Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two days. That’s how long she’d been here, and already the walls of Aretia were starting to feel like both a refuge and a cage.

Aelin stood at the arched window of her quarters, arms folded over her chest as she watched the morning mist burn away under the heat of the rising sun. The mountains beyond were jagged and snow-kissed, towering above the fort like the teeth of some great sleeping beast. The place was beautiful in the harsh, wild way that most of Navarre’s strongholds were—raw stone and battered steel—but it still felt too quiet, too slow after Basgiath.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

She turned just as the door opened, revealing a slender figure framed in the golden light of early morning.

"Violet," Aelin said, relief rushing her as she crossed the room in two strides. She pulled the other girl into a tight hug, feeling the tension in Violet’s frame melt, just a little.

"You’re okay?" Aelin murmured, pulling back to scan her pale face, the silver streaks in her hair catching the light. "You look like you haven’t slept in a week."

Violet gave a wry smile. "Coming from the woman who hasn’t slept since she set foot in this fortress?"

Aelin chuckled and ushered her in, the door clicking shut behind them. "How are you holding up? Really?"

Violet hesitated, then sank onto the edge of the bed. "Better now. Tairn’s been pacing the northern peaks like a storm cloud waiting to break. Andarna’s refusing to nap, which is... new. Sgaeyl keeps giving me these judgmental looks like I’m going to break apart at the seams."

"Dragons are annoyingly perceptive like that," Aelin said, grabbing a jacket from the back of a chair. "Come on. You’re clearly starving, and I’m not letting you pass out on my floor."

Violet raised a brow. "Where are we going?"

"The kitchens," Aelin said. "If there’s one upside to hiding in a mountain fortress with rebels and outlaws, it’s the food. They know how to feed people who actually burn calories."

They slipped into the quiet corridor, the stone cool beneath their boots as they descended the winding stairs. Aelin guided her through a side hall and down a narrow ramp, the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat already wafting from below.

When they stepped into the kitchens, the bustle was already underway with people darting between counters, an older woman swearing at a too-scorched pan, the hearth warm and glowing.

And standing near the bread ovens, sleeves rolled up, a smile breaking over his face the moment he saw them—

"Brennan," Violet breathed, slowing to a halt.

Aelin nudged her forward. “Go. Have your happy tearful reunion. I’ll pretend to be extremely busy staring at a wall or something.”

She backed away before Violet could argue, retreating to a nearby archway where she leaned, arms crossed, watching as Brennan turned and swept his little sister into his arms. The tension on his face melted in an instant, his eyes crinkling with something near disbelief. Aelin looked away, giving them a semblance of privacy.

A scuff of boots on stone echoed nearby, and she turned as Bodhi entered, holding a sealed scroll and a grim look.

“For you,” he said, handing it to Brennan once the hug had ended. “Assembly’s called. Something about the luminary again.”

Violet glanced Aelin’s way as Brennan nodded. Aelin pushed off the wall. “I’ll meet you there,” she said, already turning.

The walk to the Assembly chamber was brief but heavy, like each step carved its own weight into the stone. She passed unfamiliar doors, more unfamiliar shadows, until she reached the double set of steel-banded oak that marked the heart of Aretia’s strategy.

She pushed them open.

Xaden was already inside.

He sat with his forearms braced on the obsidian-dark table, a map unfurled before him, his eyes focused but hollowed. The bruises under them stood out, dark against his tawny skin, making the gold in his irises look molten.

“You look like hell,” Aelin said quietly, approaching. “No sleep?”

His jaw flexed. “Not for a while.”

There was a pause. Aelin didn’t ask what had kept him up. She didn’t need to.

The door creaked again. Soon, chairs scraped and boots shuffled and voices began to fill the chamber.

Ulices cleared his throat. “Someone has to state the obvious.”

Xaden didn’t look up. “And what’s the obvious thing you need to say, Major Ferris?”

“Returning is the only option,” Ulices said flatly. “Not doing so risks everything we’re building here. Search patrols will come, and we don’t have enough riders—”

“It’s a little hard to recruit while trying to stay invisible,” Trissa cut in.

“Let’s not get off topic, Trissa,” Brennan said tightly.

“No point increasing our numbers without a working forge to arm them,” Ulices continued. “We’re still short a luminary, if you haven’t noticed.”

“And where are we in negotiations with Viscount Tecarus for his?” Felix asked from his usual corner, voice smooth as ever.

“Still working on a diplomatic solution,” Brennan said.

“There is no solution,” Kylynn snapped. “He’s still seething over the insult you dealt him last summer.”

“I told you—he was never going to give it up,” Xaden said, low and sharp. “The man hoards power. He doesn’t share it.”

“Well, he’s certainly not going to now,” Kylynn retorted. “Especially if you won’t even consider his latest offer.”

“He can fuck right off with his offer,” Xaden replied, calm as ice.

Aelin spoke at last, her voice steady. “If it’s diplomacy you need, I’m sitting right here.” She met Brennan’s gaze. “You’ve got a princess in your war room. Maybe use her.”

Heads turned. Some curious. Some calculating.

Ulices didn’t flinch. “You were invited as a courtesy, Princess. You’re not a member of this Assembly.”

Aelin didn’t blink. But her spine lengthened, her voice laced with silken steel. “And yet I’m the only one in this room who’s been trained since birth to read a room like this. To wield politics as a weapon. To charm and outmaneuver courtiers twice your age while smiling sweetly through a threat.” Her gaze swept over them, precise and unbothered. A slow, sharp smile curved her mouth. “So by all means, keep insulting the most valuable diplomatic asset you’ve got.”

Silence rang through the war room.

Suri shifted. Kylynn’s jaw clenched. Xaden didn’t so much as twitch—just watched.

Felix tipped back in his chair, two legs off the floor. “There had better be a solution. If we can’t supply the drifts in the next year, the tide turns. Everything we’ve done… gone.”

“As I said,” Brennan snapped, “I’m working on a diplomatic solution for the luminary. And we are wildly off-topic.”

“I vote we take Basgiath’s,” Kylynn said. “If we’re that close to losing, we don’t have another choice.”

“We’ve been over this,” Brennan said. “If we steal it, Navarre can’t supply their outposts. Civilians will die. Do any of you want to be responsible for that?”

Silence.

“Then we agree,” Ulices murmured. “Until we can supply the drifts, the cadets must return.”

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Suri,” Brennan said.

Suri’s bony fingers tapped across the table, emerald ring catching the light. “I say we send all but two. Seven can lie as well as nine.”

“None of them are expendable,” Felix said easily. “They’re worth more than that.”

“What do you suggest then?” Suri challenged. “Start our own war college? Most of them haven’t even finished training.”

“As if any of you get a vote,” Xaden cut in, voice like drawn steel. “You can advise, but the decision is mine.”

“You can’t risk your life—” Suri started.

“My life is worth no more than theirs,” Xaden said, nodding toward the open doors—where Imogen, Bodhi, and Violet stood like shadows.

Aelin caught how his eyes lingered a breath too long in Violet’s direction.

“Not every life,” Suri snapped, gaze slicing toward Violet. “How could you let her hear Assembly discussion?”

“If you didn’t want her to hear,” Bodhi said, stepping in, “you should’ve shut the door.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Suri hissed, voice trembling just beneath the fury.

“Xaden has already taken responsibility,” Imogen said evenly, stepping into line with Violet. “As brutal a custom as it may be.”

“I still don’t understand that particular choice,” Ulices muttered, arms crossed.

“The choice was simple,” Xaden said, rising. “She’s worth a dozen of me.” He didn’t look away from Violet. “And I’m not talking about her signet. I’d have told her everything said in here anyway. An open door is irrelevant.”

Aelin leaned back in her chair. Observing. Not calculating—just... watching. Like Violet was his line in the sand.

“She’s General Sorrengail’s daughter,” Kylynn said, voice tight. “That matters.”

“And I’m the general’s son,” Brennan said calmly.

“And you’ve proven your loyalty,” Kylynn snapped. “She hasn’t.”

Aelin’s fingers tapped once against the armrest. “And I’m the king’s daughter.” Her voice cut clean through the tension. Cool. Controlled. Deadly.

Ulices blinked. Scoffed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I thought we were stating facts,” Aelin said smoothly, arching a brow. “Should I keep going? I’ve got more titles if we’re playing that game.”

Bodhi let out a low whistle. Imogen smothered a grin.

“She fought at Resson,” Bodhi added, voice rising. “Bled with us.”

“She should be confined,” Suri snapped, shoving her chair back. “She can destroy everything with what she knows.”

“Agreed,” Ulices said, rising. “She’s too dangerous not to be contained.”

Brennan stood slowly. “She’s bonded to Tairn. That bond nearly killed him when Naolin died. If she dies now, Tairn may die with her. So might Andarna. So might Riorson.” He nodded toward Xaden.

“I alone am responsible for Violet,” Xaden said, voice sharpening. “And if that’s not enough, maybe two dragons who’ve already vouched for her integrity will be.”

“She is standing right here,” Violet said, stepping into the room, voice cracking like thunder. “So stop talking about me—and talk to me.”

Silence rippled across the room. Suri clamped her mouth shut. Ulices stiffened.

“What do you want from me?” Violet strode forward, chin high. “Want me to walk the Parapet again? Done. Want me to betray my kingdom by protecting Poromish civilians? Done. Want me to keep his secrets?” She pointed at Xaden. “Done. I’ve kept every one.”

“Except the one that mattered,” Suri said, eyes narrowing. “We know how you ended up in Athebyne.”

Guilt flashed across Violet’s face.

“That was not—” Xaden began, voice iron.

“Through no fault of her own,” Felix interrupted, stepping between them. “No first-year could withstand a memory reader. Especially one she thought was a friend.” He turned to Violet. “But you must know—you have enemies now. Aetos will not be among your allies. He’ll try to kill you for what you’ve seen.”

“I know,” Violet said, voice raw but unshaken.

Aelin’s voice broke the silence. “He doesn’t even understand what he’s done.”

Heads swiveled toward her.

“He trusted the word of a man he’s spent his whole life trying to please. A man who wears truth like armor, even when it’s a lie.” She met Violet’s eyes. “It doesn’t excuse it—but it wasn’t malice. It was ignorance. And ignorance can be unlearned.”

Felix frowned. “You think Aetos can be turned?”

“I think people make terrible choices when they don’t know what war they’re actually fighting,” Aelin said quietly. “And I think he’s not the only one in this room guilty of that.”

She looked at each member of the Assembly in turn. At Ulices, arms crossed like a barricade he couldn’t step back from. At Suri, chin high but eyes wary. At Brennan, whose jaw tightened as he held her gaze. At Kylynn, still bristling with indignation. At Felix, the only one who didn’t flinch when her gaze locked with his.

Aelin tilted her head, approval flickering in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, rising smoothly, brushing imaginary lint from her pants, “now that we’ve confirmed everyone’s parentage and favorite form of character assassination… can we maybe get back to the war?”

Felix exhaled sharply—half laugh, half relief.

Suri looked ready to combust.

Kylynn opened her mouth again—then shut it as Aelin’s gaze met hers and the faintest shimmer of heat curled off her shoulders.

“We’re done here,” Xaden said, voice like a blade.

His gaze pinned Suri. Then Ulices. And they both wilted beneath it.

“I expect an update on Zolya in the morning,” Brennan said. “This Assembly is adjourned.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations rose. The room shifted.

But Aelin didn’t move. Not yet.

She watched Violet. Watched the others. Watched who stood, who turned their back. Who looked relieved. Who looked afraid.

And who would remember this day for exactly what it was:

A line drawn in fire.

Aelin walked in silence beside Xaden, her boots barely whispering through the tall grass. The midmorning sun carved gleaming lines across the field, but the heat didn’t touch her. Not when her thoughts burned hotter.

Syrax’s presence coiled low in her mind, alert and listening.

“You feel that?” Aelin asked her silently. “The tension in the air?”

“I feel a storm waiting to break,” Syrax answered. “Andarna shines differently now.”

They crested the rise as Violet turned, her silver gaze snapping toward them—toward Xaden. His name hovered on her lips before she said it aloud, relief and worry tangled in the sound.

Aelin’s gaze swept over the others—Brennan with his barely leashed rage, Imogen steady and quiet at his side, Garrick braced like a soldier expecting orders. Bodhi, Masen, Eya, and the cherub-faced Ciaran clustered nearby. All of them reeking of fraying nerves and the sick certainty that returning to Basgiath might mean dying on its front steps.

They were right.

She folded her arms as Violet spoke, listening to the plan form, the risks line up like dominos teetering toward a fall. Her attention flicked to Brennan’s objections—valid, all of them—but ultimately irrelevant. They were going back. They had to. That wasn’t the question anymore.

And then Andarna rose.

Aelin’s brows lifted slightly as the young dragon staggered forward, black scales now slicked with a shimmer like oil in sunlight. She stumbled again, and Xaden’s shadows caught her before she hit the earth.

“She is becoming,” Syrax murmured.

“Becoming what?” Aelin murmured back.

Syrax didn’t answer.

Aelin rolled her eyes and turned to the conversation again. When Xaden finally laid out the timeline—forty-eight hours, graduation—Aelin stepped forward at last, her voice calm, quiet. Sharp as drawn steel.

“Then we don’t waste time,” she said, glancing toward the others, letting them all see that she was done waiting on consensus. “We go back with our story. We play the role. Ambushed by gryphon flyers twenty minutes outside of Athebyne. Two cadets dead. Violet wounded. The outpost abandoned when we arrived.”

Her gaze lingered on Brennan’s for a heartbeat. “It’s simple. Tragic. Believable. We back them into a corner. If they doubt it—if they push too hard—we threaten to tell the real story. That Colonel Aetos sent us into a trap.”

“And if they call our bluff?” Eya asked, arms crossed.

“They won’t,” Aelin replied, her tone slicing clean. “Because they already know. At least Colonel Aetos does. And if he questions us, if he makes a public move, he burns with us. Because if we go down, we take the whole lie with us—and that includes his role in it.”

“He wants us dead,” Imogen murmured.

Aelin nodded. “Which means he won’t challenge us in the open. He’s a smart man. He’ll send someone to do it quietly, after. So we prepare.”

She could feel the stillness settle across the group as they all took in what she wasn’t saying. A silent war, the kind fought in shadows and glances. The kind she’d been trained for since she could walk.

“But he can’t see me,” she added, quieter now, watching Xaden and Violet both. “Not directly. If Colonel Aetos gets even a glimpse, he’ll recognize me. So I’ll stay back. Let the rest of you carry the lie.”

“And if he sends Dain to go after you or Violet?” Brennan asked tightly.

Aelin’s gaze slid to Violet, and something warm and ruthless flickered in her chest. “I think he’ll try. But she has Xaden’s training. And she’s stronger than they know.”

“I’ll train her to block him out,” Xaden confirmed again, his jaw hard.

“She won’t be alone,” Aelin said. “If Dain pushes too far—if this gets out of control—I’ll deal with him.”

A few startled glances snapped toward her, but she didn’t waver. “Blind loyalty is dangerous. But it’s also predictable.”

She exhaled through her nose, then glanced once more toward Andarna. “We get the harness fixed. We fly before sunset. We act like nothing happened. And we don’t break, no matter how close they look.”

Syrax stirred again inside her. “You speak like a queen addressing her court.”

“No,” Aelin thought, her fingers curling slightly at her side. “I speak like someone who’s survived one.”

Chapter Text

The horizon glowed dimly, just the faintest brush of silver along the jagged spine of the mountains. Basgiath loomed in the distance, a black monolith etched against the rising light. Aelin crouched low along Syrax’s neck, fingers hooked into the gaps between her spine plates as the cold air sliced past her cheeks. It was the kind of chill that honed edges and cleared minds. She welcomed it.

“You’re quiet,” Syrax murmured into her thoughts, her voice sliding through the bond like a blade unsheathed in the dark. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I’m focusing,” Aelin replied under her breath, though no one else could hear her. The valley below was still and sleeping, draped in mist and shadow. “If I start thinking about what we’re about to do, I might throw up. And let’s not pretend you’d be understanding about that.”

“I’d drop you out of spite,” Syrax said with regal disdain. “Though if you must, aim for the broody one. He could use the humility.”

Aelin huffed a quiet laugh, her gaze flicking to the formation flying tight beside them. Sgaeyl cut a sleek line through the sky ahead, Xaden crouched low between her wings. Behind him, Garrick and Bodhi flanked him like wolves. Glane flew lower, weaving with purposeful grace. Violet and Tarin flew close to Sgaeyl, Andarna hanging from her new harness attached to Tairn’s saddle, the young dragon’s newly black scales catching what little light touched them. Like stars buried beneath obsidian.

Basgiath’s outer walls loomed closer, stone towers reaching like jagged teeth into the pale light.

“Don’t land,” she said.

“I assumed as much,” Syrax replied dryly. “Try not to maim yourself this time.”

Aelin stood on Syrax’s back, knees bent. “No promises.”

And then she jumped.

The wind screamed as she twisted through the air, landing in a crouch on the flight field without so much as a grunt. Syrax circled once above, wings wide, and disappeared into the clouds before anyone could see her.

Aelin rose slowly as the others landed one by one, wings touched stone. No shouts. No alarms. Not yet.

They moved quickly, cutting across the field and ducking into the tunnel that led beneath Basgiath’s walls. The air turned cooler there, heavier. Stone swallowed sound and light alike, and the deeper they walked, the more the silence pressed in.

Then came the moment of parting—no explanation needed.

The Marked Ones peeled off in twos and threes, disappearing into the shadowed halls like smoke curling beneath a door. Not fleeing—spreading. A warning whispered into the bones of Basgiath: Be ready. If this goes sideways, fly.

They would return. Just as planned.

Aelin touched Imogen’s arm briefly—no words, no nods. Just that one quiet moment before they all stepped into the unknown.

Then she dropped in behind Garrick, letting his broad shoulders shield her from any wandering glances. He didn’t comment, didn’t shift. Just kept walking, steady and solid, like he understood exactly why she was there. Better this way. Hidden in plain sight. If everything unraveled, she’d need the element of surprise more than anything else.

They slipped past columns and patrols, the sound of their boots lost to the groan of waking stone. Morning crept in, slow and heavy.

By the time they reached the base of the massive Red Dragon statue outside the Rotunda, the others were already filtering back in, merging with the shadows beneath its outstretched wings. Its carved eyes caught the growing light and gleamed faintly, red as coals in a dying fire. Watching. Always watching.

Imogen reappeared beside her without a word, nodding once—done.

Aelin shifted her weight, arms crossed, leaning into the stone base like she had all the time in the world, as Violet and Xaden murmured sharp words just to the side.

“You two really need to get better at hiding your dysfunction,” Aelin said idly. “From here, it looks like you're debating whether to make out or murder each other.”

“Both are still on the table,” Xaden muttered, not looking at her.

Bodhi’s whisper cut in from the left. “Hate to interrupt what’s obviously a moment,” he said, loud enough to echo off stone, “but that was the last bell. Time to get this nightmare started.”

Every spine straightened. The moment had come.

Aelin rolled her shoulders, her smile cold and thin. “Let’s go sell our lie.”

Together, they stepped from the shadows.

The stone beneath their boots felt harder with every step, the silence deeper as they approached the Rotunda’s arching doors. The sunlight was creeping in now, flooding the vast circular hall beyond with golden light. Cadets lined the inner rim, gathered for graduation. A stage had been raised. The death roll already being read.

“I really fucking hope you’re right about this,” Garrick muttered under his breath.

Aelin stayed behind him, letting the light hit his face first as they crossed the threshold.

“It’d be unfortunate to make it all three years and then die on graduation day.”

“I’m right,” Xaden said flatly, striding forward like he belonged there.

Aelin followed, chin high, the slow echo of their boots cutting through the Rotunda like a warning bell.

At the front, Captain Fitzgibbons stood with the death roll in hand. He squinted down at it.

“Garrick Tavis. Xaden Riorson.”

“Well, this is awkward,” Xaden called, voice lazy and amused.

Dozens of heads snapped in their direction.

Gasps, sharp curses, stunned silence.

They kept walking.

Garrick led the way, every line of his tall frame radiating cool indifference. Aelin stayed tucked just behind him, in the center of their tight formation. Xaden walked two steps ahead of the group, his gait slow but deliberate, as if he were already calculating the fallout.

The stone floor of the Rotunda echoed with their approach—boots sharp against marble, nine cadets moving as one.

“You’re… not dead.” Captain Fitzgibbons, the grizzled scribe assigned to the Riders Quadrant, blinked at them from the base of the dais. His weathered face turned the same ashen cream as his uniform as he fumbled with the death roll. The scroll slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor, unspooling.

“Apparently not,” Xaden replied dryly, his voice cutting through the stunned silence.

Commandant Panchek’s mouth hung open, frozen mid-breath. The whole dais stilled—until movement stirred at the far end.

General Sorrengail stepped out from the side, Colonel Aetos right behind her, already scowling.

Aelin didn’t miss the way Aetos’s face flushed with every step they took—his gaze darting over the nine of them.

“I don’t understand,” Fitzgibbons murmured, glancing helplessly to the younger scribes beside him. Then, louder, to Panchek: “They aren’t dead. Why would they have been reported for the death roll?”

Aelin’s stomach turned. She kept her eyes forward, hands clenched behind her back.

“Why were they reported for the death roll?” General Sorrengail asked, her tone glacial as she turned her sharp eyes on Colonel Aetos.

“They’ve been missing for six days!” Aetos snapped, voice rising with every word. “Naturally we reported them dead—but clearly we should’ve reported them for desertion and dereliction of duty instead.”

A murmur rippled through the cadets. Aelin’s jaw went tight. Six days. Six days of silence, and now Aetos had the gall—

“You want to report us for desertion?”

Xaden’s voice was calm as he climbed the stairs toward the dais. That deadly kind of calm that only came before the storm. Aelin didn’t need to look at him to know his expression—she could feel the shift in the air. Aetos stepped back, just a fraction, and she didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“You sent us into combat, and you’re going to report us for desertion?”

His voice carried like a blade through still air.

Aelin’s eyes snapped to the dais then. To Xaden, standing tall with the weight of command coiled around him like a second skin. He didn’t just look furious. He looked dangerous.

“What is he talking about?” General Sorrengail asked flatly, her eyes narrowing.

“I have no idea,” Aetos ground out. Liar.

Xaden turned his back to him, addressing the whole Rotunda now. “I was directed to take a squad beyond the wards to Athebyne and form the Fourth Wing’s War Games headquarters. We stopped to rest our riot at the nearest lake—standard protocol. And we were ambushed. Gryphons. They caught Deigh and Fuil off-guard. Both dragons were dead before they had a chance to fight back.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered cadets and staff. Aelin didn’t flinch.

But inside, something cold settled in her ribs. Liam. Soleil.

“We lost Liam Mairi and Soleil Telery,” he added, glancing over his shoulder. “And we almost lost Sorrengail.”

General Sorrengail turned sharply to her daughter. Violet nodded once.

“He’s lying,” Aetos said. “There’s no way—”

“Why the hell would I lie?” Xaden tilted his head like he was bored, like Aetos wasn’t even worth the energy it took to raise his voice.

Aelin almost admired the restraint. Almost.

“But if you don’t believe me… I assume General Sorrengail can discern the truth from her own daughter.”

Violet stepped forward. Slowly. Aelin noticed the tremor in her legs. She was holding herself upright on sheer spite alone.

“Cadet Sorrengail?” the General asked.

“It’s true,” Violet said.

Aelin caught the way Immogen tensed beside her. The words had weight—too much weight. Like each one was another stone dropped onto the pyre they hadn’t lit.

“Lies!” Aetos barked. “There’s no way two dragons were brought down by a drift of gryphons. Impossible. We should separate them and interrogate them individually.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. Of course he would suggest that.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” the General said coolly. A sudden wind blew through the Rotunda—cold and sharp. It tugged at Aelin’s loose hair, and she didn’t miss the way the floor beneath the General’s boots frosted.

“And I would reconsider your insinuation,” the General added, “that a Sorrengail isn’t truthful.”

Aetos stiffened.

“Tell me what happened, Cadet Sorrengail,” she said, quieter now, deadlier.

“We flew for Athebyne, as ordered,” Violet said. “As Riorson said, we stopped at a lake twenty minutes out so the dragons could water. We dismounted. Then the gryphons hit.”

She swallowed. Aelin’s fingers curled. She remembered that kind of pause. The kind where you were trying not to relive it.

“I only saw two appear with their riders, but it happened so fast. Soleil’s dragon was killed first. Deigh was gutted.” Her voice cracked, just barely. “We didn’t stand a chance beyond the wards, General.”

“And then?”

“Then I held Liam as he died.”

That landed like a blow. Aelin didn’t breathe.

“There was nothing we could do. Not after Deigh passed. And before his body was even cold, I was stabbed with a poison-tipped blade.”

She paused.

“When we sought help in Athebyne, the entire outpost was deserted. There was only a note.”

“Here’s the missive.”

Xaden pulled a crumpled parchment from his pocket and held it out. “Not sure what the destruction of a foreign village had to do with War Games, but we didn’t stick around to find out. Cadet Sorrengail was dying. I chose to preserve what remained of my squad.”

The General took the note. Read it silently.

“I chose to save your daughter,” he finished.

“It took days to find someone who could heal me,” Violet added. “I don’t even remember being healed. But as soon as I was safe, we flew back. We arrived maybe thirty minutes ago. Aimsir can confirm it.”

“And the bodies?” Aetos asked, voice tight.

“Sorrengail wouldn’t know,” Xaden said. “She was delirious from the poison. Half the riot flew back to burn the bodies, the other half searched for help. You’ll find the pyres east of the lake. Or you can check the fresh scars on our dragons.”

“Enough.”

The General’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

She turned, clearly conferring silently with her dragon. Frost crackled across the stone beneath her boots as she pivoted slowly toward Colonel Aetos.

“This is your handwriting,” she said, holding up the note. “You emptied a strategically invaluable outpost beyond the wards for War Games?”

“It was only for a few days!” Aetos protested, visibly sweating. “You said the games were at my discretion—”

“And clearly your discretion lacks common fucking sense.”

The rotunda went silent.

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear. Correct the death roll. Get these cadets into formation. Commence graduation so the new lieutenants can report to their wings. I expect you in my office in thirty minutes, Colonel Aetos.”

“Yes, General,” he muttered.

But as she turned away, the Coronel hissed something at Violet and Xaden—low, quick, venom-laced.

Aelin didn’t catch the words, but she saw Violet flinch and Xaden’s hand twitch at his side. A death threat. Had to be. Just like she assumed would happen.

They whispered something back—Xaden’s mouth barely moving—before both turned and descended the dais.

“It’s settled,” Xaden said as he passed Garrick. “Get everyone back in formation.”

Aelin didn’t speak. Just peeled off from the group, spine straight and heart thudding hard enough to echo in her ears.

She hadn’t even arrived at where Second Squad was forming when Dain broke from his line like a magnet pulled too far.

His boots scraped against stone as he crossed the narrow aisle, brown curls wind-tossed, his expression undone. His gaze darted from Aelin to Violet and back again, a visible breath leaving him like he’d been holding it for days. He looked—gods—relieved. Like he might throw his arms around both of them and bury his face between their shoulders like some reunion scene from a battlefield ballad.

“You’re alive! We’d heard—”

He reached for them—one hand toward Violet, the other starting toward Aelin.

Violet recoiled like she’d been burned. “Touch me,” she snapped, voice like razored ice, “and I swear to the gods, I’ll cut your fucking hands off and let the quadrant sort you out in the next round of challenges, Dain Aetos.”

The entire formation seemed to still, as if the air itself caught its breath.

“What?” Dain stopped dead, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, confusion tightening his features. “You don’t mean that, Vi.”

“I do.” Violet’s voice didn’t waver.

Xaden’s reply came so fast, Aelin barely had time to exhale. “You should take her at her word. In fact…” His tone didn’t carry rage, not yet. It was too smooth for that—too calm to be safe. “If you don’t, I’ll take personal offense. She made her choice, and it wasn’t you. It will never be you. I know it. She knows it. The whole quadrant knows it.”

Aelin shot him a sharp look, muttering, “Cool it, Riorson.”

He ignored her completely.

“But in case it’s not clear,” Xaden went on, stepping closer, looming without moving, “every time you think of reaching for her face, I want you to remember one word.”

Dain’s jaw tensed. “And what is that?”

“Athebyne.” One word, spoken like a blade slipping through armor.

Colonel Panchek’s voice rang out above the tension like a bell tolling over a grave. “Formation!”

No one moved at first. No one breathed.

Xaden tilted his head, eyes still on Dain. “No response? Interesting.” His voice was softer now, more lethal. “Get back in formation, squad leader, before I lose all pretense of civility. On behalf of Liam and Soleil.”

Aelin didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at Xaden, something hot and bitter coiling in her stomach.

There was no need for that—not in front of the entire quadrant.

But Xaden just rolled his shoulders, like shaking off blood that hadn’t dried yet, and turned to join the rest of the line as if nothing had happened.

She would deal with him later.

Aelin walked toward her place beside Quinn, her steps measured but heavy.

Quinn slid a step closer once the formation settled, her voice low enough only Aelin could hear. “What the hell was that about?”

Aelin didn’t glance at her. Didn’t blink.

“Riorson being Riorson,” she muttered, biting off each word. “Overdramatic. Overinvolved. Over-everything.”

Quinn snorted. “You mean protective as fuck and three seconds away from pulling a sword in front of the entire quadrant?”

Aelin tilted her head just slightly, mouth twitching. “So… exactly what I said.”

Quinn’s green eyes gleamed. “If he had taken one more step, I think Dain’s dignity would’ve combusted.”

“Pretty sure it already did.” Aelin inhaled slowly through her nose, grounding herself.

Quinn looked at her again and her smirk faded into something quieter. Something sharper. “Gods,” she muttered. “I need a drink.”

“Welcome to my life,” Aelin said under her breath.

Dain slid back into formation without a word, his shoulders stiff, jaw clenched too tight. He didn’t look at anyone—not even her—until he drew even with her side.

Then, quietly, in a voice barely above a whisper, “What happened?”

Aelin kept her gaze ahead, kept her body still, her expression neutral. But inside, she was already counting heartbeats. Timing every word.

“Exactly what Xaden said. We were en route to Athebyne,” she murmured, voice low and steady. “Stopped at a lake for the dragons to rest. Gryphons hit us. Fast. Coordinated. Soleil’s dragon went down first. Then Deigh.” Her voice didn’t waver. She’d made sure of that. “Violet was stabbed with a poisoned blade. She nearly died.”

Dain flinched. She could feel it more than she saw it.

Aelin went on, smoothly, evenly. “The outpost was empty. We flew until we found help, got Violet healed, and came back.”

Silence stretched. Dain’s shoulders sank a fraction.

“Gods,” he said hoarsely. “I thought you were dead.”

For a heartbeat, she wanted to tell him the truth. The real truth. About the Venin and the wyverns, about his father sending them into a trap.

But she just said, “So did we.”

Dain glanced at her then, eyes reddening. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded once. That was all she gave him. That had to be all.

A moment passed. Then another.

She was the one to speak next, voice cracking the stillness. “What Xaden did… in front of everyone—”

Dain’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“He didn’t need to do that,” Aelin said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “Not like that”

Xaden did it to protect Violet, yes. To guard a secret bigger than all of them—maybe. But mostly? To keep Dain in his place. To twist the knife where it would hurt the most.

His voice was quiet. “He always does.”

Aelin looked at him then. At the man she had once loved with a fire that had nearly consumed her. At the man who still looked at her like she was a map he’d once memorized and then lost.

She loved him still.

That was the truth neither of them ever spoke aloud. But it pulsed between them now, in the too-tight silence, in the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes and she didn’t quite let herself care.

Because love had never been their problem.

It was everything else.

The lies she told.

The rules he never broke.

The impossible line between loyalty and truth—and how they’d both failed to hold it.

Her throat tightened. She looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

She didn’t specify what she meant—because it was all of it.

Chapter Text

The ale was warm and frothy and only slightly less terrible than the last batch the mess hall had served, but Aelin sipped it anyway, fingers curled loosely around the thick glass as she leaned back in her chair.

The noise in the gathering hall was nearly deafening—shouted laughter, off-key singing, the raucous clatter of boots and tankards. But here, at the long table where Second Squad had claimed territory, it was the kind of chaos Aelin could stand. The kind that felt like something close to peace.

“Well,” Ridoc was saying, elbow propped on the table as he gestured with his mug, “if Chantara finally lifts the damn ban, I’m heading straight for that inn by the river. The one with the blackberry wine and the bartender who—”

“—told you no the last four times you sneaked out,” Rhiannon cut in dryly.

“She never said no,” Ridoc countered. “She said, ‘Not in this lifetime.’ And I like to think that means there’s still a chance.”

“Absolutely delusional,” Quinn muttered into her drink.

“It’s a short walk,” Alric added with a shrug. “Would be nice to have somewhere to go that isn’t a battlefield or the library.”

“Gods, yes,” Nadine groaned. “I don’t care if it’s a war-torn wasteland—if it’s got cold cider and no screaming first-years, I’m in.”

“It won’t last,” Eris said, arms crossed as he leaned back. “They’ll open Chantara for a week, someone’ll start a brawl, and we’ll be banned again by sunrise.”

“I give it three hours,” Sawyer chimed in. “Max.”

Aelin laughed under her breath, the sound muffled by the rim of her cup.

But then Imogen set her glass down with a thunk, cutting through the chatter.

“Forget Chantara,” she said, not bothering to soften her voice. “You want to talk about what matters? Let’s talk about what it felt like to see death coming at us in waves.”

The table quieted. Even Ridoc.

Rhiannon’s brows drew together. “What was it really like?” she asked, voice careful.

A beat of silence. Then—

“It fucking sucked,” Imogen said flatly, and threw back the rest of her drink. The slam of the empty mug on wood rang like punctuation. “You want the truth? If it wasn’t for Riorson, Sorrengail, and Sardothien…” Her eyes cut to Aelin briefly. “We’d all be dead.”

No one interrupted.

Imogen leaned forward, both palms braced on the table. “And as much as I wish none of it had happened, at least those of us who were there truly know the horror of what we’re up against.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. She didn’t let it show.

“To Liam,” Imogen said, lifting her glass again. The name hung heavy in the air.

“To Liam,” the squad echoed, voices soft, solemn. Even Ridoc didn’t crack a joke.

They drank, the silence settling around them like smoke.

After a moment, Quinn broke it.

“Can I offer a word of advice going into your second year?” she said, swirling the dregs of her ale. “Don’t get too close to the first-years. Especially not until Threshing tells you how many of them might actually be worth getting to know.” She grimaced. “Just trust me.”

Aelin didn’t miss the way Violet’s expression shifted at that, her fingers curling tighter around her mug.

But Aelin’s focus had shifted. Because she’d spotted him—dark hair, marked skin, a shadow near the edge of the room where the light didn’t quite reach.

She rose before she could think better of it, muttering a quiet, “Be right back,” as she left her ale behind.

He stood near the edge of the hall like he always did—just far enough from the light to keep the shadows close, just far enough from the squad tables that no one could pretend he was part of anything he didn’t choose.

As she was making her way to him, she noticed the cluster of cadets gathered in front of the announcements board along the far wall, hovering like moths waiting for a flame to flicker to life. The new leadership list hadn’t been posted yet, but that didn’t stop them from staring at it like sheer willpower might make the names appear.

Right in the center of them stood Dain.

Perfect posture. Expression tight. Probably rehearsing his victory smile.

Aelin’s stride slowed just enough to catch his eye—and when it did, the contact held. His sandy-brown eyes narrowed slightly, his lips parting as if he might call her over. But then he saw where she was heading.

To him.

To Riorson.

Aelin didn’t break her pace. Didn’t blink.

Xaden didn’t look surprised to see her coming. Didn’t flinch when she stopped in front of him, arms crossed, mouth set in that careful not-quite-smile she wore when she was about to go for the kill.

“You weren’t supposed to humiliate him,” Aelin said, voice low, shaking with cold fury.

Xaden didn’t even blink. Took a long, infuriating sip from his glass like he had all the time in the world. “You mean Aetos?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You know damn well I do.” Her voice stayed quiet, deadly calm. “I said I’d take care of him.”

“You didn’t.”

She stepped in closer, close enough that most people would think they were simply arguing. 

“You knew, and you said it anyway.”

Xaden shrugged one broad shoulder, maddeningly casual. “It worked.”

Aelin’s hand clenched into a fist at her side. “It wasn’t about working, it was about decency. You didn’t just take the kill shot. You paraded his corpse in front of the entire godsdamned quadrant.”

His expression hardened, the shadows around his eyes sharpening like a storm cresting. “He would’ve kept pushing. If he pushed her any harder, he might’ve seen something he couldn’t come back from.”

Aelin’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “So you decided to make a show of it? To shame him? He’s already been stripped of everything, and you—what? Needed to twist the knife a little deeper?”

Something flickered in his expression then. Not regret—Xaden Riorson didn’t do regret—but recognition. Of the line she was drawing. Of the wound he’d pressed on harder than he needed to.

Her palm slammed flat against his chest, shoving him back—not hard, not enough to draw attention, but enough to say something. Enough to let him feel it.

“That wasn’t the plan,” she hissed. “You don’t get to make yourself judge and executioner just because your shadows can’t tell the difference between protection and punishment.”

His face was stone, unreadable. But his voice—his voice cut like razors. “I’m not judging him. I’m ending the risk.”

“He’s not a risk, he’s a person.” Her voice cracked, finally. “You humiliated him for sport.”

His eyes flared. “He humiliated himself the moment he tried to control Violet’s choices.”

“He is her friend,” Aelin snarled. “Flawed or not, he gave a damn. And you ripped him apart in front of every cadet like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.”

A beat of silence. A heartbeat of pain neither of them admitted.

“I think,” Xaden said, stepping in until their shadows collided, “you’re still trying to save him.”

“And I think you’re trying to convince yourself that cruelty is just strategy.”

Her voice trembled from the force of keeping it steady. The force of not letting him see how deep he’d cut her.

“You didn’t do it for Violet,” she said, softer now, deadlier. “You did it because you liked watching him fall.”

His jaw flexed. Aelin turned before he could answer.

She walked away without looking back, her spine straight, steps measured like she hadn’t just thrown the most dangerous man in Basgiath off-balance. Like her hands weren’t still shaking from it.

The air felt too tight in her lungs. Too charged. Too full of the things she hadn’t said.

She didn’t glance toward the announcement board as she passed it—but she didn’t need to.

She could feel his gaze.

Dain.

He’d seen. Of course he had. The crowd had shifted enough to let him witness the whole thing—her stride toward Xaden, the argument too quiet to hear but far too sharp to miss, the way she shoved him. The way she turned her back on him like it cost her nothing.

Dain’s brow was furrowed, mouth slightly parted. Not in anger. Not quite confusion either.

Questioning.

Trying to put the pieces together, trying to reconcile the girl who used to laugh with him under sun-drenched courtyards with the woman who now stood toe-to-toe with Riorson like she wasn’t afraid of the shadows curling at his feet.

Aelin didn’t look away as she passed him.

Didn’t flinch when his eyes locked onto hers, searching, waiting.

She gave him nothing.

Not a nod. Not a blink.

Just the same even, unshakable stare.

Then she slid back into her seat beside Quinn and Cianna, letting out a breath only once her hands were under the table.

Violet blinked at her. “Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” Aelin said. “Riorson wants to see you.”

Violet blanched mid-sip, her cup lowering slowly. “Oh gods.” With a resigned exhale, she pushed her chair back and made her way toward the dark corner of the hall where Xaden stood like a sentinel.

Quinn watched her go, then turned back with one brow arched high. “You look like you just wrestled a mountain lion.”

“I did,” Aelin muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “And he had too many opinions.”

Cianna, without missing a beat, slid a drink across the table like she was dealing cards. “You’re gonna need this.”

Aelin caught it and took a long sip—barely tasting whatever was in it, only registering the faint burn as it slid down.

Across the room, Dain still watched her.

And this time, Aelin didn’t bother looking away.

Lightning cracked outside the hall—sharp and sudden, like a whip against the stone walls. It cast quicksilver shadows across the tables, drawing everyone's eyes briefly toward the stained-glass windows before conversation resumed in uneven patches.

The minutes crawled by.

Aelin didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just stared into her half-empty glass, trying to decide whether another sip would make her feel better or worse.

The squad had gone quiet around her—watchful, waiting. Alric was chewing on a fingernail. Cianna had started braiding a lock of Eris’s hair just to keep her hands busy. Even Quinn was still for once.

Then Violet and Rhiannon returned.

“We’ve got news,” Rhiannon said, breathless, her voice pitched high—tight with disbelief, or panic. Maybe both.

Every head at the table turned.

“Rhiannon is the new Squad Leader, and Sawyer the her Executive Officer,” Violet announced, standing beside her, a strained grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Pride warred with something darker just beneath the surface—something only Aelin seemed to catch.

The table erupted.

Alric whooped loud enough to startle the cadets at the next table over, Cianna slapped the table in giddy applause, and Eris let out a delighted, “About damn time!” Even Quinn cracked a grin, lifting her drink toward Rhiannon and then Sawyer in salute.

Aelin smiled, too—genuine, if fleeting. Rhiannon and Sawyer deserved it. But her spine prickled.

There was more.

She felt it in the pause. In the way Violet’s smile faded, her attention cutting to Aelin like a blade honed to its edge.

“And,” Violet added, her voice quieter now, heavier, “Dain’s been named Wingleader.”

The table began to buzz again, surprise rippling like wind over tall grass.

But Violet kept speaking.

“And his Executive Officer is…”

She hesitated.

One beat.

Two.

Then the word dropped, soft as snowfall and twice as cold.

“You.”

Silence crashed down like a storm surge.

Aelin’s smile shattered. Froze in place, brittle as glass.

No one spoke. Even Quinn—queen of the poorly timed joke—said nothing.

Aelin stared straight ahead. Her throat had gone dry. Her pulse thundered behind her eyes.

Of course.

Of all the candidates, of all the names Command could’ve chosen—of course it was her.

She’d been paired with Dain Aetos again. Not just beside him on the battlefield. Tethered to him in rank, duty, expectation. For another year.

A year of secrets she couldn’t tell. Of truths that could get them both killed.

Beside her, Quinn exhaled slowly. “Well that’s a fucking twist,” she muttered, not quite quiet enough.

Rhiannon gave Aelin an apologetic look, as if she understood exactly how many knives had just been shoved between her ribs—how deeply they'd been twisted.

Across the mess hall, Dain hadn’t moved.

He stood rooted near the far wall, eyes locked on her. But the glow of victory didn’t reach his face. His expression was hollow. Pale. Like the announcement had sucker-punched him too.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t nod.

Just stared.

And Aelin… she couldn’t meet that gaze. Not right now.

She dropped her eyes to the half-melted ice in her glass, her reflection fractured in the amber liquid.

She couldn’t do this.

She would, of course. She’d wear the title like armor and lead like a blade.

But the cost—

The cost would be another piece of herself. Another truth buried so deep it might never come back.

Then, Violet shifted closer. Her shoulder brushed Aelin’s, just enough to snap her out of the spiral.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Colonel Aetos cornered Xaden and me.”

Aelin’s head snapped toward her, ice creeping into her veins.

“What?” The word was a hiss. Low. Dangerous.

Violet didn’t flinch. Her pale eyes were steady, and when she spoke, her voice was so soft only Aelin could hear it.

“He said, ‘Secrets make for poor leverage. They die with the people who keep them.’”

The words weren’t a threat.

They were a death sentence.

“They’re starting up the stairs,” Aelin said, leaning slightly over the turret wall to glimpse the winding trail that led from the courtyard up to their perch.

Rhiannon stood poised with a quill in hand and the candidate roll tucked against her side. “Right on time.”

“They look nervous,” Nadine observed from her spot on the stone bench, flicking sweat from her temple with the back of her hand.

“Weren’t you nervous?” Rhiannon asked, raising a brow at her. “Personally, I wouldn’t have made it across without Vi here,” jerking her chin toward Violet.

“I only gave you a little more traction,” Violet said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You had the courage and balance to make it across.”

“It’s not raining like it was during ours.” Nadine tilted her face up to the blistering blue sky. “Maybe more of them will survive.” She cut her gaze to Violet. “Though you’d think your mother might’ve spared you the lightning last year.”

Violet let out a dry laugh. “Clearly you don’t know my mother.”

Dain stepped out from the shadowed corner by the stairwell, arms crossed over his chest. “Only ninety-one dragons have agreed to bond this year,” he said, voice flat. “More candidates making it across doesn’t mean more riders.”

“They’re about halfway up,” Aelin said, checking again. The line of pale, sweating figures was growing closer.

“Good.” Dain pushed off the wall. His face was already drawn tight in anticipation, as if his title demanded it. “Remember the rules. Matthias and Sorrengail—you’re here to take the final roll before the Parapet. Don’t engage—”

“We know the rules,” Rhiannon and Violet said in unison.

“Fine,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward Violet. Then he turned toward Nadine. “And you—”

“I don’t have a job,” she said with a grin, tugging at the ragged edge of her uniform sleeve where she’d hacked the arms off. “I’m just bored.”

Dain frowned. “Running a tight ship there, squad leader.”

She just raised a brow. “There are no regulations about five riders being on the turret during Parapet. Don’t even start with me this morning, Aetos.” She tapped her quill against the scroll. “And if you so much as breathe the word Wingleader, I’ll remind you that Riorson ran this place just fine without needing people to kiss his boots.”

Aelin shot her a look—just a small, desperate glance. Please, Rhi, not now.

But Rhiannon didn’t even flinch.

“Because he scared the shit out of everyone,” Nadine muttered. “Well, almost everyone.”

“Since it’s only us,” Rhiannon said, switching tones so fast it made Aelin’s head spin, “what do you know about the new vice commandant?”

“Varrish?” Dain asked. “Nothing except he’s a hard-ass who thinks the quadrant’s gone soft since his own graduation. He’s friends with my father.”

“Well, that just screams fun,” Rhiannon said flatly.

Aelin snorted quietly. Gods, she missed having mornings that didn’t end in terror.

“Here they come,” Nadine said, getting to her feet as the first candidate emerged at the top of the stairs, panting hard, eyes wide with terror. She moved out of the way so Rhiannon could step forward and take their name.

And so it began.

Hour after hour, the line crawled forward. Sweat beaded down everyone’s spines as the sun blazed high, the sky never once offering the mercy of a cloud. The roll grew longer. The pile of dead candidates—those who refused or froze—grew with it. Some cried. Some vomited. Some made the long, perilous walk across the Parapet without so much as a blink.

By the fourth hour, Aelin had slumped into the shade beside the wall, eyelids drooping, muscles slack with heat and fatigue. Her thoughts floated in and out—nothing clear, nothing fixed. Until—

“Name?” Rhiannon called.

And the voice that answered was one she hadn’t heard in years.

“Aaric Graycastle.”

Aelin’s eyes snapped open.

She didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

The world stopped spinning.

She turned her head slowly—slowly, like she might be wrong, like some cruel phantom of memory had crawled into her mind.

But she wasn’t wrong.

There he stood.

Broad-shouldered. Sun-flushed. His uniform clung to him with sweat, but his chin was high, his shoulders square. That proud, reckless defiance burned in his green eyes.

Her brother.

Her baby brother.

Aelin’s hand slipped from the stone behind her. She barely caught herself from collapsing, her breath a sharp, shallow thing as Cam stepped forward—toward the Parapet.

No. No, no, no—

Her body moved before her brain caught up. She lunged, boots scuffing against the sun-baked stone, and slammed a hand against his chest, right over his heart. His heartbeat thudded beneath her palm—steady. Determined.

“Cam.” Her voice cracked—gods, it cracked right down the middle. “No.”

He blinked down at her, startled—but not surprised. His green eyes locked on hers, fierce and clear, and in that instant she saw it. The truth in them.

He knew.

He’d known she was here. Had always known. Had walked those stairs anyway.

“Turn back,” she whispered, her throat closing around the words. “Please.”

But he didn’t flinch. “Move, El.”

The name punched the air from her lungs. She hadn’t heard it—not like that—since that day in the palace, the day that she ran.

“I’m not letting you go out there,” she said, her voice raw, her body shaking from more than just the heat. “You cross that Parapet, and there’s no going back. You know that.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. And when she didn’t move, his hand gently wrapped around her wrist, not pushing—just waiting.

A shadow fell across them. Dain.

“You sure about this?” he asked Cam, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

“Aaric Graycastle,” Cam said before Dain could say more, the name sharp and practiced as he gave it to Rhiannon, who scribbled it down on the registration parchment. But her brow pinched as she glanced between them—she knew something was off.

Dain’s eyes flicked toward Rhiannon, then narrowed at Cam. “Does your father know?”

“It’s none of his business,” Cam muttered. “I’m twenty.”

“Right, because that’s going to make a difference when he realizes what you’re doing,” Dain snapped, raking a hand through his hair. “He’ll kill us all.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Cam asked, without looking back.

Dain didn’t answer immediately.

He looked at Aelin.

Her gaze snapped to his, wide and pleading. Do something, she begged silently. Stop him. Lie, tell him you will.

Dain's jaw clenched. His expression softened—but not with hope. With regret.

He shook his head once, slow and firm.

I can’t.

Aelin’s breath hitched. Her hand trembled.

Cam looked back at her now. And then he nodded.

“I have to,” he said quietly. “You know I do.”

Aelin’s heart thundered in her ribs, loud enough to drown out the world.

She knew.

Gods, she knew. That fire in his eyes—it was the same fire that had once consumed her. The same fire that had driven her to cross that godsdamned ledge and not look back. Even when it shattered everything she’d known.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Nothing would.

And then—slowly, so slowly—she stepped aside. Let her hand fall uselessly to her side.

Cam gave her the smallest smile. A private one. Almost a thank-you. Almost a goodbye.

And then he walked past her.

Aelin didn’t breathe.

Not as Cam stepped onto the Parapet.

Not as the wind caught the edge of his uniform, tugging at the fabric, trying to pull him back.

Not as his boots struck the slick stone, steady and sure, like he’d been born for it.

She barely registered Violet whispering something to Rhiannon nearby—something sharp and low, maybe a warning, maybe just awe. She didn’t care. Didn’t look. Didn’t blink.

She heard Rhiannon take the next cadet’s name—“Sloane Mairi”—and Aelin barely registered the girl stepping up beside her, shoulders trembling with nerves. Sloane. She would remember the name. She would watch her too.

But not now.

Not until Cam was across.

Aelin’s eyes never left him. Not even once. Not when the wind screamed across the ledge. Not when a first-year a few cadets down wobbled and dropped to their knees. Not when someone behind her swore under their breath.

Cam walked the Parapet like he belonged on it.

Shoulders squared, chin high, every inch of him radiating that familiar, infuriating, beloved defiance.

Aelin’s fingers curled into her palm as he neared the other side, as his boots struck the final span of stone and he stepped off the ledge—onto solid ground.

Only then did she exhale.

But she didn’t let herself look away. Not yet.

She kept her eyes on him, on her brother. Her baby brother.

Alive. Whole. Brave.

And too godsdamned stubborn for his own good.

A shift in the air told her someone had moved closer.

Dain.

He stood just beside her now, not touching, not speaking—just there. A steady presence against the storm still roiling inside her. His nearness was a quiet offering, one she hadn’t asked for but didn’t refuse.

Aelin didn’t turn her head, didn’t acknowledge him, but some part of her—some battered, shaking piece—leaned into that shared silence.

She felt eyes on her. Rhiannon’s, sharp and too knowing. Nadine’s, flicking over from farther down the line. Both of them watching the girl who never cracked. The girl who never showed more than what she wanted you to see.

The girl who now stood frozen, trembling fingers curling into a fist, chest rising with a breath that was too shallow.

The girl who’d just come undone in front of them.

Chapter Text

The Parapet was over.

The worst was supposed to be over.

But Aelin’s heart still pounded like war drums in her chest as she stalked the courtyard, shoving past other cadets, ignoring the names being barked. Her eyes scanned every cluster of first-years, every small huddle of nervous faces and triumphant grins. None of them were him.

Her boots echoed hard against the stone as she rounded another corner of the lower barracks, ignoring the stares thrown her way. She didn’t care.

And then—there.

By the wall, just past the weapons shed, leaning casually with that infuriating grin he’d inherited from their mother—was Cam. Aaric. Whatever name he’d given, it didn’t matter, talking to a girl.

Not just any girl.

She looked like Liam. Gods, she had to be his sister—same unruly blonde hair, same quiet steadiness in her posture. She wasn’t laughing, but her expression was open, soft, like she trusted Cam already.

“Cadet Graycastle,” she said, sharp as a blade.

He turned instantly.

So did the girl, brows rising—but Aelin didn’t spare her more than a glance.

“Come with me.”

His grin faded, but he nodded. “Give me a sec—”

“Now.”

There must’ve been something in her face, because the girl backed off without protest, and Cam straightened with a sigh and followed.

She didn’t speak as she led him through the twisting back corridors of the Riders Quadrant—hallways only second-years and above really used, ones that wouldn’t draw attention. She found a door to a storeroom and didn’t wait, shoved open the door, and yanked him inside. 

The second the door clicked shut, Aelin spun and ran straight into him.

Her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, her face buried against his neck.

He caught her with a sharp grunt, stumbling a half-step as his arms locked around her, strong and sure and shaking just a little.

“Gods,” she whispered. “Gods, Cam—”

He held her tighter. Aelin didn’t speak. She just held on. Buried her face into his shoulder. Let the tears she’d kept locked behind iron walls finally, finally fall.

“I thought you’d hate me,” she breathed, still clinging to him. “After everything. After I left without explanation. I thought—I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I could never hate you,” Cam said softly into her hair. “Not even for a second.”

They stood like that for a long time, in the silence, in the space between who they’d been and who they were now.

Aelin was the first to pull back, just enough to look at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, voice raw. “You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve stayed safe, Cam.”

He smiled faintly. “You mean Aaric.”

She didn’t return the smile.

He sighed. “I saw you.”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”

“Reunification Day,” he said softly. “I saw you, El. I knew the moment I did. You looked different, but… I knew. And if you were here…” His jaw tightened. “Then I had to be, too.”

“Gods, Cam—”

“I knew you had a reason,” Cam went on. “And I realized… maybe I have one too.”

“You don’t know what this is,” she said, her voice suddenly raw. “This isn’t just a war, Cam. It’s not what they tell us in classrooms. It’s—”

“I know what’s really happening,” he said, cutting her off, quiet but certain. “Not all of it, but… enough. Enough to understand why you left. Why you never came home.”

Aelin’s breath hitched.

“I know,” he said again, and the weight of those two words crashed into her like a tidal wave.

He knew.

Not just about her. But about them. The venin. The truth buried under a mountain of lies.

“And you came anyway?” she asked, voice hoarse.

Cam nodded, brushing a hand over her arm. “I made the same choice you did, El. Two years later, yeah—but the same one.”

Aelin closed her eyes.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to hug him again and never let go.

Instead, she whispered, “Godsdammit, Cam.”

He grinned. “Love you too, sis.”

“You stupid, brave, impossible idiot,” she whispered.

Cam just smiled, faint and fierce.

“I learned from the best.”

Aelin glared at him, the pressure behind her ribs too tight, too sharp to contain.

“If you die,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest, “I swear to Malek, Cam—I will find a way to resurrect you just so I can kill you myself.”

Cam burst out laughing. “That’s fair.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Oh, I know you’re not.”

“Don’t test me, Camlaen Aaric Tauri.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning like he hadn’t just broken her heart in a hundred ways and stitched it back together again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away when he bumped his shoulder into hers.

Not this time.

Not when he was alive, and here, and impossibly, stubbornly hers.

Names echoed across the courtyard like drumbeats—sharp and final.

Each cadet called was met with shuffling feet, mounting nerves, the scrape of boots moving toward their new squad leaders. Aelin stood stiffly at formation, arms behind her back, next to Dain, watching the endless tide of first-years get sorted into their fate. Her jaw ached from how tight she was clenching it.

She didn’t look for Cam. Didn’t need to.

She heard his name.

“Aaric Graycastle—First Squad, Tail Section, Third Wing.”

Her head snapped up.

No.

That was not happening.

Before the scribe even finished scratching the name into the records, Aelin was already moving—shoulders squared, pace calm but sharp as a blade. She strode toward the Senior Wingleader.

Aura Beinhaven spotted her approach and made a visible show of not being impressed. Her golden braid gleamed in the morning sun, her boots too polished, her smirk too smug. She turned slightly, shifting her weight onto one leg like this was all mildly entertaining.

“Problem, Executive Officer Sardothien?” she asked, her voice oily-smooth and just loud enough to earn a few side glances.

Aelin didn’t waste time. “Graycastle. Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing. Move him.”

Aura blinked, then gave a slow, mocking tilt of her head. “And why would I do that?”

Aelin stepped in closer, her voice low and razor-sharp. “Because I’m asking you to.”

Aura’s smile widened like a snake baring its fangs. “You might be cute in your little boots, Sardothien, but you don’t get to dictate assignments across wings. That authority is reserved for Wingleaders.” She tapped a nail against the hilt of the dagger at her hip. “Which—unless I missed an overnight promotion—you are not.”

Aelin leaned in, voice no louder than a breath. “You want to play games, Beinhaven? Fine. But I’m not asking again. Move him.”

Aura laughed softly, eyes glinting with delight. “Oh, this is good. All this fuss over some first-year? What is he—your new boyfriend? Hmm. I don’t think Aetos would approve.” Her smirk widened, mockingly thoughtful. “Maybe now that he sees you fawning over this Graycastle, he’ll finally return to my bed.”

Aelin’s hands curled into fists behind her back, nails digging into her palms until her skin burned. “Move Graycastle to my wing before I make sure the only thing you’re taking to bed tonight is a broken jaw.”

Aura’s smirk faltered for half a heartbeat. Just long enough.

Then it was back, sharper than before. “Is that a threat, Sardothien?” she purred, though her voice had dropped, more wary than amused now. “Because I’d be very careful who’s listening.”

Aelin’s smile was razor-thin. “Good. Let them listen.”

She wasn’t bluffing. Not anymore. Not after everything she’d survived to get here, everything she’d buried to keep Cam safe. Aura Beinhaven didn’t know the half of it. And she didn’t need to.

Aura opened her mouth again, likely to unleash more venom, but—

“Do as she says, Beinhaven.”

The words cut clean through the rising tension.

Both women turned as Dain stepped up beside Aelin, his expression carved from stone.

Aura blinked. “Wingleader Aetos.”

“I’m approving the transfer,” he said, voice flat, final. “Graycastle to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing. Effective immediately.”

Aura’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Is there a reason we’re catering to this particular first-year?”

“That reason,” Aelin said smoothly, before Dain could lie for her, “is potential. And if you think I’m going to let a promising cadet get killed because someone likes to shuffle rosters with their eyes closed, think again.”

Aura’s eyes narrowed, flicking between the two of them with growing suspicion. “Fine,” she snapped. “But when they’re dead by next week, I’m not wasting parchment revising the rolls again.”

“Also—add the Mairi girl. Sloane. Same squad as Graycastle.” Dain said coldly.

Aura’s expression flickered—something cold, something calculating—and then she pivoted sharply on her heel. Her voice rang out, all clipped command, calling the corrections like none of it had ever happened.

Aelin exhaled—barely.

Dain didn’t look at her right away. “You’re welcome.”

She gave him a sidelong glare. “I had it handled.”

“You were about to punch a Wingleader.”

“Politely,” Aelin muttered, rolling her shoulders back as if shaking off the confrontation. “With professional precision.”

Dain gave a quiet grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re lucky I got there before you burned her.”

She didn’t respond. Because lucky had nothing to do with it.

Not when it came to her brother.

From the far end of the courtyard, movement snagged her attention like a pulled thread. Cam was standing in the crowd of first-years, half turned toward her, his brows drawn in that very specific are-you-kidding-me-right-now expression that only a sibling could perfect. One look said everything: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?

Aelin lifted her chin and shot him a flat, unrepentant stare. Shut up and get in formation, it said.

He lifted one brow. But the message was clear: You’re doing the subtle part of ‘stay hidden’—horrendously.

She arched a brow right back. Sharper. Sharper than her words would’ve been if she said them aloud.

Get over it. Get in formation.

Cam’s mouth tightened, but he pivoted on his heel and stalked off like the dutiful first-year he was pretending to be.

Aelin turned back to Dain, who was watching the exchange with something unreadable in his eyes.

“What?” she asked coolly.

Dain shook his head, voice dry. “Nothing. Just wondering how long it’ll take before you start rearranging the entire quadrant by sheer force of will.”

Aelin smirked. “Give it a week.”

The last name was called.

Fitzgibbons’ voice, dry as ash and twice as grating, echoed over the courtyard:

“That concludes sorting. Formations will hold while the Commandant addresses the Quadrant.”

Aelin forced her jaw to unclench. Her spine locked straight. Across the courtyard, the last group of first-years shuffled into lines, eyes wide and knuckles white on whatever gear they still carried. Somewhere near the back of Flame Section, Second Squad, Cam stood stiffly, doing an admirable job not glancing in her direction again.

Not that she blamed him. Her hands were still shaking.

“You are agitated,” Syrax said, the mental link low and smoky. “Like an animal pacing its cage.”

“Because my brother just got himself into a meat grinder and I couldn’t stop it.”

“He’s not weak.”

“No,” Aelin admitted silently, eyes scanning the wings. “But he’s mine to protect.”

“First-years,” Pancheck began, his voice dropping to something heavier, weightier. “Welcome to Basgiath War College. Where you will either become dragon riders—warriors of the empire—or you will die.”

Murmurs rippled through the ranks. Aelin didn’t blink.

Beside Pancheck stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in black rider leathers, his expression like stone carved by violence. Vice Commandant Varrish.

“The coddling ends today,” Varrish said, voice like a strike of steel. “Your survival is no longer your family’s concern. It is the concern of the Riders Quadrant—and of the dragons who will judge you worthy, or not. Fall short, and you’ll burn for it.”

Charming, Aelin thought, eyes narrowing.

Aura took center stage with a flair of golden braid and smugness, her voice rising with polished confidence. “Riders are not born,” she said, “they are forged. We carry the weight of our people. The empire sleeps under the wing of our vigilance. There is no greater honor than to be chosen.”

Aelin barely heard her. She felt Syrax shift restlessly in her mind again.

“I do not like the one-eyed dagger-tail.”

“The what?”

Wingbeats thundered overhead.

Aelin’s eyes snapped up as six dragons soared into position, landing along the high walls behind the dais like living gods. There was Cath—Dain’s red swordtail—majestic as ever. But the orange daggertail beside him was unfamiliar.

Scarred. Huge. And missing an eye.

He surveyed the yard like a bored predator.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Solas,” Syrax growled. “A name I have not heard in decades. He should not be here.”

“Why?”

But Syrax didn’t answer. Her focus narrowed on the orange dragon like a blade honing in on a target. Every scale along her mental presence bristled.

And then the screaming started.

A group of first-years bolted, running for the archway that led to the parapet. And right on cue, a gout of flame erupted from one of the dragons, charring them mid-sprint. Their screams cut off as quickly as they began.

Pancheck didn’t flinch. “Those who run, die,” he barked.

The dragons stayed silent, still, terrifying.

But as another batch of terrified first-years took off toward the parapet, Solas—that massive orange brute—slithered his neck low over the formation and released a blast of fire.

Aimed close. So close—

Aelin’s instincts screamed. Her feet didn’t move fast enough.

The fire raced toward her quadrant—toward Second Squad.

She wasn’t standing with them. She was near the dais, near Dain, and still the heat slammed into her like a hammer.

Before she could summon more than a spark of flame in response, Dain was moving—shoving her behind him, wrapping his arms around her like a living shield.

“Dain—!” she hissed.

Flames licked past them.

But she didn’t let them touch him.

Aelin called her fire—not the raw, unwieldy kind she hid, but the sharp, controlled current she’d mastered. It burst from her palms and flared outward, a shimmering wall of heat that caught the flames before they hit. Curved the inferno away from both of them.

The air shimmered, their barrier holding. When it was over, Dain was still caging her with his arms.

She twisted on him, fire still burning under her skin. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Dain blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Put yourself between me and a dragon like you’re some gods-damned shield,” she snapped, voice low and shaking with fury. “You don’t get to throw yourself in front of me like your life means less than mine.”

His jaw tightened, throat bobbing, but he said nothing.

Then she shoved off him and turned toward Second Squad, pulse still thundering as her eyes swept the wreckage.

Ash fell like snow. Third Squad was gone—gone, a scorched void in the formation.

Second Squad was alive. Barely. Cam was alive.

Her knees nearly gave out.

He’s alive.

Syrax’s growl rumbled through her mind like thunder. “That was no misfire.”

Then Varrish’s voice rose above the silence, smug and deliberate. “It is not only the first-years who earn their leathers at Basgiath!” he roared. “The wings are only as strong as their weakest rider!”

Aelin’s hands curled into fists at her sides. He planned that. He sent Solas in for this. For fear. For blood.

Then—

More wingbeats.

Massive ones.

All heads turned skyward as two enormous dragons descended.

Tairn.

And—Syrax.

Aelin’s heart stopped.

Syrax didn’t circle. She landed in the rotunda with a roar, scattering cadets like leaves.

Tairn hit the top of the wall behind the dais, his wings flaring wide enough to blot out the sun.

The courtyard went silent.

Syrax snarled in Solas’s direction, every inch of her body coiled, wings flared, fangs bared.

Tairn roared, the sound shaking the stones beneath their feet.

The Wingleaders’ dragons reared back in alarm, instinctively submitting.

But not Solas.

A deep, guttural snarl rumbled from the orange daggertail, so low it made the air vibrate in Aelin’s chest. His single golden eye locked on Syrax with something ancient in its fury—something that reeked of challenge.

Syrax responded in kind.

Her snarl wasn’t a sound so much as a warning—a drawn blade in the dark. It rose from the pit of her chest and built into a hiss of rage, wings flaring wider until the air itself seemed to crackle with heat.

Tairn added his own growl to the standoff, deeper and far more terrifying, like the cracking of stone in an avalanche. It echoed off the keep’s towers, the walls, the very bones of the courtyard.

Solas roared, violent and wild, flames licking at the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward on the wall—toward Syrax.

Syrax’s tail struck the ground, stone shattering beneath her, her mouth opening wide in a hiss so furious it silenced every breath in the yard.

Tairn roared again, louder this time. A sound that didn’t ask for submission—it demanded it. The kind of roar that made lesser dragons kneel and seasoned riders tremble.

And still, Solas held.

Muscles rippling. Wings twitching.

He opened his jaws, a low, guttural hiss rattling from deep in his throat.

Syrax’s flames ignited along her fangs. Her talons scraped the courtyard stone like she was done with diplomacy.

Tairn took a single, thunderous step forward on the wall, looming, black as night, ancient power radiating from him in waves.

And finally—

Solas broke.

With one last snarl of fury, he reeled back his head and stepped away, wings tucking tight to his sides, smoke hissing between his teeth as he turned away from the standoff.

But the damage had been done.

Syrax’s mind was a wildfire in Aelin’s skull.

“Next time,” she growled, still watching Solas like a predator waiting for the kill. “We kill the human.”

With that final promise, Syrax flared her wings wide—molten blue and silver catching the sun like searing lightning—and launched into the air with a roar that made stone tremble. A half-breath later, Tairn did the same. The sheer force of their combined wingbeats sent dust and loose gravel skittering across the courtyard, a thunderous warning that echoed long after their massive forms vanished into the sky.

Varrish turned slowly on the dais, the pompous drape of his new Vice Commandant medal rustling with the movement. His glare found Violet first—sharp and accusing, as if she had ordered the dragons to defy the display, as if she were responsible for Tairn’s dominance, for his refusal to be cowed.

Violet met the stare head-on, jaw tight, shoulders squared in silent defiance.

But when Varrish’s eyes finally shifted, landed on Aelin, the scorn in them sharpened into something worse. Something measured.

Calculated.

He looked at her like a man who knew exactly how dangerous she might be—and was already imagining the ways to control it.

Aelin didn’t blink.

She held his stare like a blade to the throat—silent, steady, unrelenting.

Dare me.

That was what her eyes said as the last heat of Syrax’s fury burned behind them. She tilted her chin up a fraction, the whisper of a smirk ghosting her mouth—not amused, not even angry anymore.

Just ready.

Varrish looked away first.

Chapter Text

Aelin woke before sunrise.

It wasn’t intentional. Her body simply refused to rest. Her skin still smelled faintly of smoke, even after scrubbing every inch of herself last night, and the charred faces of what was left of Flame Section haunted the backs of her eyelids.

She stared at the ceiling of her new room on the third floor, still getting used to the shift. It was quieter up here—fewer cadets stomping down the halls, fewer whispered conversations bleeding through the stone. Her new space was bigger than the cramped quarters on the second floor. The bed, too. She was grateful for it—grateful for the desk that didn’t wobble, for the sunlight that reached the windows at dawn, for the extra square footage that didn’t feel like a cell.

And now, her room was next to Dain’s.

Of course it was.

The knock came just after first light, sharp and deliberate.

Aelin was already dressed, lacing her boots as she called, “It’s open.”

Dain stepped in, still shrugging on his jacket, his hair damp from a hasty rinse. His eyes scanned her quickly—searching, no doubt, for signs she’d slept. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

“They’re meeting in the records room,” he said, voice low. “Top brass only.”

Aelin stood, smoothing the hem of her black uniform jacket. “Let me guess. We’re reorganizing Third Squad?”

He gave a grim nod. “Flame Section’s wrecked. They’re pulling from other squads to cover the gaps.”

“And pretending Solas’s outburst wasn’t intentional,” she muttered, brushing past him into the corridor.

Their boots echoed in the early quiet of the third floor, that strange hush that only existed before the rest of the college stirred. 

“Two cadets didn’t make it through the night,” Dain said quietly.

“I know.” Her voice was flat, brittle. “Neither of them even had time to duck.”

“They tried to. The healers said their boots were melted into their feet.”

Aelin’s jaw tightened. “Because Solas didn’t care. That wasn’t panic. That was controlled. Directed.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded once. “I watched him, Dain. He wanted the chaos.”

He was silent for a beat. Then, “And leadership still chalked it up to ‘overexertion.’”

“Convenient,” she said.

They walked another dozen paces before Aelin finally spoke again.

“About yesterday.”

Dain’s gaze stayed on the corridor ahead. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she cut in. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I was pissed,” she went on, her voice quiet but firm. “Not just at you. At the situation. At myself. But I meant what I said—about not needing to be shielded. I just… I didn’t need to take it out on you.”

He finally glanced at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “You were nearly burned alive, Aelin. Forgive me for not thinking about your ego first.”

Her lips twitched. “I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful. Just… not fragile.”

“You never have been,” he said softly.

She let that sit for a moment. Then: “Still. You didn’t deserve that.”

Dain exhaled through his nose. “You scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”

Aelin smirked. “Good.”

That earned her the ghost of a smile.

“I didn’t think. I just saw it coming for you, and I moved.”

“I know.” Her throat tightened, just a little. “I know why you did it.”

They reached the stairwell landing, and Dain paused with his hand on the railing. “And I’d do it again.”

“Then next time,” she said carefully, “do it knowing I’m not going to break. I’ve survived worse.”

“I know.” His voice was rougher now. “Doesn’t mean I want to watch you survive it again.”

Aelin didn’t reply to that—not as they descended the steps, not as the tension stretched taut between them again. But something softer curled in her chest.

Dain cleared his throat. “So… we plan accordingly.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Didn’t know we were a ‘we’ again.”

His mouth twitched—wry and tired. “Let’s just survive the meeting first.”

They reached the door to the records room, voices already murmuring within, the low, grim cadence of war and aftermath.

Aelin’s shoulder brushed his just a little more deliberately than necessary as they stepped inside.

The meeting began just after dawn—brisk and clinical, as if talking about the deaths of cadets was no different than rearranging a board game. They discussed Flame Section like it was a miscalculated strategy, not a tragedy. Names were read. Assignments were redrawn. Cadets shifted like pawns to cover the losses.

The cost of Solas’s firestorm was more than bones and ash. It had thrown their entire wing out of formation.

And no one seemed willing to admit how deliberate it had been.

When the meeting ended, Aelin didn’t go back to her room.

She and Dain walked in silence down the spiraling stone steps to the mess hall, their boots heavy with the weight of the morning. The building had fully awakened now—cadets rushing past, some freshly scrubbed and laughing too loudly, others bleary-eyed, still tasting ash.

The scent of fried bread and tea hit her first, warm and cloying. But Aelin’s appetite was distant, somewhere buried beneath the char and smoke still clinging to her skin.

They entered the mess hall, and her eyes scanned automatically—habit, instinct, warning.

Her gaze landed on a cluster of first-years at a far table, a half-dozen of them already jostling for space, laughing too hard at something.

And there he was.

Cam sat in the middle of them, like he belonged. His hair still damp, shirt collar askew, and he was grinning at a girl beside him with long golden hair and striking blue eyes. Sloane Mairi, her features were softer than her brother’s had been, her smile bright and curious as she leaned in toward Cam and said something that made him laugh.

Something in Aelin’s chest tightened—not in jealousy, but in memory. He looked just like their brother did at that age. Just like Alic.

Dain followed her gaze. “He’s doing well.”

“He’s trying to blend in,” Aelin murmured, eyes not leaving her brother. “He always was good at making people like him.”

Dain studied her for a moment. “That makes two of you.”

She arched a brow. “You think people like me?”

“I think people don’t realize they’re terrified of you until it’s too late.”

She snorted. “Charming.”

They found seats at the leadership table, halfway down the row reserved for Wingleaders and their XO’s. Dain slid in beside her, pouring himself tea with the kind of mechanical grace born of habit. Across the hall, Cam looked up.

And met her eyes.

Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for a flicker of recognition to pass between them, like a thread pulled taut. Aelin gave him the barest nod. His grin softened.

Dain spoke softly, “It’s still strange. Seeing him here.”

“I know,” she said, fingers circling her cup.

“He looks like your father.”

Aelin’s hand stilled, then she shook her head slightly. “Not entirely. He has Father’s eyes, yes. But the way he smiles…” Her throat tightened. “That’s Mom.”

At that moment, footsteps approached, quiet and measured. Imogen bent as though she’d dropped a glove, green eyes flicking up briefly. As she reached for it near Aelin’s chair, her lips barely moved.

“Ciaran died last night. Solas’s tantrum.”

The words were a ghost against the hum of the hall.

Aelin’s breath caught, her hand lowering to the table. Imogen’s eyes lingered on hers for the briefest second—enough to show she understood—before she disappeared into the crowd.

“Welcome to your first Battle Brief,” Professor Devera announced once they’d settled into the lecture hall.

Her voice echoed through the chamber, sharp as her reputation. “This is also the only class where you will not only answer to a rider as your professor, but a scribe, as well.”

She gestured toward the stairs.

Colonel Markham descended from above like some ghost wrapped in parchment, his cream-colored robes fluttering as he made his slow, solemn way down to the recessed floor.

Aelin stopped listening after that.

Instead, she tilted her head just enough to catch sight of the first-year section in the lower rows. Cam was there—sitting upright, quill in hand, already jotting notes with a speed that made her proud and anxious all at once.

She didn’t blink until Devera moved a small flag across the southern edge of the giant map.

“As for the second,” the professor continued, voice growing colder, “the outpost of Athebyne was attacked three days ago.”

The words punched straight through Aelin’s fog.

“Finishing the details we can give you about the Athebyne attack,” Devera went on, “it occurred a little before midnight, while nine of the twelve dragons stationed there were still out on their patrols. The enemy totals were around two dozen from what we can tell, and they were defeated by the three present dragons, with help from the infantry.”

Markham interjected smoothly. “Two gryphon riders made it into the lower level of the outpost before being caught and killed.”

The lower level.

Aelin’s spine stiffened.

That was where the armory was.

In the row below, Rhiannon’s hand rose. “Do you think it’s possible that the enemy knew the outpost had been emptied for War Games and was trying to take advantage of the situation?”

Devera and Markham shared a brief, weighty glance.

“We do,” Devera answered at last.

“But the delay would show a lag in the timing of their information, correct?” Rhiannon pushed. “The outpost was only empty for what? A few days?”

“Five days, to be precise,” Markham replied. “And this attack occurred eight days after it was reoccupied.”

He moved a finger across the map. “The Poromiel trading post nearby, Resson, was leveled by Poromish unrest a couple of weeks ago, and we think that may be helping disrupt their communication lines about our outpost.”

Violet leaned forward. “Where in the outpost were the gryphon riders found?”

“Near the armory,” Devera answered.

She looked again to her brother, watching him scribble down every word with the same thoughtful precision their eldest brother used to have. That same slight furrow between his brows. That same sharp attention.

The sparring mats were soaked in tension. First-Year Assessment Day always brought nerves, but there was something different in the air this time—charged and brittle, like a lightning strike waiting to fall.

Aelin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping over the wide hall where the first-years clustered around the mats.

Cam stood with the rest of Second Squad’s new recruits, laughing at something Sloane had just said. His smile was crooked and easy. He looked happy.

For a moment, Aelin allowed herself to feel the warmth of it.

Then—

“Next pair,” Emetterio called, reading from the roll with his usual clipped tone. “Sloane Mairi and…” He paused. “Aaric Graycastle.”

Aelin arched a brow as Sloane stepped forward, all cool arrogance, her blond braid swinging down her back. Cam looked halfway surprised—until Sloane pointed her dagger not at him, but across the mat.

“I want her instead,” she said, blade gleaming as she leveled it at Violet.

Aelin’s eyes darted between Sloane and Violet. Violet, to her credit, didn’t flinch. But Aelin didn’t miss the flicker of confusion—or calculation—in her stare.

Aelin looked at her brother, who shrugged. Shrugged. As if to say what do you want me to do?

“Seriously?” Aelin muttered under her breath, casting Cam a narrow look.

Dain moved to stand beside her, his shoulders tense. “What the hell is going on?”

Before she could answer, a voice nearby drew her attention.

“Hi. I’m Violet Sorrengail,” Nadine said with a smile, pointing to her hair. “See? Like my hair. Do you have a message for—”

The first-year she’d been talking to moved too fast.

He grabbed Nadine’s head and twisted.

The crack of her neck snapping echoed across the room.

Chaos erupted.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Emetterio shouted from across the hall, already lunging forward.

“No one interferes!” Violet barked, palming two knives so fast they were a blur of silver.

Aelin’s blood ran cold as the larger first-year charged her. The girl didn’t hesitate.

“I’m Violet Sorrengail,” Violet said, her voice low and deadly.

Then she moved.

Daggers flew. The first-year blocked with his arms, taking both blades to the forearms—but didn’t stop. Blood streamed down as he wrenched them out and hurled them away.

Violet ran at him, dodging a massive fist by sliding to her knees, slicing deep into his leg. He roared and toppled forward with a sound like a falling tree.

Dain flinched beside Aelin. “Shit.”

Aelin said nothing. Her eyes were locked on Violet.

The first-year rolled, already recovering, and hurled one of Violet’s discarded daggers at her. She spun, barely avoiding it, but a kick caught her thigh, sending her sprawling.

She hit the floor hard. Aelin could almost feel the impact in her own bones.

Still Violet fought—kicking, slicing, clawing her way free as he dragged her toward him. Blood smeared across the floor. Violet’s face twisted in pain and desperation, and still she fought.

The first-year climbed over her, pinned her, wrapped a hand around her throat.

“Fucking die already,” he hissed. His face hovered inches from hers.

Aelin could see it now—this wasn’t a fight. This was an execution.

Then Violet’s hand darted to her ribs, and a blade flashed. Once. Twice. Again.

He collapsed, sagging over her like a puppet with cut strings.

Aelin exhaled sharply as Violet shoved the body off her, heaving for air. Dain was already sprinting to get to her side.

But Aelin—

Aelin turned.

She found Imogen already beside her, eyes wide.

Aelin didn’t waste time. She grabbed her friend’s arm, dragging her close.

“That wasn’t random,” she said, voice like steel. “That was an assassination attempt.”

Imogen blinked. “You think—?”

“I know.” Aelin’s jaw clenched. “That first-year—he knew exactly who he wanted to kill. Violet. He came here for her.”

Imogen’s face paled. “Who would even authorize—?”

“Tell the others,” she said softly. “Colonel Aetos is hunting us.”

Aelin didn’t bother hiding the blade in her hand when the knock echoed at her door—three sharp raps, fast and too familiar to be staff. She crossed the room in silence, her bare feet making no sound against the stone floor. The dagger, slender and gleaming, was already poised to strike if needed.

She cracked the door and found two figures waiting in the dim hallway light—Imogen, face pale and tight with worry, and Bodhi, arms crossed and jaw tense.

Wordlessly, Aelin stepped aside and let them in, closing the door with a quiet click. She didn’t put the dagger down.

Imogen didn’t waste time. “How bad is it?”

Aelin turned to face them, the lamplight painting gold across her cheekbones. “Ciaran’s death could’ve passed as coincidence,” she began, voice low and steady. “Even if it gutted us. He was first to die after Athebyne.” She met Imogen’s eyes. “But today proved it. That wasn’t a challenge Violet faced—it was an execution attempt.”

Imogen swore softly, sitting down on the edge of Aelin’s desk. Bodhi hovered by the window, shoulders tight.

“Every one of us who went to Athebyne is now a target,” Aelin continued. “Someone wants to erase what we saw. What we know. And even though Colonel Aetos is gone, his influence isn’t. The man trained half the damn faculty, handpicked the most loyal officers. His reach is still here. We’re not safe.”

Bodhi turned from the window. “He might not be here, but his claws are. You saw how that first-year moved, how he spoke. That wasn’t just bloodlust.” His lips curled. “It was a mission.”

Aelin nodded grimly. “Which means it’s not just Violet. It’s us. Every rider who survived that ambush. The war might be happening out there”—she jerked her chin in the direction of the window—“but the knives are already here.”

Imogen ran a hand through her cropped pink hair, visibly unsettled. “Then we need to strike first. Or at least make sure we’re not caught off guard.”

“Exactly,” Aelin said. “We watch our backs. We train like our lives depend on it. We never travel alone unless it's absolutely necessary.”

Imogen looked between them. “How long do you think we have?”

Aelin didn’t hesitate. “Not long. If we’re lucky, they’ll regroup after Violet killed that brute. But luck’s never been on our side. So we assume the next hit could be any day.”

Bodhi grimaced. “Then we need to warn the others.”

“We will,” Aelin said, finally setting the dagger on her bedside table with a soft thud. “But quietly. The wrong person finds out we’re onto them, we lose whatever advantage we have.”

For a long moment, the room was quiet. Then Imogen nodded. “We stand together.”

“As we always have,” Aelin murmured. Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “We don’t go down easy.”

Chapter Text

The sky pulsed with wind and light as dragons circled low over the southern field, sun catching on their scales like molten glass. Second-years crowded behind the rope line, eyes wide, necks craned, trying to track every flick of wing and claw. The upperclassmen stood further out—some already mounted, others waiting their turn, their dragons tense with anticipation.

Cath’s crimson bulk sliced through the air above the field, wings flaring as he dropped altitude with precise control. Dain crouched low on his dragon’s shoulder, arms outstretched for balance like wings of his own. At the last moment, Cath angled a clawed foot forward, and Dain slid smoothly down the massive leg, finding his perch atop the talon even as Cath flew.

A final beat of Cath’s wings—a subtle flare—and Dain leapt.

He landed in a run, boots hitting the sun-scorched grass with force, momentum carrying him several strides before he slowed, pivoting neatly to a stop just ahead of the professors' line.

Professor Kaori’s voice rang out, crisp and clear. “And that is why Aetos is a wingleader. Perfect execution. This approach is the most efficient landing for when we need to engage in ground combat. By the time this year is over, you’ll be able to land like this on any outpost wall. Pay close attention, and you’ll be able to complete this safely. Try your own method, and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

A few second-years whistled low. Dain gave only a nod, jaw tight, before making his way back toward Cath—though his eyes lingered briefly on the group at the far end of the field.

Aelin stood beside Syrax, the dragon crouched in the tall grass, her scales catching flashes of blue and silver in the light. Her tail flicked in a slow, lazy circle, but her mind was alert, focused—tense in a way only Aelin could sense.

“He reeks of hidden knives and scorched pride,” Syrax murmured into her thoughts. “Do not turn your back on that one.”

Aelin didn’t have to ask who she meant. She could already feel the shift in the air—the weight of someone approaching who thought themselves important.

Vice Commandant Varrish stepped into view, hands clasped behind his back, uniform crisp despite the heat, his expression a thin-lipped facsimile of a smile.

“Cadet Sardothien,” he said smoothly. “A word.”

Aelin turned to face him, posture straightening instinctively. Her hands stayed relaxed at her sides, and though her throat was dry, her voice came out even. “Sir.”

“I’ve reviewed your file,” Varrish said, eyes flicking briefly to Syrax before returning to Aelin. “And received excellent feedback from your instructors. It seems your signet strength is… considerable. And your dragon—” his gaze lingered again, “—exceedingly protective.”

Aelin inclined her head, careful. “Syrax is loyal, sir. That is not a weakness.”

“No,” Varrish said, voice tight. “It isn’t. But unchecked loyalty can lead to accidents.”

Aelin’s smile was mild, almost polite. “I agree, sir. Like the Formation incident. A tragic reminder of what happens when command is… misplaced.”

The air around Syrax shimmered, heat rippling across her scales. Her claws flexed into the dirt.

“Misplaced,” Syrax echoed in Aelin’s mind, her voice a slow coil of smoke. “That’s one word for letting a dragon incinerate half a squad and calling it an accident.”

“Yes. Tragic,” Varrish said, though there was no sincerity behind the word. “I expect great things from you Cadet. Which is why you’ll begin additional training sessions—private ones—with Professor Carr. Effective immediately. I’ll be observing.”

Footsteps approached from behind. Dain came to a stop beside Aelin, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead, his brows already furrowed.

“Sir,” he said, nodding stiffly at Varrish, then glanced to Aelin with a question in his eyes. She gave the barest shake of her head—later.

“Wingleader Aetos,” Varrish said with a nod of acknowledgment. “Your father speaks very highly of you.”

Dain’s mouth tightened, but he inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your performance today was commendable,” Varrish continued, gaze flicking to the spot where Dain had landed minutes earlier. “Precise. Controlled. Just what I like to see in officers.”

Aelin said nothing, only kept her spine straight and her expression neutral, even as Syrax’s tail coiled tighter behind her.

“He doesn’t like you because he can’t predict you,” Syrax murmured in her mind. “And because I’d roast him if he ever touched you.”

She schooled her face into a pleasant expression. “Thank you for the update, sir. I’ll report to Professor Carr at the scheduled time.”

Varrish lingered a second too long, eyes sweeping over her as if trying to dissect what he couldn’t control. Then he nodded once and turned on his heel, vanishing into the heat-hazed line of staff.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Dain turned fully to her. “What the hell was that about?”

Aelin didn’t answer right away. She watched Varrish’s retreating form vanish into the row of staff, her jaw tight. Then she turned to Dain with a composed, if faintly sardonic, smile.

“He’s assigning me extra sessions with Carr,” she said, voice low. “Private ones. Effective immediately. And he’ll be observing.”

Dain’s brows shot up. “What? Why?”

Aelin shrugged, too casual. “Because my signet’s ‘considerably powerful,’ apparently. And because Syrax is ‘unusually protective.’”

Syrax snorted behind her. “Protective. As if that’s a flaw.”

Dain’s eyes narrowed. “He can’t just single you out like that. Not without cause.”

“He can,” Aelin said mildly. “And he did. He’s Vice Commandant. If he wants to babysit me while I throw fire at stone walls, who's going to stop him?”

Dain glanced back toward where Varrish had disappeared, his jaw working. “This isn’t training. It’s surveillance.”

Aelin gave him a look. “You think I don’t know that?”

A pause stretched between them. Cath shifted behind Dain, exhaling a low gust of smoke.

Then Dain said, quieter, “If he tries anything—”

“I can handle it,” she cut in gently but firmly. “Syrax and I both.”

Syrax rumbled. “Let him come close. I’ll scorch the bones from his body.”

Aelin smiled, sharp and small. “Besides. If he wants a show, I might as well make it spectacular.”

The training chamber was old—older than most rooms at Basgiath, carved straight into the rock beneath the eastern tower. The walls were scorched black in places, smooth in others where magic had eaten through stone.

It smelled faintly of ash.

Aelin stood in the center, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her boots squared on the sparring ring’s worn edge. Heat simmered beneath her skin, coiled in her fingertips. Not enough to flare. Not yet.

Professor Carr stood near the far wall, arms crossed loosely, watching her with a neutral expression.

Varrish didn’t lean against the wall so much as loom near it, hands clasped behind his back. He hadn't said a word since they entered.

Professor Carr’s tone was even. “We’ll start with the basics of channeling again. Controlled flare, target size no larger than a plate. Focus your intent. Don’t rush.”

Aelin gave a clipped nod. “Yes, sir.”

She turned to face the obsidian slab marked with white concentric circles. Easy. She could’ve hit the center blindfolded.

She breathed in once. The fire stirred beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat.

A flick of her fingers—flame snapped to life across her palm, burning gold and clean. She released it. The fire hit dead center, smoke curling upward.

Carr grunted. “Controlled. Efficient. Again. Build from your core. Don’t draw too quickly.”

Aelin reset her stance. Fire flared hotter in her gut this time, eager. She gathered it. Focused it.

Varrish’s voice cut in, low and silken. “Tell me, Cadet. How did you first manifest your signet?”

Aelin didn’t look at him. “During a sparring match.”

“Was it triggered by fear?” Varrish asked. “Or rage?”

She narrowed her eyes on the slab. “Neither.”

A pause. Then: “Interesting.”

Aelin sent another shot of flame toward the target—slightly larger, hotter. It scorched a deeper ring into the stone.

Varrish’s voice slid in, smooth as oil. “You don’t borrow the flame.”

Aelin’s jaw tightened. She kept her focus forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her glance.

“You create it,” he went on, measured, each word deliberate. “Most wielders manipulate what’s already there—kindle, coax, reshape. But you…” His head tilted slightly, as if he were cataloguing her reaction. “…you begin with nothing. And yet, something answers you.”

Carr’s expression flickered, but Varrish didn’t look away from Aelin. He let the silence stretch, as if waiting to see whether she’d fill it.

“That kind of creation,” he said at last, “doesn’t appear often.”

Aelin’s fire shot hotter than she intended, biting too deep into the stone. She gritted her teeth, masking the slip as deliberate.

Carr moved closer, adjusting the angle of her stance with a nudge of his foot. “Draw slower. Burn steadier. We’re not testing strength today.”

Syrax’s voice rippled in her mind, smoke and storm. “He’s not here to teach. He’s here to test your leash.”

“I know.” 

Carr took a step back. “Now, split the stream. Two flames, two targets. Channel through both palms.”

Aelin closed her eyes. She could feel Varrish’s stare like a weight against her spine. Not a single sound came from him. Just silence and observation, oppressive and cold.

She let the fire rise through her bones—twinned flames lit in each hand, dancing and hot. She released both. One struck high, the other low.

“Again,” Carr said. “Cleaner this time.”

Aelin’s jaw flexed. “Yes, sir.”

She went again. And again. And again. For over an hour, until sweat slicked her spine and the smell of smoke clung to her skin.

Finally, Carr lowered his hands. “That’s enough for today. We’ll work on projection range next session.”

Aelin let the last of the fire bleed from her fingertips, letting the residual burn settle back beneath her skin. Her heart pounded, but her face was smooth as glass.

Varrish stepped forward at last. “Impressive. And yet… I think we’ve only seen a fraction of what you’re capable of.”

Aelin turned to face him, standing tall. “I’m following orders. Just as you asked.”

He studied her a moment longer, unreadable. “You’re not afraid to burn too hot, Cadet?”

Her answering smile was thin. “Only when someone else strikes the match.”

Varrish’s gaze flicked to Carr. “I’ll expect a full report. With detail.”

He turned on his heel and left without another word.

Only after the heavy door shut did Carr exhale.

“You handled that better than most would.”

Aelin flexed her fingers. “It’s not the fire I’m worried about.”

Carr nodded once. “Next session. Same time.”

She nodded in return and left the chamber, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the rock. Syrax’s voice brushed gently in her mind.

“Next time he gets closer, I’ll remind him what real heat feels like.”

Aelin smiled faintly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The corridor was quiet this hour. Too quiet.

Aelin’s boots echoed softly on the worn stone steps as she descended from the eastern tower. Muscles still burning from her session with Carr, she moved with controlled precision. The cold, damp air clung to her skin, thick with age and secrets. Every shadow seemed to watch.

Syrax’s presence thrummed sharply in her mind, tense, coiled. “Something is wrong.”

The mage lights lining the corridor dimmed suddenly—not extinguished, just faint enough for shadows to stretch and clutch the corners.

Aelin’s breath hitched. She stopped.

A low hiss—a whisper of movement behind her.

Instinct kicked in. She conjured flame into her palm, warm and alive, flickering with deadly promise.

“Show yourself,” she commanded quietly.

A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in dark leather, face hidden beneath a hood. No markings, no dragon scent—just cold intent in his eyes.

He moved like a shadow, dagger gleaming in one hand. A second blade glinted at his belt.

Aelin shifted, drawing a dagger from her belt in fluid motion, the steel catching the low light.

The assassin lunged first, blades flashing with lethal precision.

Aelin met him head-on, dodging and weaving, the flames in her right palm igniting to fend off the attack.

Her dagger slashed out—caught his forearm, drawing a thin line of blood. He snarled, driving forward relentlessly.

She spun, throwing a blade that caught him in the side. He grunted but kept coming.

The corridor became a blur of fire and steel.

Aelin’s flames roared, licking at his cloak, but he ducked low, evading the worst of it. His counter came fast—a wide slash at her ribs.

She twisted too late.

Pain bloomed as his blade sliced clean across her side, a shallow but angry wound beneath her leathers. She gritted her teeth, stepping back—but he was already there, relentless.

He drove a second blade up toward her shoulder.

She blocked it—but the tip still stabbed through the edge of her bicep, biting deep.

Aelin hissed through her teeth, blood soaking into her sleeve.

Still she fought, slicing open his wrist, dodging the next blow.

But then, the assassin reached into a pouch and flung a fine, gray powder straight into her face.

The powder swirled into her nose and mouth, thick and choking.

Suddenly, Syrax’s hum vanished.

Her magic disappeared.

The flame in her palm guttered and died.

Aelin staggered, blind for a breath, coughing, magicless.

The assassin didn’t wait.

He struck like a viper, ramming her hard against the wall.

Steel kissed her throat, and her bloodied arm was pinned uselessly at her side.

His breath was rancid as he leaned in, voice a low rasp.

“Secrets die with the people who keep them.”

He drew back to slit her throat—

But Aelin moved.

She slammed her forehead into his nose. He reeled back with a snarl, and she twisted out from under his grip, pain flaring in her side.

With her good arm, she drove a knife straight into his thigh.

He howled—but she was already pivoting, kicking his knee out from under him.

The assassin went down hard, lashing out wildly as he fell. His blade caught her lower leg—just above the calf—splitting through leather and flesh. White-hot pain shot up her leg, buckling her stance.

She collapsed onto one knee with a hiss, but when he scrambled, she forced herself forward, driving him down.

He collapsed onto one side—and Aelin followed, landing atop him, her blade already rising.

This time, her strike was true.

Steel sliced across his throat.

He gurgled, blood pouring down his chest, eyes wide with shock.

He reached for her weakly—but she grabbed his wrist and shoved it down, watching until the light left his eyes.

Only then did she pull back, breathing hard, chest heaving.

The silence returned, broken only by the faint drip of blood and her own rasping breath.

Aelin stood, slowly. Her side throbbed, warm with blood. Her left arm hung uselessly, the gash burning.

Her throat stung from the powder, and Syrax’s presence was still gone—cut off.

Aelin pressed one hand hard against her bleeding side, her other arm cradled stiffly against her ribs as she climbed the narrow stairs. Her leathers were soaked with blood—warm, sticky, and still flowing. 

By the time she reached the third-years’ barracks, her vision had blurred at the edges. Each step jarred her ribs, her arm screamed, and her leg was on fire—blood running hot down into her boot, every stride a battle not to collapse.

Almost there.

Just a few more steps. Just to her room. She didn’t care about anything else—she just needed to collapse, bind the wounds, hide the blood—

Her hand reached for the door.

The knob turned beneath her fingers.

But before she could push it open, a quiet click sounded behind her.

Aelin froze, swaying slightly.

The door beside hers cracked open—and Imogen stepped into the hallway.

Her pale green eyes went wide. "Aelin?"

Aelin didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Imogen was already moving.

She slipped an arm around Aelin’s waist, careful but firm, and opened her own door wider.

“Come on. You’re not going to make it across your own damn threshold.”

Aelin half-stumbled as Imogen pulled her inside—the weight on her injured leg too much.

The door shut behind them, the outside world locking away with it.

Imogen turned on the low mage light, and the moment it illuminated Aelin’s face and bloodstained clothes, her breath caught.

“Gods,” she muttered. “What the hell happened?”

“Later,” Aelin rasped. “Need... stitches.”

Imogen didn’t waste another second.

“Sit. There. Off with the jacket—slowly. Try not to rip it more.”

Aelin collapsed onto the desk chair beside Imogen’s bed, already peeling her ruined leathers from her body with slow, gritted movements. Her undershirt was soaked crimson. The slice across her ribs was still bleeding freely, and the stab to her upper arm had stained the fabric almost to her elbow.

Imogen grabbed her emergency kit from the bottom drawer, fingers moving fast and steady.

“Hold still. I need to see how deep this is.”

Aelin hissed as Imogen tugged the torn sleeve free and inspected the gash on her arm, then crouched lower, eyes scanning her leg.

“Deep enough,” Imogen muttered, voice tight. “But you’re lucky—I think it missed the artery. Same with the ribs. You’ll live. Miserably, but you’ll live.”

“Lucky me,” Aelin muttered, wincing as Imogen cleaned the blood away with brisk, practiced hands.

“Lucky it didn’t sever the tendon,” she muttered, briskly pressing a cloth hard to the wound. “If it had, you wouldn’t have made it up the stairs.”

“Felt like it did,” Aelin muttered through clenched teeth.

Imogen’s lips quirked grimly. “You’ll be limping for a while, but you’ll keep the leg.”

The sting of disinfectant followed. Then the prick of a needle.

Aelin clenched her jaw but didn’t flinch.

Imogen worked in silence for several minutes, stitching the wounds closed.

Only once the worst of it was bandaged did she speak again, quietly.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” Aelin whispered. Her voice was hoarse. “No name. Just a blade. And... powder. Something that cut the bond.”

Imogen’s hands paused. Her gaze flicked up to meet Aelin’s.

“You lost your signet?”

Aelin nodded once.

“Gone the moment it hit me. Syrax was—cut off.”

Imogen swore under her breath. “That’s not lesser magic. That’s something worse.”

She wrapped a clean strip of linen around Aelin’s ribs, tight enough to hold but gentle enough to avoid suffocating her.

“Was it a venin?” she asked.

“No. Mortal. Trained. Silent. Efficient.”

Imogen’s mouth thinned into a grim line.

“You killed him?”

Aelin nodded again.

“Good.” Imogen tied the bandage off and finally sat back on her heels. “Then let’s make sure no one finds your body next.”

Aelin exhaled slowly, resting her head against the wall behind her. The pain was a dull throb now, distant but constant—something she could work through.

But her mind was already moving, calculating.

“We need to warn the others,” she said hoarsely.

Imogen glanced at her. “About the attack?”

“No.” Aelin’s gaze sharpened. “About the powder.”

That caught Imogen’s attention. She stilled. “You think there’s more of it?”

“There has to be. He used it like it was standard protocol. Like it wasn’t rare.” Aelin dragged in a breath. “It severed the bond, Gen. Not just my signet—Syrax went silent. Gone. It wasn’t dampening. It was severing.”

Imogen’s jaw clenched.

“That’s not something we’ve seen before. Not even in the Rebellion journals. If there’s more of it out there…”

“Then anyone with a dragon is vulnerable,” Aelin finished. 

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then Imogen stood. “I’ll tell Bodhi. He can slip it into our next report, mask it as a hypothetical. We’ll circulate it carefully—no mass panic. Just the right eyes.”

Imogen pulled a clean tunic from her trunk and tossed it to Aelin. “But first, sleep. You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

Chapter Text

Aelin woke slowly, pain dragging her back into her body before her mind even caught up. Her ribs ached with every breath, her shoulder was a slow throb of fire, and her leg—gods, her leg felt like it had been chewed up and spit out by a wyvern.

For a long moment, she just lay there in Imogen’s bed, the soft scent of citrus and something earthy—sage, maybe—comfortingly familiar. The room was quiet, morning light filtering pale and hazy through the thick curtains. But it wasn’t the sunlight that made her heart lift.

It was the bond.

“Syrax?”

A pause. Then, warm and annoyed. “About time. You smell like blood and fire and stupidity.”

Aelin laughed aloud, or tried to—what came out was more of a pained wheeze.

“You’re back.”

“I never left,” Syrax said with a mental snort. “Something blocked us. A net of old magic, not your usual mess. Burned off overnight—probably thanks to your impressive tendency to nearly die.”

“I missed you.”

A quiet pulse of affection rippled through the bond, then a dry, “The pink one says if you die before the war’s over, she’ll kill you herself.”

“I’d believe it,” Aelin muttered aloud, finally blinking the room into focus.

She pushed upright with a groan, the motion pulling at her half-healed stitches. Imogen’s tunic hung loose on her frame, wrinkled and soaked through at the collar with dried sweat. There was a note resting on the nightstand, scrawled in Imogen’s quick, looping script.

Went running with Violet. Bodhi took your boots to be cleaned. Do not try to fight anyone today. Or sneak out. Or do anything other than rest, or I swear I’ll have Quinn tie you to the bed. – I

Aelin huffed a breath of laughter, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed with all the grace of a wounded mountain goat. Her own room was only across the hall, but it might as well have been miles.

She cracked open the door to Imogen’s room—

And froze.

Dain was standing at her door, one hand raised to knock, his brows drawn together in that way he always wore when something didn’t make sense. His head snapped toward her the instant the door creaked open, as if he’d felt her presence before he saw her.

And when he did see her—her bruised face, the way she leaned heavily on the doorframe, the dried blood at her temple and the half-limp stance she couldn’t quite hide—his entire body went still.

“Aelin?” His voice was low. Rough around the edges.

She didn’t answer. Just met his eyes as silence stretched thick between them.

He moved toward her. Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. As if one wrong step might make her vanish.

“What happened to you?” His gaze scanned her from head to toe, lingering too long on the torn bandages peeking from beneath the shirt, the dried smear of blood on her knee, the way she winced when she shifted her weight.

Her spine straightened out of habit—defensive, proud. But she didn’t bother to lie.

“Someone tried to kill me,” she said, quiet but clear. Watching him the whole time.

His breath caught. Not visibly, not in any obvious way, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed, saw how his eyes widened a fraction before narrowing with barely restrained fury.

“You’re telling me,” he said after a long pause, the disbelief in his voice carefully blanketed with something else. Something fragile.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, voice raspy. “I’m probably concussed, not generous.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t last. “Come on,” he said instead, stepping closer. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

She didn’t protest. Not this time.

He didn’t touch her—his hands hovered just near her elbow, her waist—but his presence was a steadying thing as he walked her across the hall, step by slow step. Each movement pulled at her wounds. Her breath hitched once, and his jaw flexed hard enough to crack stone.

He opened the door to her room and waited for her to pass through before following, then shut it quietly behind them.

The moment it clicked closed, Dain rounded on her.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded—still quiet, but the fury now simmered just beneath the surface. “You said someone tried to kill you. Was it on the field? During drills? Who was it?”

Aelin dropped onto the edge of her bed like she was folding into herself, arms draped over her thighs, head hanging low for a breath.

“No. Not drills,” she said, voice flat.

He took a step closer. “Aelin—”

“Near the Archives,” she said, cutting him off. “I was ambushed in a corridor. They used a powder, some old magic, maybe. It severed the bond with Syrax. I couldn’t use my signet.”

Dain went rigid.

“Syrax was gone?” His voice dropped. “Gone how?”

“Like she’d been cut out of me.” Her fingers twisted the hem of Imogen’s tunic. “There was no warning. No flare. Nothing.”

“And the attacker?”

“I didn’t see their face. But they knew what they were doing. They weren’t there to scare me. They were there to finish me.”

Silence fell again, broken only by her shallow breaths and the faint creak of his boots on the floor as he slowly knelt in front of her.

“And you’re telling me this.” His voice was so soft now. “Why?”

She looked at him, really looked—his sandy-brown eyes, filled with confusion and something that looked almost like hope. He was too close. She could see the faint scar on his chin. The one she’d told him made him look older. Wiser.

“Because I don’t want to keep bleeding out in hallways and waking up in someone else’s bed,” she said quietly. “Because I don’t have the luxury of secrets anymore. Not with this.”

His jaw tightened. “You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s the only point that matters,” she snapped, the edge returning, thin but unmistakable. “I survived. I’m telling you. That’s more than I usually give.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he ran a hand through his curls, eyes shuttered with something almost like pain.

“Next time,” he said, rising to his feet, “you don’t get to face this alone.”

Aelin tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Next time?”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Dain said, meeting her gaze. “I’m telling you. If there’s a next time, I want to know. I need to know.”

And something in her—something brittle and weary and built from years of isolation—nearly gave way.

But she didn’t nod. Didn’t say thank you. 

“There won’t be a next time.”

He gave her a long, assessing look. “There always is.”

Then he sat beside her. Close, but not touching. Just enough to share the silence.

The quiet stretched between them, not heavy but not easy either.

Then Aelin shifted, just enough that pain flickered across her face. She masked it a heartbeat later, her voice steady as she said, “I need to go to class.”

Dain turned toward her so fast it made her blink.

“Excuse me?” His brows shot up. “Aelin, you can barely stand. You’re covered in bruises and stitches. You were nearly killed yesterday—”

“Which is exactly why I need to go,” she cut in, already trying to rise. Her body protested with a violent pull of heat along her side, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself upright. “If I don’t show up, whoever came after me will notice. They’ll know they got close. And they’ll come again.”

Dain stood too, blocking her path with a quiet, infuriating sort of calm. “You need rest. You need time to heal.”

She looked up at him, eyes hard. “I need them to believe I’m unshaken.”

“Aelin—”

“No.” Her voice was a blade now. “If I disappear for even a day, it tells them I’m vulnerable. That whatever they used worked. That the net cut deeper than just my bond. If they think I’m bleeding, they’ll come back to finish the job.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at her, jaw tight, breathing slow. Calculating. And beneath that—fear. Not of the attacker. Of losing her.

“Showing up doesn’t make you safe,” he said at last. “It makes you a target.”

“I am a target,” she said, softer now. “And I can’t afford to look like an easy one.”

Dain exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiled faintly. “So I’ve been told.”

He looked at her again, the fight still behind his eyes—but then he stepped aside. “Fine. You’re going. But I’m going with you.”

She arched a brow. “To class? You planning to hold my hand, too?”

“If it keeps you from face-planting into Kaori’s podium, yes.”

“Chivalrous of you,” she muttered, already limping toward her chest of clothes.

“I’m not being chivalrous,” Dain said tightly. “I’m being strategic. If someone’s watching, they’ll think twice about trying again if they see I’m at your side.”

Aelin glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. “You sure about that?”

His expression darkened, deadly calm. “Let them try.”

And for a heartbeat, for just one flicker of time, something fierce and protective wove between them—not the past, not their old ache or broken trust—but something raw and real and present.

The shower helped. The hot water pounded over Aelin’s bruised ribs and aching shoulder, loosening muscles that had stiffened during the night, washing away blood and sweat and the lingering scent of that powder. She didn’t look in the mirror when she stripped—didn’t want to see the bruises, or the stitched gash at her ribs, or the shadows beneath her eyes.

She wasn’t here to feel sorry for herself. She was here to remind whoever was watching—that she was still standing.

Dain waited just outside the baths, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. His head jerked up the second he heard her footsteps, scanning her from head to toe like she might’ve somehow spontaneously re-injured herself in the process of getting clean.

“I didn’t drown in the basin, if that’s what you were worried about,” she said dryly, wringing out her damp braid.

“Wasn’t drowning I was worried about. You slipping on the tiles and cracking your skull open seemed far more likely.”

“Touching concern,” she muttered, limping slightly as they turned toward the mess hall.

“You’re limping.”

“Wow, nothing gets past you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you keep showing up.” She glanced up at him, a ghost of a grin playing at her lips. “You always did have a martyr complex.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here to make sure you don’t do something stupid. Again.”

“Too late.”

He gave her a sidelong look, brow raised. “You know, for someone who was literally stabbed less than twelve hours ago, your mouth is remarkably intact.”

Aelin flashed him a sharp smile. “That’s because they missed all the important parts.”

They turned the corner and the mess hall came into view—buzzing with voices and clatter, cadets clustered at long tables, laughter echoing off stone. The usual controlled chaos of Basgiath’s morning routine.

And not one of them looked twice as she walked in.

Injuries were normal here. Limping wasn’t a reason to stare. Bleeding was practically a rite of passage.

She held her head high anyway, spine straight despite the pain. Dain hovered at her side like a storm cloud anyway, his eyes sweeping the room as if he expected a second assassin to leap out from behind the bread rolls.

She elbowed him lightly. “You’re going to burn holes through someone’s face if you keep glaring like that.”

“I’m not glaring,” he said stiffly.

“You have murder-eyes.”

“I do not—”

“Dain.”

He sighed, like the weight of her was already shortening his life. “Fine. I’m glaring.”

She smirked, reaching for a tray with one hand as she steadied herself on the table edge with the other. Her shoulder screamed in protest. She ignored it.

And that’s when she saw him.

Cam.

Sitting a few tables over with the first-year half of Second Squad—Sloane, that redhead whose name Aelin always forgot, and the shy boy who barely spoke. Cam was laughing at something Sloane said, a piece of bread in his hand, his expression relaxed—

Until his eyes landed on her. His entire body stilled.

A second later, he was on his feet and walking toward her. Not rushed. Not casual either. Just determined.

Aelin had time to mutter, “Oh for fu—” before he was striding toward her like he had every right in the world to confront a third-year XO mid-breakfast.

Cam didn’t even bother with a greeting. His brows furrowed as he looked her over, taking in the bruising along her jaw, the bandages barely hidden beneath her collar, the faint limp in her right leg.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, voice low but sharp.

Aelin raised a brow. “Someone made a bad decision.”

Cam didn’t blink. “And?”

“They’re dead,” she said simply.

A beat of silence. Cam’s mouth pressed into a hard line.

“You should go sit back down,” Aelin added, stepping past him toward the food line. “People are going to get suspicious if a first-year is getting all fussed over his wing’s Executive Officer.”

Cam didn’t move. Just turned, following her. “I don’t care if they get suspicious.”

“Well, I do,” she said, grabbing a mug of tea and not wincing at the burn it sent through her ribs. “So go sit down and look appropriately terrified of your wingleader.”

Cam’s eyes flicked to Dain, who was lingering a pace behind her, arms crossed again. And just like that, his posture changed—shoulders squaring, spine stiffening.

He stepped in front of Dain. Looked at him. Not with hostility, but with something far more dangerous.

“If she dies on your watch,” Cam said, voice quiet, “I’ll kill you myself.”

Dain’s brows rose. Just slightly. Not mocking. Not even offended. Just… surprised. Then—he nodded, once.

“Not planning on it,” he said calmly.

Aelin let out an exasperated sigh, sipping her tea. “Can we not do this here?”

Neither of them moved.

She rolled her eyes. “Gods, you’re both insufferable.”

But some small part of her—deep down, hidden beneath sarcasm and bruises and the dull throb of pain—was warmed by it. By the way Cam had stood up, by the way Dain had accepted the threat like it was deserved. Like he understood.

Cam looked at her again, still frowning. “You really okay?”

She didn’t lie. “I will be.”

He nodded, slowly, and then—finally—turned and walked back to his table.

Dain waited until he was out of earshot. “He’s gotten taller.”

“I know.”

“He also just threatened my life.”

Aelin glanced at him sideways. “He meant it.”

Dain’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

She smirked. “Still not scared?”

He shrugged. “You’re scarier.”

They stepped away from the serving line, Aelin cradling her mug like it was a lifeline. Dain silently took the tray from her hands—stacked with toast, boiled eggs, and whatever fruit the kitchens had scrounged up—and gave her a pointed look when she tried to protest.

“I’m injured, not useless,” she muttered.

“And I’m your wingleader,” he said coolly. “Humor me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If this is your attempt at being chivalrous, it’s deeply outdated.”

“No,” he said, eyes scanning the mess hall again. “This is my attempt at keeping you upright until you’re not held together by stitches.”

Aelin took a slow sip of her tea. “You always were a romantic.”

Dain snorted under his breath as they began weaving between tables, the clatter of trays and murmur of voices washing over them. “Sure. Nothing says romance like watching you wince every time you breathe too hard because you got stabbed.”

She didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. “It wasn’t a bad stabbing.”

He gave her a flat look. “You look like you lost a terrifying amount of blood.”

“And yet—” she gestured down at herself, “—still breathing. Still walking. Mostly.”

Dain’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, as they approached the long table reserved for leadership he nudged her shoulder gently with his elbow.

“Don’t push it. One wrong twist and those stitches will tear.”

“I know,” she snapped. “I was there when they were put in.”

“And yet here you are, acting like you didn’t get jumped by a would-be assassin less than twelve hours ago.”

“Because if I don’t act like that,” she said quietly, “then whoever sent them wins. They’ll know it rattled me. They’ll try again.”

He didn’t reply at first. Just guided her around a trailing first-year who didn’t move fast enough, shooting the kid a warning look that had him stumbling out of the way. Then, when they reached the edge of the leadership table, he held her tray in one hand and braced the other lightly at her lower back—just enough to steady her as she eased onto the bench.

“Fine,” he said. “But at least pretend to let me be useful.”

Aelin arched a brow. “You want me to pretend?”

Dain gave her a flat smile. “Lie to me. Just this once.”

She smirked and leaned back—wincing slightly but refusing to let it show. “Thank you, Dain,” she said, voice sickly sweet. “You’re so strong and helpful and I don’t know how I would’ve carried that tray without your manly strength.”

He gave her a deadpan stare, then handed over a piece of toast. “Eat before I regret bringing you anything.”

She took the toast like it was a prize, grinning. “This is why we didn’t work. You can’t handle my charm.”

“And you confuse sarcasm for charm.”

She opened her mouth to deliver a biting retort—probably something about his complete lack of bedside manner—when someone slid onto the bench across from them with a knowing smirk and a steaming bowl of porridge.

Imogen.

“You two flirting again or arguing?” she asked, spooning up a mouthful without waiting for an answer.

“Same thing with them,” Quinn said, sliding in beside her, tray in hand, voice too loud and far too amused. “Foreplay with extra sarcasm.”

Dain choked on his tea.

Aelin just smiled innocently and bit into her toast.

“Eat your breakfast, Wingleader,” she said sweetly. “Before someone starts questioning your stamina.”

Quinn cackled. Dain glared. And Aelin—stitches, bruises, and all—felt more herself than she had in days.

By the time the sun had dipped below the walls of Basgiath and cast the training fields in long blue shadows, Aelin was running on sheer stubbornness and pride.

Every step back to the barracks felt like it echoed through her bones.

She’d made it through every class, every pair of too-curious eyes, every instructor pretending not to notice the tightness in her movements or the way her breathing stuttered if she twisted the wrong way. She’d even kept her chin up when someone made a passing joke about “whatever poor bastard picked the wrong girl to mess with.”

But now, as the corridors thinned and the clamor of cadets turned into distant murmurs, the cracks were starting to show.

Her shoulder throbbed. Her ribs ached. Her leg screamed. The stitches itched beneath her shirt, tugging every time she moved. Her bruises had bloomed darker, deeper. But worse than that was the fatigue—the bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of willpower could fully fight off.

And through it all, Dain had stayed.

He’d walked beside her from class to class, made sure she didn’t so much as lift a sparring blade during drills, taken notes for both of them in Battle Brief and passed her a waterskin when her hand shook too much to uncork it. He didn’t hover—Dain would never dare—but he was there. A steady presence. A quiet sentinel.

Now, as they reached the stairwell leading to the upper levels of the Third-Year Barracks, Aelin finally slowed. The pain was a scream in her side, one she’d been ignoring for hours, but it was the weariness in her legs that betrayed her first.

Dain noticed.

Of course he did.

“Alright,” he said softly, moving in front of her. “That’s enough.”

She tried to step around him. “I can make it up the stairs.”

“Maybe. But you’re going to hate yourself in the morning if you tear something. And I’m not letting that happen.”

“Dain—”

He raised a brow. “I’m carrying you or I’m calling Quinn to do it. And she’ll be so dramatic about it.”

Aelin let out a quiet, rasping breath of a laugh. “She’d probably narrate the whole thing like it was a battle epic.”

“She would. So make a choice.”

For a second, she debated it. Pride whispered that she could push through. But another voice—one quieter, heavier—reminded her that she didn’t have to prove anything right now. Not to him.

“Fine,” she muttered.

Dain didn’t hesitate. He bent low and let her wrap an arm carefully around his shoulders, bracing an arm under her knees and lifting her like she weighed nothing. She gritted her teeth against the jolt of pain, but didn’t complain. Not once.

They climbed the stairs slowly, and by the time they reached her room, she could barely keep her eyes open.

He set her down on the edge of her mattress and crouched in front of her, checking the way her shirt clung damply to her bandages, the way her skin had gone pale and clammy.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he said. 

Her lashes lowered. “You didn’t have to stay all day.”

“I know.” He stood, straightened her blanket, poured her water, placed it by the bed. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

Dain paused at the door, hand resting lightly on the frame. “Because I still give a damn. Even if you pretend you don’t.”

And before she could answer, before she could find words that didn’t taste like surrender, he added quietly, “I’ll be in the hallway. If you need anything.”

Then he shut the door behind him with a soft click.

Chapter Text

The bruises had faded. Mostly. Her shoulder still twinged if she moved too quickly or laid on it wrong at night, but Aelin could at least throw a knife without wincing now. That was progress.

She cracked open the door to her room only to nearly walk straight into a wall of muscle and stubbornness.

"You're late," Dain said, arms crossed, brows drawn together in that familiar way that used to make her laugh. Now it mostly made her roll her eyes.

"You know, I do remember how to walk across the quadrant without being assassinated," Aelin said breezily, stepping past him, shoulder brushing his arm. "Barely."

He fell into step beside her without missing a beat. “You’re not exactly subtle, Aelin.”

She threw him a sideways look. “And you’re not exactly inconspicuous, Dain. People are starting to think we’re a thing again.”

His jaw tightened, but not in a way that irritated her. More like... he didn’t know how to answer that. She didn’t either.

The mess hall buzzed with the morning hum of cadets too tired to talk and too stubborn to sleep in. Imogen, already seated at their usual table, waved them over.

Quinn had her boots kicked up on the bench and was halfway through a bowl of something suspiciously gray. “You two look cozy,” she said as they approached, lips twitching.

Aelin just hummed and slid into the seat beside Imogen, Dain taking his usual place opposite her like the routine had never broken.

“Good to see your face not covered in bruises,” Cianna said through a bite of toast. “You’re almost pretty again.”

“Flatter me more,” Aelin drawled. “Maybe I’ll let you win our next challenge.”

They were halfway through a lively debate about whether or not Professor Devera was actually one sentient scowl in human skin when Imogen leaned in close. Her pink hair brushed Aelin’s cheek as she whispered, “Someone tried to kill me this morning.”

Aelin froze, her cup halfway to her lips. “…What?”

“Brute of a first-year. Waited near the river where Violet and I run. Sloppy.” Imogen’s tone was calm as ever. “Didn’t last ten seconds.”

Aelin’s hand tightened around her mug. “Was Violet with you?”

“No. I was early. Good thing.” Imogen’s expression darkened. “Garrick and Xaden had attempts too.”

Aelin’s pulse thudded. “And Violet?”

“She’s fine. Annoyed she missed the fun, obviously.”

Before Aelin could respond, Dain stood, brushing his hands on his pants. “Come on, XO. Let’s go pretend you don’t hate the leadership table.”

Aelin arched a brow at him but rose anyway, grabbing her tray. “I’ll be sure to glare appropriately.”

She gave Imogen one last glance, then followed him. They crossed the hall to sit among the other ranking cadets.

Breakfast passed in clipped conversation and stiff nods. Aelin remained silent, letting Dain do the talking. Easier that way. After breakfast, formation was called. Then they were herded toward the sparring mats, where the first-years were already lined up in a circle. It was Challenge Day again.

She stood beside Dain, arms folded, her gaze zeroing in on one mat in particular.

Her brother crouched low, movements precise and tight as a bowstring. His opponent—a brutish brown-haired first-year who looked like he bench-pressed dragons—lunged at him. Cam ducked and rolled, used the man’s own momentum to send him sprawling. Not perfect form, but smart. Efficient.

Aelin felt a grin tug at her mouth. Her chest swelled—not with worry, but something warmer. Fiercer.

“You look proud,” Dain murmured beside her.

“I am proud.”

“At least he is not reckless, like someone I know.”

“I was, in the past.” She didn’t need to look at him to know he was already smirking.

“You still are.”

The corners of her mouth tugged. “And yet you’re still following me around.”

“Maybe I like danger.”

“Maybe you like me.”

That made him go quiet. She risked a glance—he was watching Cam, but there was a flush at the tips of his ears. Good. Served him right.

A shape moved at the edge of the sparring ring. Cam, walking over with his assessment scroll in hand, paused in front of them.

“Wingleader. XO.” He nodded at each of them formally.

Aelin barely looked at him. “Cadet.”

But there was a flicker of warmth in her voice—so slight that only those who knew her could catch it.

Cam handed his scroll to Dain. “I’m told we’re to have these reviewed.”

Dain took it, eyes flicking down the marks. “Impressive scores.”

Cam looked at Aelin then, gaze sharp. “You look... better.”

“Shoulder still aches.”

“Then maybe let someone keep watch over you,” he said, voice pointed.

Dain blinked.

Aelin’s lips parted.

Cam just shrugged. “Some of us only get one sister.”

Then he nodded again and strode off toward the ring, leaving the two of them in stunned silence.

Aelin blinked. “Subtle.”

Dain looked after him, then turned to her. “He’s right.”

She sighed. “Don’t you start.”

He grinned, infuriating and warm and too damned close. “Already did.”

The others peeled away after formation, heading toward their own business. Aelin lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching her squad vanish into the distance, listening to Quinn’s exaggerated rant about having to sit through another week of strategic map analysis with Devera.

Imogen caught her eye briefly. A silent exchange: You good?

Aelin gave the faintest nod. Always.

“Try not to throw Varrish through a wall,” Dain said lightly beside her.

“I make no promises,” she murmured back.

He stepped in front of her, expression softening. “I’ll be waiting just outside when you’re done. Don’t take too long.”

She raised a brow. “Worried I’ll get detention for murder?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he said, then offered her a crooked smile and walked away, not waiting for her retort.

Aelin sighed. Turned toward the looming stairwell that led to the chamber beneath the academic wing—the place Carr preferred for “advanced assessments.”

The corridor was cool, the magelight low and flickering. When she pushed open the thick door to the testing room, it was already occupied.

Professor Carr stood with arms crossed near the far wall. But Varrish sat at the head of the room’s long obsidian table, hands folded, expression blank.

“Cadet Sardothien,” Carr said, his voice sharp but not unkind. “Take your stance. We’re assessing elemental command today.”

Aelin moved to the center of the room and dropped her bag. She rolled her shoulder—slowly, deliberately, letting the ache flare through her.

Varrish’s eyes followed the movement like a hawk. “Still injured, Cadet?”

“Nothing that affects my focus, sir.”

“Good,” he said smoothly, like acid in velvet. “Because today we begin testing not only your control, but your thresholds. The maximum limits of your signet.”

Aelin didn’t react. Not externally.

Internally, her entire body tensed.

Carr stepped forward, nodding. “You’ve demonstrated your control of fire in squad drills. We want more today. Push it further. Don’t hold back.”

Easy for him to say.

Aelin let her breathing steady. Let her senses narrow. She could feel it—the heat just beneath her skin, the flicker of flame waiting at her fingertips. 

“Begin,” Carr ordered.

Aelin exhaled.

A flame danced to life in her palm.

Small, first. Then she called more, curling tendrils along her fingers, letting it crawl up her arm like a second skin. She twisted her wrist, turning the fire into a whip, then cracking it forward into a strike of white-hot flame against the empty target dummy at the far wall. It blackened immediately, the chest smoldering with heat.

Carr grunted. “Again.”

So she did. She drew the flames into a sphere, compressed them, then shattered the ball outward in a line of fire bolts. One after another. Her shoulder ached. Her core strained. But she kept going.

When Carr finally raised a hand to signal a break, sweat lined her brow, and smoke curled from her fingertips.

But Varrish hadn’t said a word.

Not until now.

“Leave us,” he told Carr.

Aelin went still. “That’s not—”

Carr looked at her once, his face unreadable. Then he nodded and walked out.

Aelin turned to face the Vice Commandant alone.

Varrish stood. “You’re not showing me everything.”

She arched a brow. “I’m showing you what I have.”

“What you have isn’t what I’m after,” he said, stalking forward with the coiled grace of something that hunted for sport. His gaze raked over her like he was peeling back skin. “What I want to know is this—how does a nobody from nowhere bond a dragon like that? One we have no record of ever bonding before”

He paused, smirk curling cruel. “Dragons like that don’t just choose anyone. Especially not someone with no legacy, no lineage, and no power that anyone can trace.” His voice dropped to a whisper-sharp taunt. “So tell me—how’d you do it? Luck?” 

She smiled, cold and unbothered. “Maybe she just saw something you didn’t.”

He stopped a few feet from her. “There are ways to test thresholds, Cadet. Ways to extract information, if a subject won’t give it freely.”

It was a threat. Dressed in polished words. Coated in civility.

Aelin didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the tension coil into her spine.

“Test all you want,” she said, voice calm as the still air between them. “You’ll be disappointed.”

Varrish gave a slow, dark smile.

“Let’s find out.”

With a snap of his fingers, a panel in the far wall slid open to reveal a new row of reinforced training targets—each charred and already scorched from past cadets. But these were laced with obsidian—designed to absorb and reflect elemental energy.

“Again,” Varrish ordered, voice like a blade unsheathing.

Aelin inhaled, gathered the heat within her, and unleashed a precise stream of fire that slammed into the first target. It hissed and glowed. Smoke curled from her fingers.

“More,” he said.

So she gave him more—this time splitting the flame in two, twisting it into serpentine shapes that struck two targets at once. Her core clenched with the effort. Her shoulder screamed.

But she didn’t stop.

Varrish circled like a wraith. “This is nothing but warm-up. I want raw force. I want to feel the heat from across the room.”

She didn’t reply. Just gritted her teeth and obeyed. Flame whipped down her arms, growing larger, hotter, angrier. She hurled a spinning vortex of fire into the center dummy. It exploded in sparks.

He didn’t even blink. “Again.”

She summoned another blast, then another—until sweat pooled at her collarbones and her breathing grew ragged. The room reeked of ozone and scorched fabric. Her uniform clung to her skin, her boots burned from the soles up. The air was too hot. Her control was slipping.

Still—he pushed.

“Don’t hold back,” Varrish said coldly. “You’re not done.”

Her knees nearly buckled as she launched a stream of fire that consumed the final row of targets, until the flames blackened the ceiling itself. And still—

“Again.”

Her vision blurred. Her knees locked.

No.

She couldn’t.

Her body was already on the brink, her magic flickering like a flame on wet kindling. Her right hand curled slightly from the strain, and her shoulder throbbed deep in its socket.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying no.

“That is enough, Aelin.”

The voice came like thunder in her mind. Every syllable rich with power, ancient and unbending.

Her knees nearly buckled again—but not from exhaustion. From the force of Syrax’s presence slamming through the bond.

“You will stop.”

Aelin clenched her jaw. “I can’t. He’s waiting for me to falter—”

“Then let him wait. Let him rot in his smug silence. You are not some weapon for his games.”

Syrax’s voice sharpened, dragging across her bones like the edge of a blade.

“You will burn yourself hollow. You will give him the very thing he wants. And if you fall here, girl, it will not be from failure—but from pride.”

Aelin’s lips parted, chest heaving. The heat inside her pulsed, unstable. Wild.

“Draw it back.” Syrax’s command rang with such fury it eclipsed even Varrish’s voice barking another “Again.”

“That is an order.”

Aelin's hand, half-raised for the next blast, trembled. The flames sputtered at her fingertips, then vanished.

She stumbled.

Varrish didn’t move to catch her. Didn’t so much as blink.

The scent of scorched fabric hung in the air, thick as smoke.

Then the door creaked open again.

Carr stepped in, his dark leathers immaculate despite the heat radiating off the walls. He took one long look at the burned targets, the blistered stone, the woman still swaying on her feet.

He didn’t glance at Varrish. Not at first.

“Vice Commandant,” Carr said, his tone perfectly smooth, deferential to the point of grease. “Might I suggest we conclude this session?”

Varrish didn’t reply.

Carr clasped his hands behind his back and went on with that same silken, unbothered rhythm. “Cadet Sardothien has lasted nearly three hours. That exceeds the standard testing window by—oh, quite a wide margin.”

Still no answer.

Carr gave a slight nod toward Aelin, as if she were no more than a name on parchment. “It would be… unfortunate to burn out such a promising asset. And wasteful,” he added gently, “to push her beyond the point of recovery. I would, of course, defer to your superior judgment.”

Varrish’s silence was a blade suspended mid-fall.

Aelin didn’t care. She was too busy trying to stay upright, to keep her knees locked as every muscle in her body screamed. The fire in her veins sputtered and smoked. Her signet was a flickering ember barely holding shape.

Then, finally—

“Dismissed,” Varrish said, low and flat.

Aelin exhaled—just once—as she turned toward the door.

Carr stepped smoothly aside, opening the path for her like the polite bureaucrat he pretended to be.

“Rest well, Cadet,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for Varrish to hear. “You’ve made quite an impression.”

Aelin didn’t answer.

She was already halfway down the hall, smoke trailing behind her like a cloak.

He’d been waiting.

Far enough from Varrish’s chamber not to raise suspicion. Close enough that the second she turned the corner stumbling, broken at the edges, he saw everything.

The sweat-soaked uniform clinging to her spine. The tremor in her limbs. The faint trail of steam rising from her fingers like ghost-flames.

The way her pupils didn’t quite track the corridor in front of her.

Dain didn’t hesitate.

He ran.

Not a jog. Not a quick stride. Full sprint. Boots loud on stone, one hand reaching before he reached her.

“Aelin—” he breathed as his arms caught hers, steadying her weight before she could collapse.

Her skin scorched him.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

She was burning.

Radiating heat like the heart of a furnace—like she was the magic she'd just unleashed, barely held inside a body that wasn’t meant to contain it.

Her lips were parted as if she couldn’t get enough air. Her eyes were hazy. Disconnected.

“Come on,” he murmured, slipping an arm around her waist, the other under her knees.

She didn’t fight him.

Didn’t tease. Didn’t snarl.

She just leaned into him. Trusted him.

He moved fast, veering off through a side passage that most cadets forgot existed. Down narrow stairs. Past flickering mage-lights. Into a bathing chamber rarely used at this hour.

He didn’t bother removing her clothes. Didn’t care that she was still in boots and her scorched uniform.

He turned the taps until the water ran ice-cold, and then—

He lowered her in.

The moment her body hit the bath, she arched, gasping. Water hissed where it met her skin, steam rising like a fog bank.

He caught her before she could bolt upright, cradled the back of her neck in his palm and pressed his other hand to her sternum, gently holding her down.

“Breathe,” he said, firm but soft. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

She blinked, unfocused. Her fingers twitched in the water. Heat still radiated off her like summer sun on stone.

She didn’t speak. But slowly—inch by inch—her muscles began to release. Her chest rose and fell in slower rhythms.

Steam no longer poured off her. Her skin lost its furious flush.

He stayed right there beside her, sleeves soaked, knees aching from the tile. Never once looked away.

Time passed—five minutes? Ten?

Then—

“He cares for you.”

The voice entered her mind like a breeze through a cracked window. Deep. Feminine. Ageless.

“This one. He carries your weight without resentment.”

Aelin’s throat bobbed.

“I like him.” A pause. “Cath’s rider is steady. His flame does not flicker when you are at your weakest. That matters.”

Aelin’s eyes opened, just barely.

Dain was still there. Still holding her upright in the water, even though she could sit on her own now. Still watching her like she was something fragile he couldn’t bear to drop.

“You need not hide from him.” Syrax’s voice gentled, a rare brush of warmth. “Not always.”

Her lips parted. A breath escaped—less a sigh, more a surrender.

“Thank you,” she murmured aloud. Barely above the ripple of water. “For being here.”

Dain blinked down at her. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” she said, voice rough and quiet. “I didn’t think anyone would catch me.”

He gave a strained smile. “Then you’ve clearly forgotten who I am.”

And when the water cooled, when her skin no longer pulsed with dangerous heat, he helped her out. Wrapped her in a towel. Held her upright as her legs threatened to give.

He got her to her room without a word. Shut the door behind them with a booted foot. Lowered her gently to the bed like she weighed nothing at all.

She sank into the mattress, exhaling a long, slow breath as the blanket was tucked around her.

She felt like herself again. Not whole. But… real.

Dain’s hand brushed her temple, smoothing back a damp strand of gold hair.

“You should have said something,” he said quietly.

Aelin cracked one eye open. “And let you swoop in like a mother hen?”

He huffed. “You’re an idiot.”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Then you’re a bigger one for loving me anyway.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there, silent, watching her chest rise and fall. Until the trembling stopped. Until her breathing evened out. Until Syrax murmured once more in the back of her mind—“Sleep, Little Fire. You are not alone.”

Morning light filtered in through the narrow window slats, pale gold spilling across stone and tangled sheets.

Aelin stirred.

Her limbs ached—not with pain, but with the lingering heaviness of too much power, too much fire that had nearly consumed her from the inside out. Her throat was dry, and her skin felt like it had just barely cooled from a forge.

But she was alive.

Breathing. Whole.

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and turned her head.

Dain was slumped in the chair beside her bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’d tried to stay upright and lost the battle somewhere between midnight and sunrise.

His chin rested against his shoulder. 

He’d stayed.

Aelin’s chest tightened. Gods, he’d really stayed.

She watched him for a long moment, taking in the strong lines of his face, the softness sleep had carved into them. The furrow that didn’t quite ease, even now. His uniform was rumpled, collar still damp where her soaked hair must have brushed him hours ago.

As if he felt her gaze, his lashes fluttered.

Eyes cracked open.

Met hers.

Neither of them spoke.

Not for a long beat.

Then—sleepy, raspy, low—Aelin smiled. “Morning.”

His throat worked. “How are you?”

She stretched just slightly beneath the blankets. Everything was sore, but nothing was broken.

“I’m fine,” she said truthfully. “Better.”

He stared at her for half a heartbeat longer.

Then he surged upright.

“Fine?” he repeated, voice climbing. “You’re fine? Aelin, you almost burned out! Do you have any idea what that looked like—what you looked like? You scared the shit out of me!”

She blinked. “Dain—”

“No, don’t ‘Dain’ me,” he snapped, pacing now. “What the hell did Varrish even do to you? Was he trying to kill you? Has he lost every shred of sanity he ever had? There’s a difference between testing a signet and trying to incinerate a cadet from the inside out!”

Aelin pushed herself up slowly, dragging the blanket with her. “I had it under control—”

“No, you didn’t. Don’t lie to me, Aelin.” His voice cracked like a whip. “You couldn’t walk. You weren’t even here when I found you—you were somewhere else, gone, and if I hadn’t—” His hands curled into fists. “If I hadn’t been waiting outside that hallway like a lunatic, you would’ve collapsed. Alone.”

Her heart clenched. “But you were there.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Dain stared at her, chest rising and falling with barely-leashed frustration. “You could’ve died.”

The words landed between them like a stone in a still pond.

She didn’t try to soften it. Didn’t try to deny it.

Because it was true.

Instead, she looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For finding me. For staying.”

Some of the fight bled from him at that. His shoulders sagged. “Gods,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

He gave her a flat look. “I swear, if you joke about this again, I will lock you in the Archives with Colonel Markham for a week.”

Aelin smirked. “You’d miss me after an hour.”

He didn’t deny that either.

Didn’t move to leave.

Just stood there, staring at her with that same raw mix of fury and fear and something else she wasn’t ready to name.

“He was terrified,” Syrax said quietly in her mind. “More than he lets you see.”

Aelin’s eyes drifted to Dain again. To the way his hands trembled ever so slightly.

And for one terrible, beautiful moment, she wished she could let herself fall into his arms again.

But she couldn’t.

Not with what she was hiding.

Not with what still waited ahead.

So she just said, “I’m really okay. You don’t have to keep pacing.”

He scowled at her.

Then sat back in the chair with a dramatic thump and crossed his arms.

“I’m still mad at you,” he muttered.

Aelin leaned back against the pillows, a half-smile curling her mouth. “Noted.”

He glared—but it was softer now. Almost fond.

Aelin shifted back the blanket and slowly swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

The cold stone kissed her bare feet, and her knees nearly buckled—but she stood.

Dain shot up from the chair in an instant, hands half-extended. “Aelin—don’t.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though her legs trembled slightly. “Just… stay there.”

He didn’t listen, of course. Took one step closer like he couldn’t help himself. Like hovering over her was stitched into his bones.

But she reached him first.

Before he could say another word, before he could try to stop her—she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

Dain froze.

Only for a second.

Then his arms came around her, strong and sure and trembling just enough for her to feel it. He held her like she might slip through his fingers if he let go. Like he was anchoring himself with the only thing that had mattered all night.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest. “For finding me. For staying. For yelling at me.”

His laugh was raw, more exhale than sound, and his chin rested against the top of her head. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“I know,” she said softly.

He pulled her tighter.

Aelin lingered there, letting herself have it—just for this moment, just for now. The steady rhythm of his heart beneath her cheek. The warmth of his arms.

But when she tilted her face up toward him, her voice dropped to a murmur laced with steel and warning.

“Don’t tell my brother about this.”

Dain blinked, startled. “What?”

“If he finds out I collapsed—” Aelin shook her head. “He might actually try to kill you for almost dying on your watch.”

A pause.

Then Dain gave her that crooked half-smile she hadn’t seen in too long.

“Noted, Princess.”

Aelin stiffened.

Only slightly.

But he felt it.

She stepped back just enough to glare at him, even as color rose faintly to her cheeks. “You really want me to throw up fire right now? Because I will.”

His grin widened.

She rolled her eyes and walked back toward the bed, but not before he reached out and squeezed her hand—just once, brief and grounding.

Chapter Text

The gym buzzed with tension. The Gauntlet loomed near for the first-years—every punch, every fall, every bruise earned today would either hone them for survival or break them before they even reached the wall.

Aelin stood off to the side, arms crossed, the rubber mat beneath her boots reverberating with every fall of a body. The scent of sweat and old blood clung to the air. Across the gym, Dain was doing exactly what she expected of him: standing still and brooding like a kicked dog.

Only his eyes moved. Locked on Violet.

Gods.

Aelin let out a quiet, exasperated breath and drifted over to him. “You could try talking to her instead of scowling like you want to set her on fire,” she said, voice pitched low enough that no one else would hear.

Dain blinked as if shaken from a trance. His jaw ticked, shoulders tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“Most things worth fixing never are,” Aelin said, giving him a pointed look and a barely-there tilt of her head toward Violet. An opening. A nudge.

To her surprise, he took it.

Dain turned, cutting across the gym floor with a kind of purposeful determination that drew more than a few eyes. Aelin didn’t pretend not to watch—especially when Violet’s spine straightened at the sight of him. Her guard rising instantly.

A shift in the air at her side made her glance left.

Imogen had appeared without a sound, as usual. Her pale green eyes were trained not on Dain and Violet, but across the gym. Already fixed on something else.

“Masen was killed yesterday,” she said flatly, her tone like chipped ice.

The words hit like a fist to Aelin’s gut.

Imogen didn’t pause. “Nine came back. Two are now with Malek. And no one’s talking about it.”

Of course they weren’t. Not in the open. Not in front of the cadets still pretending that war meant honor and glory.

But Aelin’s gaze had drifted. Past the fight, past the murmurs, to the far mat.

Where her brother crouched low, arms loose at his sides, jaw tight. His opponent stalked in a slow circle around him—taller, broader, with the kind of built-up muscle that made it look like he should already be second-year.

Cam didn’t so much as flinch.

Imogen followed her gaze. “Why are you watching that first-year so closely?”

Aelin kept her eyes on him. On the fierce, familiar stubbornness in his stance. “He’s my brother,” she whispered.

Imogen’s stillness shifted. Not a movement, but a recalibration. Like a knife being turned inward to study its edge.

Before either could say more, Emetterio’s gravelly voice rang out across the gym.

“Next match: Dain Aetos versus Violet Sorrengail.”

Aelin’s head snapped to the mat so fast her braid slapped her shoulder.

Dain didn’t look at her. Didn’t dare meet her eyes.

“This isn’t what I meant,” she muttered under her breath. “You idiot.”

She caught a flash of Bodhi arguing with Dain on the sideline. Urgent, insistent. But Dain shrugged him off and stepped into the ring like he’d already made his peace with whatever was about to happen.

Aelin's fingers curled into fists. Of all the reckless, shortsighted, emotionally constipated things he could’ve done—this was what he came up with?

He was fast. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Being Wingleader hadn’t been handed to him solely because of his surname. He moved like he’d been born for the mat—efficient, brutal, clean.

He launched at Violet with the kind of power that should’ve knocked her down immediately.

But Violet ducked.

Not just ducked—flowed under his jab like water and drove a punch upward that clipped him neatly under the jaw. Not enough to injure, but enough to say: I’m not afraid of you.

Dain recovered fast.

He came at her again, and again. Violet dodged every strike like she’d been studying his tells for weeks. Light on her feet. Always just a breath ahead of him.

Until—

A twist of his foot. A sweep of his leg.

Violet hit the mat hard, and Dain was on top of her in a heartbeat. Pinning her down with more force than was necessary.

Aelin took a step forward. Her fire coiled under her skin, ready to erupt.

But Dain didn’t move to strike.

He leaned down. Whispered something Aelin couldn’t hear.

Violet didn’t struggle. Just stared up at him, lips parted, eyes searching.

Aelin couldn’t hear the words, but she saw them. In the tension of his shoulders. The way Violet’s jaw softened slightly, then clenched again.

After what felt like a lifetime, Dain tapped out.

He got off her, slow and quiet, and walked from the mat without a backward glance.

Aelin didn’t follow.

Let him cool off. 

She exhaled through her nose, slow and sharp, and turned back to Cam’s fight.

The first-year across from him was from Tail Section—broad-chested, longer reach, with a heavy, bludgeoning fighting style that had put down three others before this match.

Cam didn’t retreat.

He darted inside the first hit, drove his elbow into the other cadet’s ribs, and ducked away again. Aelin could practically see the math running behind his eyes—angles, spacing, momentum.

He let the other boy come to him. Tire himself out with every wasted swing.

Then he struck.

Fast and brutal. A flurry of hits, a perfect pivot, a knee to the jaw that sent his opponent stumbling—

And then—

Crack.

Aelin flinched. Even across the gym, she heard the sharp pop of bone. Cam recoiled, favoring his right wrist, but didn’t stop.

He used his uninjured hand to slam the boy to the mat. The second his opponent tapped out, Cam stepped back, clutching his wrist against his chest.

He didn’t grimace. Didn’t show an ounce of pain.

But Aelin saw the twitch at his jaw. The sweat that hadn’t been there before.

He turned to his squad leader—Rhiannon, standing tall at the edge of the mats—and spoke a few clipped words. She nodded once and put a hand on his shoulder.

Aelin started forward—but stopped.

Violet was already crossing the gym floor.

She gave Cam a quick once-over, assessing, then flicked her fingers in a silent signal. Follow me.

Cam hesitated. Then glanced—

Not at Rhiannon.

At Aelin.

Their eyes met. Just for a heartbeat.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she. But the weight of it passed between them anyway.

Aelin’s breath snagged, but she didn’t let it show. Couldn’t—not here.

Violet noticed. Of course she did. She looked between them, then met Aelin’s gaze directly.

Not just understanding. A quiet vow.

Then she turned and led Cam off the floor, her stride steady, her presence the shield he didn’t yet know he’d need.

Cam followed, cradling his wrist but not once looking back.

Dain was still a presence beside her.

In strategy briefings. In squad formations. In the midday pre War Games debriefs where their squad names were etched onto casualty rosters. He was there—always two steps behind, never meeting her eyes. Never speaking.

Even when she tried.

And gods, she had tried.

A bump of her shoulder in the hallway. A dry quip during formation drills. A quiet, almost pleading, “You alright?” outside the gym after sweeps.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

After three days of being ignored, Aelin snapped.

Saturday afternoon, she caught him walking alone behind the mess hall, heading toward the east courtyard with that same rigid, locked-up posture she'd grown to loathe.

She didn’t call his name.

She grabbed his arm.

Hard.

He startled—eyes going wide, mouth opening in protest—but she didn’t give him the chance. She hauled him into the nearest unoccupied room. Disused weapons storage, from the dust and stale air. The door slammed shut behind them.

She didn’t yell.

Didn’t scream.

She just raised her hand, let the lesser magic flow—a shimmer of silence rippling outward, sealing them off from the world beyond the stone walls.

Then she crossed her arms and said, low and sharp, “What the hell happened?”

Dain didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

“I know you spoke to Violet,” she said, voice like flint striking stone. “I know you said something during that match. And I know whatever it was has left you slinking around like a ghost for days.”

Still, nothing.

She stepped closer. “Please Dain, talk to me.”

A breath. Then—

“She said I took it,” Dain murmured. “A memory. From her.”

Aelin blinked. “What memory?”

“Xaden. Telling her he went to Athebyne.” His voice was raw, ragged. “I—I didn’t mean to take it. My signet… sometimes it just—slips.”

She knew that.

“I thought… I thought it meant something was wrong. That a second-year like Bodhi had no business being granted flight clearance for something like that,” he said, finally lifting his head. “So I told my father. I was following protocol. I thought—maybe they’d get grounded. Or yelled at.”

His voice dropped. “But my father… he made changes. To the War Games plan. I was there when he did it—when he shifted squads, rerouted the flight patterns.”

Silence stretched.

“I didn’t think anything of it,” he said, voice breaking at the edges. “But when I received no communications from Riorson, when you didn’t come back—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I went to him. To my father. Asked what happened. And he just… said they were dead.”

Aelin didn’t move.

“Like it was nothing,” Dain whispered. “Like it was expected. He didn’t even blink. Didn’t ask for details. Didn’t plan a search. Just said the words and moved on. And I—gods, I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Aelin’s voice was low. Unforgiving. “That’s because he was expecting it, Dain.”

His head snapped up.

She didn’t soften. Didn’t blink. “Your father sent us there to die.”

Silence crashed down between them.

“He did it because you gave him proof,” she said, every word unsheathed and sharp. “Proof of something he already knew—something he’s desperate to keep hidden. And you—” Her voice cracked, just for a breath. “You made a choice. Without knowing all the facts.”

Dain’s mouth opened. But no sound came out.

“I understand,” she said, quieter now but no less brutal. “He’s your father. You want to believe in him. But he is not a good man, Dain. He’s not the man you think he is.”

She stepped forward again, until there was no distance left to hide behind.

“You think loyalty means obedience. But loyalty isn’t blind. It’s not supposed to be. And you need to start asking yourself the hard questions now—because Liam and Soleil are dead. And no matter what you meant, no matter what you didn’t know… you played a part in it. And you’re going to have to live with that.”

Dain didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, barely breathing, like the truth had hit so hard he didn’t know how to stand beneath it.

And Aelin—who’d imagined this confrontation a hundred ways, who had every right to rage—only watched as the fight drained from him. As the realization finally, fully landed.

He wasn’t defending Colonel Aetos.

Wasn’t denying it.

He was just… breaking.

Something inside her twisted.

Because he still didn’t understand. Not really. Not the depth of what had happened. Not why. And the worst part—the part that gutted her—was that he hadn’t meant any of it.

He’d been trying to do the right thing.

He just hadn’t known what that was.

Aelin stepped forward, her voice now gentle. Stripped of the fire and steel. “You didn’t know, Dain.”

His eyes snapped to hers—wide, wet, stunned.

“You didn’t know what your father was capable of. You didn’t know what he’d do with that information. You were trying to protect Violet. Trying to follow orders. Trying to be the soldier he raised you to be.” She paused. “And he used that. He used you.”

Her breath came slow. Shaky. “And it cost us. All of us. But I’m not mad at you.”

Dain’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that? Why would he send you—send them—to die?”

She could have told him everything. About the venin. About what really lurked beyond the wards. About how Colonel Aetos would rather let his own son drown in guilt than risk the truth surfacing.

Instead, she said, “Because the truth threatens everything he’s built.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Dain whispered. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“I don’t know if it can be fixed,” Aelin admitted. And gods, that truth was cruel.

He flinched.

“But you can start by not looking away anymore.” She touched his shoulder, grounding him. “You don’t have to be like him.”

“I never wanted—” The words cracked. Broke apart.

“I know,” she said, soft as breath. “I know, Dain.”

And gods, if it wasn’t the hardest part. Watching someone she loves unravel under the weight of what they’d done. Watching him realize—too late—how deeply the rot went.

“You’re not a bad man,” she whispered. “But you’re going to have to decide the kind of man you want to be from here on out. Not the son. Not the soldier. You.”

His lip trembled, just once. “I don’t know who that is anymore.”

She squeezed his wrist. “Then start by choosing to open your eyes.”

Tears slipped down his face, silent.

“I know it hurts,” she murmured. “And I know you can’t make sense of it yet. But you don’t have to. Not tonight. Just…” Her throat tightened. “Just stay standing. That’s all I need from you right now.”

And when she reached for him—

He let her.

Collapsed into her, trembling, as all the guilt and grief he’d carried finally poured out.

The heavy weight in his arms was almost too much to bear, but Aelin held him steady—silent, unwavering. When the trembling slowed, when the ragged breaths evened, she pressed a soft kiss to his temple and pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Come on,” she said quietly. “Let’s go back.”

He nodded.

They moved through the quiet halls, footsteps muffled by thick stone and fading shadows. The flickering magelight cast long, wavering shapes on the walls as they walked in near silence.

At the end of the corridor, his door stood beside hers—two small sanctuaries separated by a stone wall. Aelin reached instinctively for the handle of her own door, fingers curling around the cold brass.

But Dain’s voice stopped her, low and rough.

“Don’t go.”

She froze, heart hammering in her chest.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said, voice heavy with something unspoken—fear, loneliness, maybe even hope.

Her eyes met his, wide and raw in the dim light spilling from the sconces.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low, steady, sure.

Aelin’s breath caught—but she didn’t hesitate. She nodded, stepping back from her door and instead following him as he unlocked his own. The door swung open, revealing the sparse room—his bed in the middle of the room, a small desk cluttered with papers, and a single window letting in the pale light of a rising dawn.

He gestured for her to come in.

She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind them with a soft click that sounded like an unspoken promise.

Without a word, they moved toward his bed. Aelin sat first, smoothing the fabric of her pants. Dain settled beside her, shoulders still tense but no longer shaking. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand.

He turned his palm upward, and she laced her fingers through his.

He leaned his head gently against her shoulder, not crying anymore, but the raw ache lingered in his breath and in the silence between them.

Aelin’s other arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer, holding him steady.

They stayed like that for a long time—two broken pieces pressed close, finding a fragile kind of peace in shared stillness.

Later, just before midnight, a sharp knock shattered the fragile quiet.

Dain stiffened immediately. “Stay here,” he said, voice low but urgent.

He stood and opened the door, stepping out into the dim corridor.

Minutes stretched like hours before he returned, expression tight as he grabbed his jacket from the chair.

“Where are you going?” Aelin asked softly, eyes never leaving his face.

“Varrish summoned me to the interrogation chamber,” he said, clipped and controlled. “I’ll be back soon. You should try to sleep.”

Before he could step past her, Aelin reached up and pulled him back gently, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce, grounding hug.

“I trust you,” she murmured into his chest.

He held her tightly for a moment, trembling faintly but steady.

“Just be careful,” she whispered. “With Varrish. With everything. Don’t let him see any cracks.”

He swallowed, nodded, and gave her a small, grateful squeeze.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled away and disappeared down the hall.

Aelin fought and lost a battle against sleep sometime after the door closed behind him. Maybe it was the quiet—the unnatural sort of quiet that only came after too much had been said, too much had been felt. Maybe it was exhaustion, creeping in like fog now that she didn’t have to keep her walls up. But at some point, her body simply gave out, curled beneath the blanket on Dain’s bed, limbs tangled in the warmth he’d left behind.

She barely stirred for the next hour. Not when a draft slipped through the cracked window. Not when the magelight sputtered its final breath and left the room in darkness. Not until—

The door creaked open.

Aelin was up in an instant, instincts flaring like sparks. Her hand shot beneath the pillow, fingers wrapping around the familiar weight of the knife tucked there. She sat up sharply, heart pounding, muscles ready to strike—

But the silhouette in the doorway froze.

Then: “It’s just me,” Dain said, voice low, worn.

She exhaled, slowly. Let go of the blade.

Dain stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He didn’t bother with the magelight. There was enough moonlight slicing through the window to see the lines etched across his face. He looked... exhausted. Not just physically, but in that deep, soul-dragging way that sleep couldn’t fix.

Aelin rose from the bed, bare feet silent on the stone floor. She was wearing one of his shirts—had pulled it on when she’d given up on waiting. It hung long on her, brushing mid-thigh, the sleeves too loose, the collar slipping just enough to bare one shoulder. 

She crossed to him, eyes scanning his face. “What happened?”

Dain ran a hand through his hair. “He asked me to use my signet on Violet.”

Aelin stilled.

“I told him no.” He gave a breathless, humorless laugh. “He didn’t argue. Just looked at me like he was disappointed in a student who should’ve known better. Then let me go.”

Aelin nodded once. There was no victory in that, only survival. But it mattered. Gods, it mattered.

“Come on,” she said softly, guiding him by the wrist. She led him back to the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she sat and patted the space beside her.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before collapsing next to her, movements heavy with bone-deep fatigue.

Aelin slid under the covers again and shifted so there was space between them. But only a little.

“You need to sleep,” she murmured.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not after—”

She reached for him without thinking, tucking herself close and wrapping an arm around his chest. Not demanding, not insistent. Just there.

His breath caught. Then slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe he was allowed, he turned toward her. His forehead pressed gently to hers, his arm sliding around her waist. Not like he was holding her together—but like she was holding him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was safe.

“I didn’t touch her,” he whispered again, voice so faint it barely carried. “I never would’ve.”

“I know,” Aelin said. And she did.

For a long time, neither of them moved. His breathing evened out first, though tension still lingered in every inch of him. She didn’t mind. Didn’t let go. She rested her head against his chest, his heartbeat a slow, steady thud beneath her cheek.

And eventually, even that storm inside him began to quiet.

Their legs tangled under the blanket, her hand still resting lightly over his ribs. His fingers brushed against the small of her back, not pulling her closer—just anchoring himself to something real.

They didn’t speak again that night.

There were no promises, no confessions. Just the hush of a room where two people were no longer pretending they didn’t need each other.

And in the dark, with the weight of too much still hanging over them, Aelin held him again.

And this time, she didn’t let go either.

Sunlight crept through the slats in the shutters, golden and warm as it spread across the floor and slowly climbed the bed. It danced over bare arms tangled in blankets, over tousled hair and the rise and fall of even, quiet breaths.

Aelin stirred first.

Not abruptly—just a slow, stretching awareness that her body was heavy with sleep, her limbs entangled with something solid and warm. The scent that greeted her wasn’t hers. It was cedar and leather and something unmistakably Dain. His arm lay loosely around her waist, the other bent beneath the pillow they shared. Their legs were still tangled, the sheets half-kicked off during the night.

She blinked against the sunlight, unsure what time it was—but knowing instinctively they hadn’t missed anything.

Dain didn’t wake right away when she shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him.

He looked younger like this. Not in a naive way—but in a way that reminded her of before. Before the war, before secrets, before the weight of command and betrayal. His brows weren’t drawn, his jaw wasn’t clenched. There was peace here, faint but real.

Her eyes traced the lines of his face—the cut of his jaw partially hidden by his beard, the gentle curve of his mouth—and lingered on the way the morning light softened every edge of him.

She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve slipped out and gone back to her own room before the others started noticing.

But instead—

She laid back down.

Let her head rest on his shoulder again, her fingers absently brushing over the soft fabric of his shirt.

A soft grunt rumbled in his chest as he finally stirred. His arms tightened around her before his eyes even opened.

“Morning,” Aelin whispered, lips brushing his collarbone.

Dain blinked slowly, then turned his head toward her. “…It’s Sunday?”

“Mhm.”

A pause. Then: “Good.”

He didn’t let go.

They stayed like that for a while, half-asleep, half-awake, letting the world remain outside the walls of his room for a little longer. 

“You didn’t sneak out,” he murmured eventually.

“No,” she said simply. “Didn’t feel like running.”

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently against her back. “Thank you. For last night. For staying.”

Aelin exhaled slowly and tucked her face against his throat.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “You’d have done the same.”

He didn’t argue. Just held her a little closer.

Aelin sighed, her voice quieter now. “We’ve got the leadership briefing in about thirty minutes.”

Dain groaned softly, tightening his grip as if that might keep the day at bay. “Don’t remind me.”

“Too late,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice.

He huffed a laugh against her hair. “You’re evil.”

“Strategic,” she corrected, shifting just enough to meet his eyes. “And right.”

Another pause. Then his eyes flicked to the clock on the desk. He grimaced.

“Fine,” he muttered.

But neither of them moved.