was the miracle worker. I just—” her mouth twists, “—didn’t screw up.”

Carr’s eyes don’t leave her. “What worked?”

Her jaw tightens. I know she hates the question. Hates admitting she didn’t conquer it by sheer force of will. But finally she mutters, “I followed his voice.”

Heat prickles at the back of my neck. I remember it too clearly. The taste of ash, Mira’s blood, Sloane’s hand trembling on my wrist while I pushed words into her ear. Thread by thread, command by command. One hand on my wrist. Eyes here. Now do it.

Carr inclines his head. “Then perhaps we replicate conditions. If you don’t mind, Wingleader, would you try again? Guide her through?”

The room feels tighter suddenly. Her eyes slash to mine, sharp as ever. My mouth moves before I can stop it. “Would you even want that?”

Her shoulders lift in a lazy shrug, all casual arrogance. “Sure. You can try. If it helps you feel useful.”

Gods. The nerve of her. As if I’m the one clawing for permission. As if she’s granting me the favor of opening my own veins.

Her braids still frame her face when she tilts. Two neat ropes I could fist like reins, haul her close until her sharp little mouth softened against mine. She’d probably yank them herself, just to spite me and drag me deeper.

Carr looks between us, quill poised like a blade. “Then begin when ready. Channel into an object this time. Keep it small. A weapon is simplest. Dagger, if you please.”

Sloane doesn’t wait. She draws the blade from her belt, balances it lightly, then steps closer. Too close. One hand wraps around the hilt, the other hesitates.

She’s been at my wrist every session before, fingers brushing over bone, searching for threads like a mapmaker skimming parchment. But today her hand lifts higher, deliberate, until her palm presses against the curve of my bicep.

Right where Cath’s relic burns beneath my skin.

The ink coils out from under the hem of my tunic sleeve, crimson etched deep into muscle. She stares at it for half a breath too long, blue eyes flicking sharp before she presses down. Grounding herself.

Or maybe testing me.

“Go on,” Carr prompts, impatient.

I steady my jaw, lower my voice until it comes out rough, coaxing. “Easy. Don’t pull yet. Just…listen to me.” The thread inside me stirs, tugging toward her like it’s been waiting. In her other hand, the dagger flickers, faint gold licking the steel.

“Slow,” I murmur, breath brushing close enough that a lock of her hair stirs. “Not a rip. A draw. Think of it as…” My throat tightens. “A steady pour. Let it come. Don’t take.”

Her fingers flex on my bicep, testing. The pull sharpens, and a gasp breaks from her mouth. Soft and unguarded. The sound knots hot in my chest.

“That’s it,” I breathe, voice dipping lower. “Feel where it’s already flowing. Don’t fight it. Guide it. Just… hold me there.”

The current threads out of me, sliding into her like water through a narrow gate. Her lips part, lashes flutter low. Golden veins spider down the blade.

“Good,” I tell her, the words curling rough at the edges. “Gods, that’s good. Keep your grip steady. Breathe with me.”

She drags in a breath at the same pace I do, and the dagger brightens, the glow pulsing with the rhythm of our lungs.

My hand twitches at my side. Every instinct begs to catch her face, to keep her anchored when she looks like this. Flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy with the weight of power still threading through her veins.

“You feel that?” I whisper, voice a rasp now. “That’s balance. Not theft. Balance.”

And I can’t stop staring. Not at the weapon glowing between us. At her. Sloane Mairi, eyes alight, golden shimmer tracing her cheekbones, the lines of her fierce little face softened by the power running through her. Gods, she’s beautiful. Not pretty, not delicate, but beautiful like fire is beautiful.

“Bastion.” Cath’s voice slams into my skull, gravel and smoke.

“Now?”

“You’re flushed.”

“I held steady. Haven’t even flinched.”

“I’ll grant you that,” he rumbles. “You endured. But your discipline stops at the waist. Do not think I cannot feel the rest of you straining like a bowstring.”

A twitch low in my body proves him right. Heat floods my face. The siphon left me half-hard in the middle of training. Carr scribbling notes not three paces away. I mutter a curse too low for anyone to hear, shifting my stance, praying neither of them notices.

“Your endurance improves,” Cath continues, dry as stone. “But this distraction? This gnawing spiral? It weakens you.”

“It’s nothing. Just a lapse.”

“You’ve been saying the same since you first saw your favored on the parapet. And yet here you are.”

I recall the memory of her on the parapet, hair whipping in the wind, chin tilted like she owned the sky. I’d thought her eyes were the most arresting thing I’d ever seen. Brief. Inappropriate. Forgettable. Until she refused to be forgotten.

Now, her chest rises and falls in time with mine, the dagger blazing between us. Another small sound rips from her—soft, unbidden—and gods, my cock twitches like it’s answering her.

Then she snaps her hand back, severing the tether in a rush. The light dies. The silence slams in. And I’m left with my heart hammering, the pulse of want still thick and insistent in my leathers, and the shape of her glow seared into me like a brand.

Carr sets his quill down with deliberate precision. “Very well,” he says flatly, as if she didn’t just siphon half the marrow out of me while looking like she’s Loial’s cruelest gift.

“Your draw is steadier, Cadet Mairi. The object held charge. Wingleader, your stability under transfer is commendable.” His gaze flicks over me. “We’ll continue tomorrow with other cadets from your squad.”

Clinical. Cold. As if the floor isn’t still buzzing under my boots. Other cadets. She’ll stand this close to them, hand on a wrist or an arm, siphon from them while her mouth parts and that glow carves her into something unholy. They’ll feel it too, that pull, that burn, that relief like sin. They’ll get her little gasps, her head tilting just so.

The thought curdles hot in my chest, wrong and irrational. My magic is hers to train with, my steadiness hers to borrow. She doesn’t need anyone else.

I dig my nails into my palm until the pain sharpens me. Discipline. Control. That’s what matters. Not whatever this looping obsession she’s seared into me is.

I clear my throat, forcing my voice level. “If she’s stable under transfer, we’ll need to stage it with a range of signets. Elementals first, Avalynn’s fire is volatile but contained. Then Ridoc. His ice wielding should give her a safe frame to test against.”

Carr hums, quill resuming its scratch. “Sensible.”

I keep going, because it’s easier than thinking about her glow on anyone else. “She should avoid Kai for now, flier gifts are too unpredictable, and Lynx’s shadow work won’t give a clean reading. Pair her with cadets who know how to hold steady and won’t panic if they feel the draw.”

Carr’s gaze lingers a moment longer than usual, his pen pausing mid-scratch. For most professors, it would look like mere assessment, the cataloguing of results. But with Carr, the smallest shift is a verdict. Approval, measured and precise. He inclines his head, like he’s noting something worthy of record.

“Efficient recommendations,” he says at last. Not warm, not indulgent, but weighted.

Sloane catches it instantly. I feel the way her body stiffens against the desk, the flare of her sharp smirk souring into something closer to disdain. And I don’t get it. Carr’s approval is nothing. A nod, a word. A thing to file away and move past. But she reacts like he’s just handed me a crown and told her to kneel.

“Of course they’re efficient,” she mutters under her breath, too low for Carr but not for me. “How thoughtful of you, Wingleader. Picking my partners like we’re at some provincial dance. I extend my gratitude to you, sir.”

My jaw tightens. Gods, she doesn’t even flinch. Half the first-years barely breathe wrong when I’m in the room, and she tosses barbs like it’s a sport. Insubordination draped in flight leathers and arrogance. No care for how inappropriate it looks, mocking her own Wingleader right under a professor’s nose.

“More inappropriate than a Bastion undone by his own cadet’s touch?” Cath intrudes, voice a lazy rumble of smoke, the drawl of an old lord amused by scandal. “Your favored is many things, but she does not mistake discipline for abstinence.”

“Shut it.” I grit my teeth, pulse still throbbing low in my body.

“Cadet Mairi,” I finally speak, the warning clear in my tone. “You’re still under evaluation.”

She only tilts her head, braids brushing her shoulders, mouth curling like she knows exactly how far she can push before the line snaps.

Carr doesn’t reprimand her. He rarely does. Just closes his ledger with a soft thump, voice calm as stone. “That’s enough for today. We’ll resume tomorrow.” He plucks one sheet from the pile and slides it across the desk toward her. “Fragments from Naolin’s drills,” Carr says, tone deceptively mild. “Study them. We’ll use his methods tomorrow.”

I want to ask what’s written there. What he felt. What he did. But Carr is already snapping his satchel shut. His gaze skims me once more and then he’s gone, boots echoing down the corridor.

My eyes keep straying to the parchment in her hand, the cramped lines of Naolin’s script.

“You are close with the elder Sorrengail, aren’t you?” Sloane asks suddenly. Her voice isn’t mocking for once, just curious. “He ever tell you anything about Naolin? About how siphoning can even begin to do something like what Naolin did for him?”

The name scrapes raw in my chest. Naolin burned out doing what should have been impossible. Brennan Sorrengail’s resurrection. His body tore itself apart keeping another man alive, and the records call it noble, call it sacrifice. I just remember what it did to Brennan. How he still carries the weight of someone else’s death pressed into his chest.

My throat tightens. “He doesn’t talk about it really, at least to me,” I say carefully. “But I see it. What it costs him to walk around knowing another man died to keep him breathing.”

And gods forbid her stubbornness ever drives her down that same road. She’d be reckless enough to try and burn herself out just to prove she could. I can already hear her voice, sharp with defiance: it’s my choice, Aetos, like that makes the ruin of it any less final.

Underneath the fear, shame coils tighter. Because part of me is still grateful to Naolin. Grateful he bought Brennan back.

Sloane shifts, parchment folded tight in her hand, and she pushes off the desk with a careless little shrug. “Well. That was thrilling.” She strides for the door without looking back. And because I have no self-preservation skills, I follow.

She doesn’t slow, not even when she tosses, half over her shoulder, “Thanks, by the way. For not freaking out on me and making us both look stupid.”

It’s the kind of thanks that isn’t thanks at all—offhand, grudging, like pulling teeth.

My mouth twists. “That was your version of gratitude?”

Her smirk flickers. “Take it or leave it.”

I obviously can’t help myself. “You’re welcome, Mairi.”

Her laugh is soft, sharp at the edges. “Well, if you ever need anything—” she tilts her head, all mock innocence.

“Come find you?” I cut in, dry as bone. “No thanks.”

That earns me a sharp grin, bright as it is infuriating. We fall into step, her braids swinging, her shoulder brushing just out of reach. I clear my throat. I should shut up. I don’t.

“You did well today. Your progress—” the word nearly sticks in my throat, dry and clinical, “is… notable.”

She blinks, then narrows her eyes, grin curling sly. “Oh my god. Was that praise? From Wingleader Aetos? Should I frame it?”

“It was an observation,” I snap. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Her smirk widens. “Notable. Quite, a term of endearment, isn’t it?”

“You’re not endearing.” The lie grates my teeth. She’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen—wild, insufferable, stubborn, and gods help me, luminous—but I’ll be damned before I say it aloud.

She hums, pleased with herself. “Mmh. Could’ve sworn you called me princess in the archives as well.”

“That—” I almost trip over my own boots. “That wasn’t—no. I wasn’t calling you—”

Her brows lift, mock innocence carved across her face. “No?”

“I was making an analogy,” I blurt, too fast. “You know lordly inheritance, provincial stewardship, the Codex teaches—”

“Oh, Codex now? Hedeon preserve me,” she cuts in, voice dripping sweet poison. “You can’t even deny it without quoting doctrine.”

My jaw works, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “It wasn’t personal. It was situational. Contextual. I wasn’t calling you—”

Her grin sharpens, wicked as a blade. “Princess?”

I exhale hard through my nose, every bit the cornered animal. “Yes. That. I wasn’t calling you that.”

“Mmh.” She tilts her head, braid sliding over her shoulder like a challenge. “Funny. Sounded exactly like that.”

I open my mouth to retort and stop.

Because she’s there.

Violet. Just off the landing yard, boots still dusty from flight, her shoulders bowed under weight I can’t see but feel all the same. She’s trying for steady, but the strain bleeds through every line of her body. Eyes hollow, mouth drawn tight, like the meeting at Calldyr wrung her out and left her to dry.

My heart twists sharp. Gods, I want to take it all from her. The pressure, the council, the endless demands they carve into her skin. Just for a day, an hour, I wish I could give her what she’s never had. Peace.

“She does not want peace, Bastion.” Cath cuts in, smoke curling through my skull like an old lord scoffing at a naïve heir. “We’ve been through this before. The lightening wielder bleeds for purpose, not respite. Offer her peace, and she’ll spit it back at you.”

The words lance through me. He’s right. I’ve tried to steer Violet more than once, thought I knew better, thought I could save her by caging her. And she proved me wrong. Gods, I can’t keep looping around these thoughts. Like my wanting to protect her matters more than what she chooses. It didn’t then. It doesn’t now.

Before I can step in, Mairi does. She slides her arm through Violet’s, easy and instinctive, tugging her into a steadier rhythm. That strange, fierce brand of support only she knows how to give. “How’s the weather in Calldyr? As bleak as it looks?”

And Violet lets her. Doesn’t shake her off, doesn’t argue. Just leans, fractionally, like she needs it more than she’ll admit. “Bleaker. The Senarium’s playing at politics while the wards fray. Calldyr smiles and counts their coin while Poromiel starves.”

If anyone asked me at the start of the year if I’d ever see Sloane Mairi of all people lock arms with Violet Sorrengail, offering her support instead of biting through her throat, I would’ve laughed in their face. But here they are, bonded like stubborn sisters.

Then again, I also never predicted to be this wrapped up in the wild little storm with messy blonde curls.

Violet’s voice roughens as she keeps talking, words pushed out like they cost her blood. “They argued for hours. Trade routes, tariffs, who owes who. They’ll let villages burn before they give up their coin. And Calldyr—” she shakes her head, jaw clenching. “Calldyr’s too busy fattening itself to notice.”

Sloane’s fingers tighten on her arm, pulling her closer, sharper than gentle but no less steady. “So they’re going to let it fail,” she says, blunt and merciless. “Because starving people don’t pay taxes.”

Violet’s silence is an answer.

Sloane studies her face for a long beat, then asks the question she’s been circling like a hawk for weeks. Her voice drops, quieter, edged with something raw. “And Aaric?”

Violet finally looks at her. Not like a duchess. Not like a Sorrengail who’s learned to turn her grief into a weapon. Just a girl who has carried too much. Her shoulders bow lower, and for the first time since landing she softens.

“He is alive, Sloane,” she says, voice thick. “He is. He’s just… where he’s supposed to be.”

The two of them lock eyes, both too stubborn to break first. Sparks and silence. For a second, I almost believe Sloane will claw it out of her right here in the open. But then her grin cuts thin, brittle at the edges, and she lets it drop. She doesn’t loosen her arm, though. If anything, she holds Violet tighter, like she’s daring anyone else to try and take her.

I stand half a step behind, the good soldier, but my mind spins.

No one “is where they’re supposed to be” unless they’re being kept there. Which means Aaric isn’t missing, he’s contained. Stashed where Violet can’t or won’t say. Violet’s shouldering it all, as she always does, and Sloane’s bristling against the leash.

The archives are too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every scratch of a quill sound like a blade. I’ve been hunched over the same narrow desk for hours, eyes burning from ink too cramped to decipher.

The scroll in front of me details siphon transfers in clinical language, “stabilized draw,” “magical equilibrium maintained,” “temporary depletion.” Dry as dust. Nothing about the way it felt. Nothing about the bone-deep relief still thrumming through me hours later.

“You will not find it written in any book, Bastion that the… incident below your belt was in any way normal.” Cath’s merciless voice drapes through my skull.

“I’m not looking for that,” I hiss in my head.

“Then why are you digging through parchment like a scribe on punishment?”

“Because it felt…” My throat works, shame burning hotter than the candlelight. “…like relief. Not strain. Not depletion. Relief. I’m not saying your power is too much, Cath. But when she siphons, somehow I feel lighter. Like I can breathe deeper.”

Silence for a beat. Then a rumble, low and amused. “Bastion, you forget. I am ancient. And with age, any living thing shifts. Humans wrinkle, bones soften, breath shortens. Dragons?” His laugh rolls like smoke over stone. “We do not wither. We harden. The currents carve deeper. Power pools heavier. Old age does not make us weak, it makes us vast. Stronger than your frame was ever meant to hold.”

I swallow, shoulders tightening.

“You’ve been shouldering my strain impressively,” he drawls, grudging but genuine. “Few could have carried me without breaking.”

My lips twitch despite myself. “Wow. Praise.”

“Do not let it swell your head,” Cath warns, fondness in every syllable. “Though you have been generous today—bestowing praise upon your favored as well. Unlikely, for you. I thought to keep the streak alive.”

I drag a hand down my face. “I didn’t—”

“I am not going to call you princess, though.”

“I DIDN’T CALL HER PRINCES—” I shout in my head, but the bond slams shut mid-rant.

The echo of my outrage ricochets around my skull, unanswered, until I bury my face in my hands and mutter, “Gods damn you.”

I gather the ledgers, shove them into neat stacks, and force myself into motion. Out through the vaulted corridors, boots striking stone in rhythm I don’t quite feel. By the time I push into the meeting wing, my shoulders are locked back, my face smoothed into something passable.

The meeting rooms are never warm. Stone walls, high ceilings, that faint iron tang of ink and oil lamps that never quite leaves your throat. Cianna slips in behind me, boots striking steady against the floor, and for a moment it feels like we’re walking into another briefing back in first year before everything burned down.

She sits with her back aligned to the wall, the neat bun of blonde curls tight at the nape of her neck. Executive Officer of Flame Section now.

“Wingleader,” she says, tone clipped, respectful. Always respectful.

“Cianna,” I answer, my tone lower than I mean. I expect the usual discussion of reports, rotations, the clinical routine. And the silence before it, always the same, heavy as wet cloth.

Because she’s it. The last from my first-year squad before we were folded into Imogen’s.

Seven of us, once. Seven names I’d drilled into memory because it felt like the start of something real, something outside Violet. My first real friends in years. And now—just her.

I clear my throat. “How’s Flame Section holding?”

“Efficient,” she says. “First year cadets are adapting. Some stronger than others.” She hesitates, then adds, “No worse than we were.”

The words hit sharp. Because our squad was good. Better than good. Strong odds. Every professor said so.

And still—

Branick was first. A fall off the Gauntlet that should’ve been impossible for a man of his size—steady, sure-footed, built like a fortress. But his boot slipped mid-stride. One moment he was laughing in formation, the next he was ash against the stones. I can still hear the sound his body made when it hit.

Then Marcus. A brute with fists like hammers, cocky enough to think he could take on three riders alone after he left Threshing unbonded and desperate. They didn’t kill him clean. By the time I reached him, there wasn’t enough left to save.

And Talia—gods, Talia. A Signet Amplifier, bright enough to double anyone’s strength. Too fast, too sharp. She pushed too far in drills, burned herself out before anyone could ground her. She was gone before the healer even reached her.

Every death stacked higher, until I stopped counting odds and started counting who was next.

I shift in my chair, jaw tight. “You’re keeping them in line. That’s good.”

She inclines her head, posture as neat as her bun. “They listen. Mostly because they’re afraid of me. Works well enough.”

I huff a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Fear isn’t the worst motivator.”

“No,” she agrees quietly. “But it’s not the best either.”

I know better than anyone because fear shaped everything for me. Why I clung so hard to Violet’s survival. Why I pushed, forced, demanded. Odds meant nothing. My squad had strength, unity, gifts, and they still died in pieces. So I told myself I couldn’t let it happen again. Not to her. Not to anyone I loved. Even if it meant becoming the bastard who caged her.

The silence stretches once again. Then Cianna leans back, folding her hands over her knee, and says, carefully:

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod once. “Of course. Reporting officer to Wingleader—that’s what this is for.”

She shakes her head. “Not as your report.” A pause. “As me.”

That lands harder than I expect. I straighten slightly. “All right.”

Her throat works. “The rumors about Riorson. About what he’s become.” Her voice dips low, barely more than a whisper. “Are they true?”

My back straightens, instinct taking over. “Rumors stay rumors until Command confirms otherwise. My responsibility is the Fourth Wing, not hearsay.”

It’s the kind of answer I’ve given a hundred times before. The Codex in my mouth, clean and precise. But Cianna doesn’t look away. She just holds my gaze, steady as a blade point pressing under the ribs.

“So when are they executing him?”

The words land sharp. I flinch before I can stop myself.

Her eyes narrow. “I would think being a Venin is even beyond the Codex. Don’t you? Worse than breaking chain of command. Worse than killing a cadet in their sleep.”

The room tilts. I go still. My breath catches on the old wound she’s just sliced open.

Amber Mavis.

I open my mouth, trying to shape words around the ache in my chest, but Cianna cuts clean through.

“I’m not speaking out of bitterness, Aetos.” Her voice is steady, sharper for the restraint. “And I’m not defending Ambi either. She tried to kill the general’s daughter. She was executed. That’s how it works.” Her gaze flicks, cold as steel. “But now? The Duke of Tyrrendor gives up his soul for power and no one’s supposed to question it? We’re just supposed to nod, salute, keep being obedient soldiers? Look how well that worked out for us.”

I try to absorb her words but my brain blanks at Amber. Before her, I’d been adrift. My first squad leader had made sure of that—his family despised my father, despised me by extension. He refused to train me properly, left me to stumble and fail in drills, sneered when I asked for help. Every mistake became proof I didn’t belong.

Then Amber stepped in. Not because she had to, she wasn’t even in my squad. Squad leader of another unit in my Section, sharp as a blade and twice as strict. But she saw what was happening. And where others turned away, she took me in hand. She made me run drills until my lungs shredded, barked at me for sloppiness, drilled Codex law into me like scripture.

She respected the Codex as much as my father did. Maybe more. And gods, I clung to it. To her. To the certainty that rules meant survival, that order meant safety. That if I just did everything right, I wouldn’t end up like Branick, Marcus, Talia.

“Amber made her choice, Cianna. And so did Riorson. If we sit here and think of the million different ways things could’ve been fairer, we’ll choke on it. Rules don’t bend for grief.”

It sounds final. It should feel final. But even as the words leave me, something twists.

Because I can still see Sloane, braid swinging, smirk cutting sharp. Her voice dripping with contempt: Spoken like someone who’s never been on the wrong side of order.

I’ve always clung to rules because they kept me upright when everything else fell.

When Violet accused her of trying to slit throats in the dorms—of plotting with other cadets to rid the quadrant of its weak link—I hadn’t believed it. Couldn’t. Not Amber. Not the girl who picked me up at my weakest. Not the girl who spoke of rules like they were holy.

So I asked for Violet’s memories. Demanded them. Proof. It was in the end the one fracture I know will never heal. Violet looked at me like I’d gutted her, and maybe I had.

My throat works, the words dry as dust. “You’re not the only one disillusioned, Cianna. Don’t think you’re carrying that weight alone.”

Her lips press tight, like she wants to scoff, but the tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction. For the first time all night, she looks less like an officer reporting to her Wingleader and more like the girl who used to sit with me in the mess, trading barbs while Amber barked at us to eat faster.

She exhales, long and thin. “You know what she told me? A week before it happened. Before she…”

Cianna swallows, voice flattening like she’s trying not to feel it. “She said the only reason she ever sided with Navarre—despite her blood, despite everything—was because she thought it was fair. That Navarre wasn’t some bleeding-heart kingdom like Tyrrendor, throwing itself onto a pyre for ideals. That here, rules were rules. Choices had weight. People paid for what they did.”

Her jaw ticks. “Her parents weren’t soldiers. They were farmers. Dirt poor. They had nothing to do with the rebellion, but they would’ve burned with the rest because the Duke thought he could topple a kingdom with sheer will. And she said she’d never forgive that. That Navarre gave her something Tyrrendor never had. Justice.”

Cianna’s voice frays at the edges. “I just don’t know where it all went wrong. Why she took that step. Why she tried to kill Violet, knowing what she believed. It doesn’t make sense.”

I exhale slow, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. “Sometimes people twist themselves so tightly around what they think is right that they can’t see when it breaks. Amber thought she was protecting Navarre. Maybe even protecting us.”

The words come out steady, but hollow. Because they don’t touch the truth that gnaws at me. That she betrayed Violet—betrayed all of us—the moment she slipped that blade into her hand.

I want to remember Amber as the girl who hauled me back to my feet when I was floundering. Who showed me discipline could be strength instead of just chains. Who taught me to hold myself like rules mattered.

But every time I try, all I see is Violet’s face when she begged me to believe her. And the way I didn’t.

My jaw locks. “She made her choice,” I finish quietly, and it’s all I can give.

Amber Mavis may have been loyal, and disciplined, and everything I was raised to admire. But she still tried to slit Violet Sorrengail’s throat in her sleep. And for that, no memory can redeem her.

Cath stretches out like a mountain come alive, coils of his body half-curved around the stone alcove we’ve claimed. His wing drapes loose, shadowing me in crimson dusk, and I settle against the warm slope of his chest.

Normally I bully Cath for holding me like this but today I need it—the grounding weight, the heat that hums through scale and muscle when I drag my hand down his side. My nails scratch along the seam of a plate, and he exhales smoke like a sigh, the sound vibrating through my ribs.

My head has been full with everything I can’t keep down. Too much death, too much power, too much ache. Always ache.

I keep scratching along Cath’s scales like I’m trying to claw the noise out of myself. My voice comes rough. “You said it yourself—you’re ancient. Old.”

A low rumble rolls out of him, amused but indulgent. “Compared to your fragile span, yes.”

I tilt my head against the warmth of him, staring at the darkening sky above. “So what are the things you still want to do? In this lifetime. The ones you haven’t come around to yet.”

The question hangs in the air, quiet and too raw. Because I don’t know what I’m even asking. Him or myself.

Then, softer than I’ve ever heard him he replies: “We are not so different from you, Bastion. We say we live for fire and battle, but that is only half of it. The other half is leaving something that outlasts us. Carving a mark into a world that will keep turning when our wings no longer beat.”

Cath’s chest shifts beneath me, the slow rhythm of breath like a forge working low. For a long time, he says nothing, smoke curling faint into the night.

I blink up at him, caught off guard. “You mean legacy.”

“A line carried forward. A bond unbroken. There are things I have not yet seen through. Things that… must be seen through.”

The eye that pins me is molten gold, unblinking. Heavy. Too heavy. For a beat, my skin prickles like he’s weighing me against some ledger I can’t read.

And because I hate the silence, I let the words tumble out sharp and graceless: “Oh gods. You’re looking for a mate, aren’t you? Gross. Grandpa.”

A sound like stone cracking rumbles through his chest, half amusement, half warning. “Do not be an idiot. I am ancient, not sentimental.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, scratching hard at a seam in his scales to distract myself.

His smoke curls tighter, voice dropping low again. “I do not seek a mate, Bastion. I seek continuance. Preparation. When the end comes, it is not peace I want. It is assurance. That the fire and ideals do not die with me.”

My throat works, words sticking. He never says things like this. Never lets the cracks show. But tonight, he does. And the ache that claws at my chest isn’t only mine anymore.

I sit up straighter against his side, the words scraping out before I can second-guess them. “I… did something for you.”

One molten eye rolls toward me, slow and amused. “Ominous.”

I clear my throat, scratch harder at the seam in his scales like I’m just idly busying my hands. “It’s nothing, just… I worked with Professor Kaori. Dragonkind lectures. Catalogued every scrap of your battle record, every archive entry I could pry loose. Cross-referenced them with firsthand rider accounts. We—” I falter, heat rising in my neck. “We put your name in the text.”

Silence. Then, a soft rumble: “You wrote me into your little scrolls?”

“It’s not little,” I snap, more defensive than I mean. “It’ll outlast us. Outlast me. Students will study it you. They’ll learn your flame ratios, your flight records, how your current bends and surges differently than any other red on record. They’ll know Cath, not just ‘a red.’ You’ll be… permanent. In Basgiath’s bones. In their heads.”

His wing shifts, massive and deliberate, folding down until the edge brushes over me. Heavy as a blanket, warm as a hearth. He presses me gently into the crook where chest meets shoulder, as though tucking me away. “You insufferable little scribe.”

I huff out a broken laugh, trying to hide how my throat burns. “And you love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he corrects, though the rumble beneath me is almost… fond. The wing-tip drags once down my back, slow, steadying. “Like a dragon sometimes tolerates his hatchling chewing his own claws.”

Something in me cracks at that. My vision blurs, and I bow my head before he can see. It’s too much. Being tucked in, being seen, being called hatchling.

“I don’t…” The words scrape out, jagged, but I can’t stop them. “I don’t know what to do with that. With you. Because everyone else—everyone close either dies or leaves. Or just…” My voice thins. “Wants nothing to do with me.”

Cath doesn’t move. Doesn’t prod. Just breathes, the rise and fall of his chest grounding me.

“My father didn’t even yell,” I whisper. “Didn’t rage. Didn’t raise a hand like he used to when I was a boy. He just announced it. Disowned. Final. Cold. Like even my failure wasn’t worth the effort of anger.” My throat closes, the shame burning through. “I’d braced for it. For the fists. For the ache. But nothing came. And it—it disappointed me.”

A deep, sharp rumble shakes through his chest, vibrating under my palms. “You are vulnerable, so I will let this slide. But do not ever imply you would let that wrinkly old bastard put his hands on you again.” His voice is steel over fire, dangerous enough to make the air shiver. “Not in memory, not in truth. Not while you are mine.”

The tears start slow, one slipping free, hot against my cheek. Then another. And with them, all the absences tumble in—my mother, gone before I ever drew breath. Branick’s laugh cut off mid-fall, Marcus’s body broken, Talia burning herself hollow. Amber’s eyes when she still believed the Codex was salvation. Sloane’s grief still bleeding raw for Liam, and me being the reason she carries it. Asher’s steady hand on my shoulder, teaching me the words of a language I never wanted to forget. Violet herself, a thousand leagues away from me in every way that matters.

Every loss presses in until I’m drowning under it.

Cath lowers the edge of his wing, careful, and wipes the wetness from my face with the soft curve of the membrane. A gesture so absurdly gentle it rips me open.

For a long while, he says nothing. Then his voice rumbles low, threaded with smoke and something older than comfort. “Walls are not meant to be flawless, Bastion. A wall with no cracks cannot breathe, cannot bear the weight it holds. It shatters at the first true storm. But a wall with fissures, with scars—it bends, it endures.”

I choke on a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, pressing my forehead against the heated scales of his chest.

“You grieve because you loved,” he goes on, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “And though the world made a habit of taking, that does not mean it was wrong to give. Love does not dilute, Bastion. It multiplies.”

My chest shakes, wet against his scales, and the thought claws sharp before I can stop it. But what if it isn’t enough? What if love only breaks you? What if it doesn’t matter unless it’s unconditional? What’s the point if it always ends with me left alone?

“Of course it matters,” Cath rumbles instantly, unimpressed, as if my grief were just another naive question in lecture hall. “Your squad willing to die for you, be it out of duty or principle, is not for nothing. Bonds forged in blood and trial are no less real because they end. If anything, they are sharper for it.”

I try to bury myself in silence again, but his voice cuts sharper, deliberate. “Very well. I have something to tell you. But you must not let this leave the two of us. No one. Not even your favored.”

I blink hard, sitting back a little. “Why? She doesn’t even—”

“She cares about your well-being at least half as much as you care about hers,” he interrupts, blunt as a blade. “Which is already saying a great deal.”

My chest twists. “No. She doesn’t. She shouldn’t. I don’t—” My throat locks. “I don’t matter to Sloane Mairi’s life. Not after what I stole from her.”

Cath exhales, a plume of heat curling up my arm. “You underestimate her. She makes her own dragon—Thòirtdara, that gilded menace—hound me with questions about you. Over and over, until I answer. Especially after she siphons. ‘How much did he strain this time?’ ‘Is he recovering?’ ‘Is he sleeping, or pacing like the martyr he insists on being?’

I freeze, words stuck.

My voice comes out rough from my mouth instead of through our bond. “Then why doesn’t she just ask me?”

The dragon’s laugh is a low, thunderous roll, shaking the ground beneath me. “Because you two are the same and opposite all at once. You build walls out of your differences and then pretend they’re unscalable. You would lie and say you are fine even if you are split in half. And her pride will not allow her to hover and fret like you do for her.”

Heat rushes my face. “I don’t hover.”

His wingtip flicks against my back like a scoff. “Bastion, you fuss over her with all the grace of a mother hen with a limp. Do not insult my intelligence.”

I shift against his chest, the scrape of scales grounding me, half in denial, half in belief. The idea of Mairi—Sloane—caring enough to send her dragon as an errand-runner gnaws at me like hope I shouldn’t have. My gut says it’s absurd. My heart says it’s possible. And I can’t decide which would hurt more.

Cath’s voice rumbles with all the severity of an ancient court judge. “This stays between us. Thòirtdara made me promise. I will not be the one to break it.”

I blink up at him, disbelieving. “Wait—you’re actually scared of her? She’s half your size and half your age.”

His eye narrows, molten gold glinting. “Do not mistake restraint for fear, Bastion. The new generation of reds carry the same temper, but tongues like blades. Thòirtdara in particular—” He exhales a long plume of smoke, like even saying the name gives him indigestion. “She insults with the precision of a tailor’s shears.”

I choke on a laugh.

“Last week she told me my wing posture was provincial,” he mutters, scandalized. “Provincial, Bastion. In front of two other reds. As if I were some hatchling too dull to stretch properly.”

That does it. I double over, laughter tearing out of me until my sides ache, clutching at the hot ridges of his scales. The tears come again, but this time they slip free on a laugh, not a sob.

Cath exhales, a plume of warmth curling up my arm, almost indulgent. “There. Less miserable. Finally.”

I lean into him, letting the laughter taper into silence. My chest feels raw, scraped clean, but lighter. For the first time in too long, I don’t feel entirely hollow.

Chapter Text

“Healers are to distinguish between physical injury and magical depletion. The former is visible. The latter is hidden, but no less lethal. Accurate assessment requires attention to signs often overlooked: pulse, breath, and coherence of thought.”
— Collected Notes from the Healer’s Collegium of Navarre (fragment, c. 608 AU)

DAIN

Sloane.

The name burns sharper than any blade. I’ve called her Mairi for so long. Formality, distance, that neat little wall I built to keep her where she belonged. Across the line. Out of reach. But ever since Cath let it slip, her sending Thòirtdara to pester him with questions about me, it refuses to stay buried.

Sloane.

Not Cadet Mairi. Not “the siphon.” Just her.

My blade rasps against the whetstone, sparks catching in the low light. I drag the edge again, steady, precise, the way Brennan taught me: small circles, controlled pressure, always angled, never rushed. Routine is supposed to quiet me. Today it doesn’t.

Because I feel like a boy again, not a Wingleader. A fool flushed warm over the thought of a girl who spits barbs at me in public caring enough to ask after my well-being.

Caring about me.

The Codex should have an article against this particular brand of idiocy. Article 47: No rider shall indulge in delusions when the girl in question clearly intends to gut him alive at her earliest convenience.

And yet, Cath’s words cling. She cares at least half as much as you care about her. Half of my care is still far too much.

I check the blade’s edge against my thumb, the steel biting clean. Sharp. Ready. Like the world finally turning in my favor for once. The Senarium passed the Poromish trade deal yesterday. Not generous, but enough. Supply lines stop choking, my integration tables stop bleeding, Cat stops threatening to bite a duke. For the first time in months, I can almost breathe.

And still I sit here, grinning like an idiot at a whetstone because a storm-tongued girl with a braid and a temper thought to ask if I was sleeping.

I mutter under my breath, half to the steel, half to myself, “Pathetic, Aetos.”

In my head, Cath’s voice rumbles like stone dragged across stone. "Pathetic would be sharper than what you are. You are… smitten."

I grit my teeth, drag the blade harder across the stone. “Don’t use that word.”

"Shall I use another? Besotted? Infatuated? Addled in the head?"

“Fine.” His voice lowers, no longer playful. "I will use the one that matters: vulnerable."

The word bites deeper than I want to admit. “And you hate that.”

"I do not hate it. I calculate it." Smoke curls through my skull, heavy and deliberate. "Affection makes you tethered. Tethers make you sharp. I want you sharp, Bastion. Sharp enough to carve through Venin lines. Sharp enough to command riders and fliers alike."

I set the dagger down a little too hard. “Gods, Cath. Can’t I just—can’t I just breathe for once?”

"You can breathe when you are finished." His tone is iron. "Let her temper keep you alive. But do not mistake survival for triumph. I am forging you into more than a soldier. More than a son who failed his father. You will be the Bastion of this realm. The fulcrum on which kingdoms balance."

Because of course my dragon talks like a tyrant-poet in the middle of the morning, laying out destiny like he’s dictating an epic. I have learnt the art of ignoring him especially when my eyes haven’t even adjusted to the brightness. The meeting bell will sound any minute.

Cath exhales, smoke curling through the bond like a push between my shoulder blades. "Now go. You cannot be a fulcrum if you show up late to your Wingleader council. Even the balance of kingdoms begins with punctuality."

A short, humorless laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. “You sound like Carr.”

"Carr sounds like me," he corrects, smug as a mountain that’s seen empires rise and crumble.

I shake my head, snatch up the dagger, and shove it into its sheath.

By the time I stride into the council chamber, I’m still grinning like a cadet who’s tasted first victory. Iris is already there, draped sideways in her chair like boredom turned into a person. Tibbot counts on his fingers under his breath. Eleni walks in with me.

Iris tilts her head at me. “You don’t look like doom today,” she drawls. “Is it catching, should we isolate you?”

I straighten before sitting down. “Trade went through. It helps.”

The bell chimes, and Eleni raps her knuckles on the table. “Command has ordered a mandatory healers seminar. Two full days. Rotations by Wing. Battlefield triage, sutures, healing drills.”

Finally. Leadership showing intent. I nod once, measured. “About time.”

Tibbot flips the top sheet of the packet Eleni passes him. “We’re to rotate through lectures and practicals. Each Wing leads one portion. And the healers…” He trails, scanning the roster. “Mixed. Basgiath staff, Aretian field surgeons, and…”

I draw the packet toward me, eyes running the list in tidy columns. First name, expected. Second, respected. Third—

SECOND LIEUTENANT GARRAN VEY

The hinge in my jaw goes tight enough to crack tooth. I keep reading because if I stop, I will do something stupid. The fourth name swims. The fifth might as well be a smear of ink. Somewhere in the middle of the page my hand has already closed into a fist on the table.

Iris’s voice cuts in, curious. “Problem?”

I force my throat to work. “What is the scope of contact protocols?” My voice lands even. “I want boundaries codified. Two-person verification for after-hours interventions. No lone healers lingering in cadet corridors. Chaperone rule in enclosed spaces. I want eyes in the room.”

Eleni’s mouth almost approves. “Sensible.”

Tibbot taps the roster. “At least Command is sending field healers. The cadets could use real practice.”

“Field or not,” I say, too quiet, too precise, “they’ll be supervised.”

Eleni arches a brow. “Naturally. Did you expect otherwise?”

“Some healers… get too casual,” I answer, tone still neutral, though my knuckles press faintly into the wood. “Boundaries matter.”

Iris leans forward, grin sharp. “You’re making it sound very interesting. This about a cadet?”

“Cadets,” I correct, even as something in me refuses to pluralize Sloane. “And no. I want standards.”

The meeting moves on. Rotations. Drills. Assignments. Tibbot is droning about my patrol grids and I couldn’t give a single fuck. My eyes keep dragging back to the list, to the neat black letters of Garran Vey’s name.

Supposedly competent. The one who thought pressing churam into her mouth was medicine enough. Who touched her waist like he had any right.

The bell rings and Eleni closes her packet with a decisive snap. “Two-day course begins at dawn. We’ll post attendance requirements by Wing tonight.”

“I’ll brief Fourth,” I say, already standing.

Fourth Wing is mid-rotation, drills in full swing. The clatter of weapons, the dull thuds of bodies hitting ground, the occasional crackle of controlled magic.

I track motion across the line with my arms crossed and weight settled into my heels. A flier named Cleary adjusts his footwork just in time to deflect a strike from Cianna’s practice blade. Good. Six weeks ago he would’ve eaten that hit.

“Eyes forward,” I call out, and three pairs of heads jerk toward me. “You’re not dancing, you’re alive because you’re paying attention. Keep it that way.”

They adjust. Not perfectly, but better.

Behind them, Cat corrects a first year cadet’s grip on his blade without condescension. Another quiet win. I made her lead sparring drills for the bottom quartile this month, rotating through different combat styles. She complained, of course. But now the results show in every blow.

Tibbot once told me leadership was about managing risk. I think he’s wrong.

Leadership is about noticing. Noticing which cadets burn out under pressure. Which ones freeze. Which ones need to be challenged and which ones need to be reminded they belong. You can’t command people you don’t bother to understand.

I look closely at Rhiannon’s squad cutting clean arcs across the training ring. Imogen ducks a bolt from Ridoc, then counters with an elegant twist of her blade. Violet of course already accounted for every angle, drags her opponent off-balance with a well-timed kick.

Rhiannon is not the flashiest. Not the fastest. But she doesn’t need to be. Her voice cuts through the mess when Ridoc veers too far left. Her position adjusts three steps ahead, not just to land her strike, but to guide the next two that follow. She leads like a conductor.

I scribble a note on the back of my sheet.

Rhiannon Matthias — Wingleader candidate. Formal recommendation pending.

She’ll hate that it’s coming from me. I don’t mind.

Violet’s new best friend was always going to keep her guard up around me especially after everything. It’s not personal. And hell, if the roles were reversed, I’d have done the same. Back when Violet still smiled at me with her whole face, I always stood like a stubborn wall between her and anyone who didn’t earn it. When she started sneaking off with Halden, I asked him to spar for “diplomatic bonding purposes” and disarmed him in front of two Navarrian captains and a very judgmental stable hand.

Violet used to do the same for me. Back when Alanna Melgren kept circling like a vulture with good hair and a sharp smile, Violet practically growled every time she showed up to swim with us.

So no, I don’t blame Rhiannon for looking at me like I’m the reason Violet learned not to trust people. If anything, it makes me like her more.

My eyes track her as she strides down the line of first-years, posture crisp, her voice pitched to cut through chatter. Sloane, Baylor, Avalynn, Kai, Lynx. And the empty space where Aaric should be. The absence gnaws, louder than anyone will admit.

Sloane’s hand presses steady against Baylor’s wrist, her other on Avalynn’s forearm. The gold current of magic runs straight through her, Avalynn to Baylor.

Something’s off. Not wrong exactly, her control’s flawless, but it is taking longer than usual. The tempo is strange. Avalynn’s magic shudders through her like it’s catching on hidden seams before settling into Baylor’s body. Clean enough to pass, but jagged underneath.

Avalynn’s breath hitches. “Am I doing something to complicate it?”

“You’re not,” Sloane cuts in, quick and clipped. Her grip on Baylor tightens. “It’s moving. See? He’s steady. Just keep your focus here.”

The mutter comes sharp, low, from somewhere in the knot of Second Wing cadets watching, clearly unaware I am behind them. “Basgiath’s become a joke. Training traitors and Venin alike.”

Every head turns. Rhiannon’s, sharp as a strike. Sloane’s, braids snapping as she pivots, blue eyes icy enough to freeze bones.

I step forward once, boots striking stone. The sound carries. Stillness falls like a blade through silk.

My voice cuts colder than the air. “Name. Wing. Now.”

The cadet jolts, pale already. “S-second wing Cadet Marlen….sir”

“Cadet Marlen.” My tone sharpens, every syllable deliberate. “Repeat what you just said. Louder this time. Let the entire Wing hear it.”

His throat works. Silence.

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “That wasn’t a request.”

His mouth trembles open, but no words come.

“That’s what I thought. You will report to my office after drills. You will copy the Codex passages on cohesion and loyalty. And you will deliver that copy, in person, to Cadet Mairi. With an apology written in ink.”

I let the pause stretch, deliberate. “What you just performed was not discipline. It was not critique. It was dereliction of conduct. Disrespect. And weakness. Do you understand that, Cadet Marlen?”

The boy’s face goes crimson. A few cadets shift, uncomfortable. No one speaks.

“Yes, Wingleader!” His voice cracks, sharp with panic.

“Good.” I pivot back toward the squad, posture iron. “Resume.”

I turn back, deliberate, dismissing him with my silence. Rhiannon’s gaze flicks to me, unreadable but edged with something like approval. Sloane’s eyes are bright, sharp, glittering like she could carve me open with a look.

“Fourth Wing.” Heads whip toward me. Conversations die.

“Eyes up.”

I pace slow across the stone, letting the echo of my boots mark the rhythm. “Leadership has ordered a mandatory healer’s seminar. Two days. Intensive. Attendance required by all, regardless of year or rank. You will report at dawn. No excuses, no delays.”

A few whispers dart through the crowd. I cut them off with a look. “You’ve all had your basic training. But that isn’t enough anymore. Command has decided you will go further. You will learn to keep each other alive beyond the first moments. To work alongside our healers, not just wait for them.”

I let my gaze rake across them, deliberate. “Battle doesn’t wait for specialists. And neither will we. Dismissed.”

Boots scuff stone, cadets peeling away toward mess or barracks. That’s when Cat sidles up, arms folded, expression carefully neutral.

“Wingleader.”

“Catriona.” I nod back. “Something you need?”

“Yes. Two things, actually.” Her voice is clipped, precise. “One: I require two days leave. The Poromish trade deal went through, and Uncle Tecarus and my sister have summoned me back to court.”

Tecarus. King of Poromiel. Syrena, heir to the throne. If both are calling for Cat, it isn’t ceremonial, it’s political.

“For what purpose?” I ask, careful.

“Reviewing the trade deal Navarre just pushed through,” she answers, almost too steady to not be suspicious. “The Poromish Senate thinks the deal isn’t fair and that we’re conceding to Navarre. Apparently my face is useful when the Senate needs reminding what loyalty looks like.”

“Two days?”

“Yes. And before you remind me of the seminar, I’m well aware. I’ll make up the drills afterward.” She lifts her chin, daring me to argue. “Second request: I need Maren excused as well.”

My brow rises. “And why exactly should I excuse Maren?”

Her smile is sharp and unbothered. “Because I asked.” A pause, just long enough to needle. “And because you want your fliers happy, don’t you? A little thank you since you dumped sparring duty on me?”

My jaw ticks. “I didn’t ‘dump’ anything. I assigned you to lead bottom quartile drills. As a strategy. It gives them structure, and it gives you practice.”

Her lips twitch. “You mean it gives me the delinquents.”

I narrow my eyes. “Not the word I told you.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Fine. The… underperformers.”

“Better,” I mutter.

It works out well. Half the yard shows up just to see what it looks like when a Poromish princess berates them, and the other half shows up mortified they need remedial training from a Poromish princess in the first place. And Cat is an excellent leader when she wants to be.

Her smile sharpens, victorious without saying the word. “So. Two days. With Maren.”

I exhale hard through my nose, already knowing I’ll cave. “Fine. Two days. But if either of you come back soft, I’ll put you through double rotations until you’re vomiting over the training yard.”

Her smirk tilts higher. “That’s the Aetos I know.”

And then she’s gone, braid swinging, off to find Maren before I can rethink it. I rub my temples, muttering, “Insufferable.”

Speaking of insufferable—

Sloane cuts through the dispersing crowd like a knife through silk, not stopping until she’s standing too close.

“Well,” she says lightly, “that was quite theatrical of you. Dressing down Cadet Shadows-for-Brains like that.”

I arch a brow. “You’d rather I let him get away with it?”

Her grin is a slow, dangerous curl. “No. I’d rather you’d let me break his jaw. Would’ve been faster.”

“Your knuckles don’t need to split for fools who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

Her grin sharpens, teeth catching the light. “Oh, so now you’re protecting my hands? How gallant.”

My jaw ticks. “I’m protecting my Wing from needless chaos. And you’ll thank me when your hands don’t sting gripping a blade tomorrow.”

Her laugh is low, sharp enough to scrape. “Please. My hands have survived worse than a cadet’s jaw.”

Silence stretches a beat before she tilts her head. “What I actually want to know is the real purpose of this seminar? An intensive healers’ course sounds well enough, but… will there be evaluations?”

The word hooks under my ribs. “Evaluations?”

She shrugs, casual as a cat stretching, braid sliding forward over her shoulder. “Body tests. Vitals. You know. Are they going to let others… test my body?” Her voice dips on the word, deliberate, bait dangled sharp as a hook.

Every nerve in me snaps taut. She’s not just being bratty. She’s worried. And if she’s worried, it isn’t because of drills. It’s because she’s running churam again. Dunne damn me, how is she even getting it inside Basgiath? Beyond the wards, past inspections, unless someone’s risking more than coin for her.

I step forward trying to sound normal about this. “Mairi… just think about what you’re going to admit to your Wingleader.”

Her smirk falters before she rallies, chin lifting. “Well, fuck it then.” She pivots, braids snapping like a banner, already turning to leave.

“Wait.”

The word lashes out of me harder than I intend. She stops, glances back over her shoulder with that look. The one that says she knows exactly how much of my restraint she’s playing with.

I close the distance by a pace, not touching, but near enough she can feel my intent. “If you’re running churam through your veins, you need to tell me. Now.”

She gives me the most bored look of her life. “Or what? You’ll make me copy passages of the Codex like Marlen?” Her voice drops, wicked and deliberate. “Or better yet, make me recite it on my knees?”

I grit my teeth, jaw locking against every image that phrase uncoils. Her kneeling in front of me, lips shaping doctrine while my hand knots in her braids to keep her steady.

My voice drags out of me like gravel. “You enjoy this? Having me chase you every gods-damned time you’re spiraling?”

Her grin flickers. For the first time, something sharper cuts through. She straightens, eyes flashing cold and too honest.

“No. I don’t enjoy it.” Her voice drops low, flat as steel. “You don’t have to be an asshole all the time, Aetos. You demand obedience, and then you wonder why I don’t come to you when it matters.”

The words land harder than any blade. My chest tightens. I hadn’t meant to snarl it at her like that, hadn’t meant to wield command where I should’ve given her support.

I let out a breath, softer than it should be. “You’re right.” I force the edge off my voice, make it steady, careful. “I shouldn’t have snapped. So fine. Tell me. Let me know how I can help you.”

A long moment passes before she finally says, quieter now, “Can you meet me somewhere else?” Not a barb. Just a request.

“Where?”

Her chin lifts, cautious but steady. “My quarters.”

The words drop like a blade between us. Not the archives. Not neutral ground. Her bedroom.

“Tonight,” she adds quickly, before I can answer. Her eyes dart, sharp but uneasy. “After drills.”

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “Mairi—”

Her eyes flash, a warning, then soften in the same breath. “Please.”

The sound of it rips through me like a strike to the ribs. The part of her she doesn’t hand to anyone. The part that makes me want to shield her from every damn thing in the world.

My throat works once before I manage the only answer I can give. “Okay.”

Cath’s voice coils through the bond as I make my way down the dim corridor. "You are rehearsing. Again."

“I’m not.”

"You are. You sound like a cadet drilling for recitation."

My jaw tightens. He’s not wrong. I am reciting lines from Wingleader training, the script they drilled into us about handling dependencies. Acknowledge the pressure. Validate the feeling. Redirect to safer outlets. Never scold. Never let them think desperation makes them weak.

What the lectures never covered was walking into the bedroom of the girl you can’t stop thinking about.

I feel the low curl of amusement building in Cath again, and before he can dig deeper, I shove my shields up tight.

This isn’t a good idea obviously. But I wasn’t going to say no when Sloane Mairi of all people asked for something instead of spitting words like a curse. Not when she said please.

Her corridor is quieter than the rest, lined with closed doors and the muffled sounds of cadets winding down. I stop. Exhale once. Then lift my hand and knock.

The door cracks open and before I can say a word, she snags my hand and yanks me through like I’m late for my own execution.

“Gods, Mairi.” I stumble a step, wards sparking faint over my shoulders as the door seals behind us. “Is this your idea of subtle?”

Her grin flashes, quick and dangerous. “What, worried someone will think Wingleader Aetos is slumming it with the first years?”

I scowl as I regain my balance. “I’m worried someone will think I can’t control my own cadets when one of them drags me around like a wayward pup.”

I finally notice her loose hair wild around her shoulders, a pale-blue pajama set clinging soft to her frame. Matching. The kind of thing no sane cadet drags across the parapet.

Her chin tips high, daring. “Bought them in Aretia,” she says like it’s nothing. “Thoirt insisted. Figured I should own at least one civilized thing.”

Civilized. My jaw tightens. Because all I can think is how easily I could peel those buttons open, how quick she’d glare at me while I made her stand still and take it. Fuck, the Wingleader training manual is not going to help me.

She sweeps an arm at the disaster that is her room. “Welcome to my empire. Don’t touch anything, it’s organized chaos.”

“Organized,” I echo dryly, taking in the avalanche of papers, half-broken trinkets, a feather jammed into the corner of her mirror. “If by organized you mean ‘crime scene.’”

She shrugs, hair loose and wild around her shoulders, smirk curling. “Better than the monastery you live in. Bet you line your boots up by the inch.”

“Half-inch,” I mutter, just to watch her roll her eyes.

It’s the chest by her bed that catches my eye first, lid cracked, spines of books in a crooked pile. I crouch before she can block me, fingers brushing one of the books.

“I thought you,” I say, glancing back at her, “didn’t read much.”

She leans against the desk, arms folded, eyes glittering. “Those?” She nods at the chest. “Trophies. Proof I can hoard knowledge like the rest of you book-worshippers, even if I never crack half of them open. Looks impressive when people peek in, doesn’t it?”

The grin’s there, sharp as always, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And I know her well enough by now to see it. The flicker of something brittle under the joke. I file it away, because pressing now would only make her bolt.

My gaze catches on the wall opposite her bed.

And I stop.

“By Hedeon’s grace…”

It’s a chalkboard. A massive one. Definitely stolen from a classroom, propped crooked against the stone wall, crammed with half-scribbled runes, notes I don’t understand and a list of cadets’ names I pray isn’t her enemies list.

“Tell me you didn’t—”

Her grin widens, feral. “Steal it? Absolutely. Technically, Aaric and Baylor did the stealing for me. I just supervised. Worth it.”

“Worth—” I bite off the rest, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You realize that’s not only contraband, but probably the reason half the instructors think you’re plotting to collapse Basgiath itself.”

She tilts her head, hair spilling forward like wildfire. “What are they going to do, court-martial me for excessive studying?”

I drop my hand from my face, ready to snap back, when I actually look at her notes on the board.

Detailed diagrams of siphoning channels, notes crammed into the margins, lines of translation I recognize from Naolin’s sealed fragments.

“You’re—” I stop, frowning harder. “You’re working on siphon theory.”

“Not working.” She flicks chalk dust off her fingers, eyes gleaming. “Expanding.”

I step closer, scanning the mess of circles and arrows. None of it fits together in my head. “I thought Carr said you should be…” I gesture vaguely at the board. “…cataloguing like everyone else.”

She smirks. “And you’re supposed to be frowning your way through assignments instead of creeping into cadets’ quarters. Guess we’re both failing spectacularly.”

My jaw tightens, but before I can fire back, she lifts the chalk and underlines a section near the center. “This. Naolin’s baseline notes. And here—” she scrawls a line beneath her own additions, “—my extensions. I started keeping track after Carr’s drills. Noticed something.”

I fold my arms, trying to look like I’m following. “Which is?”

“The difference between siphoning from you and from others.”

My throat dries instantly. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“With you, it’s—” she cuts herself off, hand jerking in the air like she can catch the word and pin it down. “It’s clean. No knots, no static. I can draw before it bites. Before it burns. With Baylor, Avalynn, Ridoc, it’s like pulling through tangles of rope. Every thread fighting me, catching on itself. Takes time. Risk. But you—” she jabs the chalk at my chest, eyes too bright, “you’re already aligned.”

I blink. “Aligned.”

She huffs, impatient. “Don’t look at me like I’m speaking gibberish. I realized it’s about hinge points. The exact place where raw magic turns into someone’s signet. With you, I can slip in before the hinge locks. Everything’s fluid, malleable, easy. With them? I’m shut out until after, when it’s already crystallized. And then it’s messier. Rough. Inefficient. Wasteful.”

I lift both hands, palms out. “Mairi, I’m not following you. Like at all.”

Her words tumble faster now, chalk scraping lines across the board, circles and arrows stacking over one another. “Just stick with me… That’s why when I siphon from you it doesn’t leave us drained. Because I’m not clawing through the hardened part, I’m meeting the magical current while it’s still moving. Living. Pure.”

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that you can tell the difference between… before and after raw magic becomes someone’s signet?”

Her grin flashes, sharp enough to be a challenge. “Yes, Aetos. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Gods, I thought I was coming here to drag a confession about churam out of her. Now I’m staring at a stolen chalkboard covered in siphon theory that sounds like it could rewrite half of Basgiath’s understanding of magical current.

And of course she’s looking at me like it’s obvious.

“I never thought of it like that,” I admit slowly, eyes dragging over the chalkboard. “The… transformation. The hinge point. Do they talk about it in any texts?”

She shakes her head, braid swinging loose against her shoulder. “No. Only siphons can feel it. We’re the only ones who touch magic this way. Naolin wrote fragments, but they’re scattered. Sealed. It aligns with Carr’s signet physiology lecture if you think about it.”

I scrub a hand over my stubble. “I don’t understand.”

Her frown sharpens instantly. “Maybe you’re just a bad student.”

My jaw clicks. “Excuse me?”

She jabs the chalk at me. “I helped our entire squad with rune derivations.”

I can’t help my snort. “Helped? You stood on a desk, yelled ‘runes don’t need to be memorized, dumbasses, you can derive them,’ and then walked out.”

Her mouth twists. “And I was right. I am sick of runes getting a—” she lifts her fingers into exaggerated air quotes, “ ‘so difficult’ reputation because people are too busy trying to memorize and replicate instead of working through the derivations themselves and producing the shapes based on the measurements. It’s a little bit of arithmetic then applied geometry, not some divine mystery.”

I let her rant, watching the sparks fly off her like flint. Her voice rises, hands slicing the air as if she could carve sense into the walls themselves. She’s chaos. Glorious, infuriating, mesmerizing chaos.

“Okay.” I finally cut in, soft but firm enough to angle her fire back to me. “Clever girl. Explain it to me. Slower this time. In full sentences.”

She stops. Just for a second. Then color blooms high across her cheekbones, faint but there. Rosy against pale skin. Her tell.

My chest tightens with the urge to say something. To tease. To soften. But I never do. It feels cruel to point it out when she’s already fighting her body as much as the world. Yet selfishly, it’s my favorite sight.

“Fine,” she mutters, flipping chalk between her fingers. “But only because you asked nicely.”

She turns back to the board, dragging a steady line down the middle. On one side she scrawls a jagged knot, on the other, a smooth curve.

“Think of magic like water,” she says, slower now, clipped but careful. “Before it becomes a signet, it’s still fluid. Moving. I can dip my hand in and scoop it, redirect it, drink it. That’s what it feels like with you.”

She taps the smooth curve with her chalk.

“But once it hardens into a signet? Fire, ice, farsight—it crystallizes into shape. Like water turning to ice. And when I try to siphon, I’m scraping along the edges of the frozen thing, trying to melt it back down enough to use. That’s what makes it rougher, slower. More dangerous.”

I follow the chalk lines, my brows knitting. It’s the first time her mess of symbols has looked like anything more than chaos. “So when you pull from me, you can use pure power as it is. But with others…” My gaze flicks to the jagged knot. “It’s like their signet hits you first. Fire, ice, whatever. You’re siphoning through the filter instead of the source.”

Her head snaps toward me, blue eyes flashing with quicksilver approval. “Yes. Good. That. Exactly.”

I lean back against the stone wall, arms folding, eyes still on the jagged knot she’s drawn. “So why do you think that is?”

Her mouth presses thin. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Because I can’t be strapped next to you in every battle.” She tosses the chalk down, pacing in a tight line before the board. “If I can’t pull fast and clean from everyone else, people die. It won’t matter how steady you are if the next poor bastard knots me up so badly I burn out before I can finish.”

The words hit heavier than she probably means them to. My stomach knots, but I keep my voice level. “So you’re saying I’m the exception. With everyone else the drain is slower. Messier.”

Her jaw works. “Not everyone.”

Something sharp flickers in her eyes, and I know before she says it.

“Violet,” she admits. “When I pulled from her for the wards… even between all the panic, it was similar. Not as clean as you, but close. Like slipping under the surface instead of tearing through stone.”

I absorb that, frown digging deeper. “So you think it’s just… control? You know me and Violet both train harder than most. We keep our bodies and our signets in sync. Less friction, maybe.”

“Could be.” She stops pacing, bracing her hands against the desk, blue eyes cutting into me. “But somehow I doubt that. I siphoned from Lilith Sorrengail herself.” Her chin tilts towards me. “Are you arrogant enough to think you’re better than her?”

I blink at her, deadpan. “I’m not suicidal enough to answer that question.”

For the first time all night, her mouth twitches like I’ve amused her. Brief. Sharp. Gone before I can enjoy it.

“Fine,” I press, leaning against the desk. “So what’s different in the way you deal with our magics?”

She rolls the chalk between her fingers, gaze flicking back to the board. “With others, I need to take more of their power inside me before I can untangle it. Some of it gets wasted. Some of it I can’t even reach. So my body strains more. Their body strains more. Everyone walks away bleeding at the edges.”

I hum low, trying to piece it together. “And how does churam come into play here?” I toss it like a joke, a barb just to needle her.

She stills.

Not a twitch. Not a smirk. Just stillness, sharp as a blade.

My gut drops. “Oh, no.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, something raw flashing quick before she masks it. “You really want to know?”

I fold my arms. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Her jaw sets, but she answers anyway. “Churam dulls the strain. When it’s in my system, I can push past the crystallized part of their magic longer. It stretches the window. Buys me time. Less burn, less waste.” She huffs, sharp and bitter. “Until it wears off. And then it’s worse.”

My fists curl against my arms. “Churam isn’t making you better, Mairi. It’s drugging your brain into thinking you can take more. Do more. It dulls the alarms so you’ll keep pushing until something breaks.”

Her eyes flash, sharp as cut glass. “That’s not—”

“It is.” My voice cuts over hers. “It’s false precision. Borrowed control. A crutch dressed like a weapon.”

Her jaw tightens. “So what, you think I’m chasing shortcuts? That I can’t stand the thought of being less—”

“Yes,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Because it sounds a lot like pride. Like you’d rather tear your body apart than admit you’re not already better than everyone else in the room.”

Her face flares hot, the hurt flashing quick before she buries it under fury. “How can you even say that?”

“Because I’ve watched you,” I bite back. “Every time you’re bleeding, every time you’re gasping, you’d rather choke than admit you need someone else. You’d rather claw yourself open than ask.”

Her chin snaps up, eyes like ice. “So what? You think you’ve got me figured out? That you’re the one person alive who can just read me?”

“I don’t need to read you,” I growl. “I see it plain as the cut on your hand. And you keep pretending if you spit enough venom, no one will notice the bone underneath.”

Her laugh comes out sharp, brittle. “Fine. If you don’t trust me, then I’ll take it to someone who might let me continue learning about myself. Carr, maybe”

The words land like a blade sliding between my ribs. “Like fuck you will.” My voice lashes out, hard enough the air between us trembles.

She blinks at me, startled for a breath before her mouth twists. “Excuse me?”

I lean forward, voice dropping low and lethal. “Do you realize what you’re saying? That you want to keep experimenting with stretching your body’s capacity until you can cradle an entire rider’s magical current. Do you know what that looks like to them? Draining someone hollow. Rendering them lifeless. Rendering yourself lifeless too.”

And suddenly I see Talia, her skin blistered, smoke rising off her as she burned herself out amplifying the squad one time too many. Her body couldn’t stop taking until there was nothing left. I hear Brennan’s rasp when he told me what Naolin had done.

Her breath hitches, sharp, ragged. Then she’s shouting: “You know that’s not what I want!”

“Yeah,” I grind out, every word dragged raw from my chest. “I do. But you’re reckless enough to not think about protecting yourself. Reckless enough not to let anyone in. To not let me in.”

Her fists clench at her sides, voice shaking with heat. “Because you don’t help, Aetos. You only lecture. You only condescend!”

And gods, it hits like déjà vu. Violet’s voice in my head, saying the same, spitting the same. Me trying to wrap her in safety because I couldn’t stand watching her bleed herself hollow. And I lost her anyway.

The fight drains out of me in a rush, leaving only the ache. My throat works. “That’s not what I want.” My voice drops, quieter now. “I don’t want to strip you down. I’m trying to get you to just take a step back and consider self-preservation.”

Her chest heaves, hair wild around her face, eyes too bright. For half a heartbeat, I think she’ll crack. But then her chin tips high again, the wall snapping back into place.

“Get out.” Her voice is cold steel. “I’ll see you at the healers’ seminar.”

I step forward anyway, stupid, desperate. “Sloane—”

Her hand snaps up, palm flat like she could push me back with sheer will. “I said out.”

The word lands harder than a blow.

For a moment I just stand there, fists flexing uselessly at my sides, every instinct screaming not to leave her like this. But the stubborn set of her jaw says I’ll only drive the blade deeper if I stay.

I nod once, clipped and rough. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

The wards hum against my shoulders as I step back into the corridor, the door shutting sharp behind me.

The training hall doesn’t look like itself. No sparring mats, no flight harness racks, just rows of long tables lined with crates, bundles of bandages and glass vials gleaming faintly. Chalk diagrams of muscle groups and circulatory lines scrawl across the walls, the work of some over-enthusiastic scribe.

I take my place, packet in hand, posture steady. Inside, I’m still burning from last night. Sloane’s voice etched sharp under my ribs.

The instructors clear their throats, announce the schedule: two days of intensive healer drills. Wingleaders are to join squads to participate in the exercises.

The moment the words leave his mouth, I step forward. “I’ll take Rhiannon’s squad.”

A few brows lift, but I keep my tone even, clipped. “I led them last year. Easier transition.”

It’s not a lie. It’s the same reason I gave when we were assigned squads for runes training in Aretia. But I won’t pretend otherwise—the reason was Sloane then, and it’s Sloane now.

The instructors start pairing other Wingleaders with squads. The hall shifts into motion, cadets buzzing, scraping chairs across stone. And then—

“Morning, cadets.”

Second Lieutenant Garran Vey strolls in like he owns the place. Uniform half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, healer’s satchel slung careless over one shoulder. Armed with that grin that’s already charmed half the first-years into thinking he’s harmless.

The squad gathers around a corner table, a ragged half-circle of chairs and elbows. Sloane doesn’t so much as flick me a glance. And then, as if Zihnal’s slap wasn’t enough, Garran decides to drop his satchel on our table.

“If it isn’t Basgiath’s finest,” he drawls, grin bright enough to belong in a tavern, not a training hall. He drops into the empty chair like it was waiting for him. “Dragons love me by the way. So will all of you by the end of today.” His gaze hooks on Sloane for half a beat too long before he walks over and starts setting up the supplies.

Rhiannon pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering sideways to Violet, “Fuck, he’s a ‘funny one’. Kill me now.” Violet hides a laugh behind her hand.

Ridoc grins wolfish. “Hate to say it, but he’s right. You know healers are the second hottest quadrant.”

Violet leans forward, lips quirking. “Dain might agree. Because last month, I’m pretty sure I saw him flirting with a second-year healer at Chantara.”

Every head swivels toward me. Including hers. Sloane’s eyebrow arches slow, sharp.

My jaw goes tight. “That wasn’t—”

Gods, I remember it all too well. Standing there at the Six Talons bar, trying to force a smile at some healer cadet’s chatter while my insides twisted into knots. Pretending I cared about anything except the fact that Violet wanted to risk everything and sneak into my father’s chambers. And I had to tell her I was going to do it alone; tell her she’d have to trust me. That I’d come back with her father’s research.

Of course it hadn't helped that I’d caught Sloane slipping out of some first-year’s room the previous morning like it meant nothing.

I clear my throat. “That was reconnaissance. Not flirting.”

Ridoc barks a laugh. “Reconnaissance of her uniform cut, maybe.”

I shift my attention away to avoid any further investigation into my personal life and catch faint chattering from my side. “Wait.” Avalynn whispers to Sloane with wide eyes. “Is this the same Garran you were telling me abou—”

Sloane’s elbow collides with her ribs before she can finish. “Avalynn,” she says sweetly, all dagger-point smile. “Don’t you have enough of a love triangle to manage without inventing mine?” Avalynn coughs, cheeks pink, muttering something about “just asking.” Baylor looks like he’d rather melt into the table. Lynx smirks like he’s enjoying every second.

Not that I needed confirmation. Of course something had happened between them.

What claws at me isn’t jealousy. It’s disgust. He’s what twenty-four, she’s twenty, and worse: he’s laid hands on her in a healer’s tent before, under oath. A patient once, then something else. It’s not just inappropriate, it’s also unethical. And if I let my mind linger on that slope, I’ll break something in this room before the seminar even starts.

Gods help me, if Vey thinks he can treat her like another conquest, I’ll teach him what the Codex means when it says discipline is enforced by steel.

Imogen’s been silent until now, lounging back with her arms crossed. Her gaze flicks to Sloane, sharp and knowing. “Makes sense,” she says dryly. “He’s your type.”

Sloane doesn’t flinch, just tilts her head in that infuriatingly careless way. “Bold assumption, Cardulo.”

But Imogen only shrugs, eyes steady. “Not bold. Just history. Tall, dangerous, charming in that way that makes you roll your eyes but still listen. Exactly the kind of man Liam would’ve hated.”

Sloane snorts, a flash of teeth. “Liam would’ve hated anyone I liked.”

Violet tilts her head, curiosity softening her voice. “Even though he flirted with everyone?”

“Especially because of that.” Sloane’s grin sharpens, but her eyes flick away like she’s bracing for something heavier. “When he was a teenager it was less flirting, more… falling in love. Every month he’d come to me and say, ‘Sloaney, I think I met your sister-in-law today.’ Dead serious. Every single time.”

The air shifts, laughter erupts but thins into something rawer. Violet’s smile falters, grief flickering like a shadow she doesn’t quite let anyone see. Rhiannon drops her gaze to the table. Even Ridoc, who never lets silence live for more than a breath, leans back without a quip.

I sit there swallowing down the sour bite in my throat. Jealousy because of Garran’s grin. Guilt because of Liam’s ghost. I force my jaw tight, scribbling meaningless lines across the margin of my notes so no one sees the way my hands shake.

The scrape of benches dies as Vey claps his hands, voice carrying too easily over the hall. “All right, riders. Playtime’s over. We’ve got two days to turn you lot into something resembling combat medics. Which means by the end of this, if your Wingleader takes a blade to the gut, you won’t just stand around praying to Dunne while he bleeds out on your boots.”

A ripple of nervous laughter. His grin’s too wide for the words, the kind that would charm a tavern full of drunk riders but feels wrong here, surrounded by cadets stiff in their leathers.

Sloane’s cold shoulder since last night nearly burns more than his grin. She doesn’t meet my eyes once, not when Rhiannon divides us into smaller squads, not when Avalynn groans about drills, not even when Baylor mutters something about his shoulder still aching from yesterday. She just keeps her focus ahead, braid swinging with that infuriating precision that says I don’t exist.

Garran claps his hands together, loud enough that half the hall jolts in their chairs. “First drill’s simple. Stabilize a bleeding wound while under distraction. You’ve got gauze, salve, and me shouting at you for the next ten minutes. By the end, if your patient isn’t stable enough to hobble away without tripping over their own guts, you fail.”

A few nervous laughs. “Pair up. One bleeds, one heals. Switch after five minutes.”

I step toward Sloane automatically. She doesn’t look at me, just folds her arms across her chest pretending she doesn’t see me.

Fine. I pick up a strip of gauze anyway and keep my voice low. “We need to talk.”

“You’re blocking the salve.” Her hand darts past mine, fingers brushing too close. I flinch like she burned me. She doesn’t even notice and makes her way to Kai instead.

The task is quick and dirty—wrap, bind, apply pressure. But her hands move with clinical ease. Too fast. Too perfect. By the time I’ve knotted gauze around Violet’s arm, she’s already pressing salve into Kai’s shoulder, motion smooth as water.

She drops the bandage into the bin with a flourish, eyes finally cutting to me. “Done. I win.”

I scowl. “It wasn’t a competition.”

Her smirk slices through me. “Spoken like someone who lost.”

The burn in my chest tightens, but before I can snap back, Garran’s voice booms across the table. “Outstanding, Cadet Mairi.” He saunters closer, sleeves shoved up, grin easy. “Quick hands, steady pressure. That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

Her smirk softens, faint but there. “Thanks.”

I force my attention elsewhere, jaw like stone, feigning interest in Lynx’s fumbling attempt at a bandage. His hands slip, salve smearing everywhere but the wound.

I cross my arms, looming over him. “Lynx. You know the point isn’t to marinate the patient, yes?”

He jolts, nearly dropping the gauze. “Y-yes, Wingleader. Of course. Just… tactical marination.”

A snort escapes me before I can stop it. “Fix it.”

Behind me, voices drop lower. Garran again, quieter this time. “How are you holding up?”

Sloane’s reply is softer still, but I catch it anyway. “Better than most. You?”

“Still pretty enough to get away with this job,” he jokes back.

Her laugh is sharp, short and unguarded. It hits me harder than any blade.

I keep my eyes on Lynx’s sweating hands, but my grip tightens until my knuckles ache.

“Next drill,” Garran calls out, pushing his sleeves higher, showing off his forearms. “Stabilization under pressure. We’re moving from surface wounds to compression on deeper bleeds. Harder to fake, harder to fix. You’re going to learn to keep a rider breathing long enough for a healer to get there. And no, before anyone asks, dragon flame won’t cauterize properly. Don’t try it.”

Ridoc whistles low. “Already ruining my plans.”

“Save your dramatics for the tavern,” Garran shoots back, grinning, before scanning the room. His eyes land squarely on Sloane. “Mairi. You’re up. Help me demonstrate.”

Her brows lift, skeptical, but she doesn’t refuse. She steps forward, posture crisp like she’s born for the spotlight.

Before my brain can argue, my hand clamps down on Lynx’s shoulder. “You. With me.”

He jolts like I’ve sentenced him to execution. “Me? Why me?”

“Because you need practice.” And because it puts me three strides from Garran’s demonstration table.

Lynx mutters something that sounds a lot like “I always need practice,” but shuffles after me anyway.

Garran’s already stretching back on the bench, tapping his thigh. “All right, Cadet, pretend I’ve taken a blade here. Deep, bleeding, can’t walk on it. What’s your move?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sloane mutters, but her lips twitch, and she crouches beside him anyway.

I should be watching her technique. Instead, I’m craning, trying to catch their voices. Her braid brushes his arm as she leans in to tighten the wrap.

“You always this steady under pressure?” Garran asks with an easy laugh.

“Steady enough,” she shoots back.

My grip tightens on Lynx’s shoulder. He squeaks. “Uh sir? Am I supposed to be doing something?”

“Yes,” I hiss, eyes still on Sloane. “Wrap me. No—wrap it. The dummy limb.”

He yanks the bandage so hard the dummy leg thuds off the table. “Like that?”

“Not like you’re trying to strangle it!”

Meanwhile Garran’s voice carries back: “Pressure’s clean. You could teach half my squad.”

And Sloane laughs. Real. Unburdened.

I lean even closer to ensure I don’t miss a single moment of their conversation, pretending to check Lynx’s work, until I’m practically bent over him. “Tighter here,” I growl, but my eyes are still on them.

Lynx sweats audibly. “Sir, I don’t know what I’m fixing anymore.”

“Reset.” Garran’s clap rings sharp through the room. “You’ll all cycle through compression and stabilization twice more. By the end of today, you’ll do it blindfolded if you must. No excuses.”

Chairs scrape, cadets shifting partners. My hand is still clamped on Lynx’s shoulder when he blurts, desperate, “Sir, respectfully, I think Cadet Norris should take my place. He’s uh… better at absorbing instruction and performing.”

Baylor, to his eternal credit or damnation perks up instantly. “Really? You think so?” He’s all wide shoulders and easy grin, already sliding into the seat Lynx abandoned. “Thanks, man.”

Lynx bolts like he’s been pardoned from execution.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This isn’t voluntary service, Cadet.”

But Baylor’s already rolling his sleeves up, practically glowing. “I mean, if it’s for the good of the squad, sir, I’m happy to step in. Always wanted to train closer with you anyway.”

I stare at him. “Closer.”

He shakes his head fast, flustered. “No—no, not like that. I just mean…I feel like we haven’t connected enough. With you going to the Isles and everything.” His voice lowers like he’s admitting state secrets. “I really admire your trajectory so far. Thought maybe we could…you know. Talk leadership sometime.”

Zihnal forbid.

Normally I’d jet off a lecture about career tracks but right now my head’s too full of wildfire, hair and grins. I can’t think, not enough to give him what he’s asking for.

So I just nod once, clipped. “Come to my office before drills resume the day after tomorrow. We’ll discuss options then.”

Baylor beams like I’ve offered him a knighthood. “Yes, sir.” He nearly salutes with the roll of gauze still in his hand, fumbling before grinning wider. “I won’t waste it.”

The whistle shrieks sharp. “Five minutes, take a break.” Garran calls. Cadets scatter outside, stretching shoulders and flexing sore hands.

I don’t waste a second. I cut through the shuffle until I’m standing right in front of her. Her braid swings as she tilts just enough to sidestep me, reaching for the waterskin.

“Mairi,” I say low, pitched for her alone.

“Aetos,” she fires back, flat as iron.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” I say. The words scrape, harder than they should, but I hold steady. “About hinge points. About resistance. About churam. All of it. And I’m telling you—I want to help. Properly. No more shouting at you across your own room like some idiot.”

Her eyes narrow. Her smirk doesn’t come. Just quiet, deliberate ice.

“Just be honest with me,” I press, softer now. “Don’t shut me out. Don’t run to Carr. Don’t run to anyone else. You give me the truth, and I’ll figure out the rest.”

Her throat works once. She leans back against the table, folding her arms, looking at me like I’m another problem set to solve.

“Why?” Her voice is quiet, sharp as glass. “Why do you bother?”

The words land like a blade, clean and merciless. And for a beat, all I can do is stand there, every retort caught in my throat.

“What you’re doing isn’t revolutionary, Aetos.” She speaks even, but the edges cut. “The hovering. The overprotection. My dad did it. My brother did it. And now they’re both not here. I’m learning to live without it.”

Her braid slips forward, it's practically half undone. She doesn’t move to fix it. Just keeps her gaze on me, steady as a blade point.

“What I don’t get,” she continues, softer now, “is why you do it. Is it guilt? Because if it is—stop it. I don’t blame you for his death. I don’t.” Her breath catches, but she doesn’t flinch. “I may never be able to forgive you. But you don’t need to stretch yourself thin for me. So just let it go like everyone else already has.”

The words hit like steel to the gut. I force a breath, but it burns on the way out.

“If it were guilt,” I say quietly, “I’d stay away.”

That makes her blink, the faintest crack in her wall.

“Guilt drives you to avoid. To disappear. And I know because I’ve carried enough of it to drown a city. But this isn’t guilt, Sloane. It’s the opposite. I can’t just turn a blind eye. Not to you.”

Her eyes flash, blue and merciless, daring me to keep going. “You want honesty? Fine. I don’t need another man telling me what I’m worth or how to protect it. I genuinely couldn’t care less about the chain of command or whatever authority it gives you over me. If I ever come to you, it’s because I need you. Not my wingleader.”

Her chin lifts, final as a blade sliding home. “So unless you’re ready to stop treating me like your duty and start treating me like your equal, maybe we should both stay away from each other.”

The words lodge deep, raw under my ribs, and before I can gather a reply she’s already moving. Her braid slowly coming undone as she strides out, and I follow like I’ve been tethered, boots echoing a half-step behind.

When we step back into the training hall, the chatter has shifted. Cadets paired off, benches scraped back, healer kits already in hands. Garran’s voice cuts over the din, cheerful as ever.

“Pulse checks, riders. Learn to find the life in a body before it slips through your fingers.”

Of course he’s already doled out pairings. Of course every cot is full. And of course the only empty space left is right in front of us.

“Guess that leaves you two,” Garran calls, far too pleased with himself.

Sloane doesn’t look thrilled. Her eyes flick to me once, unreadable. Then she jerks her chin toward the cot. “Sit.”

The word is a command and a dare all at once. My legs move before my pride can argue. I lower myself onto the edge of the cot, the canvas creaking under my weight.

She steps in close. Too close. The scent of leather and ink clings to her, sharp enough to coil in my gut. Her hand rises in a casual and clinical way. Pale fingers press to the side of my throat.

My chest locks for a moment. And suddenly I’m not here. I’m younger. Smaller. My father’s grip around my neck for some mistake that never mattered. Air cut off, shame tighter than his fist.

For a heartbeat, I almost rip her hand away, shove her back before the memory swallows me whole.

But then her eyes catch mine. And something shifts. That cold indifference she’s been feeding me all day cracks.

Her hand freezes on my throat, pressure easing. Her other palm slips down, steady against my knee, grounding me like it’s instinct.

“Hey,” she says, voice pitched low, not for Garran, not for anyone else. Just me. “Look at me.”

I do. Because I always do.

Her thumb presses light against my throat, steady, careful. “We don’t have to do this.”

I drag in a shaky breath, try for humor and miss the mark. “What, you mean let you win without a fight? Can’t give you that satisfaction.”

The worry doesn't leave her face. “Shh. It’s fine.”

She doesn’t push. Just waits. Patient as stone, hand steady at my throat while my breathing claws its way back into rhythm.

“You good?” she asks finally.

I force a nod, my throat moving against her fingers. “Yeah. Just don’t… like people touching my neck. That’s all.”

Her hand twitches, ready to pull away, to let me go. And that’s when I force it out, low but steady. “Do it. I trust you.”

Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Then she presses, slow and careful, finding the rhythm of my pulse under her fingers while my heart hammers loud enough to give me away.

Her fingers move steadily at my throat, counting out my heartbeat like it’s the only thing in the room. And maybe it is.

“Well, would you look at that,” Garran’s voice slides in, easy as a blade wrapped in velvet. “Textbook steady pulse. You’ve got good hands, Cadet Mairi.”

Sloane’s eyes flick toward him, quick as a spark. Mine don’t. My gaze stays pinned on her.

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant. She’s already proving she can handle the task without commentary.”

Garran chuckles, a little too casual. “Didn’t mean offense, Wingleader. Just acknowledging talent when I see it.”

Still I don’t look at him. Only at her, at the way her fingers press steady against my pulse, unshaken. “Then acknowledge it in your notes. Not in her ear.”

Sloane’s hand lingers a fraction longer, grounding me, before she withdraws with deliberate calm. She doesn’t say a word, but the tilt of her chin tells me she noticed every choice I just made.

“Switch.” Garran’s clap rings out, breaking the moment. “Rider on the cot trades with the partner. Let’s see how you all do from the other side.”

Sloane slides onto the cot like she’s bored of the entire room, hair spilling loose around her shoulders, braid finally undone. Wild. Untamed. The kind of sight that makes something hot and reckless curl in my chest.

I move to the side of the bed, setting my hands steady on the edge.

Her eyes flick up, bright and merciless. “Why do you hate him so much?” she murmurs, voice pitched for me alone. “Jealous? That he commands a room better than you? More charming?”

“Jealous?” The word scrapes out half-growl, half-laugh. I lean in, close enough she can feel the heat off me. “Please. I just don’t like dealing with morons who mistake a grin for authority.”

She hums, “Mmh. Sounds like jealousy to me.”

If only she knew. I shift on the edge, steadying my hand before I lift it to her pulse point but don't touch yet. My fingers hover for half a breath too long, hesitation coiled in my chest.

“Don’t tell me,” she murmurs, lips curved. “Suddenly shy?”

My jaw tightens. “Hold still.”

She laughs and tips her head farther back, baring her neck like she’s offering herself up for execution. It should look regal. Instead, it’s ridiculous: throat stretched, chin angled like she’s mocking me with her own pulse.

Gods, she looks stupid. Beautiful. Both.

“My hand is not that big,” I mutter, catching her jaw with two fingers, tipping her head back down until her eyes meet mine. “Face me.”

Her breath hitches, just faint, but I catch it. Blue eyes blazing, framed by loose strands of hair, pinned under my touch.

My fingers trail slow, deliberate, until they circle her throat. Heat coils through me at the steady thrum beneath my hand, her pulse a drumbeat I feel as much as hear.

My palm spans wide, thumb grazing the hollow just under her jaw. She keeps her face carved into that cool mask anyway, but her pupils flare, a pulse of black swallowing the blue before she blinks it back. Gods, she’s so small beneath my grip, yet she holds my gaze like she’s daring me to squeeze.

She doesn’t look away. Not when my fingers tighten fractionally, not when my thumb presses just so, tracing the stubborn line of her chin. Not even when I murmur, low enough that it ghosts only for her. “There. Got it.”

Her eyes stay flat, voice clipped yet breathy. “See? Not so hard.”

“No,” I rasp, my voice rougher than I mean it. “Not hard at all.”

I pace the length of my office until the stone floor feels worn thin under my boots. Her words still ring in my skull. Treat me like your equal, or stay away.

And she’s right.

I’ve been so caught up in keeping her alive, in bracing against every edge of her recklessness, that I’ve forgotten she isn’t mine to cage. She doesn’t need another father, another brother, another chain. She needs what she asked for. Equality. A partner.

For once, she laid it out plain. No guesswork. No walls. And if I have a single shred of sense left, I’ll listen.

So I craft a plan. Rhiannon, her soon-to-be Wingleader, should be looped in so she can continue helping her and pulling the strings once I'm gone. I’ll help her dig into Naolin’s texts, slip the forbidden fragments she needs into her hands. I’ll put her in touch with Brennan the first chance I get and hope Violet can get some information from Tairn. Build her a support system so she isn’t clawing her way through this alone. And ask her how I can help instead of imposing.

By the time I leave the office, it’s decided. A dangerous, ill-advised decision to go to her dorms again. But I can’t help myself. Not tonight.

The halls are quiet, oil lamps burning low. When I round the corner, she’s already outside.

White pajama bottoms slung low on her hips, flight jacket shrugged over her shoulders like armor, hair tumbling wild down her back. She’s perched on the stone steps like she’s been waiting for a verdict.

“Sloane?” My voice comes softer than I mean. Careful. Like I’m afraid she’ll bolt if I breathe wrong.

“Are you waiting for someone?” The question cuts out of me before I can leash it.

For a beat, she holds my stare. Then her eyes flick away, fast, guilty. “Not waiting for you.”

“I know.” My jaw tightens. “Is it him?”

Her breath stutters, just once. “I don’t want to hang out with him,” she mutters, the words ground out like glass under boot. Then sharper, desperate: “I just need it. Churam. You don’t get it… it enhances my siphoning, I swear—”

“I know.” My voice comes low, steady, cutting through her rush. “I do get it. And that’s why I’m here.”

Her arms fold across her chest like she’s bracing for me to lash out. I don’t.

“If you need to take the edge off tonight, then do it with me. We can sneak into the gym, break some dummies in half. Or you can spar with me until you’re too tired to think. Burn it out in your fists instead of your veins. But tomorrow—tomorrow you put that clever mind of yours to work. With me. With Rhiannon. With Violet. With Brennan if I can get him. I’ll bring you the texts. The notes. Whatever you need.”

Her eyes flash, uncertain, the kind of wary that makes me ache because she’s not used to being offered something without strings.

I swallow hard, forcing the words out past the knot in my chest. “And I’m sorry.”

That makes her look up.

“I’ve been crossing every boundary I pretend to keep,” I admit, voice low. “Yet expecting you to treat me like I’m not. It’s not fair. And I’m done. No more lines blurred because I don’t know how to let go. You don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me anything. But if you let me in just enough to stand with you, I swear I’ll do it right this time.”

The night air settles heavy between us. She doesn’t speak. Just studies me with those sharp, searching eyes, as if weighing whether to cut me out or let me stay.

And for once, I don’t push. I just wait.

Then her gaze flicks over my shoulder, sharp and quick, like a blade catching light. I don’t need to turn to know who it is. Vey.

Every nerve in me coils tight. This isn’t about pulling her from temptation by force. It’s about her deciding. And my chest pounds with the one plea I’ll never speak aloud.

Choose this. Choose me.

Chapter Text

“No single rider bears the burden of victory. To act otherwise is arrogance disguised as duty. It is the bond between riders that preserves the line.”

— Military Ethics and Conduct of the Navarrian Forces ( c. 603 AU)

SLOANE

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet when Dain rounded the corner, steps measured like he’s afraid of scaring me off, I felt my stomach drop.

Because I wasn’t waiting for him.

I was waiting for Garran. The healer who doesn’t look at me like I’m a problem to solve. Who promised he’d bring the churam I’d asked for. Something to smooth the edges and help me siphon without feeling like my bones are splintering apart. Maybe we’d flirt, maybe we wouldn’t, but at least I’d breathe.

The last thing I wanted was for Dain to witness it. Especially not after Aretia. After the look he gave me when he caught me with Garran then — disgust, judgment so sharp I thought it might cut me in half.

But tonight he doesn’t lead with that. Just stands there in the half-light, plans spilling out like an offering instead of a command. Spar with me. Break something harmless. Let me bring you texts. Let me figure it out with you. And worse than the words is the look in his eyes. Not hard. Not cold. Almost… pleading.

“Well, isn’t this cozy.” Garran’s grin widens, too bright. “Funny how your Wingleader always seems to be around whenever I come looking for you, Cadet Mairi.”

Garran’s grin is easy as he steps closer, satchel swinging off his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting out here for him.” His chin flicks toward Dain. “Because that would be tragic. I was hoping for better taste than a lecture with legs.”

I force a casual shrug, the kind I’ve perfected since childhood. “Relax, it’s just Fourth Wing business.” My voice lands light, careless. “Thanks for coming, but I’m good for tonight. Rain check?”

His brows lift, grin sharpening like he doesn’t believe me. “That so? You sure, Mairi? Because last I checked, you looked like someone who could use a little help unwinding.”

Heat curls in my stomach, not from the words, from the way I can feel Dain standing silent behind me. Normally this is where he’d snap. Quote the Codex. Spit words like discipline and conduct. But he doesn’t. Not a sound. Just watching.

“I said I’m good,” I repeat, sharper this time.

“Suit yourself.” Garran lifts his hands in mock surrender, that tavern-ready smile still plastered on. “Offer stands, though. Always does. In case you’re holding back because of…company”

That’s when Dain moves. One step forward, then another, until he’s directly in front of me. Between me and Garran. His height does the rest, presence filling the space until Garran has no choice but to look up.

“You have two options,” Dain says, voice quiet, dangerous. “You leave immediately, and I don’t turn you in for dealing unregulated substances to cadets on college grounds. Or you stay, and I search you.”

The smile slips, just a fraction. Garran tilts his head, squinting up at him. “Easy now. I don’t have anything unregulated on me, Aetos.”

Dain doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just waits. It sends a shiver down my spine before I can stop it.

Garran’s eyes flick sideways, catching mine. “You going to let him talk to me like that?”

I open my mouth. Close it. I could bite back, make it clear I don’t take orders from anyone nor do I control what anyone says. But what’s the point? Garran lives for a fight he can win in words, and I’m not giving him one. Not tonight.

So I let the answer fall flat, dismissive as I can make it. “He is my Wingleader.”

The excuse hangs there, thin as parchment. And I know it. Gods help me, Dain definitely knows it too. I don’t give a fuck about the chain of command. That’s what I had told Dain earlier, wasn’t it?

Dain doesn’t bother to add weight to my excuse. Just tilts his head once, voice flat as stone. “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

Garran studies me for a beat longer. Then, with a lazy shrug, he steps back. “Fine, fine. I’ll take the hint. No need to get territorial, Wingleader. Plenty of cadets desperate for my company.” His gaze flicks between us once more, amusement sharp. “Though none nearly as entertaining as this.”

He tips an invisible salute, all smirk, and finally disappears into the shadows.

Silence drops heavy in his wake. When I finally glance up, Dain’s attention is all on me. Focused. Steady. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

I fold my arms, tilt my chin higher. “Don’t look at me like that. I already said no to the churam supply. You win. Congratulations. Dain Aetos defeating the concept of temptation one cadet at a time.”

His lips move, just the faintest twitch like he can’t decide whether to throttle me or laugh.

The silence stretches until it digs under my skin. So I break it, voice too bright. “Fine. If you’re done glaring holes in me, is the sparring offer still on?”

When he doesn’t immediately answer, I jab a finger into his arm. “C’mon, Wingleader. Sneak me into the gym after curfew. Think of the scandal.”

He frowns at the poke, glancing down at my hand like it’s an insect he’s debating whether to crush. “Hopefully that’s not your move on the mat.”

I roll my eyes, but he tips his head toward the courtyard. An unspoken order.

And before I can think too hard about it, I’m already following.

“You know,” I say, lengthening my stride to keep up, “for someone about to break into the gym after curfew, you walk like you’re on parade. Where’s the sneaking? The thrill? At least slouch a little.”

His glance cuts sideways, flat as a blade. “I don’t slouch.”

“Clearly. Basgiath would implode if you did.” I smirk. “Maybe that’s the real reason you hate churam. You’re allergic to fun.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. “I don’t hate fun. I hate shortcuts that make you think you’re invincible until you aren’t.”

“Ouch. Lecture mode already.” I grin sharper, enjoying the way his patience frays at the edges.

“Next week,” he says, ignoring my tone, “I’m getting you Naolin’s notes.”

That stops me mid-step. “What?”

He doesn’t slow. “Carr’s fragments won’t be enough for what you’re working on. You need the sealed sections. Which means getting into the professor’s lounge.”

I blink, caught between disbelief and a rush of interest I’m not about to admit out loud. “The professor’s lounge. Where they keep their private seals. The ones that trigger every ward in Basgiath if touched without clearance.”

“Exactly.” His voice is calm. Measured. Like we’re discussing a weather report, not grand larceny.

I jog a step closer, narrowing my eyes at him. “Are you actually suggesting—no, wait. You. You’re suggesting breaking into the lounge to steal a seal?”

“Not steal,” he corrects, like that somehow makes it better. “Borrow. Long enough to access the texts. Return it before anyone notices.”

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. “Gods. And here I thought I was the corrupting influence. What’s next, you sneak me into the armory for a midnight dragon saddle fitting?”

His mouth twitches, quick, like he’s swallowing down a retort. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh, I’m definitely pushing it. Because if we get caught, I’m telling everyone this was your idea.”

His stare drops heavy on me, steady and dark enough to pin me in place. “If we get caught, Mairi, you won’t be saying a word. Because you’ll be too busy running while I take the consequences.”

For a breath, I forget how to retort. My chest does a stupid lurch before I cover it with a scoff, stepping past him toward the gym doors. “You really know how to ruin a perfectly good break-in fantasy.”

The gym smells like sweat and steel, wards humming faint at the corners where weapons are locked away for the night. Shadows stretch long across the mats. Empty. Ours.

Which is about when it hits me, I am not dressed for this. At all. White pajama bottoms still slouched low on my hips, a sleep tank thin beneath my flight jacket, hair wild in pale waves around my shoulders. I look less like a cadet sneaking in for training and more like someone who wandered away from a bad dream.

Meanwhile, there’s him. Dain Aetos in full sparring gear, crisp and pressed even at this hour.

He shrugs his jacket off without ceremony, draping it across a bench. Black tunic pulled tight over shoulders that should not look that broad, sleeves cut high to bare the kind of arms built from years of training. The deep red of Cath’s relic scorches against his skin, like a brand daring me to look longer. I’ve seen it a hundred times. In siphoning drills. In matches. In the yard. But it still drags my eyes like a tether.

“Something wrong?” His voice is too casual for someone who notices everything.

I snap my gaze up, fast enough it hurts. “Nope. Just admiring your… commitment to fashion.” I tug at my loose pajama drawstring like it’s intentional. “Really unfair you’re in uniform while I’m about to spar you in sleepwear.”

His brows lift, slow. “You want to call this off?”

“Not a chance.” I turn towards the bench with flourish and peel my flight jacket off my shoulders. “If I win dressed like this, it’ll be twice as humiliating for you.”

I toss my jacket toward the bench, but it slides halfway before pooling on the floor. Typical. I bend to scoop it up, drape it properly, and when I turn back—

He’s staring.

Not the casual sweep of a commander checking posture. Not even his usual hawk’s focus on weaknesses. No, this is pinned. His jaw set too tight, his chest held just a fraction too still, like he forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my gods.” I fold my arms across my chest, irritation spiking because it’s easier than whatever heat curls low in my stomach. “What?”

His voice lands low, rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “Your relic.”

For a second, I blink dumb. Then it hits me. Shit.

The hem of my emerald-green tank has ridden up when I tossed the jacket, baring a sliver of skin. Just enough to show the edge of it. Thoirt’s strawberry-red sigil curling up from the base of my spine, snaking under the waistband of my white pajama bottoms. Bold, even in fragments. Just like her.

“That’s…” His throat works as his eyes drag up and then force away. “That’s Thòirtdara’s.”

I shift my weight, deliberately casual, even as I can feel the color rising in my cheeks. “You know how Thoirt is. She’s always been a bit bold.”

“And also,” I add, tilting my head, grin sharpening, “why do you always say her full name like that? Thòirtdara. You sound like you’re about to file a formal complaint with ‘Miss Thòirtdara’ for her rider’s behavior.”

The tips of his ears turn pink. Actually pink. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Dain Aetos was flustered.

I smirk wider, twisting the knife. “What’s the matter, Wingleader? Never seen a relic on a girl before?”

“Not there,” he grits out, eyes flicking fast and guilty, before locking safely on my face.

I let the silence hang, long enough to make him shift. Then I tip my chin, voice syrup-sweet. “Male modesty. So fragile.”

His eyes don’t come back to me. Not once. Instead, he digs into his satchel and holds something out between two fingers.

A strip of leather cord.

I snort, gathering the loose blonde waves off my shoulders. “Yeah, this flimsy thing is not going to keep my hair up.” I twist the mass high on my head, strands already spilling free. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

He doesn’t blink. Just says, calm and clipped, “Then put it in a knight’s knot.”

I freeze, half-laughing. “A what?”

His jaw tightens. “Knight’s knot. Quick tie. Holds through drills.”

“I don’t speak Navarrian Hair Codex, Aetos.” I let the waves fall wild again, smirk curling sharp. “You might have to translate that for us peasants.”

He sighs. Long-suffering. And closes the distance. “Can I?” His voice is low, a command masquerading as a question.

I tilt my chin up, grin wicked. “Should I be tipping you after?”

He doesn’t rise to it. He just waits. A wall I can either push against or lean on.

“Fine.” I spin on my heel, shoving the mess of hair back over my shoulders. “Go on. Play with my hair.”

His hands slide into my scalp. Heat jolts straight through me at the first touch. His fingers are rough from weapons, and steady as if he’s afraid of pulling too hard. He twists, folds, tucks, every motion precise, practiced. I can feel his breath at the back of my neck, too close, too much, and suddenly I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be annoyed or… something else.

In less than a minute, the wild mass of waves is caught in a tight coil at the crown of my head, anchored by the leather cord. Stray strands slip free, brushing against my neck, but it holds.

I lift a hand, testing. It doesn’t budge.

“Well,” I say slowly, turning my head just enough to glance at him over my shoulder, “that’s… not terrible.”

His mouth curves, barely, but there. “It’ll hold.”

“Mm.” I smirk, tugging at a stray curl falling by my temple. “You sure you don’t moonlight in the women’s barracks, Aetos?”

He gives me a bored look. “No, I learnt from Violet. And Mira.”

“Of course,” I say, sweet as poison. “The Sorrengail sisters and their precious hairdresser.”

His brows flick, the faintest twitch of irritation or amusement. “Enough of the verbal sparring, we do plenty of that every day.”

I blink at him, feigning innocence. “But I was just getting warmed up.”

“You want warm?” He tips his chin toward the mat. “Try me.”

The shift is instant. One moment I’m smirking, the next my bare feet are slapping soft against the canvas. His stance aligns with the way he breathes, impossible to knock off balance.

Fine. Let’s see if I can change that.

I lunge first. Quick, sharp. He sidesteps easily, palm brushing my shoulder just enough to redirect me. My head swings wide as I catch myself, bare midriff brushing cold air.

“Sloppy,” he says, like he’s noting the weather.

I snort, circling. “Says the man who looks like he’s teaching a seminar instead of fighting.”

This time, I go low. A sweep at his legs that forces him back half a step. But his hand clamps my wrist, firm, and twists me just enough to pin me off balance.

“Weight in your hips,” he murmurs. “Don’t leave yourself open.”

Something hot pricks under my skin. I throw harder this time, a flurry meant to knock him off his perfect center. He takes every hit, blocking, redirecting, never once striking back.

“Gods,” I snap, breathless, “you’re infuriating. Hit me back.”

“No.” His voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts all the same. “You don’t need bruises. You need control.”

He says it like it’s fact. Like the world bends toward his conclusions and I’m just supposed to fall in line.

“You don’t decide what I need,” I snap, low and sharp. “Fight back, or I walk out right now.”

For the first time, his gaze flickers, not with doubt, but with something like interest. He straightens, shoulders rolling back, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Does that mean you won’t hold back?”

I bare my teeth in a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Not a chance.”

The moment I move, the air shifts. No more testing, no more half-swings. I go at him full, fists quick, feet sliding across the canvas with purpose. He blocks the first two, ducks the third, but the fourth grazes his ribs and lands.

His breath hitches, and I catch it. Satisfaction spikes hot in my chest. “There,” I hiss. “Not so patient now, are you?”

His eyes flare, heat breaking through that iron facade. He steps in close, hand catching my elbow mid-strike, twisting until my back nearly meets the mat. I grit my teeth, hook my leg around his calf, and shove, wrenching myself free.

“Better,” he says, breath rough now. “That’s what I wanted.”

“Wanted?” I bite back. My hair slips loose again, strands plastering against my damp neck. “What, to prove you can still pin me down without even trying?”

“No. To prove you don’t need anything but yourself.”

It hits me harder than the floor ever could. My fists falter, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

I throw a hard right. He catches my wrist midair like it’s nothing. I twist, try to wrench free, but he steps into me instead of away, using the shift in weight to send me spinning. My back nearly brushes the mat before I plant and recover.

He’s always in control. Always calm. Gods, it makes me want to scream.

“Your guard drops every time you pivot,” he says, tone maddeningly even. “You telegraph the strike before you throw it.”

“I meant to telegraph it,” I lie through my teeth, darting in low for his ribs.

He blocks anyway. My forearm crashes against his in another desperate attempt, that does nothing more than spark pain up my wrist. He doesn’t flinch.

The heat in my chest tangles with something I don’t want to name. Because I feel the same way I did my first months here.

When I didn’t fight back at all.

When every sparring partner flattened me in seconds, when my body refused to move, when all I could do was hit the ground again and again until I started to believe I belonged there.

When I let the whispers about Liam’s weak little sister dig their claws in deep.

When I hated myself more than anyone else possibly could.

I launch another strike, too sharp, too fast. He bats my arm aside like a casual correction, then his hands are on both my wrists, catching them and twisting so they cross behind my back. His grip is a precise and unyielding lock.

He’s behind me, chest a steady wall against my spine, breath warm at the shell of my ear. The world compresses to the rumble of him and the tight cage of his arms. “You’re burning too hot,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it slides along my skin. “Pushing like the only way forward is through fire.”

“Maybe it is,” I spit back, squirming against his hold. I try to wrench my wrists free; his forearm pins me harder, not cruelly, but enough that I can’t move. Of course I can’t.

He doesn’t shove me down. He doesn’t humiliate me. Instead he waits. Forces me to feel his body against mine, the cage of his strength around me, until the rage simmering in me turns sharp with something else entirely. Heat coils low, treacherous, in the place where fury and want blur.

“I’m not weak anymore,” I rasp, testing it in the only way I know, by making my hands mean something. I shove my wrists back against his hold the way I used to shove memories away.

His hands tighten, just enough to make me still. His gaze burns down into me, steady as iron. “I never said you were.”

For one jagged second I want to shove him away and brand him with everything I’ve been taught to keep hidden. For another, I want to fold into the hold and let him keep me upright.

“You keep pushing,” he whispers, “because you’re afraid that if you stop, they’ll see you as soft. Because somewhere deep down, you believe that pushing your limits is the only thing keeping grief from crushing you.”

I freeze. His fingers at my wrists go from restraint to something like an anchor, the heat of his palm soothing me. I taste salt. My fists unclench on reflex and then something in me gives.

I yank, sudden and violent, because I am a creature of denial and the part of me that has survived is the part that learned to shove. My knees fold under me as I break free, falling down onto the mat by the impact. Air leaves me in a sound that's half a sob, half a curse.

On the floor I am small and furious. My hands scrabble at the canvas and my nails leave crescent moons in it as if I can claw the accusation back into the dark. “Don’t—don’t you dare—” I sputter, words jamming into the heat in my throat. “You don’t get to…you—”

My voice breaks. I bury my face into my forearms because looking at him now would be a betrayal of every defense I’ve built. Because the thing he said is a flaying truth and because it fits too well into pockets of me I thought I had sewn shut.

Dain takes a step back but doesn’t leave. The space he gives me is small, considerate. His voice when he speaks is softer now, impossibly quiet in the echoing gym. “Sloane.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said my name like that. I hate the way it sounds from his mouth just then—gentle and grave and owning.

“I am so fucking angry all the time, Dain.” The words rip out of me before I can weigh them. “I don’t even know at who half the time. At myself, mostly. At the way everything got taken. Being useful is the only thing that stops me from turning that anger on myself.”

He kneels down until he’s level with me without ceremony, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sit on gym mats and argue about grief. Up close, the angles of his face are softer than in the yard.

“You’re angry,” he says, voice low, a croak that could have been humor if it wasn’t so careful. “At least anger is honest, Sloane. It tells you when something matters.” He reaches out, thumbs hovering at the backs of my hands until they press in. Solid. Real.

I scoff, a sound that’s half tear, half bitter laugh. “Is that a pep talk?”

“Take it as whatever you like,” he murmurs. “But anger doesn’t have to be the thing that keeps you upright. You can be angry and tired and still not have to do the lifting on your own.”

He shifts, clumsy in a way that would be endearing if I weren’t so raw. “I—” He clears his throat. He’s not practiced at this. None of his edges are polished into speeches or commands. They’re all jagged, earnest. “I don’t… I don’t have the right words for this, not the proper ones. But I can offer something simpler.”

I glance up, incredulous. “What, a pamphlet on how to not melt down at midnight?”

He lets out a sound that might be a laugh. “Worse. I can be your friend.”

I snort. “You hate me.”

His lips lift, just the ghost of a smile. “I don’t hate you. I’m—” He searches for a word and fails, lands on the truth instead. “You just… vex me from time to time.” It ought to be a joke, sharp and teasing, but when he says it there’s no malice. Only honesty. A confession that somehow feels as intimate as a scraped knee.

“Don’t get soft on me,” I snap, louder than I mean. “I don’t need you to be my friend and fix me. I have friends.”

“You do,” he agrees. His thumb rubs the back of my hand once like he’s testing a seam. “But that’s not why I asked.”

My tongue snaps out before my brain does. “So what then? Charity? You owe me some compensation for all the times I spat at you and accused you of killing my brother?”

He lets out a self deprecating half-laugh. “I’m not doing this out of saintliness. I’m not. I—” He shuffles his feet like a cadet trying to give a speech and failing. “As you’ve said before, I’m lonely, Sloane. I frown through assignments every day and call it leadership. I have plans and lists and a terrible habit of thinking other people’s lives are problems I can solve. You argue with me and make me think in ways no one else does. You’re smart and funny and annoying in ways I… appreciate.”

The words come blunt and awkward and impossibly human. There’s an honesty there that has no flattery tucked into it. It’s as practical as his maps and as dangerous as his promises. My chest tightens because he’s right. He’s noticed me in a way the rest barely bother to. He sees me. He hears my barbs as if they’re conversations, not deflections.

“You’re really selling friendship like it’s a strategic alliance,” I mutter.

“Strategic alliances are useful,” he replies. “And I like useful things.” His thumb keeps absently brushing my knuckles. “Look friends don’t let friends burn out. Friends make sure you eat. Friends steal you from people who traffic in sweets and lies. Friends break up your stupid late-night habits by offering better alternatives. Friends will sit in the archives with you until your eyes cross and carry books back under guard if they have to.”

It’s ridiculous and oddly specific and I feel the corners of my lips betray me with a twitch. And then my chest clenches with another thought I won’t give him. The one I am ashamed of because it is small and ugly and simple. I am afraid if I let him in, I will end up in his bed. Not because of some lonely whim, but because he has a gravity that pulls my hunger towards him.

And I know my worst patterns. They’re tidy and foolish and always end with me walking away, pretending the guys haven’t already lost interest. A weak attempt to hold on to power. Sex used to be the easiest way to make the world stop asking questions. It was quick, noisy, and then nothing. Imagining that with him, while the history of his mistakes chain us together, feels like betraying myself twice.

“You’re insufferable. I’m not sure why I’m letting you into my crisis plan.”

“Because you asked me,” he says simply. “You gave me your terms of equality and honesty. I’m not going to betray those.”

Something softens in me at the plainness of it. The way his words have none of the pomp they used to. I reach, clumsy and on a dare, and pat the top of his head like he’s a stubborn dog that finally sat. He doesn’t move away.

“Fine. Friend,” I declare, like it’s a punishment.

He blinks at me, surprised, and he gives a look of part amusement, part something like fondness. And in what I can only assume is retaliation, he reaches up and unties the knight’s knot he’d pinned in my hair. The cord slips free, and my hair spills down in waves as he runs his fingers through them.

“I spoke too soon,” I tell him, trying for scorn but landing somewhere soft. “You’re kinda bad at this.”

He meets me halfway with a crooked grin that undercuts every bluff I’ve ever tried. “Bad at what? Friendship? Or hairdressing?”

I laugh, absurd and wet at the edges, and the sound breaks the last of the knotted tension in my chest. He laughs too, unexpected, and it’s ridiculous how much it settles me. Two stupid, human sounds in a drafty gym that smells of sweat and canvas and too many beginnings.

His laugh tapers off into something quieter, and then he glances at the high windows. The moon’s already sinking low.

“It’s late,” he says, rolling his shoulders back like he’s reminding himself he’s still Wingleader. “I’ll walk you to the dorms.”

I sling my flight jacket over my arm, green tank sticking to my ribs, pajama drawstring loose on my hips.

His jaw ticks, eyes dropping deliberately not to my skin, but to the jacket dangling uselessly from my elbow. “Absolutely not. Put it on.”

I freeze, arch a brow, tilt my head with all the mockery I can muster. “Excuse me? We’ve been friends for one minute and you’re already policing my wardrobe?”

He doesn’t even blink, his tone maddeningly dry. “No. I just don’t want people getting the wrong impression of you if they see us while you’re…” His gaze flicks, traitorously quick, over the bare strip of midriff. “…inappropriately dressed. Even though we were just training.”

“Oh, so it’s your reputation you’re worried about.” I make a show of fanning myself with the jacket. “Male modesty strikes again.” Even though the way he framed it made it obvious he cared more about my reputation than his.

“Jacket,” he repeats, patient as a cliff.

“Tyrant,” I sing, sweeter than poison and entirely too pleased when his mouth almost curves.

He steps closer until the command is heat and proximity. “Jacket, venyasa.”

The word lands low and bright, old as a dare and twice as dangerous. My stomach does a violent flip again and I hate him for knowing exactly which string to pluck.

“Don’t call me that,” I say, voice thinner than I intend.

“Then don’t test me,” he returns, softer. “Please.”

Gods. The please is worse than the order.

I roll my eyes with theatrical suffering and shove my arms into the sleeves, yanking the collar high like I’m warding off a blizzard. “Happy now, friend?”

“Marginally,” he deadpans, then tips his head toward the door.

We fall into step, that stupid, steady cadence he carries like a standard setting my feet to match. Our shoulders never touch. Our shadows do. I kick the toe of his boot once, just to be difficult.

He doesn’t look down. “If you scuff them, you’re polishing them tomorrow.”

“I’ll use your toothbrush,” I threaten.

“You’ll buy me a new one,” he corrects, not missing a step.

I huff a laugh and kick his boot again, light and deliberate. He doesn’t bump back, just gives me that sideways not-quite smile that says he’s letting me win this one for reasons known only to his tyrant brain.

After that, we let the quiet take over. It’s not the brittle kind that used to live between us, all knives and unsaid things. It’s…easy. Every so often he adjusts his pace like he’s accommodating for me without making a scene. Every so often I slow even more just to make him adjust again.

Petty, yes. Satisfying, also yes.

We turn the last corner, and my dorms are there. He stops a respectful pace away, hands loose at his sides, eyes steady on my face and nowhere else.

“Goodnight, Sloane,” he says.

It lands warm in my chest in a way I refuse to examine. “Goodnight, Dain.”

Breakfast at Basgiath is always a siege line, half-asleep cadets charging the porridge like it’s a breach in the wards. I shoulder through with a tray, grab eggs, two heel-ends of bread, and a slab of honeycomb.

“I cannot believe you kept your shields up all night,” Thoirt grumbles, her voice a low storm in my skull. “Like a little fortress with ‘No Dragons Allowed’ carved into the wards.”

“You told me to,” I shoot back, sliding the good tea onto my tray before anyone else grabs it. “Said you didn’t want to be bothered.”

“Because I thought you were going to go flirt with the unfunny healer,” she shoots back, smug. “Not become friends with your Wingleader. That I actually wanted to see.”

I almost choke on a laugh. “You wanted to see him?”

“I wanted to see you seeing him,” Thoirt corrects. “Very different. Also, his posture is soothing. Like a very tall rulebook someone gave arms.”

“Gods, you’re impossible.” I snag an apple for later and march toward our table before my dragon can get smugger.

Our table’s already a mess of trays. Avalynn’s stabbing fruit like it insulted her, Baylor beams like the sun itself sat down beside us, Kai’s polishing off porridge like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, and Lynx is building a tower out of butter pats.

“Morning, menace,” Avalynn says, sharp smile in place. “Sleep well?”

I drop my tray, shrug. “Define well.”

“Did you sneak out again?” Lynx cuts in, squinting at me. “Because I swear I saw you slip out after drills.”

“Insomnia walk,” I say sweetly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Tell them he braided your hair,” Thoirt purrs, wicked.

I slam my fork down. “He did not braid my hair. It was a knight’s knot”

Avalynn doesn’t buy it. Her gaze flicks sharp between me and the far side of the room where Dain sits with Imogen, sipping tea like he’s auditioning for nobility. She doesn’t say a word, but her raised brow says plenty.

“Anyway,” Baylor says quickly, leaning forward like he can shift the entire conversation. His eyes practically glow. “I have a meeting with Wingleader Aetos tomorrow. Leadership pathways. He asked me in front of everyone.”

Avalynn whistles. “Look at you, golden boy.”

Baylor flushes but grins wider. “My family thought I’d never make it even to the infantry quadrant. Said riders would eat me alive.” He stabs a chunk of bread, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing against ghosts. “I’m going to prove them wrong.”

Avalynn claps him on the back. “Damn right you are. You’re not stupid. You’re just… nice. They never know what to do with that.”

Baylor beams, a little misty at the edges. I steal his honey just to keep him from glowing us all blind.

“Speaking of Wingleader Aetos,” Lynx groans, collapsing dramatically onto his folded arms. “I take back what I said about his voice being attractive. It just gave me stress. Every time he told me to stabilize pressure, I swear my heart rate doubled.”

“Pretty sure he lists that as a leadership metric. ‘Make Lynx sweat in under ten seconds’ Check.” I mutter.

“Funny,” he says flatly. “Hilarious.”

Kai shakes his head, practical as ever. “You’re all dramatic. In Poromiel, we learn this by sixteen. You know how many cousins I’ve patched up?”

“Enough to make you sound like a grandfather,” Avalynn says.

“Enough to know it’s not new,” Kai corrects. “But Navarre has to wrap everything in lectures.”

Avalynn snorts, flipping her braid back. “Family drills, huh? My mother would kill for that kind of cohesion. She still says my siblings and I would rather stab each other than save each other.”

She grins, sharp. “And yet we’d still burn the world down for each other. That’s family.”

Her words dig under my ribs in ways I don’t want to name. Family. Liam. Mom. Dad. Aaric’s empty place. I push the thought down with honey and tea.

Avalynn waits until Baylor’s off debating stitch patterns with Kai and Lynx is bargaining with the gods for a nausea reprieve. Then her fingers hook my elbow and I’m being towed out of the mess like contraband.

We duck into the narrow alcove by the stairwell where the stone sweats and sound goes soft.

“All right,” she says, low and lethal-casual. “We’re doing girl talk.”

“I don’t do girl talk,” I reply, deadpan.

Her mouth quirks. “Call it whatever you like.” She tips her chin toward the hall. “Yesterday. Healers seminar.”

I stare at her.

She stares back. “Sloane.”

“What.”

“I’m not daft the way our beloved himbos are,” she continues, voice sweetened with poison. “They only noticed Aetos scheduling career counseling and making Lynx hyperventilate. I noticed Aetos spending ninety percent of the seminar pretending the rest of us were air while he burned holes in you.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, glancing down the corridor. “You’re loud.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “You are about as discrete as a dragon through a market. Garran and Dain were practically measuring dicks over your pulse.”

I choke on absolutely nothing. “Not everyone is in a love triangle, Avalynn.”

“Who said anything about love?” She blinks, all innocent lashes. “I said those men want to ravish you.”

“AVALYNN.”

“What?” She lifts both hands, palms up. “Observation. Not judgment. One of them calls you sweetheart like he invented the word and the other said ‘that’ll be all, Lieutenant,’ without looking away from your mouth.”

“You’re imagining things.”

She hums in disbelief. “Which one were you with last night?”

“Neither,” I lie so easily Thoirt would be proud.

Avalynn’s gaze drops to my jacket zipped high and then to my face, which I can only assume is doing something treacherous. “You don’t zip anything unless you’re trying to look innocent.”

“You done?” I mutter.

“Not remotely. Clarifying questions.” She ticks them off. “One: are you actually into Vey, or is he churam with dimples?”

I grimace. “He’s… helpful.” Then, lower, “Sometimes.”

“Translation: recreational mistake with good hair. Two: Aetos, are you fighting him or flirting with him? Because from where I stood, the answer was yes to both.”

My ears go hot. “He is our Wingleader.”

“That’s a job, not a spell.” She tips her head, studying me the way she studies blades. “Look, Sloane. I won’t push. Gods know the boys don’t notice anything unless it’s spelled out in paint. But I see you. You don’t let people near your throat unless you’ve decided they can live.”

My breath stutters. I hate that she’s right.

So I change the subject, fast, catching the moment to pivot. “Let’s talk about you actually. It’s been months, and we’re still stuck on Kai or Baylor.”

Avalynn snorts, one hip hooked against the sill like she’s already posed for this conversation a dozen times. “I don’t know. I want them both. Doesn’t that effectively mean I want none of them?”

I blink. “You could, potentially, have them both.”

She throws up her hands. “See? That’s exactly what Visia said in that awful biography she left behind. ‘The Widow Who Kept Her Choices,’ or whatever melodrama it was titled. That widow was labeled a tramp for it.”

“Visia had a flair for the dramatic,” I say, trying not to smile at the memory. The book sits on a shelf in Avalynn’s room like a dare.

“A tramp is not an option,” Avalynn announces solemnly. “My mother will have a heart attack. She’s already set aside a wedding dress for me.”

“Shayana could wear it instead.” I snort.

“Please. No offense to my sister, but no one is marrying that little monster.” Avalynn snuffs.

“Babe, no one is marrying us either,” I say. “We’re going to be forty, circling taverns, stealing other people’s bread, and arguing over who owes who the last dram.”

“Uhhh, why can’t our friend circle be useful?” she protests. “Why can’t one of us snag someone practical, with land or a library?”

I tap my chin. “You’re done with Baylor and Kai. Lynx, by his own admission, is a penis-kind-of-man.” I grin. “And Aaric is… Aaric.”

“Baylor apparently has an elder brother remember,” she says, conspiratorial.

“Baylor would have a heart attack if you went for his brother,” I say, already picturing the poor boy clutching his breast like he’d been unfairly accused of murder.

“Technically Aaric has a brother too,” she tosses back.

I bark a laugh. “I have heard truly horrible things about Halden Tauri. Please. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to flirt with the prince of nightmares.”

Avalynn’s grin goes wicked. “Why not? I could be queen if I wanted. I am magnanimous and petty.”

“Magnanimous and petty are antonyms,” I point out. My tone is mock-reproving, but it’s soft. “You can’t be both.”

She winks. “Watch me.”

We fall into an easy silence for a beat, the kind that’s full of the comfortable noise of our lives. She glances down at her charred hands.

I bump her shoulder lightly. “You’re still pulling too much fire in your grip. Next time, bank it in your chest first like oxygen. You’ll hold steadier.”

Her mouth wobbles, then steadies into a grin. “You read up on fire signets?”

“Someone has to keep you from burning your own eyebrows off.”

“Rude,” she says, but her eyes soften, bright and grateful.

The lightness fades when she adds, quieter. “It’s worse at night. Harder to control. Especially with… everything.”

“The riots?” I ask, already knowing.

She nods, voice slipping low. “I worry every night. Morraine’s a mess, protests everywhere, food lines cut. And now with the venin…” She swallows. “It’s not just about surviving. I hope they’ve got food to eat. Every day I’m here, it feels like I’m waiting for a letter saying it’s all gone.” Her mouth twists. “And apparently Melgren himself is there, ‘resolving disputes.’ Since when does the general of the entire army settle provincial protests?”

I frown. “That doesn’t make sense. Unless the crown is hiding something.”

Avalynn shrugs like she doesn’t want to think about it, but her hands twist restless.

I nudge her again. “Hey. You’re not alone in this. You know that right? I’ll help you train that fire everyday till you’re ready to protect your entire family.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, sharp and loud. “Gods, I love you.”

“Obviously.”

Her eyes flick, grateful, before she rolls her shoulders back and switches tracks with practiced ease. “Anyway. Enough doom. If we don’t get moving, we’ll be late for round two of the healers’ funfair.” Her grin sharpens. “You ready for another day of Aetos glaring into your skull and Vey hovering with his dimples?”

“Absolutely not.” I groan, dragging my braid over my shoulder. “I hate both of them.”

She grins. “If either of them hurts you, I will stitch their egos shut without anesthetic.”

“That’s… graphic.”

“Seminar-appropriate,” she says sweetly. Then she squeezes my forearm once, all sharp warmth.

Avalynn hooks her arm through mine and hauls, boots skittering on stone.

“Golden fury, you’re letting yourself be hauled,” Thoirt purrs in my skull, smug as a cat in cream. “Progress.”

“Shut up,” I mutter inwardly. “I’m conserving energy.”

“Mmm. Conserve all you like. I was simply noticing the contentment radiating off you.”

“Contentment?” I snort. “I feel like an active volcano.”

“Yes. A volcano with a picnic blanket.” Warm amusement coils through the bond. “Do not argue, golden fury. I can feel it. You are happy, even if your mouth hasn’t been informed.”

I roll my eyes at nothing. “Kind of ironic, being happy when I’ve spent the past year giving everyone else a migraine.”

“And still,” Thoirt says, velvet turning earnest, “you made me happy. You, who thought you were nothing but a siphon-shaped problem, kept showing up like a solution.”

Avalynn yanks me around a corner. “Hurry, or Garran will make us suture oranges again.”

“A solution?” I try to keep my face blank. “I couldn’t even help you with the tear on your wing. None of my appendages worked.”

“Not the point. The point is you never stopped. You snuck out for flying outside of sanctioned drills. You smuggled honey-laced salves for my right wing and hunted texts to ease the ache. You practiced mounts and dismounts a hundred times until your legs remembered what your fear forgot.”

“I dropped off your shoulder three of those times.”

“Four,” she corrects, wickedly pleased. “And you still climbed back up with all the dignity of a feral goat.”

I bite back a smile. Avalynn glances over, suspicious, then resumes towing.

“Listen to me,” Thoirt murmurs, softer now. “You think your fury is the price of usefulness. But it is also why you care this hard, about me, about your squad, about that grim Wingleader who looks at you like you’re a map out of a storm.”

“Do not bring him into this,” I hiss internally.

“I bring what I like.” A warm press, like a wingtip along my spine. “You are golden, not for your hair, not for the thread of magic you shape, but because you make people braver beside you. You turn panic into practice. You make me… ME… more sure of the sky.”

My throat goes tight, stupidly. “I’m not good at…any of this. Friendship. Feelings. Whatever…. Love”

I had loved Liam the way roots cling to soil, so completely that his friends had became mine, his world became my only world. And when he died, it all tore out of me at once. The love, the belonging, the map I’d built my life on. What’s left was anger. At the things he chose to save, at the people he put above me in his final breath. It’s why I lash out, why I fight until I’m raw.

“And yet you keep trying,” Thoirt says, pride gilding every word. “That is the whole of it. You didn’t give up on yourself. You haven’t given up on me. I am content because you are mine and you are still climbing.”

I would climb through the sky for her. I would climb until my lungs burned and my palms bled, and still it would never be enough to match what Thoirt has given me.

I sniff, aggressively. “If Avalynn sees me getting sentimental, she’ll schedule an intervention.”

“Come on, our friends are already there,” Avalynn says again, dragging me forward.

Friends.

I don’t say it out loud, but it sticks anyway. Dain with his too-serious promises. Avalynn with her laughter cutting through the dark. Baylor and Kai and Lynx in their own chaotic ways. Aaric when I let myself revel in our memories. Imogen and Violet bound to me by our shared tether to Liam. I used to fight it, out of jealousy. But now I see, it’s these bonds that keep him eternal.

For so long I’ve been sharpening myself into usefulness, like that’s the only way to keep breathing. But maybe this is usefulness too, letting people claim me and giving them pieces of my heart.

And for once, I let myself be dragged.

Chapter Text

“The gods do not guard the Source. They feed it. They bleed their Chosen into the ground so that mortals may wield safely. When a Chosen falls, the Venin rise, for balance is jealous and collects its price.”
— Teachings of Priestess Liora, Temple of Amari

DAIN

For once, I’m not barking orders or running interference on cadets. For once, I’ve left the squad leaders to do their jobs.

My body remembers what it’s like to work for itself. Pull, twist, strike. The weighted staff hisses as I drive it in a clean arc, pivot on my foot, reset, repeat. Muscles burn the way they should, honest and simple.

Across the mats, something catches at the corner of my vision.

Sloane.

Of course.

She’s balanced on a wobble board like it’s an insult, braid swinging with every shift. And gods, she’s staring. Not the quick, reflexive glance cadets give their Wingleader to check if they’re being judged.

I expect her eyes to dart down the moment they meet mine. They don’t. Which is worse.

Heat scrapes under my skin in a way no sparring ever does. I raise a hand in the most awkward half-wave I can manage.

Dunne’s teeth. Is that what friends are supposed to do?

Her balance wobbles immediately. The board skids an inch. She almost falls face down but catches herself at last moment. She laughs, sharp and unrepentant.

“This is your fault,” she calls, amusement cutting the gym.

I drag a forearm over my brow and walk toward her. “Distracted that easily?”

“By you?” Her grin is wicked. “Please. I survived drills with Imogen. I can survive the sight of Wingleader Aetos pretending he doesn’t like showing off.”

My voice drops, dry. “If I wanted to show off, Mairi, you’d be on the mat already.”

She laughs, eyes narrowed like she’s found a new game. “Promises, promises.”

I arch a brow. “Is that what you want?”

“Gods, listen to you. Say it a little darker, Wingleader, maybe I’ll even start to believe you’re scary.”

I cross my arms, chest still rising from exertion. “You think you’re untouchable.”

“Untouchable?” She snorts, hopping back onto the wobble board like it’s a stage. “I am not untouchable. However, I am the distraction you can’t stop waving at. So I’d say I’m winning.”

The corner of my mouth betrays me, again. “Falling off the board doesn’t count as victory.”

She wobbles again, exaggerating this time, grinning down with pure mischief. This time, it earns her an audience.

“Careful, sunshine! Would hate for gravity to break your sparring streak and put you flat on your back.”

Ridoc bounds across the mats like a one-man rescue party, arms out as if he’s about to catch her bridal-style.

“Do I clap now, or after the dramatic tumble?”

Sloane snorts. “I was perfectly fine until he started waving at me.”

Ridoc gasps, hand to chest. “You waved? What’s next… smiling?”

“Ridoc,” I grind out.

He ignores me, hopping up to offer Sloane a hand like she’s in mortal peril. “If tall, dark, and Codex keeps knocking you off balance, I’ll catch you. Quicker reflexes anyway.”

Sloane laughs bright. “See? Some men know how to be supportive.”

Ridoc shoots me a pointed look. “Supportive. Hear that, Aetos? Write it down in your little soldier’s notebook. Maybe she’ll let you wave again someday.”

“Ridoc.” Tighter this time.

He tosses a mock salute. “Yes, sir. Just assisting your cadet, sir. Totally professional, sir.”

Ridoc’s been persistent with this since autumn. Hints, pokes, the occasional whisper implying I harbored feelings for Sloane fucking Mairi. He isn’t wrong now, maybe. But back then? He was wrong. I hated her. I’m sure of it. Maybe.

Before I can respond, the doors slam open. A runner stumbles across the mats.

“Wingleader Aetos.” A sharp salute. “The General requests your presence.”

My stomach knots. My father? Why now? Whatever it is, it won’t be good. It never is.

Ridoc’s grin fades, edged with concern. “You good?” he mutters low, like he’s ready to follow. Sloane’s gaze finds mine across the gym, no smirk.

I give them both a short nod, then square my shoulders toward the runner. “Lead on.”

And I leave them both behind.

Cath finally stirs, a slow, ancient roll through my skull like a mountain waking. “Hello.”

“Well, look who’s awake,” I tease, pouting just enough to sound petulant. “Nice of you to show up.”

“You were thinking about your favored’s braid for eight minutes the last time I checked,” he announces, offended by the waste of eternity. “Do not blame my silence on me. Tell me Bastion, does her braid hold the realm together?”

“In other important news, you’ll be thrilled to sit in on my conversation with my father.”

“Thrilled is not the word. But I will supervise your mouth.”

But when I push through the arch into the command room, it isn’t my father waiting.

General Melgren is waiting in the small stone briefing chamber off the yard, back to the window, posture easy in a way that says he never needs to prove he owns the room. He’s lean and long-boned, uniform immaculate to insult, medals gleaming in precise rows.

Every instinct I own hardens at once. My spine locks, my shoulders square, my throat dries. Whatever irritation or suspicion I carried drains clean.

“General,” I say, voice flat and proper, every inch the soldier.

Melgren doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He gestures to the chair opposite the small map table. “At ease, Wingleader. Sit.”

“Do not sprawl. One angle of the knee off the table edge. Show discipline, not eagerness,” Cath instructs, cool iron settling along my nerves as I sit.

He taps a knuckle once on the borderlands front. “Your reports from Aretia were…efficient. Clean eyes. You don’t decorate conclusions.”

“Sir.”

A flick of his gaze. “Your father sells you short. You’ve got more spark than he admits.”

Cath’s growl is a fissure under my ribs. “Watch him. He smells of bait.”

Melgren doesn’t press the compliment further. He lets the silence sit like a test. “You’ve seen more than a lot of cadets. You bled, deserted, returned. Yet you hold the line. That interests me.”

My chest tightens. “With respect, sir, I didn’t think the General of Navarre had time to be interested in deserters.”

“Ah.” He half-smiles, scar tugging. “That’s where your father blinds you. He’s a good soldier, no one doubts that. But he doesn’t understand the fire that drives the young. He never did.”

The words hit sharper than they should. Undermining. Testing.

“After graduation, you’ll be wasted on the border. You belong in Calldyr.”

My brows pull before I can stop them. “Where the royal family resides, sir?”

“Where the spine of the kingdom bends and unbends,” he says simply. “The palace. The Council. They need things beyond steel and dragonfire. They need judgement.”

It makes no sense. My trajectory has always been border, fighting enemies at the edge of the wards. “With respect, sir, why me?”

His eyes glint. “Because you’ve already learned what your father has not: rules are only useful when they serve people, not the other way around. And because…” His pause is deliberate. “My daughter speaks highly of you.”

My chest jerks. “…Alanna.”

Alanna. Too sharp with her temper, too quick to turn affection into accusations. Smart, but utterly exhausting, and even more confused about her own beliefs than I am. One day it was gryphons and dragons should live in harmony, the next she was quoting her father about dragon supremacy. Once, she managed both in the same breath and then accused me of not listening. I ended it when it became clear I couldn’t breathe without tripping her suspicions.

“She knows the city better than most. Could show you around. Reacquaint you, perhaps. Calldyr can be…lonely for those who arrive without anchors.”

I don’t know which part stings worse. That he’d bring up the girl I left behind, or that he speaks of me like an investment, already decided. “Sir, with respect—”

“Think on it.” His tone shuts like a vault. “Serve your wing. Serve your kingdom. And when the time comes, Calldyr will be ready for you.”

I salute, sharp enough to crack bone, because there’s nothing else to do. His eyes hold mine a second longer, and I swear it feels like being weighed on scales I can’t read.

“Dismissed, Wingleader.”

As I step back into the corridor, Cath’s voice comes back into my head.

“This reeks of design.”

I rake a hand through my hair, jaw tight. “Design how? He offered Calldyr like it’s a prize. What kind of game is that?”

“Either your father has his hand in this, or it is a move directly against him,” Cath rumbles, weighty and sure. “A general does not pluck a wingleader from drills unless the strings run deeper. You are a piece, Bastion, whether you asked to be or not.”

I exhale through my nose, a little too sharp. “What could even be the reason for wanting me close to the palace? I’m not the kind of soldier they celebrate. I’m not—”

“Not what you think you are,” Cath cuts in, voice ancient, heavy with secrets. “You are more. And men like Melgren can smell it, even if you cannot.”

That thought chills worse than the cold air curling through the archways.

And I don’t have the luxury of unraveling it. Not when I am in the middle of planning a research heist for Sloane. Maybe I should tell Melgren that and watch him rethink his life choices about promoting me.

I catch them at the edge of the yard. Sloane, stabbing at the air with her hands like she’s arguing with the gods themselves, and Avalynn walking beside her, half-smirking.

“Cadet Mairi.” My voice lands neutral. “A word.”

Avalynn stops dead, the delight on her face turning theatrical pity in a single blink. “Our wingleader stealing his own cadet for scandalous private counsel. Do I need to fetch the Codex or a chaperone? I can do both.”

“Go secure us seats at mess,” Sloane orders, not looking away from me. “Preferably near the window.”

Avalynn’s grin turns feral. “If either of you appears five minutes late and disheveled, I will assume friendship is thriving.” She salutes with two fingers and vanishes into the crowd.

I watch her go, baffled. “Does she ever speak plainly?”

Sloane tips her head, braid sliding over her shoulder. “That was plain. For Avalynn.”

I arch a brow. “Concerning.”

“Welcome to my life,” she mutters. “So. What was that summons about? Your father?”

“Not my father. General Melgren.”

Her surprise is sharp enough to show. “Melgren? Really?”

“Yes.” The word tastes clipped. “He wanted a…conversation.”

“About what?”

“Career routes. Postings. Nothing more.” I answer, flat.

Her smirk creeps in. “The General of the whole godsdamned army calling you in for career advice. Wingleader dearest, truly beloved of the realm.”

“Yeah, I didn’t come here to talk about me. I need what you know about rune locks. Not the lecture version.”

That kills the smirk. She eyes me, sharp. “Why?”

“Because I intend to access Naolin’s sealed texts. Locked under his runes.”

She barks out a laugh. “Let me guess. You were going to sneak in alone, charm the wards with your winning personality, because the Codex kissed your forehead at birth?”

“Not exactly.” My tone stays clipped, but I hold her gaze. “As you know, the wards can be surpassed by professors’ seals. Impossible to duplicate, yes. But not impossible to borrow. They trust me.”

“And once you’re through?”

“I won’t move the texts. That would trigger the wards. But if I copy every line and every equation quietly, and return the seal before anyone notices…”

Her grin sharpens like a blade. “That’s grand academic larceny. Hedeon bless my heart.”

“I’m planning research,” I correct, clipped.

She steps closer, eyes lit with mischief. “No, you’re planning to break into the most warded room in the quadrant and hand-copy contraband like a monk. Tell me again how I’m the reckless one.”

“You are,” I mutter.

“And yet you need me,” she shoots back. “For rune locks?”

“The texts themselves are rune-locked by Naolin. Brennan mentioned that the last time I spoke to him through Marbh and Cath.”

The words still taste like betrayal in my mouth. Do not even bother taking that risk, Brennan had said. But I don’t tell her that. I haven’t yet reconciled with the fact that I defied my superior officer let alone Brennan.

Instead, I meet her gaze intently. “Teach me how to break rune locks.”

She stares at me a beat. “You really are allergic to asking for help like a normal person.” A pause. Then almost reluctant she says “You don’t have to do this for me, you know.”

My jaw tightens. “It isn’t ‘for you.’ It’s for the Wing.” Hopefully the lie is believable enough.

Her gaze flicks over my face, reading more than I’ve said. “You do realize, that if anyone finds out… you could be gutted. Stripped of rank. No more Wingleader halo. No glorious career.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Worry. Real, raw worry. The kind you don’t fake.

“Whatever’s in those notes… fine, I want to know, but I’ll live without it. You? You care about all this.” Her hand makes a vague circle that somehow takes in Basgiath, the chain of command, my father’s shadow, all of it. “You care about being a good soldier. Don’t torch that just because I can’t sleep through a night without clawing myself apart.”

I’ve spent too long hiding behind the line, playing the obedient soldier. It’s won me nothing but ghosts and a hollow chest. The truth is shamefully simple. I care about her more.

I shake my head. “I’m doing this.”

Her jaw flexes. The silence stretches taut between us. Then she exhales, sharp and final. “Fine. I’m coming with you and that is non-negotiable.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll compromise the operation.”

Her grin is a flash of teeth. “Please. Without me, the rune lock will burn you. Or do you want to explain to Kaori why his favorite Wingleader got his eyebrows blown off in the archives?”

I narrow my eyes. She meets it without flinching. Gods, she’s infuriating. And radiant. And right.

“Non-negotiable,” she repeats, stepping close enough that her braid brushes my arm.

I should tell her no. Should pull rank, shut this down before it turns into another reckless disaster with her name written all over it.

Instead, what comes out is rougher than intended. “Fine. You come. But you follow my lead.”

Her grin is victorious, too bright for the mess we’re about to be in. “Knew you’d see reason.” She jerks her chin toward the hall. “Come on, mess hall. Or are you too good to dine with first years? Is our friendship strictly a behind-closed-doors arrangement?”

The word friendship hooks in me. I was the one who offered it, back on that gym floor like a desperate besotted cadet, and she hasn’t let me take it back. Not even when she stands this close.

“I don’t—” My protest cuts off when she starts walking, and I fall into step beside her as if it’s already decided.

And suddenly all I can think about is how wrong the word friendship sounds on her. Too small a word for the kind of pull she has on me.

I could spend an entire day listening to her tear a text apart, letting her dismantle me with that sharp tongue until I forget my own arguments. Then the same night I’d wreck her in return. Slow at first just to watch her squirm, then harder until she’s raw and begging and finally unclenched, gasping my name with her pretty mouth. And gods help me, I would spend the morning after watching her braid her hair with ink-stained fingers while I laced her boots, content just to kneel at her feet if it meant she kept looking at me like I was worth her time.

“You are staring,” Cath rumbles, dry as stone. “And thinking too loudly.”

“I am not,” I fire back.

“I fail to see,” he continues, “why you cannot simply claim her instead of entertaining these unbecoming thoughts. A Bastion does not moon about like a lovesick cadet. A Bastion takes.”

My jaw grinds. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is precisely how it works,” Cath insists, unbothered. “You build walls. You hold ground. And when something belongs inside those walls, you bring it there. End this dithering before you turn both of us into a spectacle.”

“Gods, you have that constipated look again.” Her voice cuts through before Cath can get smug about my silence. “Talking to Cath?”

I school my expression, clipped. “No.”

“Liar.” Her grin sharpens, wicked. “What’s he saying? Let me guess… he’s furious about the grand academic larceny I’m dragging you into. Telling you how disappointed he is. Or…” Her eyes glitter, too pleased with herself. “Wait. Is he talking about me?”

My jaw locks.

“Oh my gods.” Her hand flies to her mouth in mock horror. “He is. Hi, Cath.”

The rumble that answers in my skull is dark enough to make my temples ache. “Tell your favored not to address me directly again. I don’t like it.”

I bite back a laugh and force the words out. “He acknowledges your greeting.”

Sloane’s grin splits wide, victorious. “Oh, this is gold. What does he call me in that big scary head of his? C’mon. You can’t dangle that and not deliver.”

My jaw clenches. “He doesn’t—”

“He does.” She cuts me off, smirk wicked. “Thoirt has a variety of nicknames for you, you know. Wingleader. Broody hen. Rulebook with legs.” She tilts her head, eyes too sharp. “So what’s mine?”

I lie without hesitation. “He doesn’t give you one.”

Her brows shoot up, skeptical as a blade. “Oh, please. Dragons live for nicknames. They thrive on them.”

My pulse spikes, because I can feel Cath’s amusement coil hot in my skull. “Go on, Bastion. Tell her what I named her.”

“Not happening. You are not talking to Thoirt about it either.” I fire back, blood hammering in my ears.

I bite back the curse rising in my throat. “He doesn’t. You’re imagining things.”

She narrows her eyes, grin sharkish. “You’re a terrible liar, Aetos. But fine. Keep your secrets.”

Her braid swings as she strides ahead, careless, already shifting the conversation to whether the mess has any honey left this late.

I let her voice wash over me without answering, because the truth sits heavy and undeniable. She laughs in my face, mocks my rank, drags me into breaking every rule I have for myself. And instead of writing her up, instead of pulling rank, I’m planning a godsdamned heist for her.

Loial help me, she’s my favored.

The professor’s lounge always smells of parchment and ink. I’ve walked in here a hundred times with reports, with requests, always by the book. Today, the lie rides heavy in my mouth.

Professor Kaori doesn’t look up from the scrolls he’s sorting. “Wingleader Aetos.” His voice is smooth, factual. “Report.”

I incline my head, posture crisp. “Sir. I noticed something while reviewing the release of sealed archives after the Venin revelations. Certain battle texts were never cleared for cadet access.”

That earns me a flicker of Carr’s gaze from across the room. He sets his quill down. “Those were sealed before your time.”

“Yes, sir.” I keep my tone clipped, respectful. “But they’re harmless now that everyone is aware of the Venin. I believe they would be useful to my cadets.” I let my voice narrow into precision. “Especially as we prepare for war games.”

Devara finally glances up, hands folded like marble over her ledger. “You believe?”

I nod once. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve cross-referenced the unsealed records. The missing volumes cover formations and magical reinforcement techniques no longer considered dangerous. I’m requesting temporary access to confirm.”

The silence stretches, as all three professors try to read me. Finally, Kaori nods once. “Acceptable. It’s good to see you making the effort for your cadets, given everything.”

Carr just mutters, “It’s expected.” like it’s a compliment.

My face doesn’t shift, but the anxiety in my chest loosens at their approval. Kaori reaches for the professor seals. He sets one in front of me. “You’ll log your hours. No texts leave the archives.”

“Of course, sir.” My hand doesn’t tremble when I take it.

I step out with my face smoothed into neutrality, but inside every nerve hums with the sharp edge of what I’ve just done. Lied. Persuaded. Walked out carrying contraband on borrowed authority.

And she’s waiting.

Sloane leans against the stone archway like she’s auditioning for a spy novel. Ponytail tight, jacket zipped to her chin, boots scuffed on purpose to look nondescript.

She lights up as I approach. “Did you bring me a present?”

I hold up the seal between two fingers.

She pushes off the wall, steps closer, close enough that her faint citrus scent hits me again. “You actually did it.”

“Of course I did,” I say, tracking her eyes.

She steps closer like she’s looking for the crack in the armor. “You could’ve been court-martialed if they caught you lying.”

“Could have.” I shrug, deliberately casual. “They didn’t.”

For once, she doesn’t mock me. Doesn’t jab the Codex into my ribs. She just studies me, blue eyes catching the light. “You really are so peculiar.”

“Come on,” I murmur, letting the corner of my mouth betray me. “Before your spy outfit causes a scene.”

Her laugh is startled and soft in a way I’ve never heard from her before. We fall into step, the seal a steady weight in my pocket.

I glance at her zipped leathers, the collar pulled tight to her chin. “You know, if you really want to be inconspicuous, you should…unzip a little. Looks less suspicious.”

She blinks, incredulous. “Avalynn said the same thing last week! Why does everyone care about my jacket?”

“Because apparently, Cadet Mairi, zipped all the way up is the universal sign for hiding something.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Is this, a conspiracy against my collarbones?”

“Merely an observation,” I say as my mouth betrays me again with the faintest twitch of a smile.

“So,” she says lightly, like we’re strolling toward dinner and not an academic crime, “what’s the grand master plan, Wingleader?”

“The seal gets us through the wards around the sealed section,” I reply, clipped. “That’s the hard perimeter. Once we’re in, the real problem is the rune lock on Naolin’s texts.”

Her ponytail bounces as she tilts her head, already smirking. “Depending on what kind it is, I can break it.”

“I’ll copy every word,” I promise. “But the second you see or hear anyone, you signal me and run.”

She hums. “Sure.”

I glance sideways. “That didn’t sound like agreement.”

Her mouth curls. “Oh, it was agreement. Just not the kind you like.”

We don’t argue further. Boots tap stone in a rhythm that feels too loud, carrying us deeper into the heart of the tower until we finally reach our destination.

The archives breathe like a sleeping beast. Scribes move in quiet lines, heads bowed, flipping of pages the only sharp sound.

“Head down,” I murmur. “And for Zihnal’s sake, stop swishing the ponytail like you’re signaling troopers.”

“It’s aerodynamic,” she whispers back. “Unlike your conscience.”

I don’t dignify that. Two fingers brush my chest in greeting. Across the room, the head scribe Farel, glances up. I give her quick, clean signs: Good evening / Wingleader Fourth Wing / sealed formation records / audit / with assistant. She answers with a flick of fingers: logged?

Soon, I sign, then step into Farel’s line of sight and bump my hip into the tall bundle of forms by the desk.

A thousand pale cards fall to the floor.

Two junior scribes explode into motion with soft curses. Farel’s shoulders hitch in pained resignation. “Wingleader Aetos,” she whispers, scandalized, already kneeling. “Your coordination fails to meet expectation.”

“Unfortunate,” I say, bland as stone, crouching to help. My hand moves with military precision through the cards and in the confusion, I slide one of the pre-authorized assistant badges into my palm. By the time I rise, it rests in my pocket beside Kaori’s seal.

We thread the long aisle to the inner arch. Two infantry soldiers stand posted at the sealed section.

“Wingleader.” The taller one tips his chin at the bronze emblem that marks the entrance. “Sealed stacks. State your purpose.”

I present Kaori’s seal. “Audit for declassification of battle texts. I have faculty authorization for temporary access.”

His gaze drops to the seal, up to my face, then past my shoulder where Sloane emerges at my side like she’s always belonged there.

“And her?”

I draw the slim bronze badge I just stole, and let it glint. “My assistant. For verification and timekeeping.”

The guard’s eyes narrow. “Assistants are typically scribes, not riders.”

“Typically, we aren’t fighting venin on our borders,” I return, bland as porridge. “We’ll be cross-referencing battle formations for field applicability. My assistant is trained and literate.” A beat. “Exceedingly.”

Sloane’s mouth curves, dangerous. “Do you want me to count to a hundred so you can be sure?”

I flatten two fingers against the seam of her sleeve and use sign language again; behave. Her eyes flash, but she swallows the next remark.

The guard glances to his partner, then back to the seal. “Sign the log. Both of you. Duration, purpose. All weapons off.”

I unbuckle my dagger, flip it hilt-first. Beside me, Sloane shrugs off her jacket and peels the slim daggers from their hidden sheaths. One at her thigh, another under her ribs, the last tucked near her boot. Each glints as it drops into the tray, a slow strip-down that leaves her in just her fitted flight leathers.

I catch one of the infantry’s eyes snagging on the line of her waist.

Look again and I’ll gut you with the very weapons you’re cataloguing. The thought flashes, white-hot, involuntary. I try to remind myself he’s literally just doing his job.

“Satisfied?” she drawls, tightening her ponytail.

The guard clears his throat and gestures to the stacks.

I step forward, and the wards prickle tasting the professor’s seal. I reach out automatically to pull her in with me then freeze, debating holding her shoulder, elbow or wrist.

She catches my drift with an exasperated sigh, slides her hand into mine like it’s the most practical solution in the world, and ends up pulling herself forward instead. Her palm stays against mine a heartbeat longer than necessary before she lets go.

Sloane breathes out, a giddy sound she’d kill me for noting. “You really are the golden boy,” she murmurs. “Doors fall in love with you.”

“It’s the posture,” I say. “And the charming personality.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she deadpans. “Your personality is a love sonnet.” Her eyes flick toward the guards still watching us. “Meanwhile, I get questioned by five different instructors if I am seen in the vicinity of another marked one. But you? Flash a seal, say three clipped words, and the world parts like the sea. Must be nice being General Aetos’s son.”

The words should sting. They don’t. They burn in a different way, because she’s right. Every day it’s painfully clearer that the system I was raised to worship has never been fair. Not for her. Not for any of them. Rules don’t treat everyone equally. They bend for the powerful. They break the rest. And I’m standing here proof of it.

She must notice how quiet I’ve gone, because her voice comes softer. “Hey—I didn’t mean— I know things are rough with your dad—”

“No.” I cut her off, sharper than intended, but I force it steady. “You’re right. About the privilege.”

The same privilege I took for granted when I orchestrated Violet’s transfer to the scribes quadrant. The same privilege I could’ve used instead to train and protect her.

“I should’ve been doing more from the beginning… you know.”

Sloane just gives a single nod and it lands heavier than a speech.

We reach the iron-faced case that holds Naolin’s notes. Up close, the lock hums, a layered web of intention. She steps in to study the runes etched into the iron.

“Well this is the hard part.” I murmur, low enough for her alone.

“Please,” she says, eyes bright, already mapping. “Runes are just shapes built on equations, you know. You start with the numbers, draw up shapes based on them. Then anchor your magic in those shapes. They can be broken into if you figure out what those initial secret numbers were.”

I frown. “We were taught that the numbers chosen by our magic are random.”

Her eyes flick over the lock like she’s reading a book only she can see. “They look random, but they’re never truly random. They’re always tied to something you can derive like the moon phase, location coordinates, or even the sequence of stars in the sky. Our magics pick or we can choose.”

“And Naolin,” I say slowly, “was a siphon. With magic similar to yours.” The realization hits like a hammer. “That’s why you insisted on coming.”

Her mouth quirks, sharp and a little smug. “Yeah. That…and watching the golden boy in action.”

I arch a brow. “You could’ve just asked. Preferably in a less exposed setting.”

She glances up, catching the double edge I didn’t mean to let slip. “I can crack the numbers. You can keep the guards from asking why a cadet is on her knees flirting with ironwork.”

“Professional as ever,” I mutter, stepping back to the corner of the stacks. Back straight, every sense tuned outward. Guard duty.

Her damned ponytail keeps swaying in my peripheral vision, taunting like it knows exactly how close I am to losing focus.

Minutes stretch. Too many. Each sequence makes a rune flare, then dim, as if magic itself is bleeding out from it. Anyone else would be cursing by now. She doesn’t. She mimics Naolin’s rune to identify what equations her own magic is using and tries applying them to his, again and again. Patient and methodical where most would want to tear the lock apart by force.

About 15 minutes later, I feel the vibration under my boots. And finally, a sharp, clean click. The iron face softens, runes unraveling into smoke.

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours and lets out a startled laugh, bright and raw. “Yes!” She tips her chin up at me, smugness restored. “Told you I could do it.”

My voice drops, reverent, rougher than it should be. “Of course you could.”

I crouch, my gaze sweeping over the chalky scrawl etched across the floor. It’s her scratch work, the kind of fevered notation you’d find on a genius’s wall. Equations half-formed, symbols colliding, logic splintered and reassembled in ways that shouldn’t work but somehow does.

I look at fading glow of the lock. The patterns are fractured, irregular, but somehow, she bent them open anyway. There’s a brutal kind of elegance to the way she forced the pieces to fit. Beautifully broken.

The words slip out before I can leash them. “Clever girl.”

Her eyes flick to me, startled. A flush climbs high on her cheeks before she turns quickly toward the shelves.

I spread out parchment, ink, and a sharpened quill. “I’ll copy. You stand guard. I’m going to repeat myself. If anyone comes close, you signal me once and run. Don’t look back.”

She hums as if agreeing, but her blue eyes glitter with absolutely no intention of running. Not from this. Not from me.

I set the first ledger flat and start.

The diagrams are not sloppy, but crowded, like he kept rewriting the same line. I copy each stroke exactly, half ramblings I don’t understand.
—unwrapping signet into raw magic (HARD)
—if balance is a tax, who collects? (see “tithe of magic”)
—source = land, venin = pulling from the source
—riders = pulling from their dragons
—dragons = pulling from the unknown?

Second page introduces the hinge concept similar to how Sloane described it.
—pulling from professor berwyn: drinking from a well
—pulling from marty: chomping down on ice

The pages multiply. A neat section on runic derivation, he uses moon-age and star-position as seeds for his numbers. Sloane called it. Of course she did.

And then the tilt begins. The hand speeds up. The notes seem almost frantic.
—what is a king but a siphon that never stops drinking?
—ancient kings anchored the source, siphons manipulate the source. it is obvious who is more powerful.

My stomach turns. That’s not metaphor. He’s building a road and warning me off it at the same time. Should I be warned?

I glance at Sloane again for a sign that this was all a big mistake. She stands at the end of the aisle, hands loose at her sides, doing the precise wrong thing. Looking like she belongs. Looking determined.

We’re already in. We’re already damned.

I copy on.

The math degrades to almost-gibberish, but there’s method under the madness. The later the hour, the worse his penmanship, the more careful his cautions.
— do not drink when you are lonely
—do not drink to save a loved one

I hear a soft brush of knuckles against the shelf. Our signal. Someone’s coming.

“Run,” I whisper, already blotting the ink and sliding the copy under my jacket.

Instead, she’s at my side in three steps, hands moving over the parchment with a speed that makes my chest ache. She’s stacking, sealing, wiping the iron clean with the sleeve of her flight leathers. Efficient. Unstoppable.

“Go,” I hiss. “Just leave—”

“Not a chance.” She slams the case shut, runes dimming with her final press. “I am resealing these.”

I only got through half. Maybe a little more. Not enough. Never enough.

“It’s enough,” she says, reading the panic on my face. “More than enough.”

My mouth opens, but her next words gut me clean. “It’s your father.”

The world stops.

“No—” My pulse spikes, vision narrowing. “Who else?”

“Two professors. And…” She tilts her head. “General Melgren.”

The seal burns against my chest like a brand. My satchel feels heavier than my own skin.

“He’ll know—” I whisper. My father will know. His magic will find mine like a tuning fork. He knows the exact cadence of my magic.

“Shh.” One of hands catches mine, squeezes so hard I feel it in my bones. “Not today. You’re not getting caught today.”

She drags me into a tiny space between shelves, close enough that her breath ghosts my jaw. Close enough that if my father rounds the corner, he’ll see two cadets tangled too tight to be anything but reckless.

“Sloane—”

“Quiet.”

Her grip doesn’t falter. I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life. To obey or to break. The thought doesn’t scare me anymore. Not when I know whose hand I’d keep holding as I took all the blame.

Still, the boyish fear won’t leave. I know what waits if his gaze lands on me.

But then Sloane shifts closer, pressing into me as if sheer proximity can shield us. Her face angles against my chest, our linked hands locked so tight my knuckles ache. My arm instinctively curves at her waist, drawing her in. Despite barely reaching my shoulder, she fits there too easily. As though claiming the space and daring the world to try and rip her out of it.

I hear bootsteps. Heavy. Authority in every step. I know them before I see them.

My father’s presence is a pressure against the air itself. His signet is magical magnetism. The kind of power kept in sealed reports and whispered only behind war room doors. The ability to sense, snuff, or drag out every thread of magic in range.

It’s why it’s classified. Because a signet like his isn’t just battlefield utility, it’s surveillance and control. He can feel every rider’s bond if he chooses, pull them off-balance mid-flight. He can snuff out riders or fliers from more than a mile away, and I suspect he can even track Venin through the ground itself.

If he uses it, he’ll find us. He’ll find her.

“Chalk,” my father says. A single word, flat as a blade.

I follow his line of sight. One of Sloane’s quick rune calculations I thought I erased properly. Gods.

“Is anyone in this section?” His gaze doesn’t move, but I can hear the professor straighten.

“Unlikely, General,” the man replies, cautious. “Could have been from transport. A box scraped. A chip of chalk falling loose.”

“Then I should see for myself,” my father says and it like a blade.

The air shifts as he lets his signet bleed outward. It isn’t visible, not the way flame or lightning is, but I feel it. A pull under the skin, deep in the sternum. My own magic shivers, desperate to answer.

Sloane’s hand clamps harder on mine.

I look down only because I can’t not and nearly forget how to breathe. There’s a faint glow around her. Not the molten gold she flares when siphoning, but obsidian, dark and fractured. It flickers once, then steadies, wrapping her like a shield.

Is it her signet, reacting to him? I can’t tell. I can’t even risk a thought too loud.

Across the aisle, Melgren’s voice raises. “Do you suspect cadets, General?”

My father pauses. His magic claws over the room one more time, hooks biting and withdrawing. Every second stretches like a blade across my spine. He should know. I’m his son. He’s always known me.

“All clear,” he says at last. “Continue.”

The hooks retract. The pressure eases. And I’m left with the taste of blood where I bit my own tongue.

The boots carry past us, deeper into the sealed wing. They’re heading further in, where I can only assume even bigger secrets lie.

Only then do I realize Sloane hasn’t let go. Her thumb keeps dragging slow over my knuckles, steady, deliberate. I glance down, expecting defiance in her smirk. What I find stops me cold.

Her pupils are wide, swallowing blue into near-black. Her breath has gone shallow. She’s not watching the corridor anymore, she’s staring at me.

And fuck, she’s pressed flush against me, her waist caught beneath my arm, every curve of her body aligning with mine. I can feel the slope of her hip against my thigh, the rise of her breasts brushing when she inhales too quickly.

Something is happening inside her. I feel it. The same obsidian shimmer I glimpsed before is back, faint as a candle’s edge, curling at her throat. And yet her focus doesn’t waver. It’s on me. Only me.

“Sloane…” My voice scrapes, half warning, half plea.

Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back to mine, and the world tilts. The heat between us could burn louder than dragonfire if either of us let it.

I know what I should do. Step back. Reset. Pretend this moment never happened.

Instead, I lean. Just enough to feel the sharp hitch of her breath brush my lips. Just enough to know she’d let me.

Then the faintest pulse runs through her, a vibration under her skin that isn’t mine. Her signet. Or something new, something half-born.

I stop. Inches from her lips, every nerve screaming at me to close the distance, to taste what I’ve spent months denying myself.

But I don’t.

The boots echo again, faint in the distance, a reminder of the world waiting. I drag in a breath that tastes like ash and regret.

“We can go now,” I murmur, rougher than I mean to. “I think it’s clear.”

The words cut the thread. Sloane blinks, as if surfacing from someplace far away. The obsidian shimmer clinging to her fades, bleeding back into her skin until it’s gone. Slowly, carefully, we slip out from between the shelves. The pressure of my father’s signet has retreated, leaving only the weight of what almost happened.

At the entrance, the infantry soldiers are still stationed. Our daggers lie on the table where we surrendered them.

We walk out together, steady, measured. Not rushing. Not hiding. Just two cadets released from duty.

But under the warnings of Naolin’s pages, under the memory of her glow, under the weight of her thumb dragging across my knuckles and the heat of her lips nearly brushing mine, I know the truth.

We didn’t walk out unscathed.

Chapter Text

“The purpose of War Games is to simulate the world as it truly is: fractured, uncertain, hungry. We send them into fire so that when the world burns for real, it finds them already tempered.”
— Basgiath War College Field Manual (c. 632 AU)

SLOANE

Dain’s grip closes around my wrist. Not harsh. Not gentle either. Just enough to pin me back to reality.

He walks fast, shoulders squared like nothing is wrong, like we aren’t dragging the scribbles of a man who lost his mind, straight out of the sealed stacks. My heart thunders, not from the walk but from the obsidian shimmer. I feel it clinging to me like smoke I can’t shake off.

I want to rip my hand out of his and bolt. I want to dig my nails into his forearm and make him see. But if anyone’s watching, if anyone notices, we’re done. So I let him lead. One step, then another.

The wards around the sealed section hum ahead. I anticipate the steady thrumming at the edge of my bones.

Except—

We step through. And I feel nothing.

No pull. No ache. No bite of the wards in my veins.

I stumble. His hand tightens, steadying me, but suddenly even that feels wrong.

Normally, his vast reservoir of magic drags at me like a moth to a flame. Every brush of his skin sparking with power I can’t resist.

But now all I feel is the heat low in my stomach. Heat that has nothing to do with his power and everything to do with the way his hand lingers, holding me closer than he should.

I reach for Thoirt out of instinct. For the familiar pressure in the back of my mind, even the soft silence of when she shields herself away.

Nothing answers. It’s not just silence, it’s hollowness.

The panic rushes in fast and cold. What if she’s in danger? What if this absence is permanent, and I’ve somehow cut myself clean out of the only tether that matters?

“Easy,” Dain murmurs near my ear, voice rough silk. “You’re fine. We’re fine.”

The brush of his breath is almost worse than the words. I swallow hard.

“I’ve got you. Keep walking.” Another whisper, precise and clipped, like he’s scolding my heartbeat into line.

I try. Gods, I try, but my lungs are tightening, panic scraping raw. He leans a fraction closer, his breath catching my temple. “Breathe for me.” His words are soft, an anchor. “In through the nose. Hold. Out slow.”

I follow because I have to, because the cadence in his voice is steadier than my own heartbeat.

“That’s it,” he whispers, and the timbre drops even lower. “Good girl. Just a little further.”

The knot in my chest loosens enough to keep moving, even though the void roars on.

The moment the cool air of the hallway hits us, Dain pulls me into the shadow of an alcove, away from the constant shuffle of scribes and cadets. His hands are firm on my arms now, bracing me against the stone wall like I’ll collapse if he lets go. Maybe I will.

“I can’t—” My voice breaks, raw and thin. “I can’t feel Thoirt. I can’t feel—”

It almost rips out of me as a sob, shameful and sharp, but he’s there before I can unravel completely.

“Look at me,” he says, and when I don’t, his fingers tilt my chin until I’m trapped in his maddeningly kind eyes. “She’s not gone. Breathe, Sloane.”

And then I see the flicker in his expression, his gaze shifting faraway.

He’s talking to Cath.

I bite down hard, nearly shaking, and wait. His thumb strokes absently over the inside of my wrist as if he knows the silence is killing me.

Finally, his focus sharpens back to me.

“She’s fine,” he says, soft but certain. “Cath says Thoirt’s landing on the east practice ridge. She wants to see you.”

My knees nearly give out again, but this time from sheer relief. I press a hand to my mouth to muffle the sound that slips out, trembling against him.

His arms come around me without hesitation, pulling me close to his chest, letting me hide my face in the leather at his collar. His heart is steady under my cheek.

“She’s fine,” he repeats, quieter, for me alone. His lips brush the shell of my ear like a secret. “And so are you.”

I pull back and zip my jacket up to my throat like it’s armor, choking back the raw edge of my voice. “I’m going.”

His brows furrow, that line between them cutting deep. “Sloane—”

“No.” My hand fists the zipper until it bites. “Don’t follow me. Don’t come looking.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches me, jaw working like he wants to argue. Then, reluctantly, he exhales.

“I’ll return the seal,” he says at last, low, like it costs him. “And hold on to the notes.”

That’s all I need. I turn before the heat in his eyes unravels me further.

And then I’m running.

Through corridors, up flights of stairs, bursting into the open air. My lungs burn, my boots slam stone and dirt, but none of it matters. I push harder, faster, until—

Strawberry-red wings glint against the sky. My heart lurches.

“Thoirt!”

The moment her talons scrape the ridge, I’m already sprinting across it. And then I’m leaping, colliding with scales and warmth and home. I bury myself against her chest, the emptiness inside me finally, blessedly breaking.

“There you are,” I whisper into heat and scale. “Gods, there you are.”

Her mind hits mine like floodwater after drought.

“Golden fury,” she croons, fierce and low, “you slammed a door so hard I almost tore the mountain down to reach you.”

“I didn’t—” my throat claws at the word. “I couldn’t feel you. I thought—” The rest sticks like glass.

She noses along my shoulder, checking every inch as if she can count my bones through my skin. “I know. I felt the nothing. Cath caught me mid-spiral and conveyed the obvious. Breathe first, smash later.”

A sound breaks out of me that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Tell him thanks.”

“Already did,” she says, smug as thunder. “With a perfectly civil roar.”

Without thinking I climb her foreleg. She lifts me up to the curve of her shoulder like I weigh a thought.

Thoirt huffs, pleased. “All right. Tell me exactly what you felt.”

“My whole body was thrumming with… silence.” I press my forehead to the ridge of her jaw. “No pull from the wards. No warmth through our bond. Not even Dain’s magic.”

She goes very still, mind sharpening. “When did it start?”

“In the stacks,” I blurt. “When his father walked in with Melgren and the professors. He looked right at the chalk marks, like he knew someone had been there. Said he was going to ‘check for himself.’ And then I felt something reaching for me. An intrusion. My body just… locked. All I could think about was not dragging Dain down with me.”

Her presence prowls the edges of mine, not pushing, just mapping. “Any heat? Cold? Pressure?”

“Pressure. Like the air got heavy inside my bones.”

“Could you feel me at all?”

“No.” The word rasps out raw. “It was hollow, Thoirt. Like I’d been scooped clean.”

A long beat. Then a low whistle that shivers the gravel. “Gods above. Amari bless us all.” Warm pride zings through the bond. “You manifested your second signet.”

I jerk back. “That’s not— Riders don’t get a second signet unless—”

“—unless a dragon’s bonded to a blood-kin before,” she finishes, voice gentle but unflinching.

Silence drops like a stone between us. Her massive wings fold and unfold once, restless. “Thoirt… what are you trying to tell me?”

Her chest rises slow, deliberate. “Before I was yours,” she murmurs at last, wings mantling wide as if to fold me in, “I was Lira Bramble’s.”

My breath stutters. Lira. My mother’s cousin. Those family dinners I only half-remember—warm laughter, bright eyes—and then of course their eventual deaths. All of them gone.

“You—You belonged to—Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Listen carefully, Golden fury.” Her pause is a weight. “After the rebellion, the dragons who chose your people made a pact. We would strengthen the next generation without painting a target on your backs. No direct descendants. No repeating bonds in a straight line. Cousins, nieces, nephews. Enough shared echo to open doors but not enough to blow them off the hinges.”

My thoughts skitter completely at her revelations. “Repeating bonds make riders go… mad.”

“Riders and dragons alike.” She doesn’t soften it. “That’s why Navarre outlawed it, why we buried the truth. But we had to try. War was always coming again. We couldn’t just sit in the Vale and watch you die weaker than you had to be.”

The possibility of madness sings in my blood like a familiar weight. “Why would you risk yourself like that?”

“Because the blade is already at our throats.” Her breath rolls over me, warm and steady. “We’ve been at war with the Venin longer than your maps pretend. Centuries. We scorch them, they root deeper. So we gambled—not with your sanity, little fury, but with our hope.”

I stare at the shimmer of her scales. “Hope for what?”

“That stronger bonds might make stronger signets. That signets could grow beyond what the Venin know how to undo. Give us even a sliver of advantage.” Her mouth nudges my shoulder, gentle as thunder. “I weighed the risk. And I chose you.”

My throat tightens. “Is that what happened tonight? The silence? Like I’d been erased?” My voice cracks. “Did my body just… make another weapon I don’t understand?”

“I’ve never felt anything like it.” Her tone sharpens, reverent and wary at once. “One heartbeat you burned bright as noon, then gone. Not dead. Just… veiled. Wrapped in something that devoured notice itself.”

“Against General Aetos,” I whisper, remembering the pressure, the hooks that weren’t mine. “I didn’t even think. I just… shielded me and Dain.”

“Good instincts.” Her growl rumbles, pleased and fierce. “You didn’t fight his magic, little fury. You took away what it could touch. You erased yours and your Wingleader’s magical signatures for those brief moments. That’s why I couldn’t reach you.”

I can still feel the echo of that pressure in my bones, the weight of what I did without thinking. It’s too much… too big… so I do what I always do. I talk.

“So what do we even call that? ‘Annihilation Shroud’? ‘Oblivion’? Or we go academic—‘Selective Signet Abatement.’”

“I refuse to announce Selective Signet Abatement on a battlefield.”

I huff a laugh. “It wasn’t destruction anyway. It was… taking away what I didn’t want seen.” The word lands clean. “Veiling.”

Thoirt tastes it in the bond like a discerning noblewoman. “Veiling.” Her rumble approves, velvet over steel. “Spare. Precise. It names what you do without bragging about what it can break.”

“Veiling it is,” I say, and something inside me clicks into place.

Her warmth hums through me, apology stitched in every breath. “Golden fury,” Thoirt murmurs, “I should have told you sooner. But it is a secret buried deeper than stone. A secret even from the Empyrean. They do not look closely at the humans we bond. They never tracked who bore which blood.”

Her voice dips, rough as distant thunder. “But Humans care too much. That is why we gave them false names. So they would not look too hard at the patterns.”

I blink up at her, stunned. “So… Thoirt isn’t—”

Her laugh rumbles through the bond, soft and fond. “Thoirt is me, little fury. What you call me, it’s special. Just not the one I was assigned at birth.”

Something twists in my chest. “Then what was your real name?”

A long pause. “That is not the name I use anymore.”

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate, and I know better than to push. Some truths aren’t meant to be pried open.

“And now, unfortunately, I ask more of you. Do not tell anyone yet. Not even your Wingleader.”

I go still.

“Not until you and I have studied, practiced, made sense of this together. The venin grow hungrier by the week. They hunt the strange and the rare most of all. We thought this secret safe among the marked ones. But then—” Her voice hardens, a lash of thunder. “The Duke turned.”

The words hit like a blade, but underneath the sting is a hollow ache. Xaden. For all the anger I’ve carried—at Fen Riorson and his careless rebellion that swallowed our province whole, at Xaden for walking the same path, for trusting Violet too blindly, for every choice that cost Liam his life— but gods, I still miss him. The boy with too much on his shoulders, fighting an impossible battle since the day he was born.

“His corruption means every whisper of advantage is vulnerable. What we dragons birthed in secrecy to outsmart the venin may now feed their hive instead. One slip, one rumor, and they will tear through you to study what you are. And Navarre will call it justice because we broke their little rules. Execution, Golden fury. That is the price if they scent something wrong in you.”

“Dain would never turn Veni—”

The words hollow me out. And then the guilt hits. I see myself spewing absolute venom towards Violet for trusting Dain’s hand on her face. The single touch that gave him access to her memories…. memories he handed straight to his father. The same chain of actions that led to Liam’s death.

After only days of fragile friendship and almost kissing him in a panic between archive shelves, I’d be the biggest hypocrite to hand Dain this secret and expect it to stay safe.

My fingers knot tighter in Thoirt’s scales. She’s reckless like me. Always wanting more, always risking too much. That’s why she chose me. And that’s why I’ll keep her secret, even from the one person who feels most like a shield when the world tips sideways.

The yard smells like cold iron and wet stone. General Melgren stands on the platform like he ordered the sunrise. Loose-limbed, amused. Beside him, General Aetos stands with an unreadable face and hands behind his back. We’re waiting for the War Games brief, but my eyes keep snagging on one person.

Dain is down front with the other wingleaders. Perfect posture. Clean lines, except for the dark scrape of stubble along his cheek and throat. He’s standing so tightly I want to drag my thumb over that rough edge just to see if he’d vibrate under my touch like a wire pulled too tight.

I fix my eyes on the platform before I do something stupid like smile at his side profile.

He didn’t look for me last night. He respected my wishes. It makes the guilt of eventually lying to him worse.

Melgren finally steps forward, voice carrying without effort. “War games will not be simple this year,” he says. “The kingdom is frayed. You will train for what you’ll face: ambushes, shortages, and decisions that don’t have clean answers.”

He lets it sink in.

“Each Wing will be deployed to a province. You’ll run a multi-phase operation: reconnaissance, civil stability, logistics, and combat. Not just steel or strategy. Not just muscle or mind. Our enemies don’t only strike, they set the board.”

Assignments come like hammer blows.

“First Wing: Morraine.
Second Wing: Luceras and Elsum.
Third Wing: Tyrrendor.
Fourth Wing: Calldyr and Deaonshire.”

My stomach drops at Deaonshire. I taste old honey and ash and the smile the duchess wore when she called me their “rescued thing.” Their clean conscience in a pretty dress.

The thought of stepping back onto that soil makes my stomach twist. Every corner of that province still smells like the cage they built from good manners and soft cruelty.

Melgren continues, crisp as a checklist:

    • Phase I — Recon: 24 hours. Map threats, identify supply lines, make contact with local command. Points for accuracy and speed.
    • Phase II — Civil/Psych: You’ll meet councils, quell unrest, negotiate safe passage, counter rumors. Points for de-escalation.
    • Phase III — Logistics: Protect or reroute a “critical asset” (convoy, grain, wounded). Expect sabotage. Points for delivery without casualties.
    • Phase IV — Combat Simulation: Night maneuvers. Signet battles against venin simulations. You will fight in darkness, under exhaustion, and without warning. Dragons are permitted to engage. If real venin appear, you fall under active-engagement rules. Call it in. Hold the line. Or die trying.

"Casualties and property damage cost you. Intelligence gained, mission time, battle outcomes, and chain-of-command adherence win you."

I hate how clinical it sounds. Like the death tally is just another data column on a war report.

Maybe it is. Here.

I still see General Sorrengail’s face when I close my eyes. The calm before she made me do it. Before she ordered me to take her life for the mission.

And yet here they are, talking about simulated venin and real casualties like it’s all part of the curriculum. Like I didn’t lose my brother to it.

Sometimes I wonder if Basgiath trains soldiers or executioners.

General Aetos steps up beside Melgren, voice like a blade. “One announcement regarding the War Games protocol. Fliers will not participate. They’ll observe only.”

The yard goes still. Then a ripple of whispers. Cat’s head snaps up two rows over.

Dain moves before anyone else. “With respect, sir, integrated operations are the point. Venin don’t care about flags. Pulling fliers guts the exercise.”

I know how much this matters to him. How many late nights and early mornings I found him in the Archives, cramming logistics between lessons, drafting out gryphon-dragon integration proposals from scratch because he believed in it. Believed in them.

Cat steps out from our line, with her chin held high. “Poromiel’s fliers are fully equipped to fly under our Wing leadership. If this is about—”

Aetos cuts her clean. “If Poromiel’s own Senate no longer trusts its crown and army to hold the line, why should Navarre trust it?”

The gasp that hits the yard is sharp enough to draw blood. And it all starts clicking into place in my head.

That’s what broke Cat over her leave. She and Maren had gone back to Poromiel for a few days, and when Cat returned, she was brittle as glass, even behind all her usual bite. Because her kingdom doesn’t trust the crown anymore. Doesn’t trust the army. They think Poromiel will fold to Navarre. Or worse, that it already has.

Cat doesn’t flinch, but color floods her throat. “That’s an internal matter, General. Our treaty—”

“Our war,” Aetos snaps. “And I won’t waste time coordinating with a kingdom still deciding where it stands.”

Dain steps into the space between them without quite making it a challenge. Respectful yet determined. “Sir, Princess Cordella is here under treaty and has followed every order. Excluding fliers reduces readiness and increases risk in Phase IV. We need coverage and coordination.”

Aetos doesn’t even look at Dain at all. “Your opinion is noted and rejected, Wingleader. Return to your line.”

Dain’s jaw locks. “If this is about political optics, that’s not our call to make. But if this is about survival, then excluding trained assets weakens our line.”

Aetos finally turns. When he does, it’s with that same measured disdain he saves for a stain on his boot. “This is not your decision, Wingleader. You are here to follow orders, not author doctrine.”

Dain’s fists curl at his sides. “Then at least let the record show my objection.”

“It will,” Aetos says, already dismissing him. “And it will be ignored.”

For a breath I think Dain might push anyway. He doesn’t. He slides half a step back, shoulders a fortress of control.

And something snaps in me.

Not a thought. Just instinct. Raw and violent. The same kind of heat that built in the archive stacks, when I felt Dain in danger. My body had moved faster than thought and bent the rules of the world around him.

General Aetos is lucky I manifested a shielding signet and not something more destructive or offensive because I sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to control it right now.

Cat’s eyes burn, but her voice stays ice. “Understood.” Maren’s hand finds her elbow, light and steady.

Melgren clears it, smooth as oil. “Decision stands. Fliers observe. Navarrian wings proceed with assignments as briefed.”

The moment General Aetos and Melgren disappear into the main hall, the yard fractures like a cracked plate. Conversations rise in overlapping bursts of outrage, confusion and quiet panic under the surface.

Maren chases after Cat, who storms off without a backward glance, braid swinging like a blade down her spine.

And Dain starts walking toward me like it’s instinct. There’s still so much between us. Naolin’s notes. My obsidian shimmer. The insane revelations buried in the margins of a dead man’s journal.

But I see it in him, clear as sky: he needs to be Wingleader right now. His jaw is tight. Mouth set like he’s holding back a thousand orders and only barely keeping the weight of them upright. The yard is watching him. Yet his eyes are on me.

So I nod. Just once. A subtle gesture. One only he’ll understand.

He hesitates just a second longer, brows pinching. “I don’t want to leave you hanging.”

“I know,” I say softly. “It’s okay. I promise.”

It buys me time anyway, time to ironclad my lies.

“I’ve got combat training with Lynx this afternoon,” I add. “Find me later? Evening?”

“Where?” he asks.

“Archives?” I offer before I can think better of it.

But he shakes his head immediately. “I don’t think we should move the notes again or study them in public. Too risky.”

He’s right. I curse myself for forgetting that even for a second. “Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll come to your room.”

The silence between us snaps taut.

My brain scrambles to backpedal. Bad idea. Terrible idea. Because my mind is already remembering the archives. His body caging mine against the stacks, the solid press of his chest against my ribs, the unmistakable line of his cock hard against my hip, the way his breath ghosted over my lips like a promise he couldn’t let himself make.

If I go to his room—if we’re alone again—something we both regret is going to happen.

But before I can retract it, he nods. “Okay,” he murmurs. His hand brushes my arm in a silent squeeze and then he turns toward the heart of the chaos, already calling out names, already taking control.

And I’m left frozen, heart pounding, my skin still thrumming with the memory of his touch.

The sky has turned the kind of bruised violet that always reminds me of battlefields. Stillness before storms.

I dressed to repel tonight. Hair in a plain knot. Old sweater that could smother a small child. Boots unpolished on purpose. I even rubbed a thumb under my eyes to smudge whatever softness was left there. I left early, too early, so we can be done before the hour turns suggestive.

Sloane Mairi, born indecent, trying to unsexualize herself. Tragic comedy.

“Keeping a secret has nothing to do with sleeping with him, golden fury,” Thoirt murmurs, dry and fond all at once. “You can walk and chew truth at the same time.”

“I DON’T WANT TO,” I speak out loud instead of through the bond. A passing first year startles and scurries away. “I don’t. I’m not… I’m not going to test him tonight. Or bait him. I can get through one conversation without saying something sharp and making it sound like flirting.”

“You bait because you’re afraid of quiet,” she says, patient. “You’re not wicked; you’re wounded.”

The word hits bone. Liam floats up the way he always does when I try to set rules for my heart. The way Dain’s enlightenment came on the back of Liam’s death. How Liam was stolen from me after years of anticipation. The way that anger still chews me hollow.

“If we give in,” I shoot back, “I’ll make myself pay for it. I’ll make him pay for it. I know myself.”

“Maybe,” Thoirt says, light as a wingtip on my shoulder, “it’s because you know it wouldn’t be just attraction. Not a shallow thing you can joke away.”

I choke out a laugh at the impossibility of the words. At how Dain doesn’t deserve the torment I would unleash upon him.

Because the darker truth buried beneath his mistakes, the one I can barely admit even to myself, isn’t fury.

It’s hunger.

For his presence. For his magic. For the deep, primal tug in my chest that doesn’t just whisper mine. It says take.

I feel it every time he walks past. Every time his magic brushes against mine like a temptation dressed in silk and wildfire.

And now, with Naolin’s notes and Thoirt’s revelations gnawing at my spine, I understand the risk of my descent into madness.

“I can’t touch him,” I say. “Not like this. Not knowing what I know now. What I am now.”

“You’re not vindictive,” she counters. “You’re grieving. Take each day as it comes. Each bond as it comes. If you are friends, be friends. Let that be enough tonight.”

I snort. “Since when do dragons run relationship counseling?”

A pause, then a purr of mischief. “Would you prefer details of mine? I just had very good intercourse.”

“Thoìrtdara,” I hiss, scandalized despite myself, “you’re a lady.”

“I am a dragon,” she replies, smug. “And a satisfied one.”

I smile for a moment even if the storm’s still there inside me. Waiting. Building.

And the Wingleader’s door is just ahead.

I knock once. No answer.

I knock again, softer this time, like maybe that’ll make me less of an idiot for showing up early. Still nothing.

Perfect. He’s probably still working. Or worse, still with Cat. Or with Violet. Not that it bothers me.

I shift my weight, curse myself for coming this early, and start to turn away when I hear it.

“Sloane?”

I freeze.

When I turn, I forget how to breathe.

Because there’s Dain Aetos, with only a towel slung low on his hips, and a bar of soap in his hand. His hair is damp, a brown curl falling over his forehead as he stands there smelling unfairly good.

But it’s not the scent that murders me.

It’s the body.

I’ve spent months annoyed that he insists on sparring with his shirt on, always so prim, trying to seem untouchable. And now I’m thankful he did. Because if he didn’t, I would’ve burned down the first month.

His body isn’t bulky or showy like most male cadets. It’s all restraint with lean, carved, and deliberate muscles. The dragon relic glinting on his bicep only makes it worse. The towel is slung entirely too low for public decency.

My mouth goes dry. So much for trying to look like a delinquent tonight.

His gaze flicks over me, not leering, just observant. He notes the ugly sweater. The knotted hair. The effort.

His mouth twitches, and the bastard almost smiles.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and calm. “Rough day?”

Kill me. Just stab me in the chest and end it here.

“No,” I blurt. “I’m all good. You’re all good. We’re all good.”

There’s a moment. A beat.

He knows exactly what he looks like. He knows what he’s doing to me. And he’s not smug about it. Just… quietly aware. The way a weapon is aware of its edge.

“Give me one minute,” he says, stepping past me, voice still maddeningly kind. “I’ll get dressed.”

He disappears into the room, door swinging open wide behind him.

And I just stand there.

Outside. Boiling alive in wool, shame, and whatever version of “don’t stare at his back muscles” test this is.

Thoirt, somewhere in my head, is howling with laughter and I lift my shields up high immediately.

When he emerges, it’s not in uniform. It’s a plain navy sleep shirt and loose dark drawstring pants. There’s something softer about him like this. No rank to hide behind, no buttoned-up tension. Just… Dain.

I blink at him. “You’re… comfortable.”

“I’m indoors,” he says simply, as if that’s a justification.

Then he extends a hand, not a brush or a pull, just an open invitation. Like the one I’d denied back at the Cliffs of Dralor and flipped him off.

“Come in.”

There’s no reason my heart should skip at that. But I let him wrap his fingers around mine and tug me gently across the threshold.

Immediately, I assess the room.

It’s as military as I expected. His desk is starkly clear except for the notes we’re meant to go over and a single book. The bed is made tight enough to bounce a coin off of.

My gaze skims his desk and stalls. “Is that… no way.” I snatch up the battered paperback. Skylar Dragonite and the Parapet Conspiracy. The cover’s sun-faded, spine cracked. I’d know that absurd art style anywhere. Skylar in his leather trench, holding a glowing blade, his dragon Lumen coiled behind him mid-flight.

“Is this Skylar Dragonite? As in… rider turned rogue detective who solves kingdom-level crimes with his dragon after getting court-martialed for a murder he didn’t commit?”

Dain turns mid-step and goes still. “I found it clearing out some of my old things,” he says slowly. “Why, you read them?”

“Read them?” I bark a laugh. “I was obsessed. I used to steal my tutor’s reading lantern and sneak chapters under my bedcovers.”

Dain looks at me sheepish. “Me and Violet also loved them as kids. We dressed up as the characters for the fair once. Mira did our hair. Don’t laugh.”

I squint. “Let me guess. You were Skylar Dragonite, honorable golden boy with a tragic past. Violet was Felicity Blue, the scrappy sidekick with nerdy glasses and a vendetta against the monarchy.”

He crosses his arms. “What, you don’t think I can pull off Skylar?”

“No, I think you are Skylar. Predictable. Self-righteous. Deeply boring.”

His jaw drops like I’ve insulted the entire Riders Quadrant. “Skylar was a national hero. He exposed a spy ring inside the palace. His dragon saved a village from plague by himself.”

“I liked Professor Peril.”

His expression curdles. “The criminal mastermind? The one who tried to detonate the Parapet twice and stole all the eggs from the Vale?”

“He was hot,” I say, grinning.

“You’re—” he sputters, completely scandalized. “You’re deranged.”

“I just think Peril had depth,” I say loftily, twirling the book between my fingers. “And amazing taste in coats. That long red one?” I give a mock-dreamy sigh.

Dain stares at me like I’ve personally offended Skylar Dragonite’s ghost. “He murdered half of Basgiath by conducting ‘academic’ experiments.”

“He outsmarted Skylar every single time,” I counter. “He just lost because the author had a moral superiority complex.”

“That’s called justice, Sloane.”

“No,” I say, smirking. “That’s called bad writing.”

He’s halfway through listing Peril’s criminal record—“He unleashed flying leeches on a town square!”—when I realize what I’m doing. Bantering. Teasing. Laughing.

Exactly the thing I swore I wouldn’t fall into tonight.

So I clear my throat and snap the book shut. “Anyway.”

His mouth quirks like he knows I’m running. But he lets me.

I cross my arms. “Are we decoding dead men’s secrets or what?”

He nods and heads to the desk. The space between us thick with everything we don’t say.

I take the spare chair by his desk. It’s new here. Scuffed from being dragged in. For me. Somewhere between drills and reports and whatever impossible expectations his father stacked on him, he made space for me.

“So,” he says, eyes steady. “You and Thoirt are good?”

I brace. Smile light. “Yeah. We’re good.”

He waits.

I breathe once and launch the script I practiced on the walk over. “Last night… I overheated. That’s all. The wards, the runes, the training from earlier in the day…. my system just panicked. I threw my shields up too hard and fast. Cut myself off.”

His brow ticks. “And the obsidian shimmer?”

“My signet’s reaction to the adrenaline rush,” I say, quick but even. “Looked dramatic. Felt worse than it was. Once I cleared my mind, it snapped back. Thoirt yelled. I cried. We’re fine.”

He studies my face like it’s a map he intends to memorize. “You couldn’t feel her because you over-shielded.”

“Right.” I nod too quickly. “I’ve done it once before, remember? Oh wait—no, you were at the Isles then.”

It has, in fact, never happened before.

“Any pain?” he asks.

“Just pressure.” I flick my fingers. “Air got heavy. No burn. No tear.”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to offer a healer. I cut in, gentle. “Please don’t send me to Garran. Or anyone. It was a panic attack with extra steps.”

His jaw tics. “Mairi, I’d never send you to… him,” he says with a bit of disgust. “I could take care of you myself if you need it.”

“I don’t” I hold his gaze, keep the lie smooth. “Promise.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to say more…. about his father, maybe. About what General Aetos did in that room. If he tells me outright what his father’s signet is, if he starts connecting why the general couldn’t sense us in the stacks, I won’t be able to fake confusion. I’ll give myself away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press.

“How was your day? After… all that.” I tip my chin toward the yard, toward the mess the generals left behind.

He drags a hand through damp hair. “Busy,” he says, wry. “I floated two new proposals. Tried to rally the other wingleaders with mixed results. Sat with Cat.” His mouth twitches. “I spent the rest of it arguing coverage charts so fliers aren’t benched if this gets reversed.” He exhales. “Everyone’s already planning strategies for the Games but I haven’t even had the chance to think about it.”

Something tugs at me. The way he spreads himself thin and still shows up for everyone like stone at the center. His habits were a rumor when he was translating for Violet. Now I can see it for myself.

He catches my look and misreads it.

“I’m not posting you to Deaonshire.”

My brain stutters. “What?”

“I know you might be worried.” He’s matter-of-fact, like he’s moving a piece on a board. “I won’t. I’ll send Second Squad to Calldyr. You don’t have to set foot in Deaonshire if you don’t want to.”

“How’d you… know?” The words come out small.

“It wasn’t hard,” he says, quiet. “I read your file. I saw how they shoved you into the Riders Quadrant with half the prep everyone else got. I asked Imogen to fill in what the record left out.” His jaw ticks. “Your foster parents are bastards.”

Heat pricks my eyes before I can stop it. I look away, breathe once, twice.

“You don’t have to bend the whole plan for me,” I manage.

“I didn’t,” he says. “It will still cover the objectives. It just won’t put you back in a place that hurt you.” He meets my gaze, steady. “That’s my call to make. And I’m making it.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, fiddling with the hem of my ugly sweater. “For everything.”

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s my job.”

“It really isn’t.” My voice is low, but I mean every word. “No one else would’ve noticed, let alone cared.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. His gaze darts away, then back.

I hesitate, then say it. “Your father was brutal today.”

His spine stiffens. Just a fraction of a reaction but I feel it in the air between us. The way his shields lock into place.

“You don’t have to be uncomfortable,” I add quickly. “I mean, you already know about me. The duke and duchess of Deaonshire.”

“I don’t,” he says, quiet but firm. “Not really. Just enough to know they failed you.”

A pause. He watches me, careful. “But I was confused. Why’d they separate you and Liam? Other siblings stayed together after the executions.”

My breath stutters. For a second I hate that he asked. For the next, I see the dodge, him skirting his own bruises by reaching for mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says fast. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He hesitates, then, softer, “But if you want to… you can talk to me. I… would want you to.”

I don’t shut him down immediately. Because some part of me wants to tell it. And maybe it’s because of the crack his own father left in him today. Maybe it’s because I think he won’t look at me like I’m damaged for this. Just human.

So I speak.

“My father had contacts due to his position. One of them was Duke Lindell.”

Dain tenses, surprised. Of course he knows the name.

“Dad knew he was going to be executed. He knew we were targets. So he struck a deal before his death. Lindell would take the three of us in, Me, Liam and Xaden. Train us. Keep us alive.”

A breath.

“Lindell gave his word. But then Navarre announced the clause. No more than two marked ones were to be seen together. Three was a rebellion. Grounds for execution.”

Realization begins to dawn in Dain’s eyes.

“Lindell had to choose,” I say, voice steady despite the hurricane behind my ribs. “And he chose the future of the rebellion. The strongest two. Xaden and Liam.”

Liam had begged him to take me instead. Lindell said the orders came from above, that even he couldn’t fight them. But I learned the truth years later. Snuck into the duke and duchess’s study one night, desperate for proof I didn’t belong there. Found my file and the note detailing how Lindell had specifically requested Xaden and Liam instead of me and Liam.

I laugh, humorless if only to stop myself from crying. “It was the right call. I was never meant for the Riders quadrant anyway. So they wrapped me up like a gift and sent me to Deaonshire as a stray rescue.”

The tears sting, but don’t fall. Not yet.

“I was glad Lindell chose them. I was glad they got a chance. But still…” I stop, blinking hard. “Still, Liam didn’t make it.”

Dain is silent for three long seconds after I finish.

Then he speaks. And it’s not careful. Not measured. It’s low, raw, laced with something guttural and fraying at the seams.

“You didn’t deserve a godsdamned second of that.”

His hands are balled into fists, the tendons in his arms tight, his eyes burning with something barely leashed. Not pity. Not shock.

Fury.

“Navarre…” He bites down on the word. “This fucking kingdom turned your survival into a numbers game. I—”

I shouldn’t look at him. I should say something, redirect, make a joke. Anything but sit here under that blistering protective heat radiating off of him like he’d burn down the entire quadrant to give me back what I lost.

And then, stupidly, my body betrays me again.

The tears start.

I blink hard but it doesn’t stop them. They spill silently, trailing down my cheeks. I bite the inside of my cheek and turn away, but his voice catches me.

“Sloane.” It’s quiet. “Come here.”

I shake my head, try to press my knuckles to my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says, already rising. “And you don’t have to be.”

I don’t even feel it at first, just a rush of air, his arms curling under my knees and shoulders, and then I’m weightless. Lifted straight from the chair.

He carries me to his bed like I weigh nothing, like this is nothing. Like I’m not cracked open in the worst possible way.

The mattress sinks beneath us. He settles onto it with me in his lap, gently pulling me in, his arms an anchor. My legs curl up automatically, my head finding the crook of his shoulder. I should move. Gods, I should move. But my body doesn't move. And my tears don't stop.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, barely a breath against my temple. “You’re safe, Sloane. I promise. You’re safe.”

His voice shouldn’t do what it does. Neither should the way one hand slides up, slow and grounding, fingers slipping into my hair, thumb brushing the spot just behind my ear. Too intimate. Too much.

The other anchors around my waist. Not tight, but firm. Like he’d rather die than let me break apart alone.

And suddenly my tears evolve into a fiercer sob. It’s not pretty. Not the kind of thing I can disguise. It pours out in harsh gulps, months of silence breaking all at once.

I cry for Liam. For Tyrrendor. For the girl I was in Deaonshire with a smile sewn to her mouth and hands that were always too empty. For Thoirt being shackled to me because of my bloodline. For the power I can’t control. For the hunger I’m too afraid to name.

And the whole time, Dain doesn’t speak.

He just holds me. Doesn’t shy away from the mess I’ve become. His palm moves slowly up and down my back, over and over again.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs eventually. Quiet and low and so intimate it doesn’t feel like speech. “Let it out, Slo. I’ve got you.”

The way my name leaves his mouth undoes me. One syllable, softened at the edges, drawn low in his throat like something meant to stay secret.

I hate that it’s him seeing me like this.

I hate that it makes me feel… better.

Worse.

Both.

He lets me sob into the crumpled folds of his sleep shirt. After a few minutes pass, he shifts and reaches down. I blink as his hands wrap around my ankles and he starts unlacing my boots.

“What are you—?”

“They’re filthy,” he murmurs, soft but firm. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

I glance down at the mud-streaked leather. Purposefully chosen tonight. Scruffed and beaten and ugly. I’d put them on to make myself feel untouchable. Unsexy. Safe.

And now here I am, snot probably running down my face, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, boots getting pulled off by a man whose bed I’m currently half in.

Mission accomplished.

I huff a teary laugh into the crook of his neck. “Sure. Not because you can’t stand dirty boots on your pristine officer bed?”

“I’m not that bad.”

“You’re a clean freak.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just noses against my hair, breath warm. “That’s what you want to fight me on?”

A puff of breath escapes me as I bury my face into the crook of his neck again. He smells like soap and skin and something faintly spiced beneath it all.

He pulls me in tighter.

Finally I ask, soft, “Can I ask you something?”

His chest shifts with a breath. “You can ask me anything.”

“Your dad,” I murmur. “Has he always been like this?”

The stillness that follows is thicker than silence. Then, finally, he exhales.

“I can’t believe how easy it was for him,” Dain says quietly. “Disowning me after Aretia. No hesitation. No fury. No heartbreak. Just… status revoked. Like it meant nothing.”

“That’s…” I don’t even know what to say.

“I thought…. he loved me. I truly believed that. That his rules and expectations and all the pressure was his version of love. That strength and obedience were just the only ways he knew how to express it.”

He shakes his head, just slightly, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“But when he cut me out like that, so cleanly, I realized… there was never anything underneath. Not love. Not care. Nothing.”

I shift just enough to look at him. My legs are still draped across his lap, our bodies curved together like two puzzle pieces trying to make sense of the same jagged edge.

The ache in his voice makes something twist in my chest. I touch his forearm lightly, fingers brushing over the veins there. He lets me.

“I used to think it changed after my mom died,” he continues. “That her death hollowed him out. Made him harder. But now I’m not sure he ever felt anything at all.”

My throat tightens. “You said she died during……”

“She died giving birth to me,” Dain says, quiet. “Back when my father was stationed in Poromiel. He was serving as an ambassador back then.”

I blink, pulling back enough to look at him. “Your father served in Poromiel?”

He gives me a wry smile. “Yeah. Irony’s a bitch. We lived there until I was five. Then he brought me back when he was promoted and became an aide to General Sorrengail.”

I can’t hide my surprise. “So why all this hatred for fliers, for Poromiel… it doesn’t make sense.”

“Not much about him does,” Dain admits.

There’s a long moment where we just breathe together. The weight of what he’s said clings to the air like smoke.

“She would’ve loved you, you know,” I whisper. “Your mother.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away this time.

“I hope so,” he says.

For all the command and restraint he wears like armor, I see him now. The boy who just wanted to be loved. The one who breaks himself trying to protect everyone else. The one finally beginning to see that the world isn’t divided into right and wrong. That sometimes the only way to protect is to blur the lines himself.

His fingers drag gently down the length of my spine again like he’s trying to map it, memorize it. I don’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it and how soothing it is.

He’s rocking me a little too, the motion slight, instinctive. My body aches for distance. For control. Everything in me is screaming to draw the line back up now, this second, before it frays beyond repair.

But I don’t.

Just one more minute, I tell myself. One more minute of pretending I’m not poisonous. One more minute of safety before the truth, the hunger, the power inside me burns everything down.

So for the next minute, I let myself stay in his arms.