Fourth Wing has consumed my every thought, so now I'm writing this for fun and posting it here! If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy it! This story is set a year before the original book and follows my OC, Malia Tiarnes. Some characters may be a little out of character, as I'm writing them how they appear to me in the moment. Dive into her world as she navigates the chaos and magic of the cadet training program. Enjoy the ride! -mickmousey
At Basgiath War College, survival is earned—one broken bone, one betrayal, one bonded dragon at a time. Seventeen-year-old Malia Tiarnes never expected to make it past the Parapet, let alone survive long enough to bond a dragon. But when she catches the eye of a deadly brown dagger-tail with a sharp tongue and even sharper expectations, Malia finds herself soaring—literally—into a world that’s more brutal, more magical, and more dangerous than she ever imagined. Sisciliareth Krovanic, her bonded dragon, isn’t just a relic of Malia’s family legacy—she’s a force of nature with a fondness for sarcasm and a short temper for weakness. As Malia trains alongside other cadets—including fiercely loyal friends, deadly rivals, and one infuriatingly hot squadmate she definitely shouldn’t be sleeping with—she begins manifesting something new. Something… impossible. As secrets unravel and tensions rise within Basgiath’s brutal hierarchy, Malia must decide who to trust, who to love, and how far she's willing to go to protect the people—and the dragon—who’ve become her family. Because in a world where loyalty kills and silence saves, one truth is certain:
The bond can make you powerful. But it might also get you killed.
Whoever decided that was a sufficient amount of time for rest and recovery should be tied to the end of the parapet and told to walk it backwards. In the rain. Naked.
The storm lashes against Basgiath like it wants to peel the stone from its foundations. Wind screams through the courtyard, carrying the metallic tang of wet iron, the damp rot of moss between the cracks. I hitch the roll-scroll higher on my hip, the leather strap carving into bone, and narrow my eyes at the horizon. Out there—huddled shapes on the far side of the bridge—the newest batch of first-years gathers. From here, they look like ants in uniform, fragile and misplaced, lining up to meet their gods or their graves.
And here, on this side, stand the willing sacrifices waiting to step forward.
Most of them will die before they make it.
“Do try not to look too excited, child,” Siscil drawls in my head, her voice as dry as scorched parchment. “Someone might think you enjoy being this bitter.”
“Someone would be correct. It’s either sarcasm or homicide, and I promised Dain I’d pick the one less likely to land me in chains.”
She hums a long, dramatic sigh that echoes through my skull. “A shame. Blood always brightens my mood.”
I ignore her, jaw tight.
The truth is, I should’ve been reassigned by now. Yet here I am, parchment in hand, the ink already blurred from rain and my cramped fingers. Hours of listening to screams carry off into the abyss has worn me raw. I was beginning to think Zihnal hates me. Vindictive bastard.
So I stand again before the same narrow, wind-slicked death plank I once crossed myself. My memory supplies the phantom taste of iron on my tongue, the burn in my knees, the desperate mantra thundering with each step: Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. It’s etched into me, and the bridge knows it.
Beside me, the Wingleader assigned to this shift: Xaden Riorson.
Of course.
Fate—or cruelty—would give me him. The boy who carved his way through last year’s War Games, who earned his title in blood. Of course they’d put him here, shadow-dark and silent as stone.
I tried, at first, to break the quiet. A joke here, a comment there. He ignored me, eyes always forward, expression unreadable. Eventually, even I ran out of words. The other second-year on my right tried longer, shielding my scroll half-heartedly with a rag, but even he surrendered to the oppressive hush.
The parapet groans in the wind. Cloaks snap like torn banners. Then a scream—shrill, final—rips through the arches and plunges into silence.
“How did I get stuck with this job,” I mutter, low enough that only the rain should hear.
“You complain a lot for a rider.” Xaden doesn’t glance my way, simply signals the next conscript forward.
“Gasp. He forms words. Alert the quadrant.” My voice drips sarcasm. His head tilts just enough to shoot me a glare sharp enough to cut stone.
I scribble down the name and force it from memory before it roots too deep. Another name, another body for the abyss.
“Don’t you ever feel bad?” My eyes trail the next boy’s shaking legs, his fragile wrists. “Basically sending them off to die?”
“They signed up for this,” the rider on my right says.
“We all had to cross,” Xaden adds, unflinching.
The parchment wavers as my hand shakes with cold. I scrawl the next name, blotched by rain. “Still shitty that we can’t even give them advice.”
“It would be wasted on most.” Xaden’s gaze never wavers.
“Noted: you’re allergic to optimism.”
Another scream. Another life erased. I don’t let myself flinch.
“Next!” Xaden’s command is instant, the sound of a door slamming shut on the dead.
Another name. Another nothing.
“And you aren’t?” His voice cuts toward me suddenly, eyebrow raised, scar carved deep as if to remind me of what violence looks like up close.
“You say that like you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”
“I practically do, with how much you obsess over my cousin.”
“I do not obsess over him.” My words bite sharper than I intend, lips pressed thin.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“You think you’ve got me pegged, Riorson? You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
The storm hisses between us as we stare each other down. Water drips in rivulets off his cloak, off my lashes. Seconds drag like centuries until the other rider clears his throat.
“Ready for the next one, Riorson?”
My gaze snaps back to the line. A tall girl with bronze skin and braids. Behind her, another—shorter, slight, hair brown fading to silver at the tips.
Silver.
How unusual.
“You ready for this, Sorringail?” the taller girl asks, too bright, voice trembling beneath.
Sorringail?
My eyes widen a fraction as recognition flits across my mind. She’s related to General Sorringail. She has to be.
“One would assume so. Yes.” Siscil's voice permeates my shields again.
“Okay, smartass. Don’t you have better things to do than lurk in my thoughts waiting for an opportunity to sass me?”
“Not particularly.” Her amusement hums through the bond, smug and warm.
Xaden moves, a wall of shadow. He towers over the smaller girl, eyes like drawn blades. She glares back, but the storm nearly swallows her defiance whole.
Then a scream rips through the downpour—raw, desperate. My head snaps toward the sound. A boy dangles from the edge of the parapet, fingers clawing at slick stone, boots scrabbling for purchase against the rain-slick wall. His knuckles are bloodless, skin tearing as he fights to hold on.
“Get up! Get back on!” voices shout from the line, panic cutting through the storm. The boy’s eyes—wide, wild—meet ours for half a second. There’s nothing in them but terror.
His grip slips.
He slams against the side of the parapet, a hollow thud that makes my stomach lurch, then his body is gone—swallowed by the mist and the roar of the river far below.
The scream cuts off mid-breath. The silence that follows is deafening, heavier than the storm itself.
I can’t stop the cold rush down my spine, the phantom memory of my own boots sliding on stone. The weightless terror of imagining nothing beneath me. For an instant, my knees feel hollow, my throat closing as if I’d been the one to fall.
Dylan Mathis. His name is still wet on my parchment, already bleeding away into nothing. Another one gone. Another ghost I’ll try to forget.
Another life – Wasted.
The two girls freeze in horror, their faces pale against the rain. And Xaden—Xaden has the audacity to smile at the smaller one, as if death is nothing but punctuation in his sentence.
He signals the braided one forward. She drags herself to me, movements stiff, eyes glassy as if she’s already seen her death on the stones below. The storm has soaked her through, braids plastered to her back, but her chin trembles only when she opens her mouth.
“Name?”
“Rhiannon Mattias.”
The quill scratches uselessly across parchment blurred with rain, the ink bleeding like a wound. She steps away before I can even blink, shoulders squared, feet heavy as though each step toward the parapet drags her closer to the grave.
Xaden’s shadow falls across me again, and when he speaks, it’s a blade across bone. “Why would I waste my energy killing you when the Parapet will do it for me?”
The words slither down my spine. I clench the pen tighter. What the hell did she say to him?
“Your turn.” His tone is lethal ice, the kind that doesn’t crack—it only kills.
Rhiannon leans to whisper to the smaller girl beside her, then climbs onto the ledge. That’s when I see it. Her boots. One is the standard issue, the thick tread made for stone and mud. The other is smooth-soled, slick as glass.
My stomach twists.
I flick my eyes to the smaller girl, and sure enough—mismatched boots there too.
They swapped. Why in the gods’ names would they do that?
The smaller one moves toward me at last, her steps measured but her gaze locked on Rhiannon inching across the bridge. She looks like she’s moving in a dream, body here but soul already out there.
“Name?” My voice cracks sharper than I intend, desperate to cut through her trance.
Her head snaps toward me, silver-tipped hair plastered to her cheek. “Violet Sorringail.”
Her voice is soft, but it’s edged in something brittle, unyielding. Thunder detonates above us, shaking the stone beneath my boots.
“Sorringail? As in General Sorringail?” the rider beside me blurts, disbelief thick in his tone.
Her jaw locks, her lips flatten. “The same.”
“I thought she only had one daughter.”
“I get that a lot.” No hesitation, no warmth—just clipped steel. She doesn’t even spare us another glance before turning to the turret.
The storm presses at her back like a living thing, as if the wind itself is shoving her forward. And Xaden—gods, Xaden—he pins her with a stare sharp enough to carve flesh.
Then the sneer cuts from the line. “And you think you’ll be able to ride? Some Sorringail, with that kind of balance. I pity whatever wing you end up in.”
My head whips back. The voice belongs to a blond boy, smug and bristling with arrogance. Violet’s hands clutch the railing, knuckles white, body trembling against the push of the storm. Too frail. Too fragile. I don’t know how she hasn’t already blown away.
The boy steps closer, clearing his throat, chest puffed like he’s already wearing a Wingleader’s insignia.
“Name?”
“Jack Barlowe.” He grins as though the syllables should be etched into the stone beneath our feet. “Remember the name. I’m going to be a Wingleader one day.”
I pause, stunned by the sheer audacity. This one’s going to be a piece of work.
“You’d better get going, Sorringail,” Xaden says, voice clipped and cold enough to freeze marrow.
Barlowe’s smirk widens, cruelty sparking in his eyes. “Unless you need a little motivation.”
He lunges.
Violet startles, stumbling forward onto the parapet with a gasp, barely escaping his shove.
A sharp inhale rips from my chest before I can swallow it down.
Did he just—did he actually try to fucking push her?
My gaze jerks to Xaden. Horror flares hot and sick in my chest, but his glare is murder contained, his subtle nod confirming I hadn’t imagined it. A murder attempt. Here. In front of us.
“Next.” The word cracks like a whip, as though the moment hadn’t happened at all.
Barlowe struts toward the parapet with arrogance radiating from every inch of him. Each step is an insult. Each breath, a dare. But before he sets foot on the stone, another boy edges up to me—thin, pale, shaking like a leaf in the storm. His eyes dart between the bridge and Barlowe’s broad shoulders. He already knows what waits for him.
“Name?” My voice scrapes out harsher than I intend.
“Chase Heavis,” he stammers, the syllables nearly drowned by thunder. His lips quiver, but he forces the words out like they’re the last tether to his life. Maybe they are.
I scrawl it down, the ink bleeding across the parchment, and for once I can’t shove it from memory fast enough. The name clings to me, heavy, suffocating.
He hesitates only a second too long before stepping onto the parapet. Barlowe slides in behind him, confidence oozing, and my chest tightens. The storm roars.
Then—
A scream.
High. Piercing. Shattered halfway into silence.
I don’t need to look to know. The void has claimed him.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Do not fucking look.
The parchment in my hands blurs as the ink runs in the rain, Chase’s name staining across the page like blood.
But my body locks anyway, breath snagged in my throat as the sound carves itself into my bones. The line erupts into panicked shouts, but the storm drowns them. Then—silence.
The kind of silence that feels like a grave sealing shut.
“You’re next, Sorringail!” Barlowe’s voice slices through the air, mocking and cruel, carried by the storm like a curse.
My blood turns to ice.
What does he mean? Did he push the boy? Did he watch him fall and laugh?
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t you fucking dare look.
The girl before me stands frozen, her skin bleached bone-white, eyes locked on the abyss as though she’ll be next.
“Name?” My voice comes out steady, miraculously, even as my insides quake like the stones beneath us might collapse.
Her words break like ice underfoot. She gives her name, shaking, and then waits. She doesn’t move until Barlowe clears the ledge. Smart girl.
Welcome to the Riders Quadrant. A place where ambition is sharper than blades and murder is not a crime, but a strategy.
“Welcome indeed. All may try and none are guaranteed survival. Sounds like a wonderful time,” Siscil purrs in my mind, smug as a cat with bloodied claws.
I roll my eyes, though my throat tightens around the words. Trust her to make death sound like entertainment. Part of me wants to snap back, to tell her this isn’t a game—but another part, the darker, tired part, knows she isn’t wrong.
“You’re clenching that pen hard enough to snap it, child,” she continues, her voice curling through my head like smoke. “Let it go. Ink doesn’t bring them back.”
My gaze drops to the parchment. Dylan’s name bleeds across the page, ink feathering in the rain. My stomach twists. She’s right. Writing his name didn’t save him. It didn’t even matter. He’s still gone.
“Forget him,” she says, quiet but firm. “Forget all of them. Their fates are not yours to carry. That’s the price of this place—you take your step, or you fall. Nothing you write changes that.”
The words hit like a lash. For a heartbeat I want to argue—how could I forget? His name is still wet on my page, his scream still ringing in my ears. But deep down, I know she’s speaking the truth I don’t want to hear. If I cling to every one of them, I’ll drown before the year’s out.
I huff a shaky laugh, bitter and hollow. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. You’re the one who insists on making it messy.”
My chest aches, but her voice steadies me all the same. Pragmatic. Relentless. Honest. And damn it, it works. My grip on the pen loosens. My breathing evens. The storm is still screaming, the names still bleeding, but I can force my hand to move again.
The ink blurs. Rain hisses like whispers across the stone.
Two words root themselves in me, fierce and unyielding, as the storm rages on.
It took a full week before I stopped flinching at the memory of losing War Games.
In that time, I did what any self-respecting rider with wounded pride and too many bruises would do: I hid. Not literally, of course. I still showed up for training, ate my meals, kept Siscil fed and flying. But when I wasn’t required to be somewhere, I was locked in my room, letting the sting of defeat fester into something quieter.
I even missed the Reunification Day celebration—much to Quinn’s dismay. She spent two days pouting and calling me dramatic before giving up and going without me.
Imogen didn’t go either. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t have to. A celebration of unity, parades through the courtyard, speeches from command—all honouring the day the rebellion was crushed and her family slaughtered in the name of peace.
Yeah. I wouldn’t have gone either.
And I thought about Bodhi. Not just because we hadn’t spoken since the battle. Not because I still ached with the memory of the fight we never finished. But because his family was taken in the aftermath too. Killed by the very empire we were expected to toast.
I thought about going to him. About knocking on his door, asking if he was okay.
But I didn’t.
Because I didn’t know what I’d say if he asked me the same question.
And now, I stand in formation beside the other first years as the third years cross the dais to receive their outpost assignments. Graduation day. The final official ceremony of the year.
Strangely, it’s… uneventful. Almost boring.
Which, after everything that’s happened this year, feels like a blessing.
By the time the final name is called and the crowd begins to disperse, I can finally say it.
I survived.
I am—by some miracle and sheer stubbornness—a second year.
The thought alone makes my lungs expand wider than they have in days.
The moment we’re dismissed, Quinn practically bounces out of formation.
“I’m so happy we have five whole days off!” she exclaims, spinning in a circle like a kid let out of school for summer.
“Who said anything about five days off?” Imogen says flatly, raising a brow. “We can still train.”
Quinn freezes mid-spin, jaw dropping in horror, and turns to me with wide, pleading eyes.
“Lia. Please tell Gen we are not training on the only five days off we get all year.”
I try not to laugh. “Gen, can we pretty please have five days off?” I aim a pout at her.
Imogen taps her chin, considering, as Quinn stares her down like she’s trying to win the debate with sheer force of will.
After a dramatic pause, Imogen shrugs. “Fine.”
Quinn sighs in relief so hard it could collapse a tent. “Thank you. I plan to sleep for two days straight, then bathe in the kitchens’ hot chocolate vat.”
“Please don’t,” Imogen says dryly.
I’m about to offer suggestions for what not to do with melted chocolate when I feel an arm slide around my shoulders and a familiar breath brush my ear.
“How we feeling?” Dain murmurs.
I glance at him sideways. “Alive.”
“Wow. Overflowing with joy, as always.” He tilts his head, giving me a lopsided grin.
“You know it.”
Quinn eyes him with a raised brow. “Stealing her away already?”
“Just wondering if anyone’s going to check the leadership board.” Dain lets his arm fall as Imogen shoots it a look sharp enough to draw blood.
“Nope,” Imogen says, deadpan. “Not interested in leadership.”
She turns back to Quinn, clearly done with this conversation.
Dain shifts his attention to me. “Lia?”
“I don’t think I’m the leadership type,” I say, half-laughing. “But I can go with you, if you want?”
He smiles softly, but there’s a distant quality to it. “That’s alright. Cianna’s going. I’ll head there with her.”
He doesn’t wait for a response—just nods, turns, and walks away.
Sure enough, Cianna joins him as he moves across the courtyard.
I watch them for a moment. Not long. Just long enough to feel that weird twist in my stomach again.
Then I exhale and turn back to my friends.
“Alright,” I say, “who’s ready to spend five days doing absolutely nothing productive?”
Quinn cheers. Imogen sighs.
I smile.
--
Later that day, we found ourselves crammed around our usual table in the dining hall, the sound of clinking glasses and half-drunk laughter echoing through the room.
The energy was warm and buzzing—half celebration, half exhaustion. Plates scraped clean. Cups refilled without hesitation. The end-of-year adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off yet, and no one wanted to be the first to leave.
The lavender lemonade went down easily. Too easily. Sweet, floral, laced with just enough alcohol to leave a flush on my cheeks but not enough to feel it—yet.
Dain was already two drinks ahead of everyone else, throwing them back with the confidence of someone who had just been handed a shiny new title and needed everyone to know it.
Squad Leader.
He’d found me right after the announcement, grinning from ear to ear, practically vibrating with pride as he asked if I’d be his executive.
I’d told him no.
Said I wasn’t ready. Said I needed time.
Which wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.
And now Cianna was two drinks deep herself, flushed and cheerful in her seat beside him. The new executive. Just as eager. Just as ready.
Across from me, Quinn leaned into Imogen, tipsy and curious. “So who are you going to celebrate with later?” she asked, giggling.
Imogen recoiled like someone had splashed cold water on her face. Her eyes flicked sideways—toward the far corner of the room.
I followed her gaze. Xaden and Garrick sat at a table near the wall, quiet and unreadable. Xaden’s eyes were on his drink. Garrick’s were scanning the room.
Imogen quickly looked away. “No one.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Quinn whined, flopping back dramatically in her seat.
Imogen narrowed her eyes. “Who are you going to celebrate with then?”
“Well…” Quinn swirled the liquid in her cup with a sly smile. “There’s this girl in Third Wing. I think her name is Jax? Cute. Very cute. Might be fun.”
Imogen rolled her eyes.
Quinn’s gaze flicked to me next. “What about you, Lia? You’ve got options, right?”
I didn’t even have time to respond before Imogen cut in.
“Be realistic, Quinnie.” She smirked. “She’s going to pine after Bodhi all night and probably end up in bed with some random guy again.”
I blinked. The words landed heavier than they should’ve—blunt, casual, but laced with just enough truth to sting.
“Ouch.” I winced, trying to play it off, but the alcohol made the hit feel deeper.
Imogen’s face softened immediately. “Shit—sorry. That came out wrong.” She grimaced, holding up both hands. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t.
Quinn frowned. “I wish I could do that,” she grumbled. “Wait—what about Sawyer?” Her eyes lit up as she leaned closer to me, suddenly very invested.
“Sawyer is… good. We’re good,” I answered, too quickly.
Quinn narrowed her eyes. “Have you seen him again?”
I sipped my lemonade and avoided her gaze. “Couldn’t say.”
Imogen snorted. “Oh, she definitely did.”
I glared at her, but she just smirked, lifting her cup in mock salute.
“Speaking of Sawyer…” she added, cocking her head.
I turned, heart skipping a beat.
Sawyer was weaving through the tables, freckled and fresh-faced, curls still slightly damp like he’d just come from a shower. His eyes scanned the crowd—and then locked on ours.
On me.
Sawyer reaches our table like he owns the place.
He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t waver. Just flashes that familiar grin—lazy, confident, like he knows exactly what he’s walking into and how to handle it. His shirt sleeves are pushed up, revealing tan forearms dusted with freckles.
“Congratulations, Second Year,” he says, voice smooth as ever, and damn him, it’s the kind of smooth that goes down easier than the lavender lemonade in my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound too pleased.
“Thought I should come offer my respects,” he continues, eyeing the space beside me. “Also heard the company at this table was… elite.”
“Elite might be a stretch.” I nod at the bench. “But the drink’s good.”
“Guess I’ll risk it.” He slides in beside me without waiting for an invitation, his leg brushing mine beneath the table in a way that feels deliberate.
Quinn raises her brows so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. Imogen doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.
Sawyer leans on his elbow, chin in hand, and looks at me like I’m his favorite entertainment. “So. How does it feel to officially outrank half the morons who tried to kill you this year?”
I blink. “Morbid.”
“Honest,” he corrects, stealing a sip of someone’s drink. “And flattering. You made it. That’s rare.”
“I also almost died four separate times.”
“That I know of,” he adds.
I shoot him a sideways look. “You keeping a tally?”
Sawyer shrugs. “Only when I’m invested.”
My stomach does something stupid.
“You’re a menace,” I mutter, sipping my lemonade.
He watches me drink like it’s more interesting than it should be. “And you like that about me.”
I choke slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, grinning. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Charm implies subtlety.”
“No, charm implies results.”
I try not to laugh—and fail. “If you keep talking like that, people are going to think you’re trying to get me into bed again.”
“Who says I’m not?” he asks, tone light, but the look he gives me carries heat.
I look away, but I can’t stop smiling. “Gods, you’re shameless.”
“And yet you invited me to sit.”
“Because I thought I’d get ten minutes of peace, not ten minutes of innuendo.”
He leans in just enough for me to feel the shift in the air between us. “In my defense, you didn’t say no to the innuendo.”
My mouth opens. No words come out.
Across the table, Quinn makes a strangled noise and mutters something to Imogen, who’s watching us like she’s tallying her own scorecard.
Sawyer leans back casually, arms stretched across the back of the bench behind me, completely unbothered.
He’s magnetic in the worst way. Too smooth. Too easy. Too damn good at making me feel like the only person in the room—even when I know better.
“You gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding at my lemonade.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you flirting with my drink now?”
He winks. “Only because I’m trying to be polite before I steal it.”
I laugh—full and unguarded. And when he does take the cup and drink straight from it without breaking eye contact, I let him.
I watch as Sawyer finishes my drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he didn’t just drain it in one go, then sets the cup down with a satisfied little nod.
“Sweet,” he says, flashing me a grin. “Little too floral, though. You’re more of a spice girl, aren’t you?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He leans back in, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You’ve got bite. Pretty girls with bite always prefer things that burn a little.”
My mouth opens—then promptly closes again.
He has no right to be this good at reading me. Or this smug about it.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Are you always this cocky, or do you just save it for me?”
“Only when it works,” he replies, eyes gleaming.
“Gods,” I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yet here you are. Letting me finish your drink. Laughing at my jokes. Sitting this close.”
“You sat next to me,” I point out.
He shrugs. “True. But you didn’t move.”
I don’t have a response for that.
Mostly because he’s right.
His knee is still brushing mine under the table. His arm is still draped behind me like he’s completely at ease, like this whole thing is no big deal. Like he hasn’t slept in my bed—twice—and now he’s just... here. Talking. Teasing. Smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
And gods help me, I let him.
“Alright,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Enough about me. What about you, oh mysterious freckled one?”
Sawyer arches a brow. “You want my life story?”
“I want to know why you didn’t bond.”
That throws him for a beat.
His smile falters—just a flicker—but it’s gone before it finishes falling. “Oof. Straight for the gut.”
I hesitate. “Too far?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. You’re fine. Honest question.”
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table now, serious for the first time all night.
“I didn’t bond because no one chose me,” he says, casual and simple, like it’s not a jagged truth. “No tragic backstory. No sabotage. Just… wasn’t meant to be. Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to fight.”
That answer knocks the wind out of me a little.
Because I’ve been surrounded all year by bonded cadets—by dragons, by power—and it’s easy to forget what it means to still be here without either. To still show up. Still push through.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. “That sucks.”
He shrugs again. “It is what it is. I’ve got decent aim, I’m fast, and I’ve got this face.” He flashes a grin again, this time more crooked than cocky. “What more do I need?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, because a symmetrical jawline is exactly what the war effort needs.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do with it,” he murmurs.
I pause. “That sounded like a threat.”
“That sounded like an invitation,” Quinn sings across the table.
I startle. I’d almost forgotten they were still there.
Sawyer turns his head toward her without missing a beat. “Sorry, I only flirt with people who can hold their own.”
Quinn clutches her heart. “Rude!”
“Accurate,” Imogen deadpans, sipping her drink.
Sawyer just shrugs, turning back to me like no one else matters.
“So,” he says casually. “What’s the plan for the rest of the night? Gonna let the celebration wind down, or are you going to sneak off and pretend you’re not the most interesting person in the room?”
I smirk. “You think I’m the most interesting person in the room?”
He tilts his head, lips curving slow and sure. “You’re the only one I’m still talking to, aren’t you?”
And just like that, my pulse skips.
Damn him.
I open my mouth to fire something back—probably another sarcastic quip or a smile I don’t mean—when a shadow falls across the table.
Sawyer’s words stall.
The easy grin fades.
I look up.
Bodhi.
He’s standing just behind Sawyer, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only person in the room. His expression is unreadable—calm on the surface, but there’s something simmering underneath. Something sharp. Something barely held back.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
Not hey, not sorry to interrupt, not congrats.
Just that.
A single line that lands like a sword in my ribs.
Sawyer turns slightly, giving him a once-over with an expression that’s equal parts relaxed and defensive. His tone doesn’t change, but his posture does—more alert now, less sprawling.
“Hey, man,” he says, casually. “Good to see you too.”
Bodhi doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes are still on me.
“Malia?”
My name sounds heavier when he says it. Like it costs him something.
Everyone at the table has gone quiet now.
Imogen sets her cup down slowly. Quinn is holding her breath so obviously I can hear it.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to sit straighter. “What’s this about?”
“Not here.” His voice is lower now. “It’ll only take a minute.”
I don’t move right away.
Not because I don’t want to talk to him—I do. Gods, I do. But because the moment feels like it’s splitting me in half.
Sawyer, still beside me, watching. Easy, open, no pressure—but I can feel the tension in his shoulders now. The shift. The awareness.
And Bodhi, standing above us, quiet and unreadable and clearly not here for small talk.
“Okay,” I say, finally. “Just a minute.”
I stand, grabbing my drink out of habit, even though there’s nothing left in it. As I step around the bench, Sawyer leans back just enough for me to pass. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to.
But as I leave with Bodhi, I can still feel the heat of Sawyer’s eyes on my back.
And the silence behind me says more than any words ever could.
We don’t go far. Just past the arch and down the narrow path beside the training courtyard, where the night air is cooler and the echoes from the hall fade into distant murmurs.
I don’t say anything. Not at first.
I let the silence stretch between us, waiting for him to fill it. If he dragged me away from a perfectly warm, low-stakes flirtation with a boy who actually wants me, then he damn well better speak first.
Bodhi doesn’t rush.
He stands a few steps away, arms folded across his chest, the dim light from the lanterns casting his profile in sharp gold. He looks tired. Not in the way most cadets do—but bone-deep. Like carrying something too heavy for too long.
He shifts. Looks at me. Opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
“Spit it out,” I say finally, my voice low.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says.
I snort, crossing my arms. “Yeah, you did.”
That gets a reaction. His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a grimace he didn’t mean to show.
“Okay,” he admits. “I did.”
“Why?” I press.
He looks down at the ground, like the answer might be waiting in the gravel. “Because I saw you laughing with him. And I—” He breaks off. “I didn’t like it.”
The silence that follows is sharp.
I wait. “Not really your business anymore, is it?”
He winces. Just slightly. “No. It’s not. That’s why I’m here.”
His gaze finally meets mine. It holds.
“I owe you an apology.”
Those words scrape something open inside me.
He takes a step closer—not enough to touch, just enough to feel the shift in the air between us.
“I’m sorry, Malia. For pushing you away. For shutting you out after the war games. For making you think I didn’t care when the truth is—” His breath catches. “I care too much.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s not what it felt like,” I murmur. “It felt like I wasn’t worth the risk.”
His eyes flash, pain flickering behind them. “You’re worth everything. That’s the problem.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, agitated. “I told myself I was doing the right thing—keeping you safe by keeping my distance. I thought if I held the line, if I just kept control… it would hurt less. For both of us.”
“You really believe that?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend. “That watching me sleep with someone else was the less painful option?”
His breath hitches.
“I hated it,” he admits, quiet. “I hated every second of knowing I pushed you into someone else’s arms. But I couldn’t give you what you needed. Not then. Not yet.”
I shake my head slowly. “So what now? You’ve decided it’s okay to want me again?”
His expression changes—softens, but doesn’t lose its tension.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he says. “I just stopped thinking I deserved to.”
That undoes me a little.
My voice drops. “Then why now?”
He steps forward again, close enough that I can see the line of his jaw flex, the flutter of his pulse beneath the skin of his throat. “Because I’m trying. I’m working on the things that scare me. The things that keep me from reaching for what I want. I can’t promise I’ve figured it all out yet—but I’m not walking away this time.”
My heart is hammering.
He draws something from the inside of his jacket. A small cloth-bound book, worn at the corners, tied with a thin piece of twine.
“I want you to have this,” he says, holding it out.
I don’t take it right away. Just look at it. Then at him.
“What is it?”
“A book on Tyrrish rune-lore,” he says. “Written before the last war. Before our culture was censored, before the records were scrubbed clean. It was my brother’s. I copied it by hand before I came here.”
That knocks the breath from my chest.
“You want me to read it?”
He nods once. “I want you to understand what I come from. Not the version they teach here. Not the rebellion they blame. The truth. My truth.”
I take the book slowly. It’s heavier than it looks. I feel the weight of it in my hands—in my heart.
“You’re giving me a piece of yourself,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it.
“But don’t let anyone else see it,” he says, voice firm now. “Not even your squad. Not unless you’d bet your life on their silence.”
“I understand.”
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for days.
“And I’ll understand,” he adds, “if you’re not ready to forgive me. Or trust me. Or if… if you’ve already moved on.”
I shake my head.
“I haven’t,” I whisper. “But I’m not sure what you’re offering.”
He closes the distance then, just one step—close enough to brush his knuckles against mine, not quite a touch, but enough to leave a spark in the air.
“I’m offering effort,” he says. “I’m offering wanting you, out loud, without flinching. I’m offering not giving up.”
And gods, the restraint in him is shattering.
Because I can see it in his eyes—how badly he wants to reach for me. To kiss me. To make all of it real. But he doesn’t. He won’t. Not until I say yes.
So I just nod.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll read it.”
He nods too. And something unspoken passes between us.
Then he steps back.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, soft, and then—like it costs him—“If you still want me to.”
And just like that, he turns and disappears into the dark.
I look down at the book in my hands, heart still pounding.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel lost.
I feel chosen.
I stand there long after Bodhi is gone, still holding the book, still staring at the spot where he disappeared into shadow.
The dining hall is behind me. I can hear the music again now—someone's dragged a fiddle out, and the cadence of laughter swells like waves against stone.
Sawyer’s probably still sitting at the table.
Waiting.
I imagine his smirk, the warmth in his eyes, the way he never asks for more than I’m willing to give. I imagine sliding back onto the bench beside him, making another joke, sipping whatever drink he hands me next, pretending this conversation with Bodhi didn’t just crack my chest open again.
I could do it.
I could go back, smile, deflect, act like nothing happened.
But the book in my hands feels too heavy for that now.
So instead, I turn away from the light and head toward my room.
My boots are nearly silent on the stone as I climb the dormitory steps, the weight of everything I didn’t say dragging at my limbs. The moment I close my door behind me, I lean back against it and close my eyes.
Breathe.
Think.
Feel.
But I don’t know how to feel. Not really. Not when every part of me is still vibrating from Bodhi’s voice saying I’m not giving up.
I suck in a breath and lower my head, pressing my palms into my thighs.
Then—slowly, deliberately—I reach inward.
Not for the bond itself. Not yet.
First, I reach for Siscil.
Her power hums beneath the surface of my mind like a dormant storm, ancient and coiled. I brush against it, tentative at first, until it pulses back—warm and steady, like a hand on my shoulder. Her presence grounds me. Anchors me.
Only then do I start searching. Not outwardly. Inward. Through the tangle of invisible threads that connect me to the people I’ve reached for before. Some are too faint to name. Others sting when I pass them.
But Imogen’s is there.
Thin. Sharp. Electric.
Familiar in a way that aches.
I wrap my thoughts around it, gently but firmly, and pull.
"Gen?"
There’s a pause—half a heartbeat—and then her voice meets mine through the thread, quiet but alert.
"Lia? Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Sort of." I hesitate, my thoughts still tangled. "Can you… make an excuse for me? To Sawyer. Just… tell him I wasn’t feeling well or something."
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: "Sure. Do you want me to tell him anything else?"
"No. Just that. Please."
"Okay. I’ve got you."
I let the connection slip from my grasp before she can say more—before I can feel the edge of worry pressing through from her side.
Drawing on Siscil’s power leaves a hollow feeling behind, like something warm just left the room. My pulse is steady, but my limbs feel heavier now, as if the act of reaching had cost me something I hadn’t noticed until it was spent.
I set the book down on my bed like it might bite me. The cloth cover is still warm from my hands. The etched symbol on the front glints faintly in the moonlight leaking through my window.
It feels… sacred.
Ancient. Alive.
Like holding a secret the world forgot on purpose.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the mattress creaking beneath me as I stare at the book in my lap. I haven’t opened it yet. I don’t think I’m ready. My fingers trail over the etched rune on the front cover, and something in the back of my mind hums with recognition I know I shouldn’t have.
“You’ve been quiet,” I think, reaching out through the bond like brushing my hand against a curtain I hadn’t noticed was closed.
Siscil’s voice slinks into my mind with slow amusement, low and warm and a little smug.
“Didn’t want to interrupt your brooding. You were giving the walls a very intense stare.”
“I’m not brooding,” I mutter.
“You’ve been staring at that book for five minutes like it insulted your ancestors.”
I huff a breath. “It kind of did.”
“Mm. No. The boy who gave it to you probably insulted your ancestors. The book just implies they were wrong.”
I look down at the cover again, fingers still. “Do you know what this symbol means?”
“Not from here.” A pause. Then more softly: “But I recognize the shape. Tyrrish runes are older than the language your quadrant teaches”
“That’s comforting.”
“You’ve slept with worse mysteries under your pillow.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m here to keep you from burying yourself in guilt over something you wanted.”
I blink. The room goes still.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” Siscil says, voice quiet now, but not unkind. “But you needed it.”
I let the silence settle. Let the ache come with it.
“I didn’t expect him to say any of that,” I admit after a long moment. “To say he still wants me. That he’s trying.”
“You still love him.”
I swallow hard. “I think so.”
“You think?”
“It’s not like I have a neat little ledger in my chest that tells me when something is real or when it’s just nostalgia and shared trauma.” I rub my temple, exhausted. “I don’t know what I feel. I just know when he looked at me tonight, it felt like something cracked open.”
Siscil is quiet for a moment. Then:
“I’ve felt that from you before. When you first touched his mind. Before you even knew what you were.”
I freeze.
“You mean when I…” I trail off, jaw tightening.
“Yes. That night.” She’s gentle now. No edge. “You’ve always been drawn to him. But wanting someone deeply doesn’t make them safe. It doesn’t make them good for you. It just makes them real.”
I don’t respond right away. My fingers curl around the book.
“And Sawyer?”
“Comfort. Warmth. Safety. Not shallow, but not deep enough to cut.” A beat. “You care about him. But you don’t ache for him.”
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“I’m tired of aching.”
“Then stop trying to outrun it. Sit in it. Breathe through it. Let yourself feel instead of flinching away every time something hurts.”
I lower my hands slowly, breathing in through my nose.
“I don’t know if I can trust Bodhi.”
“You don’t have to.” Her tone is firm. “Not yet. But don’t pretend you haven’t already started to forgive him.”
The truth of that lands hard. It ripples through my chest like someone tugged a string that’s been coiled too tight for too long.
I rise from the bed and slide the book under the mattress, tucking it deep into the far corner. Somewhere no one will find it unless they’re looking for secrets.
Not that I plan to let anyone near it.
I lower the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed again, rubbing my thumb across the seam in my palm.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?”
“Yes. But probably the right one.”
I let out a laugh—shaky, half-broken. “You’re a terrible mentor.”
“And yet I’m the only one who’s still here at the end of the day.”
That silences me.
Because she’s right. When the boys leave, when the squad turns awkward and quiet—Siscil is still there. Warm. Witty. Brutal. Constant.
“You’re the only thing I don’t doubt anymore.”
“Good. I’ll start charging you for the therapy.”
I smile at the ceiling.
“Night, Siscil.”
“Sleep well Child.”
And this time, when the silence returns, it feels like protection—not loneliness.
The fortress map sprawled across the war table like a dissected beast—every ridge and cliff carved into weathered parchment, each squad’s position marked by small brass pins and chalk-scored paths like arteries branching into nowhere.
The room is packed wall to wall, cadets pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the angled beams of the old stone keep, breath fogging in the chill morning air. Wind whistles through the cracked arch behind us, carrying the low hum of dragons circling overhead. The scent of leather, steel polish, and half-stale breakfast rations clings to everything.
“You’ve all had the brief,” Wing Leader Vaeren says, voice sharp as drawn steel. “But since some of you still look like you’re wondering where the real fight is, let’s run it again.”
His tone is clipped, his posture iron-straight—one of those riders who never seems to lean, like relaxing is some kind of vulnerability. The scar across his jaw tugs tight as he steps to the table, tapping the center of the map where a golden pin marks our position.
“Second Wing is stationed here. Your job is to defend this fortress and the flag inside it. That courtyard is our stronghold. Fourth Wing is coming for it. Third Wing is our target. First Wing is hitting Fourth. Every Wing has something to lose and someone to take it from. It’s a four-way front. Assume chaos.”
Tension coils tight in the room. Even the upperclassmen—second- and third-years drafted in for balance—stand straighter now. Beside me, Quinn tilts her head toward the map like it might bite her. Imogen’s jaw is locked, one boot bouncing in place, quiet but coiled.
“Feels like a trap,” Quinn mutters. “One minute too late to stop it.”
“Victory goes to the first Wing that secures both their own flag and their assigned target’s, and holds them for a full minute,” Vaeren says, raising one gloved finger. “That’s all it takes. You slack off, you miss a signal—game over.”
The flag markers glint under torchlight—blue for Fourth, red for First, green for Third, gold for ours.
I trace the path between Second and Third Wing’s stronghold. Not far. But the terrain between us is all crags and ruins, steep ledges and narrow switchbacks. Dragons can’t land safely without giving up altitude, and the lower slopes are a death trap for footing.
Risky. But not impossible.
Vaeren steps away from the map and sweeps the room. “Offensive teams have already been briefed on your strike routes. Defense team, you're on lockdown. Your priority is the courtyard, the flagpost, and the fallback tower. You hold that line—or don’t come back.”
He doesn’t mean it literally. Probably.
He flips his slate. Starts reading names.
“Tiarnes. Imogen. Quinn. Core defense. Flag post rotation.”
Not a surprise. But it still lands like a punch to the diaphragm. No run. No movement. No glory.
Just containment.
My signet is the reason. Has been since it first burned through me like wildfire. Too unstable for ranged support. Too dangerous for precision strike. Too effective to waste.
I’m a weapon you bury in the last line of defense and hope you never have to use.
“Tiarnes,” Vaeren says, eyes locking on mine across the chamber. “Step forward.”
Boots scrape. I move.
“Are you confident in your signet?”
I nod. “Yes, Wing Leader.”
“Confident that you can control it?”
Another nod. “Yes, sir.”
He studies me like he’s trying to see past the braid, past the pulse twitching in my jaw. Past the fear.
“If you lose control of that voice while Fourth Wing’s charging your line, you don’t just lose us the flag. You bring down your own squad. Your friends.”
The air sharpens. Quinn shifts. Imogen’s boot stills. Dain, two rows back, straightens like he wants to speak up.
I keep my voice flat steel. “I won’t lose control.”
Vaeren nods once. “Then make sure Riorson regrets getting within reach of it.”
--
We break formation fast—squads scattering across the fortress like blood through fractured stone. Defense teams fan out to choke points and wall crests. Aerial spotters sprint toward the battlements, calling for their dragons like hounds before a hunt.
Siscil brushes against my mind with the lazy assurance of a cat stretching in sunlight.
“You have the easy job, child. We only have to keep them from destroying everything you care about. No pressure.”
“Reassuring as always,” I mutter.
The courtyard is quiet. Too quiet. The flag flutters above us—golden fabric catching in the breeze like it doesn’t know we’re about to bleed for it.
It means nothing.
And it means everything.
Because if we lose it—we lose.
The courtyard is flanked on three sides by weathered stone walls and archways. Slick with mist. No cover. No escape.
I plant my boots at the base of the flagpole and force myself to stay still.
“We’ve been standing here like this for twelve minutes,” Quinn mutters, perched on the low eastern wall. “I’m developing moss.”
“You’d make a very dignified garden ornament,” Imogen replies, flipping a blade between her fingers as she paces. “Stern. Broody. Very on trend.”
“I’d stab you, but I like your face.”
“Back at you, flower pot.”
I exhale through a tight smile. Their voices ground me.
“They should’ve reached us by now,” I say, eyes scanning the mist-veiled ridge.
“Or they’re taking their time,” Quinn replies. “Making us sweat.”
“We’re already sweating,” Imogen mutters. “If Riorson’s on the assault team, they’re just letting him clear the board one squad at a time.”
“I still say they should’ve disqualified him,” Quinn grumbles. “There’s ‘gifted,’ and then there’s ‘actively terrifying.’ I heard he dropped six cadets in five seconds during last year’s gauntlet.”
“I heard he broke someone’s collarbone just by looking at them,” Imogen says.
“I heard his dragon eats rebels for breakfast,” Quinn adds.
“I heard his dragon eats first-years for breakfast,” I deadpan.
A beat. Then we all break—laughter slicing through the tension like a knife.
Gods, I needed that.
“Siscil, how’s the sky?” I ask.
“West flank is intact. North ridge is thinning. Someone’s passed the second perimeter. No contact yet.” Her voice curls in my head like velvet over steel. “Glane and Cruth hold altitude. And for the record…”
Her wings slice a shadow over the courtyard.
“…if that blue dragon gets near this keep, I’m peeling the paint off her smug scales.”
“That’s not what scales are for.”
“Then I’ll improvise.”
There’s affection under the snark. A flicker of concern she’ll never admit to.
“She thinks we have ten minutes,” I relay aloud.
“Perfect,” Quinn mutters. “Just enough time to spiral.”
“Or place bets,” Imogen offers. “Who do you think they’ll send?”
“Other than Riorson?” I arch a brow. “Boss-level threat.”
“Garrick? Iri Meren?”
“If it’s Garrick, I’m not fighting him,” Quinn sighs. “I’ll just lie down and ask him to braid my hair.”
“You already asked him that once,” I remind her.
“And I stand by it.”
We go quiet again.
Above, our dragons hold formation. Siscil at the center, wings wide and watchful. Glane higher, jittery and alert. Cruth prowls beneath the cloud layer—silent and sharp-eyed.
They feel it too.
“North ridge,” Siscil warns. “Two riders. The shadowed one and your mate.”
My stomach knots.
“He’s not my mate.”
“If you like denial, by all means - stay in it.”
Quinn vaults over the low wall and lands beside me with a thud. “How bad?”
Imogen’s already at my side, eyes hard. “Scale of one to fucked?”
“Xaden Riorson,” I say.
“And Bodhi.”
A silence deeper than fear settles in.
I glance up just in time to see the clouds above the ridge ripple—like water breaking around something massive.
Sgaeyl bursts through first. Sleek cobalt scales catch the light like shattered gemstones. Her wings cut low over the fortress, tail slicing wind in tight, brutal arcs.
Cuir follows, his green form less aggressive, more fluid. Like he’s not trying to dominate the sky—just control it. Calm, measured, deliberate.
It’s the perfect complement. Xaden and Sgaeyl—pure force.
Bodhi and Cuir—precision.
My stomach knots.
Sgaeyl roars—a terrible, echoing sound that shakes loose a few pebbles from the nearest tower wall. She spirals downward, claws flashing, and Siscil is there in a blink—her wings battering the air into submission as she meets the blue dragon mid-strike.
They collide in a blur of scale and talon. Fire catches between them—a flash, not a strike—held back at the last second. But it’s enough.
Glane dives in, flame sputtering from her throat as she cuts across Sgaeyl’s flank. Cruth shoots under them, green tail spiked and whiplike, snapping toward Cuir as he banks into the fray.
Cuir doesn’t roar. He doesn’t bare his fangs.
He moves with the kind of chilling precision that tells you exactly what he’s capable of.
A calm predator.
Like Bodhi.
“Watch the eastern arc,” Siscil barks. “Cuir’s circling low—he’ll break line and flank the flag if we’re not careful.”
“You’re flying against two bigger dragons,” I warn her. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Don’t insult me.” She growls plainly.
Then they break through the arch.
Bodhi first—shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked. His eyes flick to me and then away like they burned.
And behind him, Xaden.
Unhurried. Unshakable. A walking threat in black.
He stops a few paces from the flag. So do I.
Quinn and Imogen tighten formation beside me.
Xaden’s gaze lands on mine.
“Tiarnes,” he says. “Move.”
“Not a chance.”
“This isn’t personal.”
“You say that like it means something.”
“It’s war games.”
“Then let’s make it a war.”
He steps forward.
I raise my blade.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“Then don’t.”
“You don’t have your signet.”
I reach for it. And find Siscil’s power humming beneath my skin, but when I try to channel it to my throat – nothing.
It’s gone.
I turn to Bodhi, fury twisting hot behind my ribs.
“You.”
He doesn't even blink.
“I didn’t want it to be me.”
“But it was.”
And gods, it’s not even the magic I’m angry about.
It’s the way he still makes my heart lurch in my chest—and now he’s standing there on the other side of the line, silencing me like I’m nothing but a threat to neutralize.
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
And all I want to do is punch him in his stupid, beautiful face.
Xaden takes a step forward, just one. Controlled. Calm. I raise my blade higher between us.
“I’m not moving.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“Then you shouldn’t have shown up.”
Another step.
“Malia,” Bodhi says, soft. “Stand down. Please.”
“Why? So you can say you gave me the chance?”
“So I don’t have to watch this go further.”
“He means – so I don’t put you in the ground,” Xaden answers. “I don’t want to. But I will.”
“Then do it.”
I feel it in my chest when Bodhi flinches. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel him wanting to. Wanting to stop it. Wanting to stop me.
“Don’t make this personal,” Xaden says again.
“Too late,” I breathe.
Imogen moves first.
Not toward Xaden.
Toward Bodhi.
The decision happens in a breath, a beat, a flicker of rage behind her eyes.
“If he’s the one blocking you—” she growls, voice low and lethal, “then I’ll fix it.”
Bodhi reacts fast, arm snapping up to deflect her first strike, but she fights with surgical violence—methodical and unrelenting. Not wild. Not reckless. Just efficient. Every blow is calculated, every angle aimed with a fighter’s precision and a friend’s fury.
Her dagger slams into his ribs with a dull thud.
He staggers back, breath sucked between his teeth—but doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even reach for his weapon.
He’s not trying to win.
He’s trying not to hurt her.
And that’s the difference.
A flick of motion from the corner of my eye. Shadows explode outward like smoke igniting.
Xaden lifts a hand—expression unreadable, gaze locked on Imogen.
Shadows explode outwards.
They surge outward in a spiralling mass—liquid and smoke, alive with impossible movement. They hit Imogen like a net woven from nightmares, yanking her back mid-strike. Her body lifts off the ground for a half-second before slamming back down, bound in place. But not before her blade clips Bodhi’s jaw with a satisfying crack.
Blood spatters. A shallow cut.
He doesn’t flinch.
“Malia!” Imogen gasps, thrashing in the restraints. Her limbs jerk against the tendrils. “Now—!”
My whole body answers before my mind can catch up.
I seize the bond with Siscil, feel her power arc through me like lightning in my bloodstream. It burns. It surges. It takes the shape of a word before I can even think to form one.
“Leave,” I command, the word cracking like thunder through the courtyard. “And don’t come back. The flag isn’t here.”
It rips from my throat like something torn and holy.
The air distorts. The ground hums. I can almost see the power move—pulsing outward in a wave, thick with command and dragon-fire.
It hits.
Xaden freezes mid-step.
Bodhi turns on the spot.
My heart punches against my ribs, soaring.
I did it.
They’re leaving. I won—
No.
No, something’s wrong.
Bodhi takes two steps.
And then stops.
Xaden stands still—but not slack, not dazed. His jaw tightens. His eyes remain unfocused for a breath… then sharpen. His hand closes into a fist.
And the shadows remain.
Imogen is still bound. So am I.
Quinn’s voice breaks through the quiet, thin and trembling. “Malia?”
I whip my head toward her. “Siscil?”
Her answer drips with annoyance and effort: “I’m busy, Child. Try again.”
My throat is already raw, but I inhale, lungs rattling. Reach for it again—pulling more power than I should, than I can hold.
“Leave—”
The word tears halfway out of my mouth.
And then the dark slams into me.
Not pain.
Not yet.
Just pressure—rushing in, around, through me.
The world goes black at the edges, like ink pouring into my vision. My knees collapse. But I’m not falling.
I’m being… lowered?
Held.
Shadows coil around my limbs—not hurting, not tight, but unrelenting. Like ropes made of smoke. I can’t move. I can’t fight.
I can only watch.
When the black recedes, the world spins. Cold courtyard stone beneath me. The taste of iron in my throat. My vision clears just enough to see—
Xaden.
Standing tall.
Flag in hand.
Expression unreadable.
Bodhi at his side.
Still not looking at me.
“Well,” Imogen huffs from somewhere to my left. “That was unfair. I mean, they could’ve at least bought us dinner first.”
Her voice is raspy but defiant. Her wrists and ankles are wrapped in shadows. I glance down. My own limbs are wrapped in fine, black tendrils—slick as ink, coiled like chains.
This power… It’s too much. It's everything. Crushing and elegant and impossible to outrun.
I was never going to win.
“You sell yourself short, child,” Siscil growls, her voice laced with low fury in the back of my mind. “We are just as strong. Stronger.”
I blink upward—slow, heavy.
And there she is.
Siscil’s wings crest the top of the courtyard wall, her massive body crouched like an avenging beast. Her brown scales shimmer faintly in the light, glowing with fury. For the first time today, something like hope blooms behind my ribs.
A smile almost breaks through my exhaustion.
But then—
Blue.
Cobalt scales flash. Sgaeyl.
She rams into Siscil with terrifying speed, knocking her sideways mid-lunge.
They crash against the ramparts above, roars echoing across the fortress like cannon fire.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a minute,” Xaden says blandly, lowering the flag just slightly.
And just like that—game over.
Bodhi finally looks at me.
Eyes dark. Expression unreadable.
I wish I couldn’t see how much it hurts him to do this.
I wish it didn’t matter.
I wish I could stop caring.
Siscil’s voice cuts back in, more tired now than angry.
“I’m starting to regret my choice at Threshing. You seem to be quite adept at losing.”
I don’t respond.
There’s nothing to say.
I lost. Again. And this time—when it mattered.
After all the training. After every scream Karr dragged from me in the early morning. Every whispered strategy Quinn fed me. Every sparring match with Imogen that left us both bruised and breathless.
Still not enough.
“There was nothing you could’ve done against the Shadow Wielder,” Siscil says, more gently now. “He is strong.”
“Maybe you should’ve bonded with him then,” I mutter.
“Try suggesting that to Sgaeyl and let me know how it goes.”
The shadows slip from my limbs like spilled ink retreating across stone. I sit up slowly, testing my body. No injuries. Just exhaustion. Just… defeat.
Bodhi steps forward, movements tentative.
“You okay?” he asks. His eyes scan me, quick and efficient.
I bark a laugh. Bitter.
“You do more damage in training. Which clearly doesn’t work, by the way.”
His lips twitch. “It works. Just not against Riorson.”
He offers his hand.
And—gods—I take it.
“Whatever,” I mutter as he pulls me to my feet.
The courtyard is quiet now. The others are gone. We’re the only ones left, and it feels louder than any battlefield.
He looks at me like he wants to say something.
“Still mad?” he asks.
I turn, frown already forming.
“I thought… training together might fix it,” he says.
“Fix what?”
“Us.”
Something cracks. His voice is too soft. Like he’s hoping I’ll fill in the blanks for him.
And maybe once—I would’ve.
But not now.
“What is there to fix, Bodhi?” My voice rises. “I told you I might love you. You told me I can’t. You told me we can’t.”
I throw up my hands, pacing three steps away before spinning back to face him.
“There is no us until something changes.”
Silence.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me with eyes I’ve never been able to read.
Behind me, claws scrape against stone.
Siscil lowers her head, tapping one claw with deliberate impatience.
“By all means, child. Finish your melodrama while I starve.”
“You’re always hungry.” I snap.
“And you’re always wasting time on disappointing males. Do you want to braid his hair next, or can we go?”
I blink. “He isn’t mine.”
“Say it again. Louder. Maybe I’ll start believing you.”
I shake my head and climb her foreleg without another word, the weight of loss heavy in every step.
“Now sit, so we can leave, and you can spend the entire flight blaming yourself for things you couldn’t have changed.”
“Wow. Comforting.”
“I am comforting,” she says, lifting off with a mighty beat of her wings. “I didn’t eat him, did I?”
“…yet.”
“Progress.”
She launches skyward, talons slicing the air, wings pumping as we lift from the ruined courtyard.
I don’t look back.
Not at Bodhi.
Not at Cuir.
Not at the place where everything fell apart.
Just forward. Just the wind and the burn in my throat and the ache behind my eyes.
By the time I make it to the combat training hall, I’m already sore in three different places.
My calves are still knotted from this morning’s sparring drills. My right shoulder throbs where Siscil failed to warn me before flipping through the air like a goddamned coin toss. And the bandage across my ribs has started itching like it’s made of fire ants under my uniform. Every breath still feels like swallowing shrapnel thanks to Karr’s charming little compulsion gauntlet.
The smart thing to do would be to take the night off. Rest. Ice. Sleep.
But I haven’t been particularly good at doing the smart thing lately.
Karr had me up at 0500 again. Third time this week. I expected more of the same: frustration, failure, humiliation. But this morning was… different. Better.
The compulsion stuck. Twice.
I held it long enough to make the suppression ring around Emery’s chest flicker, long enough to see Karr’s brows lift by a fraction before smoothing his expression into nothing.
Quinn’s focus techniques are working. So is Imogen’s trick—grounding my will in intent, not outcome. Mean it, or it won’t work.
“Compulsion doesn’t bend to desire. It bends to intention—to conviction. You can’t force someone just because you want the result. You have to believe what you’re saying. You have to mean it. The signet doesn’t listen to your wishes. It listens to your will.”
As Siscil so graciously put it, during one of the many unsolicited lectures she’s been gifting me since we lost the squad battle.
I roll my shoulders and step into the training hall, already scanning for Garrick’s familiar silhouette. He’s usually early—stretching, cracking jokes, hurling insults at whatever poor cadet is getting wrecked in the ring before me.
Tonight, the hall is nearly empty.
And it’s not Garrick waiting on the mat.
It’s Bodhi.
Short sword already in hand, blade angled downward, feet planted wide. His black training shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and the ends of his dark hair curl at the back of his neck like they always do when he’s been working too hard for too long. There’s a fresh scrape across his jaw, and his expression is unreadable in the most infuriating way.
I stop cold.
My stomach drops like it’s been kicked off a cliff. Then lurches into my throat, choking me from the inside out.
“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice cuts through the still air like a blade.
He doesn’t flinch. Just turns his head slowly, like he was expecting me but still not quite ready for the sound of my voice.
“Waiting for you,” he says.
“Why?”
“To train. Obviously.” He raises one brow. That signature move. Every motion is so familiar it makes my chest ache.
“I train with Garrick.”
“And now you’re training with me.”
“No.” My arms cross over my chest. “Where’s Garrick?”
“He’s off-duty.”
“Doing what?”
Bodhi shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t!” My voice rises, heat surging behind my eyes. “Why in Dunne’s name would I want to train with you?”
“Maybe because I’m the best in our year,” he snaps. “Or maybe because I actually give a fuck whether you live or die—and since dying isn’t an option I’m willing to consider, that means I’m stuck making sure you don’t.”
His tone sharpens with every word, like steel being dragged across stone. And gods help me, that version of him—the intense, no-bullshit, wildfire-beneath-the-skin version—always sets something alight in me. Skin buzzing. Pulse pounding.
But it’s also the same version of him that runs. That pushes me away. That keeps his heart locked behind a wall I never asked to scale.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” I grit out, arms still crossed. “Garrick trains me just fine.”
“No,” Bodhi says, calm and cutting. “You’ve been surviving Garrick. Not improving. Not adapting. And definitely not preparing for the kind of fights that’ll actually get you killed.”
It lands hard. Too hard. My chest tightens.
I swallow it, force it down. “Is that what this is? Another lecture? Let me guess—you’re here to make sure I don’t embarrass myself next time I get launched off a cliff?”
His jaw locks. “You almost died, Malia.”
I take a step forward, fire clawing up my throat. “I always almost die. That’s the job. That’s what we signed up for.”
“But it doesn’t have to be every damn time!” His voice echoes off the stone, rough and raw. “You act like bleeding out is noble. Like if you don’t crash and burn fast enough, someone’s going to think you weren’t trying hard enough—”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I cut in, low and venomous. “You lost the right to know what goes on in my head when you decided silence was safer than honesty.”
That stings. I know it does. Because his mouth opens—then closes. Like he’s got something worth saying and swallows it whole anyway.
Coward.
“If Garrick’s busy, I’ll train with Imogen,” I say coldly, turning toward the door. My feet move fast, like if I just keep going, I can outrun the part of me screaming to stay. To step back into his space. To get close enough that it hurts.
I don’t get far.
“You’ve been training hand-to-hand and with daggers,” he says, voice steady but louder now. “But you don’t use your signet enough to count it as a weapon. And your throwing accuracy falls apart when you’re under pressure. In close-range combat, you’re outmatched by size alone. You need options.”
I stop.
Fists clenched at my sides.
“Options like what? Like you?” I throw the words like a blade. “You can’t save me, Bodhi.”
“I’m not trying to save you,” he says. “I’m trying to teach you to save yourself. And you can’t do that with just daggers.”
That one—yeah, that cuts deep.
He sees it. I know he does. Because his eyes drop for a second before locking back on mine, steadier now.
“I just want you alive,” he says, softer. “Even if you hate me for it.”
There it is. The thing I’ve been pretending not to feel since the war games. Since before then. Since the first time he started pulling away while pretending not to care.
He does care. Just not enough.
Or maybe too much.
Either way, it’s unbearable.
“If you’re so desperate to train me,” I say, unsheathing a dagger from my thigh, “you’re going to have to prove you’re worth the time.”
His brow lifts, but he doesn’t argue.
“One match,” I say, stepping forward. “If I win, you stay out of my training. I keep working with Garrick and Imogen, just like I’ve been doing. If you win, I train with you. Twice a week.”
He watches me for a long moment, face unreadable again. Then he bends to pick up the short sword beside him.
“Fine,” he says. “But you won’t win.”
--
The moment I step into the ring, Bodhi drops into a stance that’s all calm, focused menace. Short sword angled down, shoulders loose, like he’s barely trying. I hate how steady he looks. How unreadable.
I roll my shoulder and grip the dagger tighter. My ribs ache under the wrap, my calves still twitching from earlier drills, and there's a dull pulse in my shoulder where Siscil accidentally slammed me into the clouds yesterday.
But none of that matters. I can win this. I have to win this.
I need to prove I don’t need him.
We circle. No words. Just breath and bootfalls. The silence presses between us like a second opponent.
He strikes first—sharp, efficient, aimed at my side. I block. Or try to. The impact rattles through my arm, pain flaring down into my bruised ribs. I bite down on the yelp trying to claw its way up my throat.
“Still think I’m overreacting?” he mutters, eyes narrowed.
I lash out, fury in every movement. My dagger slices through the air toward his shoulder—but he steps in, not back. My blade glances off his bicep. His knee connects with my thigh. My leg buckles.
I drop to one knee.
He doesn’t wait. Blade pressed lightly to the side of my neck.
“Point.”
I glare up at him. “Lucky shot.”
He smirks, but it’s laced with frustration. “You’re still leading with your injuries. You’re telegraphing every move.”
I push to my feet and round on him. “Don’t coach me. Fight me.”
“As you wish.”
The next pass is faster. Meaner. I throw every ounce of spite and pain and reckless determination into my strikes. I land one—barely—across his ribs, but it costs me. He spins, knocks the dagger clean from my hand with a single, surgical flick of his sword.
I dive to retrieve it—but he’s already there.
His foot plants on the blade, pinning it to the mat.
I freeze, breath ragged.
“You think speed makes up for strategy,” he says, voice flat. “It doesn’t.”
“Get off my blade.”
“Pick it up.”
“I said—”
“Pick it up, Malia.”
Something in his voice—steel beneath the calm—makes me obey.
The moment I grab the hilt, he sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the mat hard. The air punches out of my lungs.
“Stop holding back.” His voice is sharper now, more emotion bleeding through. “Stop fighting like you’ve got something to prove. Fight like you want to live.”
“I always fight like I want to live!” I shout from the floor, fury lashing through every nerve. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I got here!”
He stares at me—eyes blazing, jaw tight. Then offers a hand.
I don’t take it.
I roll back to my feet, staggering, vision swimming.
This time, I don’t wait. I lunge at him.
It’s messy. Sloppy. The desperation in every swing is palpable. I know it. So does he.
And still, he blocks each strike effortlessly.
He ducks a high slash. Sidesteps a low jab. I go for his ribs again—his blade hooks mine and twists. I feel the pain before I hear the pop—my wrist wrenches, and the dagger falls from my hand with a gasp of agony. It burns, but not enough to be broken, Bodhi had disarmed me while still making sure not to hurt me.
And that pisses me off.
He doesn’t go for the blade. He grabs my arm and flips me over his hip.
The mat slams into my back. My ribs scream. My vision flashes white.
By the time I blink, his blade is resting against the hollow of my throat, and he’s crouched above me, eyes dark with something between fury and panic.
“Yield,” he says.
I try to move. I can’t. My limbs are trembling. My chest feels like it’s filled with broken glass.
“Yield,” he says again, softer now. “Malia.”
The ceiling spins above me. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to grab him by the collar and kiss him until I forget how much this hurts.
But instead, I say, voice hoarse:
“I yield.”
He rises slowly, pulling back the blade like it weighs a thousand tons. I stay on the mat, head tipped toward the ceiling, chest heaving, fingers clenched.
I stay on the mat for half a second too long, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
Bodhi straightens, his blade lowering. He watches me—too closely, too quietly. Like he’s waiting for me to fall apart.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
I scramble to my feet, every movement tight with rage and humiliation. My wrist throbs where I landed on it, and the edges of my vision are still tinged with white, but I keep moving.
He takes a step toward me. “Malia—”
“Don’t,” I snap, voice razor-sharp. “I’ll train with you twice a week. But that’s all.”
He freezes.
I grab my dagger off the mat, shove it back into its sheath with more force than necessary, and stalk toward the exit without another word.
Every part of me is trembling—not from the fight, but from how badly I needed to win and how completely I didn’t.
Behind me, the silence stretches like a held breath.
I don't look back.
Not even when he says my name again, quieter this time. Not even when I hear the regret slip through it like a fracture in stone.
I shove open the door and let it slam behind me, the sound echoing down the corridor like a warning.
--
The bathing chamber is quiet at this hour.
Not silent—there’s the steady drip of a leak somewhere near the back wall, the occasional creak of old pipework behind the stone, the whisper of warm steam curling up through carved vents. But there are no voices. No footsteps. No banter echoing from the adjoining lockers. No clatter of towel bins or the sharp splash of someone cannonballing into the deep pool near the back.
Just me.
Just the ghosts I keep trying to outrun.
I tug my shirt over my head, toss it onto the tiles, and strip off the rest with mechanical movements, not even flinching as sore muscles stretch and protest. My wrist aches and there’s a fresh bruise beneath my ribs from where Bodhi knocked the wind out of me earlier. It’s blooming a violent purple now—angry, tender, still throbbing from the impact.
The fight wasn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe.
But it left me feeling like I’d been shattered and stitched back wrong.
I step into the nearest stall and crank the knob until the water comes out blistering hot. It slams against my skin in punishing sheets, sharp enough to sting, to raise every nerve to the surface.
It should be too much.
But I don’t stop it.
I just stand there, letting it scald my back, my shoulders, my neck. Letting it wash away the sweat and the fight and the ache from my body.
But it doesn’t touch the part that still hurts.
It doesn’t erase the memory of Bodhi’s fingers wrapped around my wrist.
The accidental press of his chest against mine.
The way his breath hitched just before he stepped away—like he wanted to stay.
I brace both hands on the tile wall and lower my head, watching the water swirl around my feet, red-tinged from a scrape I didn’t notice earlier.
Gods, I want to hate him.
I want to burn the look in his eyes from my memory. I want to scrape the feeling of him from my skin. I want to forget the way we move together in combat like it’s a conversation. A rhythm. A dance we’ve done a thousand times in another life.
I want him to be cruel.
I want him to be the villain.
It would make this so much easier.
But he isn’t.
He’s careful. And kind. And convinced that keeping me at a distance is the best way to keep me safe. Like I’m something fragile. Like I’ll break if he ever reaches for me the way I need him to.
And it’s killing me.
I drag a hand down my face and press my forehead against the chilled tile, letting the contrast of heat and cold ground me. My skin is flushed, my thoughts are spiraling, and no matter how hard I scrub, he’s still there—under my nails, in my pulse, in the shape of every breath I take.
And I hate myself for it. Because even with all this.
I'd still be his. If he just asked.
When I finally shut the water off, my skin is red and raw and the ache in my chest has only sharpened.
I towel off slowly, wringing out my hair with heavy hands, then wrap the towel around my chest. I didn’t bring spare clothes, too angry to think straight when I left the training hall. My sweat-soaked uniform lies in a heap in the corner, and I’d rather be stabbed again than put it back on.
So, barefoot and damp, I step into the corridor beyond the steam-heavy air of the bathing chamber—
And stop dead.
Sawyer is standing at the corner where the hall splits, back pressed casually to the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest. He looks like he just finished showering too—his curls are flattened with moisture, a few beads of water still trailing down his collarbone. His uniform pants hang low on his hips, and the black undershirt he’s holding is draped lazily over one shoulder.
He blinks when he sees me, then straightens, eyes flicking over me once—towel, bare feet, dripping hair—before quickly shifting away.
He doesn’t ogle. Doesn’t smirk.
Just glances off to the side with practiced politeness.
I feel the flush creep up my neck anyway.
“Hey,” I say, like it’s normal. Like I haven’t been half-obsessing over the last time we saw each other.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. Easy. Like always.
Silence slips in around us.
“You just finish up?” I ask, motioning vaguely toward his hair, his half-dressed state.
“Yeah,” he replies, adjusting his grip on the shirt. “Water pressure’s better this late. Less crowd.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
There’s another pause. Then:
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
For a moment, I think about lying. I think about forcing a grin and pretending I’m fine. That I’m healed. That everything is sunshine and dragonfire.
But I’m too tired for lies.
“I’ve had better days,” I admit. “You?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Same old. When you don’t bond, there’s not much else. Just training. Sore shoulders. The occasional ego bruising.”
Another pause.
“You heading to bed?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to the clothes in my hand.
I shift my weight. “I’m not… really ready to sleep.”
He nods. “Me neither.”
The silence this time is different. Heavier. Warmer.
And when he speaks again, it’s quieter.
“Want some company?”
His voice is hopeful, and it hits me like a blade slid between ribs. Not sharp—but precise. I look at him for a long moment, at the soft way he’s looking at me, the way he’s holding the moment open without demanding anything of me.
“I should probably say no,” I murmur, staring down at the floor tiles. “About before… that night—I was looking for a distraction. I wasn’t in a good place. And I don’t want you thinking it meant something more.”
Sawyer raises a brow, amused. “You think I didn’t know it was a distraction?”
I look up, startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not offended,” he says gently, hands lifting. “You weren’t exactly subtle, Malia. You looked like someone barely holding it together. I just happened to be standing close enough when you unravelled.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Thanks for the romance.”
He grins. “Hey, you’re the one making it weird. I knew what I was doing. I know what I’m doing now. I’m not some wide-eyed scribe boy getting used for the first time.”
I tilt my head. “Then what are you doing?”
He takes a small step closer. “Offering my company. Again. Whatever you need. No expectations. No pressure.”
I pause, turning his words over.
“What if what I need is another distraction?”
He smiles, soft and easy. “Like I said. Whatever you need.”
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself. “You don’t even know me that well.”
He laughs under his breath. “Aside from the obvious—we’re young, we’re single, and you’re gorgeous? Your bed’s better than mine. My room has snoring and sweaty feet. Yours has blankets and silence.”
“So you’re just using me for my bed.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth.
“Absolutely,” he deadpans. “And I’m not even sorry.”
He nods toward the hall. “So. Want some company or not?”
I hesitate just long enough for him to raise an eyebrow.
Then I fall into step beside him, gripping the edge of my towel a little tighter, walking quickly through the halls in the hopes no one catches me half-naked with a shirtless boy trailing beside me.
Zhinal blesses us. We make it to my room unseen.
I slip inside, tugging Sawyer with me, and close the door behind us.
I grab the first clean shirt I find and pull it over my head while he flops down onto my bed like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. He stretches out, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles.
I stare at him for a beat too long.
Then my voice breaks the quiet.
“Sawyer.”
He hums, not opening his eyes.
“What would you say if… hypothetically… the reason I slept with you was because I’m hung up on someone who doesn’t want me?”
“Hypothetically?” he repeats, cracking one eye open.
I nod.
“Then I’d ask if you regret it.”
I stare at the floor. “I don’t.”
“Then I wouldn’t care.”
I blink. Turn. “You don’t?”
He sits up slightly, leaning on one elbow. “Nope. I’m a big boy, Malia. I knew what it was. I didn’t go in expecting more. You’re not the only one capable of casual sex, you know.”
Shame prickles at the edge of my skin. I hadn’t even thought about that—how I’d been carrying around guilt like I’d somehow used him, when he’d been every bit as in control as I was.
“As long as you don’t regret what happened,” he continues, stretching again, “then I don’t care if your motivations were messy or sad or entirely self-serving. Although… I might take offense if it wasn’t at least a little because I’m devastatingly handsome.”
His smirk is back in full force.
“Your face definitely didn’t hurt,” I say dryly.
“So it was my charming face?”
“You just want me to call you hot.”
“Maybe.”
I laugh. And it feels real this time.
Like something unclenches in my chest.
“So,” I say slowly, voice softening, “if I said I need another distraction?”
He tilts his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically.”
He considers that for a beat. Then smiles.
“Then I’d say—hypothetically, of course—I’m available to distract you any time you need. Until it stops working. Or until you ask me to stop.”
Something warm coils low in my stomach.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I feel like I can breathe.
He doesn’t just offer a distraction.
He offers a break from the ache.
A soft place to land.
A flicker of peace in a world that never stops hurting.
So, until the weight becomes too heavy again, I’ll take whatever pieces of peace Sawyer is willing to give me.
The training chamber is windowless, echo-prone, and reeks faintly of scorched copper.
Karr calls it “ideal.”
I call it suffocating.
The walls hum faintly with embedded dampening wards, barely visible sigils pulsing in the stone like a second heartbeat. The air’s cold enough to make your breath cloud, but sweat clings to the back of my neck anyway—trapped beneath my braid, trickling down my spine like it’s trying to escape before I do.
“Precision demands discomfort,” Karr had said this morning.
It’s working.
Emery stands ten paces ahead, motionless, squared like he’s about to be tested or executed. Maybe both. He volunteered again. Which either makes him kind… or guilty. I’m not sure which I resent more.
Karr adjusts the field circling Emery’s chest—a silvery ring of suppression magic etched with faint lines that flicker and pulse like veins. I don’t know what it’s made of. I only know it keeps my voice from touching him unless I mean every word.
“Cadet Tiarnes,” Karr says without looking up. “Begin.”
I breathe in.
Then down. Not out—never out. I dive inward.
Straight into the bond.
It roars to life beneath my ribs, gold and searing. The connection between me and Siscil isn’t gentle—it’s a brand. Power threads through my chest, copper-bright and burning. Older than my voice. Older than language.
“Easy,” Siscil murmurs, deep and close, like she’s perched just behind my skull.
The power coils behind my sternum, rising like heat from a forge. My throat vibrates with it, low and sharp. It wants out.
“Sit,” I say. Voice low. Controlled.
Nothing.
Emery doesn’t blink. The silver ring doesn’t so much as flicker.
I tighten my grip on the bond. Feed it more. Not too much—just enough to let it press behind my ribs like a tide against a seawall.
“Sit.”
Still nothing.
I grit my teeth. Reset. Pull harder this time. The bond thickens—hot, choking. My pulse echoes behind my eyes like a drumline.
“Sit down.”
The ward shivers. Just a flicker. A shimmer in the air.
But Emery doesn’t move.
Karr clicks his tongue. “Still not enough. Your intent falters when your doubt rises. Fix it.”
My hands curl into fists. “Sir—”
“Don’t explain,” he snaps. “Deliver.”
I lock my jaw so hard it aches. My chest heaves once, then stills. His gaze cuts into me like a blade.
“Compulsion is assumption made law,” he says coldly. “It is not a question. It is not a hope. It is belief turned weapon. Yours.”
He stops in front of me.
“Why do you speak like someone begging the room to believe she belongs here?”
The words land like a blade, and I feel them all the way down.
“He underestimates you. That’s his first mistake. His second will be assuming I won't eat him for pushing you beyond your limits.” Siscil growls, voice like a blade slipping into its sheath.
I press my heel into the floor, trying to ignore her anger pulsing through the bond. Steady. Deep breath.
And then I channel—not in volume, but intent. I let the flame behind my chest burn brighter, hotter. Like shaping molten metal into something sharp.
“Sit down Emery,” I say. Not a yell. Not a plea.
The command slices through the air like thrown glass.
Emery jolts as if something yanks the air from his lungs. His eyes glaze over—not blank, but distant, like he’s been pulled somewhere else for half a breath. His knees buckle with a thud, boots skidding against the stone as he collapses into a crouch, one hand bracing the floor to keep from toppling entirely.
The suppression field shudders, silver veins sparking, flaring—and then unraveling all at once, bleeding out into nothing like smoke dissolving in water.
For a second, no one moves.
Emery stays crouched, fingers clenched against the ground, chest heaving like he’s trying to remember which part of him is still his.
No praise. Just confirmation that I’ve met the bare minimum.
Emery winces as he straightens, rubbing his knee, silent.
I don’t drop the bond yet. I ease out of it, slow and steady. Let the power fade like embers in a breeze. My skin buzzes. My fingers tingle. My throat burns like I swallowed hot coals.
Karr keeps his eyes on Emery. “We’ll begin again tomorrow. 0500.”
“I want an evening session, too,” I say, voice hoarse.
Now he looks at me. Just a single, raised brow.
“I wasn’t strong enough in the field,” I continue. “I need to be.”
Karr considers me for half a breath too long.
“Negative. I have other cadets to train—some of whom don’t require remedial oversight to avoid collapsing their squads.”
He turns fully now, gaze raking over me like he’s weighing the odds of my survival. Like I’m a cracked weapon on a blacksmith’s bench.
“You’ll report at 0500. If you can’t make meaningful progress in one session, you won’t get a second.”
My jaw locks. “That’s not enough.”
“I need to catch up.” The words come faster now, cracking at the edges. “I need to be enough, because the last time I wasn’t, people died.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just studies me.
“And what,” he says quietly, deadly, “do you think desperation buys you in battle? Clarity? Control? Or casualties?”
I feel it then—the burn behind my eyes. Not from the bond. From the shame.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“No.” His voice is flat. Final. “You’re reacting. When you start commanding instead of flailing, we’ll talk.”
And just like that, he turns his back and walks away.
No dismissal. No acknowledgment. Just gone.
“That male mistakes cruelty for strength,” Siscil rumbles, voice a slow grind of stone on stone. “Say the word, Child, and I will remind him what real power looks like—while he burns.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Instead, I force myself forward. I don’t have the luxury of time to stand here pitying myself.
I have physics to get to.
--
By the time I make it to the courtyard, my boots feel three sizes too heavy and my shoulders ache like I’m wearing someone else’s pain.
The day’s left its mark—bruises from sparring, a cut across my knuckles from weapons drills, and a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes from Karr’s lesson this morning. Or maybe just from replaying everything I didn’t say.
The sun’s sinking low, bleeding gold through the trees. Long shadows stretch across the uneven flagstones like cracks in the world. The courtyard’s mostly deserted. Cadets are either limping toward the mess hall or half-passed out in their bunks by now.
But I know where to find them.
Quinn and Imogen sit on the worn edge of the old courtyard fountain—same spot they always retreat to when they want to avoid people without technically hiding. Quinn’s sprawled back with her boots kicked up on a broken stone dragon, eyes closed. Imogen’s got a dagger in one hand, slowly dragging the blade along a whetstone balanced on her thigh.
I stop a few feet away.
Quinn doesn’t even open both eyes. “You look like shit.”
She stretches with a groan, brushing her palms on her leathers. “If this is about you skipping dinner, we’re already late. If it’s about emotionally imploding in public again, can we do it after food?”
“Neither,” I say, voice hoarse. “I need your help.”
Imogen pauses mid-sharpen, though she doesn’t stand. Just watches me like she’s waiting to see if I’m about to say something important or explode. Could go either way.
“With what?” Quinn asks, slower this time.
I swallow. “Training. My signet.”
Silence.
Imogen’s eyes narrow. “You want to train compulsion. With us.”
“Yeah.”
Quinn shifts. “Lia…”
“I know how it sounds,” I say quickly. “But I’m not improving fast enough. Karr wouldn’t give me a second session. He said—” I bite it back. No use lying. “He said I wasn’t worth the time.”
Quinn grimaces. “Harsh.”
I nod once. “He’s not wrong. Not about my progress. If I can’t get control of this, I’m a liability.”
Imogen exhales through her nose. “It’s a new signet. Most people barely know what to do with theirs even now.”
“I don’t have time,” I say. “I froze during squad battles. I stood there while Damon—” My voice catches. “I could’ve stopped the Third Wing cadet. I could’ve made him stop. But I didn’t. I didn’t even try.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m not going to let that happen again. I can’t.”
Quinn nudges a pebble with her boot, watching it skitter across the stone. “Training compulsion on your friends is kind of a big ask.”
“I’ll follow whatever rules you set,” I say. “I won’t push if you don’t want me to. I just—” I force the words out. “I need to feel like I can do something again. Like I’m not falling behind.”
Imogen holds my gaze for a long moment.
“I know you didn’t mean to compel me that night,” she says finally. Her voice is quiet but steady. “But it felt like my brain got yanked out of alignment. Like I wasn’t… me. You didn’t scream. You didn’t force. But it still happened. That’s what scared me.”
I nod. “It scared me too.”
She looks down, fingers tightening around the hilt of the dagger—then she sheaths it.
“I’ll help,” she says. “But we’re not pretending it’s safe.”
Relief hits so fast it makes me dizzy.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Quinn sighs and stands, cracking her back. “I swear, if you use your weird hot voice to make me do push-ups, I’m out.”
“You probably need them,” Imogen mutters.
Quinn glares. “What was that? I heard that.”
I snort. “I’m not commanding either of you into push-ups.”
“You say that now,” Quinn says, pointing at me. “But if I so much as twitch when you start talking, I’m gone.”
Warmth flickers at the edge of my mind. Siscil.
“I am all for you getting stronger,” she drawls, dry and unhurried. “But be careful, Child. You don’t yet understand what it is you carry. And power wielded without understanding is still a weapon.”
She’s right.
But I don’t have time to wait for perfect control.
We fall into step together, walking slowly toward the inner halls.
“I’ll help,” Imogen says again, quieter this time. “But if I feel you push too far…”
“You’ll knock me out,” I finish.
She nods. “Without hesitation.”
Quinn grins. “This is going to be so fun.”
--
We head to dinner, taking our time with eating before deciding to wash up and meet back in Imogen’s room.
Her room is almost identical to mine in structure—same narrow bed, same armoire, same desk angled toward the too-small window—but it feels different. There are fewer notebooks, more blades. The air smells faintly of oiled steel and lavender, like someone tried to soften the edges but gave up halfway.
Quinn’s already perched on the desk, legs swinging, dressed down in loose pants and a faded tank. Imogen sits cross-legged on the bed, her eyes still sharp despite the softness of her nightshirt. It’s reminiscent of when we all slept in the same room before threshing. Nostalgic.
They both look up as I step inside, and something in me wants to bolt. I close the door instead, fingers lingering too long on the handle.
The silence that follows is thick. Expectant.
I perch on the edge of the bed, facing them. My palms are damp. My pulse is uneven. It’s like sitting at the edge of a ledge, looking down and wondering if the fall or the flight will kill you faster.
Imogen breaks the tension first. “Okay, so. Rules.” Her gaze sweeps between us like she’s surveying a mission briefing. “We agree on commands beforehand. All of us. No surprises.”
I nod, too fast. Quinn shifts upright.
“Start with me,” she says, tapping a beat into the air with her foot.
Imogen and I both give her the same confused look.
“I just figure Gen will feel better if she watches it first. Plus, let’s be real—I’m probably easier to compel. My brain’s like a sunbaked towel right now.”
I offer her a grateful smile, tension easing just a little.
“Once I can compel you both individually,” I say, voice steadier now, “I’ll try doing it to both of you at the same time?”
Imogen raises an eyebrow. “You can do more than one person?”
I hesitate, then nod. “It’s weaker. But yeah.”
That silence again. Like they’re recalculating me in real time.
Quinn claps once. “Alright. Any more rules before we start?”
We both shake our heads.
“Great.” She exhales deeply and squares her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
I close my eyes and take myself to the forest.
It isn’t real, not really—just a place I’ve built in my mind. But it’s mine. A quiet fallback when the world’s too loud, too sharp. The sunlight cuts through the pine canopy in soft gold sheets, warming the moss-covered earth and the wildflowers that bloom at the base of my favorite tree.
The bark is rough, sturdy, familiar. It shimmers faintly in the light—like Siscil’s scales do when we fly midday over the mountains. She’s not there, not physically, but I feel her.
Her presence gathers at the edge of my thoughts, heavy and grounding. Not a voice yet. Just pressure. Strength. A second heartbeat pulsing beneath mine.
I settle beneath the tree in my mind—spine to bark, feet in the grass—and breathe her in. Then I reach.
The bond ignites.
Not violently. Not all at once. But with purpose.
Heat rises slowly over the backs of my arms, coiling like smoke in my chest. A thread of static hums at my temples. My tongue tingles like I’ve bit down on it, too hard, too fast. The pressure at the base of my throat builds, tight and hot and ready.
The words burn at the back of my teeth before I even speak.
“Steady now,” Siscil murmurs, voice low and dry like distant thunder.
I exhale. The forest holds. The bond holds.
And when I open my eyes, I’m ready.
“Make her stand up.” Imogen mutters.
I focus on Quinn. Her cocky, waiting expression. Her hands on her hips. Her eyebrows raised.
“Stand up.” I say. My voice isn’t loud, but it lands with weight. Heavier than sound. Smoother than command.
It’s mine—but not just mine.
There’s a thread of something else braided through it. Something low and melodic. A pull. A promise. Like honey sliding over steel.
It coils through the air like smoke, slow and deliberate. The kind of voice that shouldn’t be obeyed—but is. The kind that doesn’t need to shout because you want to listen.
Quinn’s expression falters. Her body shifts—just a twitch, just enough. She shifts before she realizes she has. One foot halfway to the floor, like her body’s just catching up before she snaps herself out of it, twisting her mouth.
“You felt it?” I ask, heart spiking.
“Yeah.” She rubs her arm. “Kinda like instinct. Like muscle memory I never had. Creepy as hell.”
“It’s progress,” Imogen murmurs. “Try again.”
I try again. I don’t speak right away. I let the bond settle again—feel the familiar burn in my chest, in my throat. Like something coiled, waiting to be unsheathed.
“Stand up.”
Quinn’s expression goes slack for half a breath. Her gaze glazes, and she rises clean off the desk before snapping herself out of it.
“Okay,” she says, blinking hard. “That one landed.”
But it’s not enough. Not yet.
I nod toward Imogen’s cabinet. “Next?”
Imogen glances at the weapons there, then at me. “Try this: ‘Get the biggest dagger and bring it to me.’ Let’s see if you can compel through a multi-part command.”
I hesitate. “That feels like a lot.”
“Assuming it’s similar to my signet,” Imogen interrupts. “You need to focus on your intention. Focus on what you want the outcome to be and channel into that rather than just trying to channel into Quinn. Your voice is the weapon, not your subject.”
I nod. The bond pulses. Steady. Controlled.
Siscil speaks at the edge of my mind, her voice silk dragged over stone. “My power is yours. But my strength will not help you without focus, Child. It is like flame without a target, no damage will be dealt.”
I breathe in, taking a moment to ground myself, putting myself back in the forest. I lean back on the tree, sinking into it and inviting Siscil’s power back into me. I hums in my throat, burning to a painful level the longer I allow it to sit, waiting to explode outwards.
Then I give the command:
“Stand up and get me the largest dagger Imogen owns.”
The sound of my voice startles even me.
It’s lower—richer—laced with something not entirely human. Not loud. Just final. Like a verdict. Like a lock clicking into place.
Quinn’s body responds before her mind can catch up.
No hesitation. No quip. She rises with eerie precision, her expression blank, her green eyes dimmed to something pale and distant—like light filtered through fog.
She crosses the room in perfect silence. Every step measured. Intentional.
The cabinet creaks as she opens it. Metal catches the dim lamplight—cold gleam on curved steel. She picks the largest dagger without pause, fingers curling around the hilt like she’s known it her whole life.
And then she turns.
There’s nothing behind her eyes. No spark. No defiance. Just obedience.
She walks back across the room—each step heavy with purpose—and stops in front of me. Arms outstretched. The dagger rests across her palms like an offering at an altar.
It guts me.
This is Quinn—loud, irreverent, impossible to pin down—and I’ve hollowed her out with one sentence.
My hand trembles as I take the dagger. The moment my fingers close around the hilt, the pressure behind my ribs collapses all at once.
Like something that had been stretched too tight just snapped.
The bond retreats. The moss ground of my forest falling away from under me as I shut off Sisci’s power.
My ears ring. My vision dims at the edges.
Quinn stumbles a step back. Blinks. Looks down at her empty hands. “Wait. What just—how did I get over there?”
I glance at Imogen. She’s already watching me, expression unreadable.
“It happened to me too,” she says. “The first time. She doesn’t just control you. She scrubs it clean. No memory.”
Quinn stares at me. “Lia. That’s… that’s a lot.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t know,” Imogen cuts in. “That’s why we’re doing this. So you do.”
I sit back down on the bed, limbs shaking.
“I’m not dangerous,” I say. “I can’t even make it land half the time.”
“You are dangerous,” Quinn says, flopping next to me, “but in, like, an ‘I could kill for you’ way. Not a ‘you need to be locked up’ way.”
“She’s right,” Imogen says. “With control, this could change everything.”
I nod, throat tight. “Do we… keep going?”
Quinn lifts her hands. “As much as I love obeying sexy threats, I need a minute.”
Imogen sighs. “Try with me.”
I blink at her.
“Give it your worst,” she says, smirking.
I close my eyes and reach again.
I’m ready.
Imogen shifts, pulling her legs beneath her in one fluid motion, spine straight, chin lifted. The soft cotton of her nightshirt might as well be armour. Her eyes sharpen into something unreadable—watchful, wary, but not afraid.
She nods once. “Go on.”
The room dims at the edges as I close my eyes, pulling everything back inward.
The forest rises like breath.
Needles crunch beneath my boots. The sun filters down through the pines in thin gold shafts. The wildflowers sway without wind.
I press my back to the tree.
And the bond flares.
Heat unspools beneath my sternum, low and slow. A hot ache curls under my ribs. My throat pulses like something trapped inside it wants out. Not fire—but purpose. Pressure. I hold it steady like a blade I haven’t drawn yet.
“Focus, Child.” Siscil’s voice glides through the back of my mind, rich and dry. “You have the control necessary but you hesitate far too much.”
I open my eyes.
Imogen meets my gaze like she’s daring me to try.
“Stand up,” I say.
My voice cuts through the room like silk over steel. Quiet, but coiled. Mine—but not. A siren’s whisper slipped into my own.
Imogen doesn’t move.
Her jaw ticks.
“No,” she says—firm, deliberate, like she’s testing a perimeter. “Try again.”
Quinn leans forward, elbows on knees. “Try something smaller.”
I nod. Swallow. “Blink.”
Imogen’s eyes snap shut.
Just once.
And her face stills.
“That landed,” she mutters.
My vision blurs at the edges, a dull ringing rising behind my ears, but I nod. “Okay.”
Imogen exhales, then shifts again—closer. “Try pushing it. Tell me to move.”
I freeze. “You sure?”
She nods. I hesitate then I inhale once—twice.
“Slide to the edge of the bed.”
Imogen’s body jolts—not violently, but like the command sank into her bones before she could stop it. She shifts sideways, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine as if daring me to keep going. Her hip hits the edge of the mattress.
Then she stops herself. Breathing hard.
“I felt that,” she whispers. “You almost had me all the way down.”
I let the bond go all at once.
The heat drops out of my chest. The pressure in my throat evaporates like steam.
And I feel the crash.
Every muscle slackens. My lungs scrape for air. My hands are trembling.
Not from failure.
From success.
From what it took to get there.
From what it means that I could.
I drop back onto the mattress beside Quinn, spine folding, head pounding. My body’s shaking like I just survived a crash landing.
Imogen steadies herself, rubbing her temples. “You’re getting stronger. You’re just not there yet.”
“I’m not dangerous,” I say, hoarse.
“You are,” Quinn says, flopping beside me. “But the good kind. The kind people run toward when shit goes wrong.”
“She’s right,” Imogen adds. “With control, this won’t just protect you. It’ll change everything.”
I nod. My throat burns. I clear my throat, the aftertaste of copper coating the inside of my mouth.
“Do we keep going?” I ask, not sure if I want them to say yes or no.
“No. You are done.” Siscil growls, echoing with the pounding in my head.
Quinn raises her hands. “As much as I enjoy your sexy little death-voice, you shouldn't push yourself. We can try again tomorrow.”
Imogen shifts off the bed. “Quinn is right. That’s enough for one night.”
I glance down at my hands. They’re still trembling.
But inside, something’s steadier than it was an hour ago.
I’m not fully in control yet.
And I’m not going to be commanding hoards yet, but I made progress.
Even if it was only an inch forward. It was an inch more than yesterday.
It rips through my ears, roars past my face, drowns everything but the drumbeat of my heart slamming too hard, too fast, too loud inside my chest. My fingers are clenched in a death grip around Siscil’s neck ridge, and I can’t feel them anymore.
The air tastes like metal. Like blood.
It burns in my throat—raw, useless—because my lungs are full of panic and my mind is full of Damon’s name. It echoes in my head like a war drum, like a curse. The world’s still tilting wildly around us, but Siscil levels out beneath me, powerful wings beating against the fog-heavy air.
Below, the forest is a blur of broken towers and too-green trees. A battlefield. A grave.
I feel it before I think it.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
“Child.” Siscil’s voice slices through the noise like a blade, low and fierce. “Breathe. Or I swear on the bloody bones of every dragon that came before me, I’ll drop you back off that cliff and see if your lungs learn something on the way down.”
I choke in a ragged breath. Then another. My fingers are white-knuckled around the base of her neck, nails digging into bronze scales I barely register.
Damon.
We were joking this morning. He winked at me. He always winked.
“I—” My throat clenches. “He saved me. He didn’t even hesitate—”
“And it wasn’t enough,” Siscil snaps. “You can mourn later. Right now, I need you focused.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “I’m trying, but—”
“He’s not the only one who will fall if you don’t hold your ground.”
The sky is too bright and the earth too far and the whole world is swaying like it might shake me off for good this time.
Ground yourself.
The words are instinct. Garrick’s voice, maybe. Or Imogen’s, from back when we still meditated after training, like that would ever be enough to fix what we were breaking.
My hands shake as I lift one away from Siscil’s neck. I press it to my sternum—just over my heart. The thump there is rapid and uneven, but it’s real. It's mine.
I close my eyes. Again.
Inhale.
I am here.
Exhale.
I am alive.
Inhale.
Then: “Where’s the flag?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s thin. Cracked. Like something frayed around the edges.
“Still upright,” she answers grimly. “But not for long. We will need to return quickly.”
I scan the ruins again—eyes still stinging, heart still bucking in my chest like it’s trying to break free of the ribcage holding it hostage. The tower where we planted the flag is barely visible now through the mist. Shapes move near it. Not ours.
“Siscil, take me back to the tower. We have to help hold the front.”
“You’re shaking.”
“It’ll stop.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She growls under her breath—an ancient, guttural sound that vibrates straight into my spine. “You are bleeding. Make it stop then I might consider landing.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“I will not take you back there to die alone. Call your friends.” She snarls and climbs up higher.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that?” I snap.
“You are a bond weaver, are you not?”
I go silent. Because she’s right.
I want to curl in on myself. I want to scream.
But instead—I reach.
I reach deep into my mind, searching for the forest that promises safety and calm.
I picture it as clearly as I can: tall trees with trunks like giants, moss draped over roots like a sleeping beast. The hush of leaves high above, their shadows shifting gently in green-gold light. The scent of earth and pine and damp wood. The hum of something older than language, deeper than blood. The place I used to dream about when I was small, curled in Heath’s lap by the fire, pretending people weren’t dying and the world wasn’t cruel.
The forest has always been my home.
And in it, I kneel.
I press my hands to the mossy floor in my mind and breathe, shuddering. The ground beneath my palms thrums like a heartbeat. The forest answers. And through it, I begin to search.
Three threads. I know they’re there—dim, distant, scattered like stars behind fog. But I reach anyway.
Siscil is with me, even here. Her presence is fire in the dark. Her voice cuts through like heat off a forge. “Do not burn yourself with power, Child.”
“I’m fine.” I grit out.
I draw on her. Not cautiously. Not gently. I flood myself with her power, feel it surge from the bond like liquid gold straight to my spine. It burns. It roars. It hurts.
But now the threads appear.
Quinn is first—wild and flickering, all wind and quicksilver. Her bond shimmers green-gold, dancing between tree branches, fast and skittish. I lunge for it, mentally, hands outstretched, and catch it just before it vanishes behind the mist.
Imogen burns through the canopy like a blade through silk—deep pink, sharp, laced with anger and focus. Her thread pulses with intent. She’s already looking for me. Waiting for a signal.
Dain is further. Slower. His thread winds through the roots of the forest, solid and steady, bronze-gold like sun through autumn leaves. I have to dig for it, push past grief and memory and what we used to be. But I find it. I grab it.
And I pull.
Hard.
All three threads stretch taut in my mind like a net cast wide and yanked closed with a single, shuddering heave. My skull explodes with pressure. My nose bleeds. My ears ring.
But I don’t let go.
I pour magic into them like a scream through the trees.
“Quinn. Imogen. Dain. Movement at the flag. I need you. I need you now.”
The response hits fast.
“What do you mean? Why are you at the flag? Where’s Damon?” Quinn’s voice crashes through like a gust of wind that takes the breath out of you.
“Malia. Where are you—we’re on our way.” Imogen calls out, sounding controlled. Furious. She's already moving.
Their voices thread through my skull, braiding with mine.
And then—
Not words.
Not Dain’s voice.
But him.
A sudden surge in the bond—like a dam breaking. Raw, sharp, urgent. His presence floods through like a pressure wave, grounding and suffocating all at once. I can feel the flicker of his panic, the way it trembles under his usual calm like something barely restrained.
Concern. Focus. Fury. All wrapped in silence.
He’s coming.
The forest in my mind begins to fade—the moss dissolves, the trees blur, the warmth of sunlight vanishes. But the strength stays. The bond stays.
And so do I.
My eyes snap open. The real-world slams back in—air and cold and blood and wind.
But I’m anchored.
I’m here.
“Siscil,” I croak. “Take me to the tower.”
She banks again, and I let her—just hold on, just breathe, just keep my body upright while my insides threaten to collapse in on themselves.
He’s gone. He fell for me. And I can’t make that mean nothing.
So, I have to make it mean something. We’re going back.
The ruined tower comes into view like a jagged tooth jutting from the mist.
It’s worse than I remember.
The ruined tower cuts through the fog ahead—jagged, splintered stone like broken teeth rising from a corpse. Our flag still flutters at the top, barely clinging to the shaft, tattered and listing sideways like it’s given up too.
But I haven’t.
“We have to land,” I shout against the wind, my voice hoarse from screaming and smoke.
“Absolutely not,” Siscil growls, wings banking sharply as she veers us away from the tower.
“Gods, you stubborn dragon—we’re losing the tower!”
“And you nearly lost your life the last time you jumped off my back. You’re leaking blood and swinging magic like a lunatic. You will not die trying to impress a flagpole.”
“I’m not trying to impress it—I’m trying to defend it!”
Her wings beat harder, slicing through the air in frustration. ““Oh? And you’ll what, singlehandedly save the day with a punctured lung and no backup? You are trying to die for something that can be replaced.”
“Damon can’t be.”
Silence.
Then—just as I think she’s softening—
A shriek splits the sky.
Something slams into us from above, and Siscil jerks violently to the side. My stomach heaves. The world spins. My vision fractures.
Claws slash through the air, coming uncomfortably close.
She screams—an unholy roar that rattles my bones—and rolls beneath the strike. A flash of green scales whips past us, the other dragon banking in a tight arc, scorpion-tail lifted in lethal precision.
“Eyes up!” I cry, twisting in the saddleless curve of Siscil’s neck. “We’ve got company!”
“Brilliant deduction,” she snarls, already rising.
The enemy dragon peels off, then circles, its rider hunched low. They’re light—slim—clearly older than me, but fast. Too fast.
“Shit!” I yell, “Can we outfly it?” I shout, legs squeezing tight around Siscil’s ribcage.
“Of course I can.” she hisses, fury rippling down the bond like lightning. “But not if you keep trying to leap off like a self-sacrificing idiot.”
“We need to draw them away from the tower.”
“No. I don’t intend to run.”
The green scorpion-tail shrieks again, red light blooming in its throat.
“Siscil!” I shout.
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she drops.
Like a stone.
The air slams against my face, tearing at my braid, my skin, my sense of direction. The ground lunges closer. My stomach flips.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING—”
We fall.
Then—just when I’m sure we’ll crash—her wings snap wide.
The force nearly knocks me out cold.
“That’s it,” she growls. “No more heroics. You stay in your damned seat, and I’ll take care of the bloody lizard.”
“I can help—”
“You are helping. By staying alive.”
Below us, the tower shudders. Stone explodes near the base. The enemy rider is already on the ground now, a blur in black leathers darting between ruins, moving toward the flag.
I bite down a scream of frustration.
“Imogen, Quinn, Dain—enemy’s at the flag,” I force through the bond. “We’re engaged up high—can’t land yet.”
Quinn’s voice floods back, breathless but burning. “I see you. Five seconds out.”
“Three,” Imogen corrects. “Keep the skies clear. We’ll take the ground.”
“Don’t die,” Dain’s voice whispers—not a thought, not even a word really. Just a feeling pressed tight into my spine.
We catch air like a punch to the gut, and the green dragon overshoots, blinking in surprise. It tries to adjust—flapping wildly—but Siscil is already twisting up beneath it, bronze claws flashing.
“Ready?” she asks, voice sharp as bone.
“For what?!”
She strikes.
One swipe. Two. The edge of her talon rips into the thin membrane of the other dragon’s wing. It wails, struggling to keep elevation.
“Siscil - again!” I brandish a dagger from the small of my back.
I taste bile. Smoke. Blood. The rider twists in his saddle and hurls something.
Steel flashes. A blade spins through the air.
I dive flat, plastering myself to her spine. The dagger misses—barely—but it hums past my ear like death itself.
Siscil barrels forward, slashing the enemy’s underbelly. Blood sprays across the mist like ink in water.
The scorpion-tail lashes.
Too close. Too fast.
It grazes Siscil’s flank.
Agony rips down our bond like lightning through wet stone. My ribs seize. My breath catches.
“You okay?” I gasp.
“I’m not broken.” she growls.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Something of this size is a mere scratch. Any thoughts otherwise is an insult to my bloodline.”
Fair enough.
We spiral upward, buying space. The green dragon flounders beneath us, favoring one side now, wing sluggish.
“They’re retreating.” I mutter, flicking the dagger between my fingers.
Siscil’s growl is pure vengeance. “Not likely.”
She vanishes upward, wings banking hard, drawing a wide circle above the scorpion tail’s path. I can feel her anticipation humming through my spine like tension on a bowstring.
“Young ones are so predictable,” Siscil purrs, voice sharpening with bloodlust.
She banks hard, wings slicing the air in wide arcs. We rise above the clouds.
Then dive.
Again.
The air compresses around us—faster, tighter, deadlier. My eyes water. My ears pop. I taste copper and adrenaline.
The other dragon jerks as we drop from above, Siscil’s body a bolt of bronze lightning.
They try to roll out of the way—but we’re already on them.
Siscil slams into them like a thunderclap. Claws tear into scale. Wings tangle. The sky goes red.
The rider loses his grip. He falls. Catches the saddle again—but too late.
I throw my dagger.
It spins once. Twice. Then connects.
He cries out, clutching his arm as his dragon lurches sideways—off-balance. They spiral into the clouds and vanish.
Gone.
Not dead. But out of the fight.
Siscil huffs. Her wingbeats slow. The tremble in her flank tells me she’s hurting, even if she won’t admit it.
“Status?” I rasp, still crouched against her back.
She growls softly, triumphant. “We win. The sky is ours.”
I sit up fully, eyes scanning the ruins below. “Then take us down. We still have a flag to defend.”
And this time—she doesn’t argue.
--
The sky is too quiet now.
Not peaceful—wrong. Like the calm that settles after something breaks.
No wingbeats above. No shouting from the ruins. Just the ragged sound of Siscil’s breathing and the wind howling across the mist-wet stone.
I crane forward, searching through the fog for the shape of the tower—half-expecting to see Quinn’s silhouette flashing past, or Imogen hurling someone off a ledge. But then—
Siscil banks sharply.
Not down toward the tower.
Left.
Away.
“What are you doing?” My stomach lurches as we tilt. I tighten my grip on the scales at her neck, twisting to see where we’re headed. “Siscil, what are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer.
The cliffs roll past beneath us. The forest disappears behind a veil of drifting cloud. Then the outline of Basgiath Keep begins to rise ahead, jagged and imposing in the distance. The med-landing platform comes into view, already swarming with activity.
My heart starts to thud differently now—panic spiking in my chest.
“Why are we heading back?” My voice is rough, torn by wind and smoke and something I won’t name. “We’re not finished. I can still fight.”
“You lost,” she says flatly.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head even though the movement makes the world tilt. “No, we didn’t. We still had the flag. I saw it—”
"The flag fell five minutes ago,” she cuts in, her voice devoid of venom. Just final. “Third Wing took it.”
My breath catches. “What? That’s not—”
“Cath told me.”
The name stills me.
“Dain’s dragon?”
Siscil hums low in agreement. “He flew recon near the cliffs while you were spiralling midair. Saw them take the ruins and signalled me when the flag dropped. The wing is gone, Child. This battle is lost.”
I suck in a breath. My chest tightens.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she adds. “You held longer than you should have. Longer than most. But we were outnumbered. Damon was only the first.”
I close my eyes. My throat burns.
“But I didn’t… I couldn’t even…” I clench my hands into fists, trying to hold onto anything that feels real. “I didn’t even see it fall.”
“You weren’t meant to,” she says simply. “You were meant to survive it.”
The cold truth of it cracks something inside me.
I reach for the bond again—frantic. Not hers, but the others. Quinn. Imogen. Dain. I need to feel them. I need to know they’re okay. I need—
Pain detonates behind my eyes.
My head snaps back. My vision fractures. My stomach flips. I nearly fall off her back as white-hot agony explodes behind my ribs. My fingers lose feeling.
The forest vanishes.
The threads cut out like a blown candle.
I’m slipping.
Only the sticky drag of dried blood and sheer instinct keeps me clinging to her neck.
“Enough!” Siscil bellows, rage and worry tangling in her tone. “Do you want to fall again? Are you trying to die for pride now? Because I assure you, child, there is no honor in dying a fool.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I stop fighting. I can’t do anything else. My thoughts crawl like syrup. My body shakes uncontrollably.
And then I hear it—
“There! Down there!”
A voice. Familiar. Desperate.
Siscil drops into a hard dive, wings beating wide to slow us.
Her claws screech against the stone landing zone as we skid to a stop—shoulders jolting, pain blooming across my spine from the jolt.
I slump forward against her neck, barely able to lift my head.
Boots pound across the stone.
“Lia?!”
Quinn.
She crashes into view a second later, curls soaked with sweat, her eyes wide and glistening with panic. Behind her—Imogen, pale and bloody, jaw tight with fury.
I try to sit up, but I’m already sliding, and the next moment I’m crumpling into them both—arms grabbing me just in time.
“Gods—Lia—oh my gods.” Quinn’s voice cracks as she holds me tighter. “You’re covered in blood—whose blood is that?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes. Just a rasp. My throat’s too dry. My lips stick together. The world tilts.
“She’s hurt,” Imogen snaps, voice cold and tight. “And should’ve been in a gods-damned infirmary hours ago.”
“I’m still conscious,” I manage. “Barely.”
“That doesn’t make you smart,” Quinn mutters, voice trembling. She grabs my hand, fingers tightening like a lifeline.
Imogen loops an arm around my shoulders, half-carrying my weight as my knees finally give out.
“You idiot,” Quinn whispers again. “Why didn’t you wait for us?”
“I couldn’t.” My voice is hoarse. “He… Damon—he fell.”
Quinn makes a soft, wounded sound. Imogen doesn’t say anything—just grips me tighter, grounding me without words.
Not sharp. Not urgent. Just deep—settled into my bones like regret. My ribs throb with each breath. My back feels like someone used it to paint a mural in bruises. And my head—gods, my head—aches like it was split open and stitched back together with dragon claws and spite.
I keep my eyes shut.
Because for one blissful moment, I can pretend I’m somewhere else.
Not here. Not after.
Then something shifts—a soft weight against my left side—and I feel it.
Quinn, tangled across my legs like a weighted blanket. And on the other side, an arm tightens around my waist, warm and steady. Imogen. I breathe them in: sweat, leather, mossy soap, and that faint scent of sulfur that clings to riders like an extra layer of skin.
They're here.
Which means I made it back.
The memory hits without ceremony. No fanfare, no flashbacks. Just that moment during formation—the way every rider stood still as stone, armour catching the morning light, faces unreadable. The parchment unrolled. The list read out.
But one name has been scratching inside my skull since then.
Damon Prior.
I felt it like a punch to the heart. Like a knife between my ribs. Like I’d been caught falling again and someone let go this time.
He’s gone.
He’s gone, and I’m still here.
I open my eyes slowly.
The dorm is dim, pale morning light bleeding through the high slits in the stone walls. My blankets are half kicked down, my pillow damp from sweat. There’s a tray on the floor—mostly empty except for two crusts of toast and a cup of tea that’s gone cold.
Quinn is draped across my legs like a weighted blanket in human form, her curls a wild tangle against my thighs. Imogen is wedged beside me under the covers, her arm slung across my waist with the casual possessiveness of someone who fully intends to wake up first and steal the blanket and the good pillow.
I should be annoyed.
But instead, I feel the tight sting of something warmer.
They stayed.
Even when I couldn’t hold myself upright. Even after I pushed them away. Even after Damon—
My throat locks.
I blink hard. Breathe slower.
Siscil is quiet in the back of my mind. Not gone—never gone—but hovering like a watchful shadow. Giving me space. For once.
“You survived,” she says softly, brushing against my thoughts like a whisper through leaves.
“Barely,” I think back.
“Still counts.”
I shift slightly, and Imogen stirs. Her brows twitch, and she presses her forehead tighter to my arm.
“Still breathing?” she mumbles.
“Unfortunately,” I croak, my voice rough as gravel.
Quinn lets out a groan and flops an arm over her face. “Tell your dragon to stop glaring through my dreams.”
“She’s not glaring.”
“She is. I woke up sweating. I had to recite my entire survival strategy in my sleep.”
Imogen snorts against me. “That’s just her default.”
“Terrifying,” Quinn mutters.
I let my eyes slip closed again. Not to sleep—just to stay in this moment. This tangle of limbs and sarcasm and people who didn’t leave.
Damon should be here.
He wasn’t my best friend. We barely spoke outside of drills.
But he always winked at me. Laughed too loud. Was always in motion.
Now he’s just… not.
His absence feels like a gap in the formation. A silence where a sound should be.
And I don’t know how to grieve someone I didn’t really know—but I feel his absence anyway. Like a wrong note lingering in the air. Like an empty space at the edge of the formation where no one dares to look directly.
I—
“I can feel the grief inhale Lia,” Quinn mutters without opening her eyes. “Don’t start crying. I haven’t had breakfast and I’m too emotionally fragile for a sob-fest before eggs.”
I blink. Swallow. “I’m not crying.”
“You’re breathing like you’re thinking about it,” she accuses, not lifting her head. “Which is worse.”
“Can’t even mourn in peace,” I murmur, voice hoarse.
Imogen makes a low sound—equal parts groan and sigh. “You’re not mourning. You’re spiralling. Different branches on the same emotionally repressed tree.”
“I wasn’t spiralling.”
“You were doing the pre-spiral inhale,” she says, eyes still closed. “You always do that thing where your mouth twitches right before you mentally implode.”
“It’s true,” Quinn adds, finally rolling over to blink at me. “It’s like a grief sneeze.”
My lips twitch. Against all odds. “You two are insufferable.”
Imogen finally opens one eye. “You’re welcome.”
I look between them—Quinn, sprawled and sleep-puffy with her curls flattened awkwardly on one side; Imogen, bleary but stubborn, still half wrapped around me like she’ll tackle death itself if it comes too close again.
They’re idiots.
They’re my idiots.
And they’re right.
I could sit here and let the grief of someone I barely knew eat holes through me out of guilt. Or I could keep breathing. For him. For me. For the ones still here.
Quinn nudges me with her foot. “You hungry?”
I blink. “Not really.”
“Too bad. You lost, like, two pints of blood and your will to live. You need toast.”
“We ate your toast,” Imogen adds. “You were out forever.”
“Traitors.”
“Survivalists,” Quinn corrects. “Besides, you looked like a corpse. Toast wasn’t going to save you.”
I let out a breath—half laugh, half sigh—and tip my head back against the pillow.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Imogen shifts closer, her hand finding mine beneath the blankets. “Not going anywhere.”
“Unless you try to leap off another cliff,” Quinn mutters. “Then I’m applying for a new squad.”
“Noted.”
--
By the time we make it down to the dining hall, the bruise under my ribs has settled into a deep, pulsing throb that makes every breath feel like a risk. My side’s been tightly wrapped by the healers, but the gauze itches under my uniform and my knees still wobble like the world forgot how to stay solid.
Quinn stays glued to my left. Imogen flanks my right. It’s like being guarded by two very pretty, very pissed-off wolves in leather jackets.
The moment we step into the hall, some heads turn. Some don’t. Most don’t care. And that’s fine.
The bruise across my cheek is impossible to miss. So is the raw cut above my brow. One of my sleeves is rolled to the elbow to avoid brushing the bandage underneath, and my limp is only mostly under control.
We grab plates of food from the line – Imogen stacking mine – and make it halfway to our usual table when Dain falls into step beside me. Quiet. Solid.
“Morning,” he says gently.
I glance at him. He looks like he hasn’t slept. There’s a line between his brows he didn’t have yesterday.
“Hey.” I smile, but cringe when my bruise aches from the movement.
His eyes scan me. Not in a dramatic way. Just… careful.
“You look worse than you did at formation,” he says softly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Thanks?”
“I meant that your bruises are still spreading. You sure you shouldn’t be in the infirmary?”
“Still technically alive,” I shrug, aiming for humour, landing somewhere near ‘deadpan and dying.’
“No one died of ugly,” Quinn adds.
Imogen hums. “Yet.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Lie. “Just sore.”
We make it to the table, and I sink onto the bench with a low, involuntary grunt.
Dain doesn’t press. Just gives me one last long look and sits across from me without another word. His eyes flick briefly to my tray, then to my posture, then back to my face.
For half a second, everything settles.
Until—
“What the fuck happened to you?”
I hear him before I see him—boots hitting stone like punctuation marks in a furious sentence. But when I look up, everything else stills.
Bodhi.
His hair is a mess, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’s been dragging his hands through it all morning. A few wild strands catch in the mage-lights, casting soft bronze highlights that shouldn't make my stomach twist, but they do. His uniform jacket is half-buttoned, the sleeves shoved to his elbows, and the collar hangs slightly crooked like he pulled it on in a rush. His jaw is set. His lips are parted. His entire expression is thunder, and gods—he looks like he hasn’t slept, like something shattered behind his eyes and never quite glued itself back together.
He’s all sharp lines and fierce focus, and I feel it in my chest—this visceral, aching awareness of him. Of how he always looks like he’s on the edge of either yelling or kissing someone. I can smell the faint, familiar scent of him now: something smoky and evergreen, layered over the faint tang of sweat and flight leathers and heat. He smells like adrenaline. Like someone who’d run through fire if I asked him to.
Something deep in me clenches.
Because I remember what it’s like to stand close enough to feel his breath on my neck. To spar with him until we’re breathless and fuming, and I can’t tell if the pounding in my chest is from the fight or from him.
And now he’s here—storming toward me like the aftermath of something we never had time to explore.
He stops at the end of the table, breathing hard, eyes raking over me like he’s looking for proof of life—or blood.
“You look like you got dragged behind a dragon,” he snaps. “What the hell happened?”
Every eye at our table swivels.
Quinn makes a low, warning noise. “Dial it back, Bodhi.”
But he doesn’t. His gaze is fire and thunder and something that makes my chest tighten. Jaw tight. Hands fisted. He’s not angry.
He’s terrified.
His tone is nothing like when I had won my first challenge and walked away with a broken nose. Back then he was playful and teasing. But this time, it’s different.
There’s heat in it. Possessiveness, maybe. Or protectiveness so intense it borders on fury.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re not,” he fires back. “You look like someone dragged you out of a warzone by your hair.”
“She nearly got flung off a cliff,” Imogen says flatly. “She was caught midair. Then attacked midair. Then tried to use her signet while bleeding out midair. It was very midair.”
“She lived,” Quinn adds.
Barely. I refrain from saying it.
Bodhi stares at me like he wants to shake me and check for broken pieces himself.
“I heard about Damon,” he says, voice lower now. “You fell too. And then just... what? Took off like nothing happened?”
Dain slams his mug down. “That’s not fair, Durran.”
I open my mouth. Then close it.
Because I don’t have a good answer.
Because he’s right. And he’s wrong. And I’m too tired to explain the in-between.
“I did what I had to,” I say quietly.
Bodhi exhales, the breath ragged. He drags a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath I don’t catch.
Then, softer—but only barely: “Don’t do that again.”
I meet his eyes. Something stutters in my chest.
“Do what?”
“Scare the shit out of me.”
The words hang between us. He doesn’t whisper them. Doesn’t soften them. Just drops them like a weight.
My chest tightens.
And before I can respond—before I can deflect or joke or bury it under something easier—Bodhi moves.
He rounds the end of the table with all the purpose of a strike about to land. Quinn barely manages to yank her tray out of the way before he drops into the empty space beside me.
Not across. Not a seat over.
Right next to me.
His thigh brushes mine. Warm through the fabric. Solid. Too much.
I freeze. Just for a second.
Because it’s not the touch that startles me—it’s the effect.
The way my body responds like it’s been starved for this. For him.
Up close, he’s even worse. Better. Gods, I don’t know.
There’s a smear of dirt still clinging to his temple, like he didn’t have time—or didn’t bother—to clean up. A shadow of stubble on his jaw. His eyes flick to mine, dark and impossible to read, but when they settle, they hold. He doesn’t look away.
And I don’t breathe.
His shoulder nudges mine when he shifts slightly, and the contact sends a ripple through me like a pulled thread. His whole presence is too much—heat, tension, the faint scent of pine and steel and Bodhi—and it takes everything in me not to lean closer. Not to press my forehead into the crook of his neck and just stay there.
Because part of me still remembers the way he used to look at me—like I was the air in his lungs. The way he smiled, like I was the only thing worth seeing. The way he laughed, like the world only made sense when I was in it. Or maybe that was just me.
Part of me still wants that.
Even now. Especially now.
“I’m eating,” I mutter warily, eyeing him.
“You weren’t,” he says. “You were sitting there trying to look fine with that dead-eyed stare you get when you’re planning to fake your way through another meal.”
Quinn arches a brow from across the table. “He’s not wrong.”
Imogen hums. “I’d bet money she’s trying to ghost her food again.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You nearly died,” Bodhi says. “You’re eating.”
He picks up a spoon and jabs it toward my tray like it personally offended him.
I frown. “You want to feed me too, or—?”
He meets my eyes, unflinching. “Don’t tempt me.”
My heart stutters. There’s something different in his voice now—not the sharp, snappy heat from before. Not rage. Something lower. Rougher. Like the echo of panic still hasn’t left his chest and he doesn’t know what to do with it except channel it into force-feeding me mashed roots and pretending it’s totally normal.
My mouth goes dry.
He pushes the tray closer.
“First bite, or I swear I’m dragging you back to the healers myself.”
Dain shifts across from me. “Malia,” he says, softer now. “You should eat something. Just a few bites. You look like you’re about to tip sideways.”
“You’re all very dramatic,” I mutter.
“You look like a walking corpse,” Quinn chirps. “A hot corpse, but still.”
I glare at her. “Helpful.”
“Eat. I’m not playing around Malia.”
Quinn coughs delicately into her tea. “Wow. Do me next.”
Bodhi ignores her. Doesn’t even blink.
I glance down at the tray. My stomach turns at the sight of food, but I know he’s right. And he’s not moving until I give in.
I sigh. Pick up the spoon. I take a bite. It tastes like salted sand, but it sits.
He exhales—just a fraction—but I feel the release in it. Like the world loosened its grip around his throat the second I stopped fighting him.
“Better,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Now do it again.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re reckless.”
I chew. Rolling my eyes but holding back a smile.
Bodhi stays beside me, too close, too tense.
Dain stays silent across the table, his expression unreadable, hands folded like he’s trying very hard not to say whatever’s sitting on the tip of his tongue.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. But it’s thick. Like everyone’s waiting for the next explosion.
Quinn sets her tea down with a little clink and says, “So, are you two gonna kiss or fight to the death? Because I’d like to know how much toast I should ration for emotional support.”
I nearly choke on a root. Bodhi jerks back like she slapped him with a wet boot and Dain raises both eyebrows, but says nothing. Which, for him, might as well be a standing ovation.
Imogen leans her cheek into her hand and deadpans, “Honestly, I think she’s too concussed to do either. Which is a shame. Because the tension right now is bordering on tragic poetry.”
“I hate all of you,” I mutter.
“Not as much as you hate chewing,” Bodhi says, nudging my tray like this is a completely normal meal and not a war crime wrapped in judgment.
“I will stab someone with a spoon,” I warn.
“Please don’t,” Dain says dryly. “That’s not how you prove you’re fine.”
Quinn grins. “Let her live. She already fought gravity and won.”
Imogen raises her cup in salute. “Barely.”
They’re all too much. Too loud. Too sharp. Too here.
The sky is still the colour of bruised stone when I’m shaken awake.
Not by Siscil’s voice in my head—not yet—but by the rough jostle of Quinn’s boot against my mattress and the faint, sleep-blurred growl of “Get up, it’s Games Day.”
I groan, burying my face in my pillow. My muscles protest with every shift. Two days isn’t enough time to recover from emotionally imploding on a mat and then pretending everything’s fine. Especially not when “fine” now includes a squad-wide battle scenario before dawn.
The smell of smoke, dew, and worn leather clings to the air. I sit up slowly, blinking against the faint, purplish haze bleeding in through the window slits. My room is cold. Not castle-cold. Colder—like the kind of sharpness that seeps into your bones and stays there, no matter how tightly you wrap your jacket.
Siscil isn’t in my mind yet, but I can feel her. Somewhere near. Watching.
Waiting.
The war games are always announced last-minute. Something about “combat realism” and “unpredictable threats.” Dain explained it like it was obvious: squad-based objective training, with a rotating mix of scenarios. This one’s capture-the-flag—with dragons. And cliffs. And, of course, the potential to die if you step wrong.
Because if you’re not nearly dying, is it even Basgiath?
By the time I make it to the staging cliffs, the sun is a faint gold thread on the horizon, and the air is damp with early mist. Clouds hang low between the treetops below, the forest dense and quiet like it's holding its breath. Down in the ruins—half-buried stone, splintered pillars, collapsed towers choked in ivy—we'll be holding the flag.
And waiting to be stormed.
I drag in a breath through my teeth. The scent of moss, scorched pine, and old magic clings to everything here. Even the stones seem watchful.
Dain is the first to greet me, his voice low and familiar as he slides into step beside me. “Did you sleep?”
“Define sleep,” I murmur.
He huffs a soft laugh. It’s warm, easy. For the first time in days, things between us feel… simple. Not perfect. But not sharp-edged, either.
“You ready?”
I scan the gathering figures as I nod. “Tell me we’re not fighting the Tail Section again.”
“Third Wing. First Squad.” Dain’s voice flattens. “They’re cocky. Risha’s not impressed.”
As if summoned, Risha Vellin steps out from the trees with the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it. Third-year, squad leader, fire in her blood and barely leashed behind her eyes. Her dragon Kaelith, a sleek red swordtail, circles once overhead—low and slow, casting a molten shadow across the treetops.
Risha doesn’t look at me. Not yet. She’s speaking with Vane Drayce, whose massive frame is impossible to miss even without the warhammer strapped to his back. He doesn’t carry a blade—he bends metal. And usually, people.
Next to them, Iri Meren stands half in the mist, half out of it. Green swordtail curled just behind her like a lurking stormcloud. She’s quiet. Focused. Eyes half-lidded like she’s listening to something only she can hear. Maybe it’s the wind. Maybe it’s all of us.
The second-years gather next. Heaton is already tightening the buckles on his chest guard, jaw set like stone. His red scorpion-tail Vexith waits below the ridge, tail twitching lazily in the grass. A diver, not a flyer—but deadly when submerged. Useless today. But Heaton never complains. He just fights harder.
Emery claps him on the shoulder before jogging past, pale hair tied back, his air signet humming just beneath his skin like an itch he refuses to scratch. Shyreth, his dagger-tail, perches nearby with wings half-spread and eyes narrowed at the cliffs like she’s already seen battle.
I breathe in again. Slowly. My heart thrums in a steady rhythm, but something inside me already knows this day won’t end clean.
“You okay?” Quinn asks, stepping up beside me, her green scorpion-tail Cruth landing in a rustle of wings behind her.
I nod. “Just taking it in.”
“The ruins give me the creeps,” she admits, glancing down into the chasm. “Feels like the kind of place where someone forgets to come back.”
“Thanks for that comforting thought.”
She grins. “Anytime.”
Cianna and Damon trail in, joking quietly under their breath. Damon throws me a half-salute and a wink, the same one he’s been using since we were assigned to the same wing. I offer a dry smile back.
Imogen jogs toward me from the left, her hair swaying with each step, face unreadable in the grey-blue half-light. She’s already suited up—tight leather vest, buckled gauntlets, two short swords strapped to her back like wings she never learned to fly with.
She bumps her shoulder gently against mine. “Bet you’re regretting not skipping out with a twisted ankle now, huh?”
I snort under my breath. “Never too late.”
Her smirk returns, sharp as ever. “You’re a hazard. I don’t know if I want to be on your team.”
A horn blows across the field—short, commanding. The kind that cuts through fog and nerves alike.
All eyes shift to the squad leaders ahead. Risha Vellin stands at the front, chin lifted, red swordtail Kaelith coiled behind her like a living flame. She doesn’t shout. She never has to. Her presence is enough.
“This isn’t a real war,” she says clearly, her voice carrying with effortless command. “But treat it like one.”
I shift my weight, pulse prickling. The air here hums with frost and tension. I’m used to both by now.
“We hold the flag,” Risha continues. “Third Wing wants to take it. They have ten riders. So do we. There will be no reinforcements. No instructors. No interference.”
Her eyes flick across our line, pausing briefly on each of us.
“You’re allowed to fly. You're allowed to use your signet. But your dragon must remain visible at all times. I will not tolerate anyone going rouge.” She paused. “And try not to die.”
Standard. Harsh. Necessary.
Risha steps aside and gestures toward the scroll pinned between two rocks—the "flag" in question. Just a fluttering strip of white cloth marked with the sigil of our wing, staked in the crumbled remains of a watchtower near the cliff's edge. Unimpressive.
And worth everything.
“This is a capture-and-defend scenario,” she says. “They will try to breach the perimeter. They will try to scatter our defence. You hold. As long as that flag stays where it is, we win.”
She doesn’t have to explain what happens if we don’t.
Vane Drayce slings his massive war axe over his shoulder and mutters, “Hope someone tells them the rules this time.”
“Hope someone tells you how to shut up,” Iri Meren replies, pushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead.
A distant rumble breaks the air—thunder, or dragon wings, it’s hard to tell. I glance at the cliffs to the north. Dark shapes move through the sky, emerging from low cloud like specters.
“That's them,” Dain murmurs beside me, falling into step. His tone is calm, but I see the flicker in his jaw. He always tightens it when he’s trying not to worry.
My heart lurches when he looks at me—not because of what was, but because it’s finally not awkward anymore. Because we made it through whatever fire that was. Because he’s still here. And maybe always will be.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod once. “Are you?”
His mouth lifts slightly. “We’ll see.”
Another horn. One long, echoing call that bounces off the canyon walls and sends the dragons into motion.
Heaton is already on Vexith, the red scorpion-tail twisting tight circles above the broken towers. Emery lifts into the air with Shyreth at his heels, the lean dagger-tail slicing between pillars of crumbling stone.
Imogen grabs my arm before I move. Her brown eyes meet mine—serious now, grounded. “You hold that line, Malia.”
“Not going anywhere,” I promise.
She nods, then mounts Glane with a swift grace that still makes me jealous.
Quinn passes me last, hand tightening on Cruth’s harness as she flicks her curls behind her shoulder. “We’re not letting them touch that flag.”
“Not a single toe,” I say.
She grins. “Come on Lia. Time to fly.”
I feel Siscil’s mind brush mine before I even move. “You waited long enough.”
“Let’s go,” I answer, and sprint for the cliff.
Siscil surges upward beneath me, a powerful current of muscle and wing slicing through the pale dawn sky.
The forest sprawls below like a waiting mouth—jagged cliffs, crumbling stone towers, and ancient trees twisted into shadowy limbs. Mist curls in the low places, thick and creeping, swallowing everything it touches. It’s beautiful in a way only something deadly can be.
And it feels like breathing again.
I lean into the wind, fingers curling against the ridge of Siscil’s neck, where warm scales shimmer with that familiar bronze glow. My thighs ache from gripping her bare back, no saddle, no straps. Just raw trust. Just the knowledge that if I fall, there’s no one to blame but myself—and maybe the gods that left us here in the first place.
“You’re practically glowing,” Siscil drawls, her voice slithering into my thoughts like smoke. “One might think you missed me.”
“I did,” I murmur against the wind, breath catching as we bank hard around a jagged cliff edge. “I missed this.”
“The reckless dives? The possibility of being speared on a branch? Or is it the potential of dying for the glory of the Riders Quadrant?”
“Flying with you.”
A pause. Then, more lightly: “You were unbearable without me, by the way. Moody. Sulky. Honestly, tragic.”
I laugh, sharp and sudden. “You’re such a comfort.”
“You were a pile of damp laundry with a pulse.”
The bond flares hot and bright between us—intact. Whole. No more strained silence. No more distance. Just us, stitched back together in the sky where we belong.
Below, the ruins cut through the trees in broken teeth—old stone spires and collapsed battlements, overgrown and treacherous. Fog drapes the edges of the cliffs like a veil, making it harder to spot movement. But something down there shifts.
Damon glides in beside us, his swordtail Joriin catching a current like it’s second nature. He grins over at me, wind tugging his dark curls across his face.
He shouts to be heard over the wind. “She’s fast, huh?”
I nod, shouting back, “Fastest thing in the sky.”
He grins, tugging his scarf up higher. “Just don’t get cocky. This fog’s thick. Hard to see what’s coming.”
“Trust me,” I yell, scanning the tree line below. “I’m looking.”
And I am.
Beneath us, the canopy shifts—just slightly. Leaves trembling where no wind hits. A flash of scale between the branches. I narrow my eyes.
“Contact!” I shout across the gap. “Northwest ridge! Two dragons—green and red—moving low!”
Damon leans forward, squinting. “I see them. Splitting left!”
He veers into a wide arc and breaks off, giving me a clear line of descent on the right.
“Swordtails,” Siscil observes, wings already tucking for the dive.
“Let’s not let them get close to the cliffs,” I murmur, tightening my knees as we begin the drop. “Take us in low. I want a clean pass.”
Oh, how considerate, she says dryly. You want their flag too, or just their dignity?
“I’ll settle for both.”
Siscil folds into the dive, air screaming past us as the forest rushes up like it’s reaching for my throat. The world becomes speed—wind biting at my eyes, muscle flexing beneath me, the taste of adrenaline sharp as iron on my tongue.
“Don’t fall,” Siscil says flatly. “I won’t be swinging back if you fall off.”
“You say that like it wouldn’t kill you to lose me.”
“It would be… inconvenient.”
I roll my eyes, fingers curling tighter against her spine. “Let’s clip their wings.”
“Gladly,” she purrs. “Try not to die, Child.”
The forest slams toward us—grey-green and tangled, ruins jutting like broken bones through the canopy. Siscil angles downward, sharp and fast.
“I see movement—two of them, creeping through that half-dead temple ahead.”
“I’ll drop,” I say, already unclipping a dagger. “Cut them off. You stay high and distract.”
“No,” she snaps immediately. “Absolutely not. Stay in your seat.”
“I can handle this.”
“You can handle staying alive.” Her wings dip with warning. “I’m not catching your reckless self again because you decide to play hero on foot.”
“They’ll spot you from the air—if I stay up, we lose the element of surprise.”
“We also lose the element of you being alive.”
I grip tighter with my knees and lean forward. “You’re the one who said I’ve been soft.”
A pause.
Then a disgusted huff that rumbles through her chest. “Fine. But if you die, I’m eating you friends.”
She dives, wings folding tight, and at the last moment I leap—boots slamming hard into the moss-slick earth, breath catching in my throat.
“You’ve used that one before.”
“And I meant it – both times.”
The moment my feet hit the ground, everything feels too quiet. Even with the wind in the trees, even with Siscil soaring above.
A flash of movement—there, behind the shattered spire. Two shadows. Fast.
I bolt across the clearing, ducking behind a stone arch as footsteps hammer closer through the brush. I crouch, breath controlled, blade tight in my grip.
Then—
A blur moves through the vines to my left. I dive forward, roll, come up with my dagger in hand just as the first attacker barrels through a curtain of moss-draped stone.
He’s fast. Bigger than me. And smiling like he thinks I’m an easy win.
“Cute,” I mutter, and lunge first.
He doesn’t expect it—his blade is halfway raised when I slam into him, shoulder to chest. My dagger swipes up. He knocks it aside just in time, but I twist my body into his, slamming my elbow into the side of his neck.
He grunts. Staggers.
Then recovers—and punches me square in the ribs.
I gasp, pain blooming like fire under my arm, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs and breath and swears.
He lands a knee on my thigh, pins my dagger hand to the forest floor.
I spit dirt. “What’s the matter? Lost your dragon and your manners?”
He growls and tries to slam my hand again, but I use the moment to jam my free arm under his jaw and heave upward. He’s heavier, but not smarter. His balance is off. I twist under him, roll us, straddle his hips, and drive my elbow into his cheekbone with a satisfying crack.
Thank you Garrick-
He snarls—and his knee drives into my side.
Pain explodes up my ribs. I grunt, swaying. His hand wraps around my wrist, wrenching it, and my dagger drops.
Shit.
I throw a punch to his throat, but he grabs my forearm mid-swing, shoves his weight into my chest, and flips us again—this time slamming me down, hard, against the stone edge of a shattered pillar. His hand cuts off my air supply.
The world swims.
I blink blood from my eye.
Then I hear it—a second pair of footsteps.
Not his backup.
“MALIA!”
Damon.
His voice cuts through the ringing in my skull.
Then the third-wing brute is ripped off me.
Damon crashes into him from the side, sword swinging. They tumble back into the brush in a blur of shouting and blades.
I scramble to my feet, chest heaving, every inch of me aching. I make it to the edge of the cliff just as Damon tackles his opponent—too close to the edge. Too much momentum.
“No—”
The stone beneath Damon’s boots crumbles.
And both of them go over.
I throw myself forward with a strangled scream, fingers clawing for a hold. Nothing. Just broken stone and empty air.
The cliff is gone beneath my feet.
And so am I.
Wind whips the scream from my throat.
The world tilts into sky and stone and sky again as I plunge over the cliff’s edge, gravity a cruel bastard tearing at my limbs. My fingers scramble through empty air, through moss and nothing and then—
I fall.
Fast.
Faster than thought, faster than breath. The cliff face vanishes above me, replaced by jagged spires and treetops and the gleam of the river far, far below.
Damon.
I saw him fall first.
And I’m falling after.
“SISCIL—” I choke it out through the wind clawing at my face, mind already stretching, reaching—
Nothing.
Panic knifes up my spine. She’s too far.
No. No. She can’t be.
I force the bond open wide, flinging it out like a lifeline, like a scream— and a loud roar echoes through the air, it would have shaken the ground, had I been standing on any.
“Get to me—please—get to me—”
And then like she answering my prayers.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, child—hold your arms out.” Her voice slams into my mind like a meteor. Dry. Snappy. Furious. And I swear, I could cry at the sound.
“You absolute menace, what did I say about dying?”
“Siscil, I—”
“Do I look like your safety net? Never mind—don’t answer that. Tuck your knees, legs in— NOW!”
I see her before I feel her.
A blur of brown and gold and fury, Siscil streaks between stone pillars like death on wings, her tail slicing through mist as she folds in tight.
The air booms from her descent. Trees bend. Rock splits.
She angles her body sideways and dives—and I slam into her shoulders like a sack of bricks.
Pain shoots up my spine. Her wing dips from the weight.
But I’m not falling anymore.
I’m not falling.
I cling to her neck with both arms, gasping, eyes burning from wind and terror.
“I told you,” she hisses in my head, banking hard to avoid a ruin spire, “stay in your seat, don’t go ground-stomping without backup, don’t hurl yourself off cliffs like a sentimental hero—do you even listen?”
“Damon,” I gasp out. “He fell—he tried to help me—Siscil, he—”
“I only have one rider, child.” Her voice is colder now, quieter. "I will not carry another who I have not deemed worthy.”
I freeze.
No.
I whip my head around—eyes scanning the treetops, the broken rocks below, the shapes in the air—
But there’s no second figure tumbling beside us.
No other dragon.
No glint of brown-club tail. No flash of red wings.
Just Siscil. Just me.
And the echo of his name tearing through my skull.
“Damon,” I whisper.
There’s no answer.
Just the shrieking wind and the cries of two dragons.
She draws her dagger like she’s daring me to look away.
And gods help me, I can’t.
Her braid’s loose at the ends, wisps of hair escaping to frame her flushed cheeks. Her chest rises and falls with tight, controlled breaths, but her eyes—her eyes are wild. Livid. Hurt.
And all of it is because of me.
We’ve never sparred before. Never risked that kind of closeness. I thought I was protecting her by keeping my distance.
But right now, there’s nowhere left to hide.
“You sure you want this?” she asks, voice low and sharp.
I force my gaze up from her dagger hand, from the subtle shift of her hips into stance, from the sheer heat rolling off her body in waves.
“You sparred with Garrick.”
Her jaw flexes. “That was training.”
“So is this.”
Lie.
This isn’t training.
This is punishment.
Or penance.
Or maybe just the only way she’ll let me touch her again.
Garrick calls, “Start.”
And she comes for me like she means it.
Fast. Fluid. Fury in motion.
She doesn’t hesitate—blade sweeping upward, sharp as the glare in her eyes. I sidestep, heart pounding, catching the edge of her swing on the flat of my forearm.
The impact rattles through me like lightning. And fuck, even her anger is beautiful.
We circle, feet scuffing against the mat, every breath between us crackling.
She lunges again, low and precise. I barely twist in time, and when I do—her shoulder slams into mine.
The contact lights my nerves on fire.
She smells like sweat and wind and something warmer—like home, if I’d ever deserved to have one.
I recover too slowly.
She spins, blade slicing the air beside my throat, and I know she pulled that strike. Just enough to warn me.
Still, I step forward. Into her space. Into danger.
“You didn’t flinch when Garrick had you on the ground,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Her steps falter.
“You watching that close?”
She shoves me back. I let her.
Because I deserve it.
Her eyes flash, voice trembling under the weight of everything I’ve refused to say. “You said we were just friends. Better for everyone. That was you, Bodhi. Not me.”
My throat burns.
I want to say her name. Just that. Just to hear what it sounds like when she’s this close and angry and alive in front of me.
But I don’t.
She strikes again—sharper this time. Her blade crashes against mine, and the jolt nearly sends my weapon flying. She’s furious. Brilliant. Burning from the inside out.
And all I can think is—I did that.
I duck low and sweep toward her legs, but she jumps, lands lightly, and spins toward my back.
I twist just in time to catch her wrist—and suddenly, she’s there.
Pressed to me.
Chest to chest.
Breath to breath.
I can feel every inch of her—her stomach tightening against mine, the soft rasp of fabric where her thigh brushes my leg, the heat radiating off her skin like the sun pressed too close to earth.
I could drop my blade.
I could kiss her.
I could ruin everything.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
“You think I don’t care?” I whisper, voice shaking. “I care so much it’s killing me.”
Her lips part.
And I almost break.
“Then stop punishing me for it,” she breathes, eyes fierce. “You won’t be with me, but you won’t let me go. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Bodhi?”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Her voice tears straight through me. Because she’s not wrong.
I’ve been standing at the edge of wanting her for months—stepping forward just far enough to keep her close, then pulling back like a coward.
Because wanting her doesn’t change the danger.
Because I still think she deserves more than the wreckage I carry.
But gods—being this close? Fighting her like this? It feels like begging.
“I’m trying to protect you,” I manage. “I can’t—if I lost you—”
“You never had me.”
The words hit harder than her blade ever could.
Because they’re true.
Because I’ve never let myself have her.
I don’t remember who lets go first.
I just know the air feels colder the moment her body leaves mine.
And then Garrick’s voice slices through the silence:
“You two done dry-humping or should we leave the mat to you?”
It hits like a slap. Like an unwanted spotlight.
I jerk back, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.
She turns—rigid, silent—and levels Garrick with a look that could melt iron.
“Are we done here?” she bites.
He lifts his hands. “Training’s yours to end, Tiarnes.”
And then she’s gone.
Boots hitting the stone floor with purpose. Shoulders drawn. Blade still clenched in her hand like she doesn’t trust herself to let it go.
She brushes past me without a word.
But her touch stays like a scar.
I should call her name.
Follow her.
Tell her everything.
But I don’t.
Because I still believe the lie that pushing her away protects her.
And because a small, cowardly part of me thinks—if I go after her now, I won’t stop.
I’ll pull her in and I won’t let her go. And that’ll be the end of both of us.
So I stay.
Alone on the mat where I got everything I said I didn’t want.
And still walked away. The doors haven’t even stopped swinging shut behind her before Garrick speaks.
“You hit harder than I expected, Duran.”
I don’t look at him.
Because if I do, I’ll put him through a wall.
He chuckles anyway, that easy, lazy tone of his twisting like a knife under my ribs. “Didn’t know she got under your skin like that.”
I turn slowly.
Garrick’s still lounging near the weapons rack, towel slung over one shoulder like he didn’t just watch something tear loose between me and Malia that I can’t shove back into place.
“Don’t.” My voice is low. Warning.
“What?” He grins. “It was a good fight. She’s fast when she’s pissed—shame she didn’t move like that earlier when I had her on the mat.”
I see red.
In one step I’m across the room, shoving him back against the rack with a force that rattles the steel. The clang of weapons hitting metal drowns out his grunt.
“Back the fuck off,” I snarl, hand fisted in his shirt. “You think this is funny? You think it’s a joke that you had your hands on her while she was trying to forget how much I fucked this up?”
Garrick blinks, still smirking, but there’s something sharper in his eyes now. Calculating.
“Didn’t realize she belonged to you.”
“She doesn’t.” The words tear out of me. “Because I let her go. And you—” I push him harder. “You don’t get to play with her like she’s just another challenge to beat.”
He studies me for a beat longer. Then—almost calmly—he peels my hand off his chest.
“I wasn’t playing.”
I don’t believe him.
I don’t want to believe him.
Because if he touched her like he meant it—if she let him—it means I lost her in more ways than I’m ready to admit.
My jaw locks. I turn away before I do something I can’t come back from.
“Stay away from her,” I say, already walking.
“Then maybe you should stop making her feel like she’s someone you’re ashamed to want,” Garrick calls after me.
I stop.
But I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because he’s not wrong.
--
The hallway outside the combat hall is colder than I expect.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Empty. Carved out.
I walk fast. Blade still sheathed at my side, hand clenched into a fist so tight I feel my pulse in my palm.
Every part of me wants to run after her.
To say something. Anything.
But I don’t.
Because the truth is—I don’t know if she’d stop to listen anymore.
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The combat training hall looms ahead like a punishment chamber pretending to be a school facility.
I drag my feet across the threshold as Garrick all but shoves me through the entrance, his grip still annoyingly firm on my elbow. The moment I cross into the cavernous space, the air changes. Heavy. Oppressive. Thick with the scent of sweat, scorched leather, and the tang of iron that always lingers too close to blood. Even when no one’s actively bleeding.
Yet.
The space stretches wide and high, like a cathedral built for war. Vaulted ceilings ribbed with blackened iron beams curve overhead like the inside of a dragon’s ribcage, and the walls are worn stone, scarred with gouges and pits from decades of training—of failure. Mage-lights hover above in flickering rows, casting an icy blue pallor that paints our shadows in jagged relief across the floor.
The mats below are a patchwork of greys and greens, some so worn their fabric threads curl at the edges. Dried sweat and chalk streak the surfaces in ghostly handprints. Broken wooden dummies slump along the far wall, missing limbs and dignity, while racks of training weapons stand at military attention—swords dulled to prevent fatal wounds, staves frayed at the ends, rows of daggers with notched handles worn by hundreds of hands before mine.
Every inch of the hall is made for breaking you down. And building you back sharper.
Garrick gives me a sideways glance as we cross the threshold, his smirk sharp enough to slice. Like he’s just dragged me into his own private ring of hell and he’s Malek with front-row seats.
“I should’ve faked a sprained ankle,” I mutter, eyeing the nearest mat like it’s a freshly dug grave with my name etched on the stone.
“You already walk like someone with a limp,” Garrick replies with far too much cheer. “Might as well commit.”
Prick.
I tighten the braid pinned at the nape of my neck and follow him across the stone, each bootfall echoing like a drumbeat. My muscles already ache from five days of avoidance, and I know he knows. He’s going to make me pay for every hour I spent hiding.
And maybe I deserve it.
Because as much as I hate his smug face and the way he never holds back—this place is where I remember who I am.
Even if Garrick never lets me forget what I’m not.
We step onto the mat. My stomach clenches with that familiar cocktail of dread and defiance. Garrick rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles like this is foreplay. Probably is, for him.
“You warmed up?” he asks, not because he cares, but because he wants to remind me that I haven’t been here in five days.
“Emotionally? No. Physically? Sure.”
“The rules are simple.” He tosses a practice dagger from one hand to the other with infuriating ease. “I take all four of yours, I win. You push me off the mat or make me yield, you win. Think you can manage that, Tiarnes?”
“Define yield.”
“Begging works.”
“I’d rather die.”
He grins, teeth flashing. “Most people would.”
I slide into a loose stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent. The mats are firm underfoot—padded just enough to absorb a fall but unforgiving enough to remind you you’re not made of steel. Mage-lights buzz above, casting Garrick’s smirk in sharp relief.
He raises his hand. “Ready?”
I nod once.
He lunges.
And just like that, we’re dancing.
He comes in fast—direct, no flourish. Aimed right at my left thigh where one of my daggers rests. I twist, letting the blade graze cloth instead of leather, then drop into a backwards roll, landing in a low crouch several paces away. The cool air kisses my arms as I move, and the thud of my boots on canvas echoes sharp in my ears.
“Aw, don’t be shy,” he says, circling. “Let me see if they’re sharp.”
“You’ll have to buy me dinner first.”
“I’d wine and dine you, but I’m more of a bleed-you-dry kind of guy.”
“Charming.”
He feints right, classic Garrick—always testing. I dodge, pivoting into a low sweep kick that brushes his leg, close but not enough to destabilize him.
His grin stretches. Bastard.
I draw the dagger from my thigh in a fluid motion, the weight familiar, grounding.
“Finally,” he breathes, and dives again.
I sidestep, slashing upward in a controlled arc, enough to force distance. He ducks, fast, and grabs for my wrist. His grip brushes skin—almost electric—before I wrench free, twisting and planting my foot near the mat’s edge for balance.
“You’re fast today,” he pants.
“I’m pissed today.”
“Even better.”
He tries again, this time aiming behind me—he wants one of the blades at my spine. I duck under his reach and jab my elbow into his ribs with satisfying force. He grunts, barely, and I spin out behind him.
“First time I’ve seen you move your feet in a fight,” he calls over his shoulder, that infuriating grin stretching wide. “I was starting to think you thought dodging was beneath you. Glad to see you’ve joined the rest of us mortals.”
“Worried I’d forgotten how to move?” I ask, flashing him a slow, smug smile. “Maybe you just haven’t given me a good enough reason before.”
That earns a laugh. A real one.
He spins, suddenly serious, and comes in low—surprisingly fast for someone his size. He catches my ankle with his heel and I stumble, just enough for him to swipe the dagger from my left thigh.
“One down,” he says smugly.
Shit.
I backpedal, blood rushing loud in my ears. I draw the other thigh dagger and lunge with it, angling a kick at his side.
It lands—barely—but the jolt of contact shoots up my leg, satisfying and raw.
He grunts, retreating a step.
“Getting desperate?”
“Getting warm.”
He growls low. “Let’s raise the heat, then.”
He charges.
This time, I’m ready.
I drop low, sweeping his legs with mine, and he staggers, foot skidding toward the mat’s edge. I follow through, driving my daggers toward his shoulders. He blocks one, but the force forces him off balance—planting his boot just outside the ring.
Whistle.
“Out of bounds,” one of the watching second-years calls, grinning.
Garrick looks at me, eyes glinting, chest rising with exertion.
“You pushed me out.”
“You tried to strip me.”
He laughs, low and shameless, his eyes dragging over me with zero apology.
“Can you blame me?” he says, voice like silk over steel. “You make it look so damn tempting.”
I arch a brow, slow and deliberate, letting my gaze sweep down and back up with matching boldness.
“Careful, Garrick,” I say, letting the smirk curl into something wicked. “Keep undressing me with your eyes, and I’ll start charging for the show.”
He huffs a laugh, sweat sliding down his temple. “Fine. First round goes to you.”
I smile, not bothering to hide my satisfaction. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
“For now,” he adds darkly, tossing my stolen dagger back at me. I catch it midair with a snap of my wrist, the blade a familiar weight in my palm—cold, grounding, a small comfort in a fight that’s anything but under control.
We reset at the center of the mat, the air between us still charged from the last round. My boots scrape across worn canvas darkened by years of sweat and blood. My fingers fumble slightly as I tighten the straps on my thigh sheath. Too fast. Too tense.
Across from me, Garrick rolls his shoulders, each movement loose and fluid, like he’s stretching before a sparring match and not a power play. His grin is easy—too easy. Like he’s just warming up.
He always looks like this before he takes someone apart.
“Round two?” he asks, tone casual, breezy.
I nod, jaw clenched tight. “Same terms?”
“Oh no,” he says, and suddenly his voice shifts—lower now, deliberate. Like the weight of it carries more than words. “This time, there’s no mat. No boundaries. No easy way out.”
A chill flares down my spine even as the blood in my veins starts to heat. He steps forward, slow, eyes narrowing like he’s measuring angles and weak points. Like I’m already a problem to be solved.
“I win when you’re disarmed. All four daggers. You win if I yield.” He tilts his head, just a little. “Not that I will.”
My back straightens instinctively.
“Getting cocky, are we?”
His grin shifts—still sharp, but no longer playful.
“I let you have the first one.”
I scoff, but my pulse jumps.
Because deep down, I know he’s not bluffing.
The call for “start” barely leaves his mouth before Garrick moves.
Not fast.
Explosive.
He launches at me like a pulled arrow, and the space between us disappears in a blink. I pivot sharply, muscles snapping into motion, but he’s already predicting it. He spins with me, one hand closing around my bicep with vice-like precision, dragging me toward him—and in the same motion, his fingers pluck the dagger from my right thigh like he’s done it a thousand times.
Shit.
I twist away, nearly stumbling. He lets me go. Watches.
Calm. Controlled.
“One,” he calls, voice maddeningly casual as he tosses the blade into the air and catches it with one hand. “You hesitated when I came low. First rule—when in doubt, move first.”
I swallow my curses and yank my second thigh blade free, slipping into stance. Reverse grip. Feet light. Eyes locked.
I move first.
I swing up in a rising arc, watching for his tell—shoulders, feet, breath—but he ducks low and comes up inside my reach. Too close. He slams his forearm into the crook of my elbow and the pain jolts sharp through my nerves as the dagger flies from my hand. It clatters to the floor, echoing too loud in my ears.
“Two,” he says, catching it mid-bounce like a magician pulling coins from behind my ear. “You overcommitted. Pretty swing, though. All drama, no damage.”
“Flourish this,” I mutter, stepping hard to the side and driving in fast with my hip. I fake high, jab low, aiming for his ribs.
He reads me. Of course he does.
His elbow catches mine mid-strike, forcing my body sideways. I twist, trying to slip past him—but his foot slides behind mine and his hand lands square between my shoulder blades.
Not hard.
Just precise.
And dammit if I don’t feel the dagger shift against my lower back the second he makes contact.
He plucks it with infuriating grace.
“Three,” he says, circling me like a predator with time to kill. “Footwork’s sharp, but you forgot your blind spots. Fatal mistake, Tiarnes.”
I’m panting now. Not from fatigue.
From humiliation.
From the slow-burning realization that he’s right. Again.
I lunge. Sloppy, angry, determined to take something back. My hands shoot forward, trying to trap his wrist, trying to force him off rhythm—because if I can throw him, just for a second—
But he sees it coming. He always sees it coming.
He sidesteps, grips my wrist, and spins with me—and this time, he doesn’t just turn me off balance. He lets gravity do the rest.
My feet skid out from under me and I hit the mat with a hard thud, shoulder first, air whooshing out of my lungs.
Then he’s on me.
His weight straddles my hips, one knee braced between mine, forearm pinning my chest just enough to hold me still without hurting. My wrists are caught in his grip, pinned above my head like I’m something he’s already claimed.
His body is a wall of heat, solid and unmoving. His face is so close I can see the faint scar on his jaw I’ve never noticed before. His breath ghosts across my cheek, uneven.
His expression is unreadable.
Except his eyes.
His eyes say everything.
A low pulse throbs in my throat. Loud. Distracting. Dangerous.
His gaze drops briefly to my lips, then returns to my eyes. Slow. Intentionally slow.
And gods help me, he’s smiling.
“You really shouldn’t make it this easy,” he murmurs, voice so low it skates across my skin like a touch.
I glare, but it’s half-breathless. Half—something else.
His free hand slides down, slow and infuriatingly confident, over the curve of my ribs. Across my waist. Until his fingers slip beneath me, deliberate and steady, and draw the last dagger from the sheath at my lower back.
He lifts it between us, not looking at the blade. Only at me.
“Four,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Pinned and disarmed. Starting to think you like it down here.”
The words should piss me off.
Instead, I feel heat spike through my core, sharp and unwelcome.
“Get. Off.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smirk.
Not this time.
His gaze lingers a beat longer, something unreadable behind it. Then, without a word, he shifts his weight and eases back—graceful, measured, like he’s unwrapping the moment on purpose.
He stands first.
Then offers me his hand.
I hesitate. Just long enough to be petty.
Then I take it.
His fingers curl around mine, warm and calloused, and he pulls me to my feet with effortless strength.
He doesn't let go right away.
We stand there for a second longer than we should—close, flushed, breath still uneven. My daggers lie at Garrick’s feet like fallen declarations. The last one still clutched in his hand.
His fingers brush against mine as he passes it back—too light to be accidental.
“You made it personal,” he says softly. Not smug. Not gloating. Just… honest. “That’s when people start losing.”
I meet his eyes, every part of me still humming from the fight—or from him, I can’t tell anymore—and exhale slowly. “Guess I better learn to keep things impersonal, then.”
“Mm.” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth again, then snaps away. “Good luck with that.”
And maybe he’s going to say something else—something low and teasing, or worse, kind—but then—
“Am I interrupting something?”
Bodhi’s voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of cold water.
I snap back a full step before I can stop myself. Garrick lifts his chin but doesn’t bother to hide his smirk this time.
I turn.
Bodhi stands a few paces away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’s not looking at Garrick.
He’s looking at me.
And I feel heat creep into my cheeks for the first time since hitting the mat.
“Just finishing up,” I say, trying to sound unaffected as I stoop to gather my blades.
“Yeah,” Bodhi says, dry. “Looked like you were doing great. From the ground.”
Garrick snorts quietly behind me.
I don’t rise to it. Not outwardly. I straighten, all four daggers secure, and face Bodhi with a tilt of my chin.
“It’s called training,” I say. “You should try it sometime.”
His brow ticks up. “Maybe I will. With someone who doesn’t pin their opponents for fun.”
That lands squarely in the space between us.
Garrick chuckles under his breath. “You jealous, Duran?”
Bodhi doesn’t flinch. “Nope. Just observant.”
The tension shifts. From heat to edge. A different kind of charge now, buzzing beneath my ribs.
“I’m good,” I mutter, turning back to Garrick before either of them can say more. “Thanks for the bruises.”
“Anytime,” he replies easily, eyes still on me. “Next time, I’ll let you pin me. For balance.”
I roll my eyes, halfway through securing my thigh sheath when Bodhi speaks again.
“Unless you’re too winded,” he says, voice deceptively mild. “I’ll take next round.”
I blink. Look up.
He’s already stepping onto the mat.
Garrick turns, brows raised. “You want in?”
Bodhi shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just walked into a room simmering with tension and poured oil on the fire.
“Why not? Looks like she needs someone who doesn’t flirt mid-combat.”
My jaw tightens. Garrick snorts.
“You volunteering to be the control group?” Garrick says, clearly amused. **“Sure. Be my guest.” He tosses his towel onto the rack. “Let’s see how long you last.”
I glance between them. Garrick stepping off the mat with that damn smug grin. Bodhi standing tall in his place, sleeves pushed up, eyes fixed on me like he’s daring me to look away.
This is a bad idea.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” I mutter.
“Not proving anything,” Bodhi says, light and sharp all at once. “Just training. Isn’t that what you called it?”
Something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Not quite.
But it’s close.
Garrick claps a hand on his shoulder as he passes. “Careful, Durran. She bites.”
“So do I.”
They share a look. Then Garrick winks at me and saunters off, leaving me alone with the storm he’s so clearly enjoyed stirring.
I slide my last dagger into place and exhale through my nose.
Fine.
If Bodhi wants a round, I’ll give him one.
But this time, it won’t be just about training.
It’ll be about control.
And which one of us is about to lose it.
--
The mat feels like enemy territory.
Too open. Too exposed.
Especially with Bodhi standing across from me like a storm I’ve spent weeks pretending wasn’t brewing.
We’ve never sparred. Not once.
Not because we couldn’t.
Because we shouldn’t.
Because there’s too much unsaid between us.
And now? It’s all bleeding into the air between our bodies.
His stance is relaxed, but I can see the tension rippling under his skin. His jaw’s tight, brow drawn—too focused. Like he’s trying to turn this into routine training.
It’s not.
We both know it.
I draw my first dagger. He watches my hand, not my face.
“You sure you want this?” I ask, my voice thin with warning. And something else I won’t name.
His eyes flick to mine, sharp and unreadable. “You sparred with Garrick.”
“That was training.”
He lifts his chin. “So is this.”
Liar.
This is punishment.
This is a confession with blades.
From the sideline, Garrick calls lazily, “Start.”
Bodhi doesn’t lunge.
He advances—quiet and precise, like he’s afraid of touching something fragile.
I hate it.
I hate the way his gaze flickers over me—my hands, my legs, my mouth—and jerks away like it burns. Like I’m made of something dangerous.
I draw my dagger, reverse grip.
He still hasn’t drawn his.
“You going to fight me,” I mutter, circling, “or just stare until I disappear?”
He lunges.
I parry, barely, steel catching steel. The shock rings up my arm, but I don’t back down.
He feints left, then spins, brushing close. Too close. His shoulder grazes mine and my whole body stiffens at the contact. I smell cedar and smoke and something sharper beneath—like sweat and adrenaline and a memory.
I step back.
He follows.
His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me. I tighten my grip on the hilt.
“You didn’t flinch when Garrick had you on the ground,” he says, too casually.
I freeze.
“You watching that close?”
He shrugs, but his mouth is tight. His eyes are darker than usual.
He lunges again. Faster.
I twist, barely avoiding him, but he catches the edge of my arm. Just a graze—but his hand lingers a second too long. My skin prickles beneath the touch.
“He had his hands all over you,” he mutters, like it’s an accusation.
My heart spikes.
“You said we were just friends,” I snap, twisting free, breath short. “Remember? Better for everyone. That was you, not me.”
I shove him backward, hard enough to make his boots slide across the mat.
He stares at me like I’ve slapped him.
“You made your choice,” I growl, stepping into a tighter stance. “So why do you keep acting like you didn’t?”
His next strike is faster. Meaner.
Our blades clash again—louder this time, messier. My feet slide; his grip tightens around his hilt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
He blocks my downswing and shoves me back.
I stumble.
Then I snap.
I fake high, duck low, and sweep his legs—but he jumps, lands light, and spins in before I can regain footing.
He grabs my wrist mid-pivot, and in the same second our bodies collide—chest to chest, heat surging between us like a live current.
I freeze.
So does he.
We’re both panting. Our foreheads nearly touch. My blade’s between us, but my grip’s gone slack. His free hand hovers near my waist. Not touching. Just there.
“You think I don’t care?” he says hoarsely. “I care so much it’s killing me.”
My breath catches. My mouth opens—and nothing comes out.
Because I’ve wanted to hear those words. Hoped for them. Ached for them.
But not like this.
Not with my wrist in his hand like I’m something to hold down.
“Then stop punishing me for it,” I whisper. “You won’t be with me, but you won’t let me go. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Bodhi?”
He stares at me like he wants to answer and kiss me and scream all at once.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he breathes. “I can’t—if I lose you—”
“You never had me,” I bite, voice cracking.
The silence between us could gut a man.
Then his eyes shift. Lower.
He leans in—closer than he should.
His breath brushes my cheek.
My blade is between us, but it’s no longer a weapon.
It’s a line. A boundary he’s about to cross.
And then—
“You two done dry-humping or should we leave the mat to you?”
Garrick’s voice cuts in, lazy and lethal.
Bodhi exhales sharply and jerks back like he’s been slapped.
The heat of him disappears in a blink.
I step away without thinking, nearly stumbling as the air rushes between us again—cold and too bright.
The silence that follows is brutal.
Bodhi doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at me.
And I’m done.
I turn sharply, fixing my glare on Garrick, who’s still lounging against the weapons rack like he just watched his favourite drama unfold in real time.
“Are we done here?” I snap, louder than I mean to. My voice cuts across the room like a blade.
Garrick straightens; hands raised in mock surrender. “Training’s yours to end, Tiarnes.”
I don’t wait for anything else.
I stalk off the mat, boots pounding harder than they need to, shoulder brushing too close to Bodhi as I pass him. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t follow.
Of course he doesn’t.
I don’t look back as I push through the doors of the combat hall, the air outside sharp and cool against the sweat clinging to my neck. I drag it into my lungs like it might calm the shaking in my hands.
It doesn’t.
Because I don’t know what just happened.
Or maybe I do—and I just don’t want to admit it.
He touched me like I meant something.
Spoke to me like I mattered.
Looked at me like he wanted to burn the world down just to get closer.
And then he said nothing.
Let it end. Let me end it. Like always.
He won’t choose me.
But he won’t let me go.
And the worst part is—I’m still standing here, furious and aching and breathless, wishing he had just taken one more step.
One word.
One hand reaching out.
Something.
But no.
It’s always me who breaks first.
Not this time.
This time, I’m walking away before he can watch me fall.
But the fucked thing is; If he’d called my name—I might’ve stayed.
"Gods, I am going to be so busy with all the catching up I have to do," I sigh, dragging a hand down my face as we make our way through the corridor. My legs feel like lead. My brain is already trying to sort through a dozen missed lectures and the overwhelming list of assignments I’ll probably be crucified for not handing in.
Imogen walks on my left, Quinn on my right, both keeping pace like they’ve appointed themselves my personal sentries.
Since our… exchange—because calling it a conversation feels like giving it too much credit considering no words were spoken aloud—Imogen has been glued to me. In every lecture, every training session, every suffocating hour of Karr's channelling drills. She sits close enough that I feel her heat beside me, see the shadow of her profile when she glances my way. She's always watching. Always there.
And I don’t deserve it.
Her presence is a balm and a blade. Steadying, but also a constant reminder of how far I fell. What I became. What I did to her.
“We can always help,” Quinn offers, her voice warm despite the exhaustion laced through it. She’s managed to tame her curls since this morning, twisted into a low, thick braid that brushes against her shoulder. But the dark shadows under her eyes still linger, carved deep from too many sleepless nights.
I offer her a small smile. “I appreciate it. But don’t you guys need to prep for Squad battles? Or War Games?”
“And you don’t?” Imogen scoffs, brow arching with that familiar look that says I’ve asked something particularly idiotic.
I open my mouth, then shut it. Press my lips into a flat line. Because she's right. Of course she is.
I haven’t even figured out how to breathe without guilt crowding the inhale. War Games feel about as real as a bedtime story right now.
"Just let us help you, Lia," Imogen says, bumping her shoulder against mine. "We wouldn’t want you dropping dead in the field because you were too busy stress-studying alone like a neurotic little scholar."
“I’m not neurotic,” I mutter, voice flat.
Quinn hums skeptically. "You kind of are."
"Fine," I relent with a sigh, drawing the word out like it's been wrenched from my soul. "You can help. But only if one of you writes my weapons theory essay."
"Absolutely not," Imogen says flatly, squinting at me. "Nice try."
We round a corner, the mage-light flickering gold across the s tone walls in warm, buttery waves. My room appears on the right, the door familiar and slightly ajar.
"I’ll be quick," I say, already peeling away. "Just dropping my stuff."
Imogen waves me off. Quinn gives a nod. Their footsteps fade as they continue down the hall, leaving me in silence.
I step inside.
The room is still and dim, sunlight filtering in through the single narrow window. Dust floats in the air, catching the light like suspended stars. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted and half-hanging. It smells faintly of parchment and cedar—warm, worn, familiar.
I shrug off my satchel and let it fall to the desk with a satisfying thud. My shoulder twinges. I stretch, arms lifting over my head, spine arching until a chorus of pops loosens the tension in my back.
But the motion halts halfway.
Because my eyes land on the chair.
And there it is.
Sawyer’s jacket.
It’s draped casually over the backrest, right where I left it. The black fabric is slightly rumpled, collar off-center, elbows folded with the memory of his arms. It looks like it belongs there. Like it's been there for years.
For a moment, I just stare at it. My chest tightens—an unfamiliar coil of nerves twisting under my breastbone.
I thought I’d feel more seeing it again. Shame, maybe. Regret. Something harsh and painful. But what I feel is… heavier. Slower. A low thrum of what now? humming beneath my ribs.
It wasn’t meaningless.
It was impulsive, yes. Desperate. An escape wrapped in heat and comfort and fleeting validation. But it meant something. Maybe not something lasting. Maybe not something healthy. But still—something.
My hand hovers over the fabric.
I shouldn’t keep it.
And I shouldn’t let him come back for it, either. That would mean waiting. That would mean talking. That would mean looking him in the eye and acknowledging what happened.
No.
I grab the jacket.
The leather is softer than I remember. Warmed by the sun through the window. It smells like him—spice and pine and something faintly metallic, like stormy air before a strike of lightning.
My fingers clench around it.
“I’ll just return it,” I say aloud, the sound of my own voice grounding me. “It’s not a big deal.”
I don’t wait for Quinn and Imogen. I don’t want questions. I don’t want eyes on me when I do this.
The hall outside is quiet as I pull the door shut behind me. My boots echo faintly on the stone floor as I descend the stairs, jacket tucked securely under my arm. The closer I get to the dining hall, the louder the noise becomes—voices raised in banter, cutlery clattering against plates, someone somewhere laughing far too loudly.
The doors are already propped open.
Golden light spills out from inside, warm and bright. It hits my skin like an invitation I didn’t ask for.
I pause at the threshold.
Then I step inside.
My eyes scan the dining hall, sweeping across the rows of long wooden tables, each one brimming with cadets in various states of chaos—shovelling food, laughing too loud, gesturing with utensils mid-sentence. But I barely register the noise. I’m focused.
It doesn’t take long to find him.
Sawyer sits near the end of a table tucked along the left wall. He’s surrounded by unfamiliar faces—cadets with neutral uniforms, save the placement patches on their sleeves. Unbonded. He’s mid-laugh, his dimples on full display, head tilted back, curls catching the mage-lights like strands of honey-drenched copper.
My heart stutters. Just a beat. Just enough to annoy me.
For a moment, I hesitate. The jacket is still clutched in my hand, pressed against my side like a secret. I could leave it. Toss it onto his table and vanish before he sees me. Pretend it never happened. Pretend we never happened.
But I don’t.
I weave between tables, feet steady but hesitant. There’s a pressure behind my ribs I can’t quite name.
As if he senses me, Sawyer turns. His laugh fades, replaced with a slow, familiar grin that makes something traitorous twist in my gut.
“Hey, Trouble,” he says, voice low and warm, like he’s been waiting to use it.
My lips lift before I can stop them. “Hi.”
He straightens a little in his seat, his body angling toward me. The cadets beside him glance over, curiosity flickering in their expressions, but they don’t interrupt.
“What can I do for you?” Sawyer asks, his tone playful but patient, like he already knows the answer.
“I wanted to return this.” I hold the jacket out, fingers already reluctant to let it go.
His gaze drops to it. I watch his eyes track the folds of fabric, the way his brows twitch slightly before he lifts his gaze again.
“You didn’t have to,” he says gently. “I could’ve come and got it.”
“I know,” I murmur, stepping just a little closer. “But I wanted to.”
That last part hangs between us for a beat longer than it should.
He reaches out and takes the jacket from my hand. Our fingers brush—barely—but the contact is enough to jolt something awake inside me. Something I thought I’d numbed out.
For a fraction of a second, his smile falters.
Just a flicker.
His lips twitch downward, and I see it clearly now—how his eyes search mine like he’s wondering if this is a door closing. Or maybe hoping it’s not.
And that’s when I notice them.
The freckles.
Light and delicate, scattered across the bridge of his nose and dusted over his cheekbones like constellations scattered across sun-warmed skin. I hadn’t seen them before. Maybe the lighting was wrong. Maybe I didn’t look closely enough.
They make him look younger.
Softer.
He clears his throat quietly and smiles again, pulling it back into place like a mask that’s just slightly askew.
“No problem,” he says, but his voice is quieter now. Unsteady at the edges. Like there’s something he’s not saying. Like maybe he wants to say it but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
A tightness builds in my chest. Not quite guilt. Not quite sadness. Just tension. Raw and unresolved.
I start to turn away.
I should turn away. Walk back to my squad. Pretend I don’t feel this tension in the space between us.
But I don’t.
Instead, I pause, lingering a step too long. My voice slips out before I can reconsider.
“I’ll see you around?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. It comes out too soft. Too hopeful. My stomach drops the second I hear it, and I silently curse myself.
But then…
Sawyer’s smile returns. Brighter. Genuine.
“I hope so,” he says, and it’s not just a line.
It’s a wish.
I blink at him, warmth prickling behind my eyes like a blush that never quite reaches the surface.
“Bye, Sawyer.”
He nods, eyes still on me. “Bye, Trouble.”
I turn away, finally, and walk back toward the food line, the noise of the dining hall rushing back around me like a tide I hadn’t realized I’d been standing outside of.
I make my way into the food line, grab a plate, and start piling it with anything that even vaguely resembles nourishment. Steak. Roasted root vegetables. Bread with a charred edge. Gods, even the cold lentils look tempting right now. I don’t care. I’m starving.
My stomach growls so loudly it earns a wary glance from the cadet beside me. I pretend not to notice.
As I slide my plate onto the tray and glance back at the sea of tables, my breath catches mid-inhale.
There he is.
Bodhi.
Seated alone at one of the central tables, elbows resting on the wood, hands clasped in front of him like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. His posture is relaxed in that fake, too-still way. But his eyes—his eyes are already on me.
Watching.
Dark curls spill over his forehead, curling slightly with the humidity in the hall. Familiar and maddening and so him. My fingers twitch around the edge of my tray before I force myself to stop. I want to run my hands through that hair. Memorize the feel of it. I’ve dreamed of it far too often.
His lips are pressed into a line. Jaw tense. Not quite a frown, but nowhere near a smile. That unreadable expression I hate because it means he’s building walls again. Walls I can’t climb.
I can’t help but notice the way the muscles in his jaw feather, ticking beneath his cheekbone. His hand clenches his glass slightly too tight as his eyes stay locked to mine. He quirks an eyebrow at me.
How long has he been watching me?
Did he see me give Sawyer the jacket?
Did he see Sawyer smile at me like I meant something?
Good.
Let him sit there and wonder what it feels like. Let him ache for once.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and walk directly past him without so much as a twitch in his direction. My legs carry me to the far right corner, where my squad’s claimed table waits like a refuge—and a firing squad all in one.
Everyone’s already gathered. First years spread out with their usual casual chaos. To my surprise, Heaton and Emery—second years—are here too, lounging on the far side of the bench like they’re part of the furniture. Maybe they are. Emery raises a brow as I approach, but says nothing.
Quinn waves me over. There’s an empty seat beside her, and I slide into it without ceremony.
“Hey,” I mumble, before digging into my food like it might vanish.
Because, well… it might. The hunger crashes over me all at once—sharpened by skipped meals, stress, and a week of emotional whiplash. I barely remember the first bite before I’m halfway through my steak, cutting another piece with quick, sharp movements.
It’s not exactly graceful.
“Malia.”
I look up mid-chew, meeting Dain’s judgmental eyebrow from across the table.
“No one’s going to steal your food,” he says dryly. “Slow down before you choke to death and make the rest of us lose our appetite.”
I swallow and scowl at him. “I’m hungry. Take me to trial.”
His mouth twitches—betraying the smile he’s trying to hide. “You’re never this hungry. Usually we have to bribe you to eat anything beyond fruit and two crackers.”
“She skipped breakfast,” Quinn says casually, stabbing a boiled carrot like it’s a personal enemy.
Imogen perks up. “How do you know?”
“I was with her this morning,” Quinn answers, shrugging like it’s obvious.
“So?” Dain frowns, clearly not following. “That doesn’t explain why she didn’t eat.”
“We were catching up,” Quinn says pointedly, shooting me a subtle glance. “And trust me, there was a lot to talk about—especially after Sawyer—”
“Quinn!” I cut her off fast, louder than I mean to. Half the table looks over.
Quinn winces. “I mean. After four days of silence. Lots to unpack. You know?”
Imogen narrows her eyes. Her gaze flicks between the two of us. “Who’s Sawyer?”
“Who?” I repeat, way too quickly. Way too blankly.
My fingers tighten around my fork. I reach inward, not for food, but for her.
Siscil, I think, as I pull gently on the bond. Her power rises in me like warmth from the earth, ancient and calm.
Don’t say anything, I push the thought down the line to Quinn.
She nods—just barely.
But Dain is already leaning forward. “Sawyer,” he repeats, dragging out the name like he’s testing how much it stings. “Don’t play dumb. We both heard it.”
Imogen hums, crossing her arms. Great. Now they’re teaming up. My least favorite alliance.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter, cutting another piece of steak and pretending the sauce on my plate holds the answers to life.
“Quinn,” Imogen says sharply.
“I can’t say anything!” Quinn blurts, lifting both hands.
“Lia,” Imogen turns her full attention to me. Her voice isn’t angry—but it’s disappointed. Which is worse.
Then—
“I’ve waited out volcanic winters with more patience than this. Just say it.”
The voice hits me like lightning through fog.
Siscil.
Her voice wraps around my ribs like a hug I didn’t know I needed. It’s warm and deep and familiar, and my throat tightens in an instant.
You’re back, I think, almost reverently.
She’s been quiet for days—because I made her be. Because I shut her out. And she let me.
Now she’s back, soft and unbothered, like I haven’t been avoiding her since the moment my second signet ripped out of me like a curse.
Tears sting my eyes. I blink hard.
Gods. I’m pathetic.
“Malia?” Dain’s voice jolts me back. Everyone’s staring now. Even Heaton and Emery, who usually couldn’t care less about first-year drama.
When did they start giving a shit?
I blow out a slow breath and set my fork down.
“He’s just… a guy I might’ve slept with.”
Silence.
Dain drops his roll. Quinn chokes on a piece of bread.
Imogen blinks. “You might have slept with him?”
“I’ve never even heard his name. How long have you known this Sawyer?” Her voice is level, but her brows crease inward like she’s trying to do math that doesn’t make sense.
“I met him last night,” I say, eyes fixed on the plate. I don’t want to see their reactions. I already feel the weight of them.
Dain whistles low. “Damn, Lia. You player.”
I shoot him a glare so sharp it could cut through steel. He backs off, holding up a hand.
“You slept with someone you just met?” Imogen presses. “Do you even know if he’s taking inhibitors? Or what his last name is? Or if he’s a spy for the enemy? Gods, Malia!”
“Well, no…” I mumble. “But I take my inhibitors. And no, we didn’t get to the last name part – also what enemy?”
“She saves last names for the second date,” Dain mutters.
I turn my head slowly, pinning him with a death glare.
He fucking winks at me.
Imogen leans back, arms crossing again as she shifts her gaze to Quinn, clearly looking for confirmation. She must find what she’s searching for, because when she looks back at me, her mouth quirks.
“Well,” she says at last, “I hope it was some much-needed stress relief.”
And just like that, the tension loosens—
Until she looks over my shoulder.
Her smile vanishes.
“What was?”
The voice behind me is deep.
Familiar.
Unwelcome.
Garrick.
I go completely still.
I keep my eyes locked on Imogen’s, refusing to turn around. If I don’t acknowledge him, maybe he’ll disappear. He’s not there. He’s not there. He’s not—
“You know what? I don’t care,” Garrick says, his tone casual and far too close. “Tiarnes, you’ve had a week off.”
Shit.
Slowly, I lift my head, glancing up through my lashes.
And there he is.
Towering over me with that smirk that makes me want to stab something. He crosses his arms, muscles straining beneath his uniform like he knows how obnoxiously tall and smug he is.
“Hi Garrick,” I say sweetly, summoning the brightest fake smile I can muster. “How are you?”
“Do you really care?” His brows lift in amusement.
“Of course,” I deadpan.
Beside me, Dain groans and mutters something under his breath.
“In that case,” Garrick says, “I’m sad.”
“Oh no. Tragic.”
“I haven’t seen you in the combat hall in five days.”
I blink up at him, feigning shock. “Five days? How will you survive?”
He chuckles, and before I can blink, his large hand lands on top of my head. He tilts it back, gently but firmly, like I’m a disobedient pup.
“Let's go fix that, right now.”
“Hard pass.”
“It’s not up for debate.”
Then, without warning, he releases my head and grabs my waist, lifting me clean out of my seat like I weigh nothing.
“Nooo,” I groan, letting my limbs go limp. “Why are we still doing this? I thought this training thing was supposed to be temporary.”
“Let’s just say,” Garrick says as he plops me on my feet and claps my shoulder like I’m one of his soldiers, “I’ve grown attached.”
The squad doesn’t even blink. This might as well be normal. Dain snickers. Imogen hides a smile. Emery actually winks.
And as Garrick starts leading me toward the doors, I don’t miss it.
The look he throws over his shoulder.
Straight at Bodhi.
It’s quick.
Subtle.
But charged.
And Bodhi doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Because something just shifted in the air between them—and I don’t know what it means.
Quinn left shortly after. The sounds of cadets rising for the day ripple through the stone hallway—boots thudding, armor clinking, voices rising and falling like the tide. The world is waking up around me, indifferent to the wreckage I still feel inside.
Karr finally cleared me for classes. Apparently, my signet is “unlikely to cause irreparable damage” in its current state. As if that means anything when I came one breath away from forcing someone I love to wipe my mind.
But sure. Totally harmless.
Regardless, I need out of this room. The walls have grown too familiar, the silence too loud. Even if it means getting thrown back into my relentless training schedule—I’ll take the pain over the waiting.
I move on autopilot. Strip off the oversized sleep shirt I’ve been living in and trade it for a snug, long-sleeved black top. The fabric clings to my body like armour, grounding me. My leathers follow, buckled and laced with the precision of routine, before I slide my flight jacket over my shoulders. Sawyer’s now hangs limply off the desk chair behind me.
One by one, I fasten my daggers—two sheathed against my outer thighs, two crossing over the small of my back. The familiar pressure steadies me. Makes me feel like I might still be a rider. Like I haven’t completely lost myself.
I lace up my boots, grab my satchel, and give my room one last look before stepping into the corridor, the air sharp against my skin.
The hallway is a current I have to swim through—bodies in motion, loud and alive. My shoulder brushes someone’s arm; another cadet nearly collides with my satchel. I duck and weave instinctively, letting the tide of motion carry me up the stairwell toward battle brief.
My stomach grumbles, but breakfast isn’t an option today. Catching up with Quinn this morning took too long, and I’m already cutting it close.
I slip into the battle brief hall just ahead of the surge, the heavy doors groaning closed behind me. The cold air inside bites at my cheeks. I inhale deeply. Ink. Leather. Dust. It smells like discipline and exhaustion.
The room is divided by year—first-years in front, second-years in the middle, third-years in the back, looming like shadows. I make my way to the front section, choosing a seat on the edge, and lower my books onto the desk with a dull thud. My pen clicks softly in my hand as I prepare for whatever I missed.
The massive map on the wall has changed. New flags have been added—new skirmishes, new claims, new deaths. I stare at it for a beat longer than I should. My break is over. And the world didn’t even notice I was gone.
Someone drops into the seat beside me. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Hey,” I murmur, turning slightly to meet Dain’s eyes.
He gives me a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s familiar. Comfortable. We’re technically fine now, but there’s a weight between us. A silence neither of us has named.
“Hey,” he replies, voice soft. “How’re you feeling today?”
“Better.” I shrug lightly. “I can walk by myself, so that’s promising.”
He huffs a laugh, elbow nudging mine in quiet affection. “That’s the bar now?”
“Apparently.”
His smile lingers. “Talked to Siscil yet?”
“No,” I say too quickly, gaze dropping to my books. “Not really.”
“You should.” His tone is light, teasing. “You’re kind of bonded to her until you die, in case you forgot.”
“Oh, that’s what that was? I thought it was just a passionate fling. My mistake.” I roll my eyes, sarcasm thick enough to choke on.
He chuckles. “You always did commit hard.”
Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the air.
“Aetos.”
I freeze. My chest pulls tight. Muscles tense like drawn wires. I don’t need to look up. I know that voice.
Imogen.
Boots scrape behind me, and then she steps over the bench to the seat on my other side. She doesn’t hesitate. Just slides in, as if this moment isn’t wrapped in razorwire.
“Imogen.” Dain greets her with a nod.
I keep my gaze fixed on the desk, pretending my heartbeat hasn’t gone erratic, pretending the air doesn’t suddenly feel thinner.
We sit in a silence that hums with static until Dain clears his throat, awkward as ever.
“So… are you two good?”
I glance sideways. His face is drawn in confusion, like he’s been handed a scroll written in a dead language and he’s been asked to read it aloud.
“We’re fine, Aetos,” Imogen snaps, her voice cold. “Why are you even sitting next to Malia? Didn’t get the memo that you’re not wanted?”
The words hit me like a punch wrapped in warmth. Even now. Even after everything. She’s still trying to protect me.
“Clearly you didn’t get the memo that we made up,” Dain snaps back, popping the “p” before turning back toward the front. Effectively ending the conversation.
“Lia.” Her voice softens. Urgent. It coils in my chest like a rope being pulled.
I finally glance at her. Her green eyes are dull—unfocused, tired. There’s a sliver of brown at her roots where the pink has started to fade. Her expression folds into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes either.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically, brows knitting.
“I’m fine.” My brows furrow and I turn away once more. Confusion scratching at the back of my mind and guilt gnawing up my throat.
“Really? That’s all you have to say?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Quinn arrives, dropping into the seat beside Imogen, and shoots me a cautious smile.
Imogen leans in, voice sharp as glass. “How about ‘I’m sorry’? Or ‘I miss you’? Or even just, ‘Can we talk?’”
Her words crack something inside me.
I open my mouth, lips parting on a breath that trembles with everything unsaid—but before I can speak, Professor Devara’s voice slices through the air like a thrown blade.
“Open to page ninety-seven.”
The sound jolts through the room like a slap.
And just like that, the spell shatters.
The moment we were teetering on—raw and fragile and trembling with the weight of everything we haven’t said—it dissolves beneath the cold, steady rhythm of a lesson.
Or at least… it should.
But it doesn’t.
Not for me.
Because my hands are trembling. My ears are ringing. My heart is still tumbling from some invisible ledge, the ground nowhere in sight. Every inhale feels too loud. Every sound muffled under the static roar in my chest.
I stare blankly at the front of the room as Devara starts lecturing about the collapse of a strategic flank in some long-past battle whose name I don’t catch. Her voice is low, confident, unwavering.
Unlike me.
Her words barely register. They drip off me like rain on waxed leather.
Because all I can hear are Imogen’s.
How about ‘I’m sorry’? Or ‘I miss you’? Or even just, ‘Can we talk?’
They loop again and again. Not like a question. Not like a demand.
Like a truth I’ve been avoiding.
She’s right.
She’s so painfully, devastatingly right.
I was the one who snapped the bond between us, who weaponised something sacred. Who let the power inside me spill out unchecked. I am the one who made her fear me.
And yet… she’s still the one reaching across the broken bridge.
Why?
Why is she the one trying when I’m the one who set the fire?
I shift in my seat, shoulders curled inward as if I can make myself smaller, less visible. My throat tightens until it feels like I’m being strangled from the inside out.
A hollow ache blooms beneath my ribs, a raw, gnawing kind of pain. Like grief. Like hunger. Like guilt that has festered too long.
I feel brittle. Glass left too long in the frost. One more impact and I’ll crack.
I curl my fingers tightly in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palms, grounding myself in pain because it’s the only thing that feels real.
I need something steady. Something that won’t recoil from me. That won’t ask questions or demand apologies I don’t yet know how to give.
I need her.
Siscil.
So I close my eyes.
Just for a breath.
And I go inward.
Past the pounding of my heart. Past the wreckage of shame and sorrow swirling in my gut. Past the jagged memory of Imogen’s expression when I compelled her—when she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.
I push through all of it, until I find the forest.
My forest.
It rises from the dark like a memory made of moss and sun and the scent of wet bark. Towering ash and pine trees stretch overhead, their trunks wide and weathered, their leaves dancing in the wind. The canopy breaks in places, letting golden light trickle down in soft beams that warm the back of my neck.
I inhale deeply and the scent of petrichor fills my lungs—damp earth, wildflowers, old magic.
This is where Siscil lives inside me. Not in fire or fury, but in the quiet strength of the natural world. In roots and silence and truth. She’s waiting. Coiled near the edge of a sun-dappled clearing.
She does not speak.
She doesn’t need to.
Her presence brushes against my mind, patient and unwavering. Like wind stirring leaves. Like a reminder that I am not alone.
She knows why I’m here. Not to talk. Not to explain. But to find the courage to face someone I might have already lost.
I turn inward again, toward the glittering latticework of threads that stretch through this space—delicate strands of light linking me to the minds I’ve touched. Most of them are faint. Unused. Dormant.
Except one.
Pink.
Faint but constant. Soft and pulsing. Like the flicker of a candle in a windstorm.
Imogen.
I reach out with shaking fingers—mental, emotional, something deeper—and wrap my hand around the bond. I pull it gently, as if drawing her into the clearing with me.
And then, suddenly, she’s here.
Not her body. But her presence. Her essence. Her storm.
The emotions hit me all at once.
Anger, sharp as broken glass. Righteous and aching.
Hurt, deep and tangled like thorns wrapping around her ribs.
And beneath it—quiet, but unshakable—betrayal. The kind that settles in the marrow. That leaves a stain you can’t wash out.
It steals my breath.
I did this.
I caused this pain.
And yet… she didn’t shut me out. She didn’t sever the bond.
That mercy slices me open more than any punishment could.
The guilt surges up and out of me, flooding every vein. It’s thick and hot and unbearable. It chokes my voice even in thought.
But I force the words through anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper across the bond. “For using compulsion on you. For… taking your will. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”
Her answer comes like a soft exhale. Not warm. Not angry. Just tired.
“I know, Lia. I never blamed you. None of us knew what your signet was really capable of. We didn’t know what it could become.”
“I wish that were all,” I admit, shame pressing against my ribs like a vice. “But it’s not.”
A pause.
“I’ve manifested a second signet.”
There’s no time to brace.
Her emotional response slams into me like a crashing wave. Shock. Confusion. Something that tastes dangerously like fear.
Her pen clatters to the desk beside me. She doesn’t even flinch.
“Sorry—what?” Her voice slices through the bond, disbelieving and edged with something sharp.
“I’ll explain after class,” I promise, barely able to push the words through. “I swear. It’s a long story.”
“You’re not getting out of this,” she warns, and her tone crackles. “I want every detail. You owe me that.”
“I know,” I say, and gods, I do. I owe her so much more than that.
I start to retreat—to gently close the link—but she grips the bond like a lifeline.
“Wait.”
The single word stops me cold.
“We’re not done.” Her voice has softened again, but there’s steel beneath it. “You apologized. I forgave you. But I need to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” My voice is barely breath.
“That we’re okay. That we’re still… us.”
My breath catches. I want to give her that.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
“I can’t,” I whisper. The words brittle as I dig my nails into my thigh.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t say we’re good.”
A silence falls between us. And this time, it’s thick with tension. With things breaking beneath the surface.
“Why not?”
“I saw you last night.” I say, each word scraping my throat raw. “With Bodhi.”
I feel her go still. Like a predator caught mid-step.
“So?”
“You were sneaking around again.”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch.
“You’ve seen us sneak out before.”
My voice falters. “Why were you with him?”
Hope stirs painfully in my chest, fragile as spun glass. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe there’s something—anything—that can unravel the image burned into my mind.
“You know I can’t tell you,” she says softly.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“For who?” I press. “For me? Or for you and Bodhi?”
“Both.”
The word echoes through me, hollow and final.
I suck in a breath too sharp to disguise. Beside me, Dain turns his head, concern flickering in his expression. I shake my head and force a brittle smile.
He looks away.
“I know you’re sleeping together,” I say into the bond, and the words feel like shrapnel in my mouth. “I heard you. Talking about bad decisions. About getting caught.”
Imogen recoils so hard I feel it—like a snapped string pulling tight.
“What the fuck, Lia?” Her voice floods with disbelief and raw hurt. “We’re not. I would never. Not with him. Not to you.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I shoot back, voice shaking.
“I’m not lying! Why would you even think—”
“You were together. Whispering. Sneaking into the dorm wing. Again. What else was I supposed to think?”
“You’re wrong,” she says. “That’s not what it was.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t.”
Of course she can’t.
Silence rings louder than the noise around us.
“But I swear to you,” she says finally, her voice quieter, hollow with hurt, “I’m not sleeping with Bodhi. I would never do that to you. Never.”
My heart fractures—sharp and slow, like ice breaking underfoot.
“How can I trust you?”
She doesn’t respond right away.
Then: “You just have to,” she whispers. “You did once before. I’m asking you to do it again. Please, Malia.”
And gods help me, when I look at her—really look—I see her.
Not the silence. Not the secrets. Not the betrayal I built in my head.
I see the girl who grabbed my arm before threshing and made me swear not to die.
The girl who stood between me and danger more times than I can count.
The girl who has always, always chosen me.
Imogen.
My Imogen.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Her eyes widen. “You’ll trust me?”
“I don’t have a choice,” I admit, every word a bruise. “Because if it’s between trusting you or losing you… I’d rather risk everything.”
I swallow hard.
“Losing you, would hurt more than any pain you could bring me.”
Her voice threads into the silence. “I will never hurt you, Lia.”
Her vow curls around my heart like a promise I want so desperately to believe.
And maybe I do.
Just for now.
Even if it terrifies me.
Even if I shouldn’t.
The bond dims. I let it slip closed like a curtain at the end of a play.
Imogen’s knee nudges mine beneath the table. It’s soft. Barely there. But it’s everything.
Light filters through my eyelids in soft, fragmented streaks—like fingers prying at a locked door. The warmth of the blanket tries to anchor me, but something tugs at the edge of my awareness. A sound.
Tap.
I shift beneath the covers, dragging the thick comforter over my shoulder. Whatever it is, it can wait. My muscles ache with the kind of soreness that comes after release and regret.
Tap tap.
There it is again. Louder now. Firmer.
A pressure across my waist draws my attention next—solid, warm, and familiar. I blink fully awake.
Sawyer.
He’s curled against me, chest rising in a slow rhythm, one arm flung over my waist like I’m something he meant to hold onto through the night. His face is relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair tousled from sleep and rain. I stare at him for a moment too long, the memories of last night unfurling in my chest like a wildfire. His hands. His mouth. The way I let myself forget.
“Malia?”
The voice, muffled and unmistakable, cuts through the quiet. Quinn.
Panic jolts me upright. Sawyer stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. I press a hand against his arm, stilling him, and carefully shimmy free from his grasp. The floor bites at my bare feet with its chill, but I don’t stop. I scan the room in a flurry—where are my clothes?
My eyes scan the mess of clothing scattered across the floor—Sawyer’s boots, my soaked pants, his wrinkled shirt—and I quickly tug on my discarded sleepwear, throwing the jacket from my armoire over my shoulders.
Only when I’m at the door do I realize—this isn’t my jacket.
It hangs too loose, the sleeves falling past my fingers, the fabric smelling faintly of smoke and rain and boy. Sawyer’s. Of course.
Suppressing a curse, I crack the door just enough to peek out. Quinn stands there with one hand mid-air, ready to knock again. Her wild curls are tousled with sleep, and shadows cling beneath her eyes like bruises that never healed. Her expression softens the moment she sees me.
“Mornin’,” I whisper, voice scratchy with sleep and something else—uncertainty, maybe.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You okay?”
I nod, inching the door open further but staying half inside. “Yeah. Just—uh—what’s up?”
Her gaze flickers to the jacket but doesn’t comment. “Can we talk?”
I glance back once more at the lump in my bed. Still sleeping. I step out and shut the door gently behind me.
“Yeah,” I say again, tugging the collar of the jacket higher like it might shield me from the tension pressing in.
“How are you?” she asks after a beat, like she’s testing the waters.
I force a brittle smile. “Good.”
She tilts her head. “Good?”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. You?”
She gives a tight nod. “Fine.”
We lapse into silence again. The hallway is quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of morning wind slipping through the windows at the far end. Mage lights flicker once overhead, then extinguish as dawn fully claims the corridor.
“It’s been a couple of days,” Quinn says softly, her voice cracking just slightly.
I nod, teeth worrying my lip. “I’m surprised you came to see me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she frowns.
I hug the jacket tighter around me. “I thought… I mean, it felt like you and Imogen were avoiding me. I haven’t seen either of you since—” I stop. The words stick like splinters in my throat.
Her brows knit together. “We weren’t avoiding you, Lia. Professor Karr had you in isolation until he could assess your signet—to make sure it was stable.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Imogen wanted to sneak in to see you. Bodhi talked her out of it. Said you needed space.”
I blink. My chest constricts like someone has laced my ribs too tight.
“What?” My voice is barely more than breath.
“Did you really think we were avoiding you?” Her voice cracks with disbelief, maybe even hurt.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Honestly? I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
Mage lights above us dim and click off as the morning sun brightens the corridor, washing everything in soft amber.
Her mouth parts in shock. “Malia. No. Gods, no.”
I duck my head. “I thought… what I did to Imogen…”
“No, Malia. We would never avoid you. What happened was scary—but we weren’t scared of you. We were scared for you.” She takes a hesitant step forward, like she’s afraid I might bolt.
“You’re like our sister. We would never abandon you. Imogen was ready to face punishment just to see you.”
I open my mouth to respond—but the door creaks behind me.
I freeze.
Sawyer stands in the doorway, holding his boots. His pants hang low on his hips, his shirt wrinkled beyond saving. He looks up—and locks eyes with Quinn.
His jaw slackens in surprise. “Hey...” he drawls, caught somewhere between a wince and a greeting.
I want the floor to swallow me whole.
Quinn stares at him, blinking, and then manages, “Hi.”
The silence that follows is thick and mortifying. I shift to the side, arms crossed awkwardly across my chest.
“Uh, Quinn, meet Sawyer,” I say, voice pitching high in embarrassment. “He’s a… friend.”
Quinn arches a brow, her eyes flicking from me to Sawyer, then back again with deliberate slowness. “Nice to meet you, Sawyer,” she says, trying—and failing—to keep the smirk out of her voice.
Sawyer rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting between us. “Yeah, you too.” Then he looks at me and grins sheepishly. “Oh, there’s my jacket.”
“Shit, sorry,” I say, tugging at the sleeves as I start to shrug the jacket off. Before I can fully peel it away, Sawyer steps closer and gently catches my wrist, his fingers warm against my skin.
“Keep it,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over me with a crooked smile. “Gives me an excuse to come find you later.”
Malek. Take me now.
He pauses, then clocks the tension humming between me and Quinn. “I interrupted something, didn’t I?” he mutters, fingers running through his messy curls.
“A little bit,” Quinn says, her amusement finally breaking through in her tone.
“It’s fine,” I reassure quickly, trying to spare him further awkwardness. I shoot Quinn a look that screams be nice. She just rolls her eyes and leans against the wall like this is the most entertainment she’s had in days.
“Right. Well, I’m gonna… go now.” Sawyer’s eyes find mine again, and there’s a gentleness in his smile that hits me somewhere deep and undeserved. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“Anytime,” I say softly. “Thanks for looking after me last night.”
He gives me a quick nod, then lifts a hand in farewell to Quinn and disappears down the hallway, boots thudding against the stone.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Quinn turns to me with a cocked brow and crosses her arms. “Should I ask?”
“No. You definitely should not.” I groan and press a hand to my still-warm face.
She chuckles, the sound bright and familiar, and steps past me without waiting for an invitation. “Now I know why you didn’t invite me in earlier.”
I trail after her, heart flipping when I notice the bed—made, barely, but still neat. Sawyer had tucked the sheets up before leaving.
That simple kindness punches guilt straight through my ribs.
He’d been sweet. Too sweet. And I’d used him like a salve to patch over a wound that hadn’t even begun to scab.
I shut the door behind us.
Quinn perches on the edge of my bed like she owns the place, scanning the room with casual interest. Her fingers trace idle patterns across the fabric of my bedspread, the silence between us a warm, tentative kind. For the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the edge of something sharp.
Still, my voice is careful as I ask, “How is Imogen?”
The question hangs in the air like a sword suspended by thread. I have to force my mind not to spiral into thoughts of Bodhi and Imogen in the hallway last night.
Quinn stills. Her eyes don’t meet mine immediately. I look away first, jaw tight against the image still seared into my mind.
“She’s… processing,” Quinn says after a long beat, her voice softer now, wary. “You know how she is. Dramatic, stubborn, loyal to a fault.” She lifts her eyes, searching mine. “But she doesn’t hate you, Lia. You know that, right?”
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. No, I know. Just… checking.”
Another beat of silence. Neither of us seems quite sure what to say.
Quinn shifts, drawing her legs up onto the bed and changing the subject with a lightness that feels just a little forced.
“So... Sawyer, huh?” she says, dragging out his name with a sly smirk.
I groan and press a palm to my forehead as she changes the topic, in typical a typical Quinn fashion whenever things – or people – get too close to cracking. “Please don’t.”
“No, no—you don’t get to sleep with a mysterious jacket donor and not tell me anything. I need details. Timeline. Logistics. Was it better than Dain? Did he—”
“Quinn.” I throw a pillow at her, but she catches it, laughing.
“Fine, I’ll behave.” She flops backward onto the bed dramatically, arms outstretched like a starfish. “But you’re stingy, you know that?”
I crack a reluctant smile and sit down at the head of the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on them, watching Quinn sprawl across my bed like she owns the place. Which—honestly—she sort of does. She’s always been the kind of person who fills a space just by being in it.
She props herself up on one elbow, narrowing her eyes at me. “Tell me though. Was it actually a one-time thing or do you think you’ll see him again?”
I shrug, staring at the scuff mark on my floor. “I don’t know. He’s sweet. And hot, obviously. But it wasn’t really about him.”
Quinn lifts a brow, urging me to keep going.
“I met him last night,” I admit, voice quieting. “It wasn’t planned. It kind of… just happened.”
“What kind of ‘happened’? Just a little rainstorm romance or something out of a storybook?” She jokes in a attempt to ease the suddenly sombre mood once more.
I roll my eyes, but the tension starts to bleed out of me. “More like a sad-girl spiral meets hot guy with good timing.”
She grins, stretching out on her side. “And you say I’m dramatic.”
I laugh softly, eyes fixed on the worn seams in the quilt beneath my fingers. “I was out in the rain. He found me. Walked me back here. He was kind, and I just—” My throat closes up around the words. “It was about me. About needing something to drown everything else out. I felt so... empty. And he was just there. And kind. And I took advantage of that.” I pause. Silence stretching thin again.
She doesn’t interrupt. Just watches, her expression sobering.
“I feel awful,” I whisper. “He’s such a good guy. Like—he made my bed before he left. Who does that?”
Quinn gives a low whistle. “Oof. That’s boyfriend behaviour. Like that’s prime ‘I’ll get us breakfast and ask how you slept’ energy.”
A short laugh escapes me, but the ache remains.
Quinn reaches over and flicks my knee gently. “So, you’re saying you seduced a sweet boy who found you shivering in the rain and made sure you got into bed safely?”
“You make it sound like I lured him in with sad eyes and a sob story.”
“No,” she says, voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m saying you’re human, Lia. That’s not a crime.”
“But I used him,” I say. “And I’m still hung up on Bodhi. It just feels... wrong.”
Quinn sighs and rolls back onto her side to face me fully. “Lia. You’re allowed to be messy. You’re allowed to fuck up. Hell, you’re even allowed to sleep with someone just because you wanted to feel something again.” She softens further, her smile tilting wistfully. “Sawyer seems like a big boy. I think he’ll survive.”
I nod. Cracking a small smile as I digest her words.
“Besides, he knew what he was walking into. If he said yes, that’s on him too. You’re not the villain in this story. And frankly, I don’t think Sawyer’s going to be crying into his pillow about one really good night with you.”
I let out a soft snort, burying my face against my knees.
Quinn grins and wiggles her brows. “So it was good?”
“I’m not answering that.”
She hums, thoughtful. “So see where it goes. Or don’t. But don’t punish yourself for letting someone care about you—even just for a night. Everyone here’s surviving in their own way.”
I stare at her for a long second, then exhale slowly. “You always know what to say.”
She grins, mischievous again. “It’s a gift. So. Should I expect a sock on the door next time?”
“Quinn.”
“I’m just saying! A little warning would’ve been nice.” She folds her arms, smirking. “At the very least, keep him on speed dial for future rainy days. Booty call rights officially granted.”
I chuck a pillow at her again. She ducks, cackling.
“You don’t even know him,” I mutter, laughing.
“Lia,” she says seriously, then cracks a grin. “If I weren’t in love with you like a sister, I’d be your booty call. I mean, have you seen you?”
A laugh bursts out of me, genuine and unguarded, and Quinn joins in, the sound echoing off the stone walls like warmth.
The ache in my chest eases. Not gone. Not forgotten. But no longer pressing down like it might crush me.
And somewhere—just at the edge of my awareness—I feel the pulse of Siscil’s bond. Quiet. Tentative.
For the first time in days, I don’t shove her away.
I breathe in, slowly.
There’s still so much to face. So much I haven’t said.
But this? This moment—Quinn sprawled across my bed like nothing’s changed, teasing me, comforting me—it feels like a stitch pulling closed.
Rain trickles down the window, a constant, whispering rhythm that’s been my only company for hours. I lie still beneath the thin blanket, muscles stiff from disuse, eyes unfocused. The room is swallowed in darkness, the moonlight smothered by thick stormclouds that blot out even the faintest glow. Shadows stretch long and unmoving across the floor, cloaking everything in indigo silence.
Siscil’s presence pulses faintly through the bond—warm, steady, like the beat of a distant drum. I shut her out again, the mental shield snapping into place before her comfort can reach me. Whether she told Dain through Cath or not, she hasn’t spoken to me since the truth came out. Not once. Not even to say sorry.
And until she does, I don’t want to hear from her.
With a groan, I shove the blanket off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Cold air bites at my bare calves. I tug on thick socks and lace my boots halfway, fingers sluggish with sleep deprivation. My jacket is still draped over the back of my desk chair—damp from yesterday's training but the only option I have.
Sleep isn’t coming tonight. My mind is too loud.
The door creaks softly as I slip into the corridor. The stone beneath my feet is slick with chill, and the enchanted mage lights flicker on in pulses as I move, then fade behind me, swallowing me in shadow again and again. I keep my steps light, letting my weight roll on the balls of my feet like I was taught—one part rider reflex, one part instinct to vanish.
I turn down the corridor toward the bathing chambers, chasing the promise of scalding water and silence.
But voices stop me in my tracks.
Muffled at first. Then clearer. Closer.
Shit.
I glance wildly around before spotting a shallow alcove just ahead—likely built for shielding torch scones or idle conversations. I slip into it, pressing myself flat against the cold stone just as the voices turn the corner.
“If you keep stepping that loudly, we’ll be caught before we even make it to the damn courtyard,” someone hisses.
My stomach flips.
That voice. I know it. Too well.
“I’m six feet of solid stealth, thank you very much,” comes the reply—lower, familiar in a way that makes my lungs freeze.
Bodhi.
I risk a glance from behind the stone pillar.
He walks beside Imogen.
“She’s six feet of clumsy bad decisions,” Imogen mutters.
“When the bad decision wears tight black boots and a sarcastic mouth, it’s hard not to make it,” Bodhi replies, grinning as he throws her a wink.
The breath leaves my chest. My nails dig into the seams of my jacket. I duck back behind the wall before either of them can see me, heart thudding like thunder against my ribs.
I should be relieved to see her. My best friend. My family. But right now, I can’t untangle the emotion knotted in my throat—rage, grief, jealousy, betrayal. They’re all bleeding together like ink in water.
“Gods,” I whisper.
“You’re insufferable. Like a love-sick puppy,” Imogen says, her voice fainter now.
They're heading back toward the dorms.
Together.
They weren’t heading to a party.
They were sneaking into the dorms. Together.
A wave of nausea crashes over me, bile searing my throat. My chest hollows out, air scraping painfully down my throat and my knees tremble as I stand frozen in place, mind spiralling, trying to make sense of it. Of them. Of all the things Bodhi hasn’t said to me. Every part of me feels like it’s burning and freezing at once. Numb and sharp and hollow.
Imogen and Bodhi.
They lied. The whole time.
--
I don’t remember walking. Don’t remember crossing the upper courtyard or slipping past the main gate. One moment I’m hidden in stone, the next I’m outside, the wind cutting through my clothes like knives, rain soaking me to the bone.
I end up on the edge of the courtyard’s low stone wall, perched like a ghost. My legs dangle over the drop. My hair hangs wet and heavy around my face, droplets tracking down my spine. I feel hollow. No fear. No pain. Just cold.
And then—footsteps.
A hand enters my vision. Pale fingers, callused.
I look up slowly.
A boy stands beside me, tall and broad-shouldered, his curls wet and clinging to his forehead. He watches me with careful eyes, his expression twisted in something like concern. It flickers through the haze of my mind—he’s beautiful, even under the dim light. The kind of beautiful that would look softer in daylight. Like spring before the bloom.
“Are you okay?” His voice is soft—warmer than I expect. Kind.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Everything inside me is too loud. Too broken.
He waits for a beat. Looks around, like checking for others.
“Alright,” he says eventually. “You clearly need someone, and I don’t feel right leaving you out here alone. Come on.”
He holds out a hand, palm open.
I stare at it, my fingers twitching. Why is he being kind? Doesn’t he know I’m a disaster?
“I’m getting cold,” he adds with a sheepish smile. “Please don’t make me beg.”
I take his hand before I can think better of it.
His palm is warm, firm—his grip steady but not forceful. It steadies me. A little.
He leads me back inside through dripping halls, neither of us speaking. I let the silence fill in the cracks. The rain doesn’t let up, soaking our boots, plastering our clothes to our skin. The halls of Basgiath feel emptier than they should. Like the whole world has shrunk down to just this moment and this stranger.
“I’d offer my room, but I’m not bonded yet, so I’m stuck in shared quarters,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Want me to walk you to yours?”
The idea of my bed feels like a thousand needles, and I dread having to return. Knowing what—or who—might be happening down the hall. But the thought of being alone again is worse.
I nod. He squeezes my hand and says nothing else.
I lead him to my room; fingers still tangled in his.
When the door closes behind us, he glances around awkwardly. “You got a towel?” he asks, eyeing the puddle of rain pooling at his feet.
I blink. “Right.” I fumble through my armoire, yanking out the only dry towel I have.
“She speaks,” he says, grinning. “I was starting to think you were a ghost.”
I hand him the towel, but he pushes it gently back.
“You need it more.”
I dry off without argument, leaving the towel on the back of my chair. His eyes flick across the room—curious, but not invasive.
“Malia,” I say eventually, clearing my throat.
“Sorry?”
“My name,” I repeat. “It’s Malia.”
He nods. Smiles faintly. “Sawyer.”
He eyes the door again. “I should probably go—”
“Wait.” I block his path without thinking. “You can stay. Dry off here.”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re not.” My voice is hoarse. “I just... I don’t want to be alone.”
Something in his face softens.
I look away. “Sorry, I’m not usually like this. I just—everything’s falling apart. My friends hate me. The guy I can’t stop thinking about is with one of them. My dragon lied to me. And I can’t stop being stuck in my own damn head.”
Silence. Then, quietly:
“I can stay. If you want.”
He’s flushed, water still dripping from his hair. But there’s no pity in his voice. Just quiet sincerity.
I nod.
Sawyer gives a crooked grin. “If nothing else, it’s a good excuse to escape the snoring back in the barracks.”
“I mean, I don’t have a spare towel,” I say, stepping away from the door and shrugging off my damp jacket, tossing it over the desk chair, “but you’re free to stay. If you don’t mind sharing the bed.”
“I’d never complain about sharing a bed with a cute girl,” Sawyer replies with a light scoff. I hear the rustle of fabric as he pulls off his jacket.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and work on unlacing my boots. The leather squeaks slightly as I peel them off and toss them toward the wall. When I straighten and look up, my breath catches.
Sawyer stands bare-chested near my armoire, water glistening on the hard lines of his torso. His hair curls damply at the nape of his neck. He looks like spring come to life—golden skin, soft freckles, a subtle flush creeping across his cheeks from the chill or maybe from catching my stare. He drapes his shirt and jacket over the armoire door, then notices my gaze.
“Shit—sorry. I probably should’ve asked before stripping down in your room,” he says, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth as he makes an awkward attempt to cover his chest.
I laugh, the sound catching me off guard. It bubbles out before I can stop it.
I laugh, the sound breathy and unguarded. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen shirtless guys before. You’re not offending my delicate sensibilities.”
I motion toward the armoire. “Mind grabbing me something dry?”
He nods and rifles through the shelves, pulling out a cotton sleep shirt and a pair of black shorts—soft, worn-in, a little oversized. I take them from him, my fingers brushing his.
I don’t bother with modesty as I peel off my soaked shirt. Sawyer immediately turns away with a pointed cough, back straight and tense. I grin at his politeness even as I wiggle free of my pants, the leather clinging stubbornly to my thighs.
I pull on the dry clothes and let out a soft sigh as warmth seeps back into my limbs.
“You can look now,” I call, amused.
He peeks first, confirming I’m decent, then faces me fully with a smile. His eyes darting over me like he’s memorizing something sacred. I drop onto the bed and watch him check the armoire again.
“Think I’ll have to sleep in my jocks if I want these dry by tomorrow,” he mutters.
“That’s fine,” I reply, maybe a little too quickly.
He hesitates, then slips out of his boots, followed by his pants. I keep my gaze fixed on the wall, but my eyes betray me, flicking down to the taut lines of his body, the curve of his waist, the faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his briefs.
When he climbs into the bed beside me, the mattress shifts under his weight, and I feel a jolt of something sharp and electric in my chest. He slips beneath the blanket and immediately draws the covers up to his chest, which somehow disappoints me.
“Are you sure this isn’t weird?” he asks, voice low, uncertain.
“Not if you don’t make it weird.” I slide beneath the covers, my leg brushing his. The contact is brief but potent. “Besides, people sleep with anyone here. It’s not like we’re kids.”
He’s quiet for a second.
“I’m not trying to get in your pants or anything, by the way.”
“What?” I glance over at him.
“I just mean… the whole situation’s a bit—convenient. I find you upset, we end up here, in bed, mostly naked… I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying to take advantage of you.”
His words are soft, but sincere. Thoughtful.
I pause, letting his words settle.
“I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t?”
I let a slow smile stretch across my lips. “You’re cute, Sawyer. And kind. And none of us know if we’ll survive tomorrow. So why not take what we can while we have it?”
He hums, that low rumble settling somewhere deep in my stomach. “Well… this is one hell of an opportunity.”
I lean in. “It definitely is.”
He searches my face. His eyes flick down to my mouth. That’s all the signal I need.
I lean in and press my lips to his.
It starts slow. Curious. His lips press to mine like a question, but I answer with my hands—sliding over his ribs, his back, anchoring us together beneath the sheets. When my mouth parts, his follows, and the kiss deepens—messy and warm and addictive.
His hand slides to my waist, fingers spreading over my hip like he wants to imprint it to memory. I shift, pressing my chest against his, the fabric of our shirts the only thing between us.
The heat builds in quiet waves.
For the first time in four days, I’m not thinking about Imogen. Or Dain. Or Quinn.
Or Bodhi.
It’s just this—his mouth on mine, his fingers splayed along the curve of my back, his breathing speeding up to match mine. My leg hooks over his, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat—surprised, wrecked. His fingers skim beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing skin. My breath catches.
“Malia…” he murmurs, almost like a warning.
His thumb brushes under the hem of my shirt, warm against my hip.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod.
Instead of answering, I tug him back to me, our mouths colliding with urgency. My hands run over the lean muscles of his back, up to the sharp edge of his jaw, memorizing every angle, every sound he makes.
When he shifts again—pressing between my thighs, mouth never leaving mine—I let myself melt entirely into the moment.
Nothing exists outside this room.
Not heartbreak. Not betrayal.
Only this.
Only now.
Read spice part here
--
We stare at each other in silence, breaths still catching, skin cooling in the quiet aftermath. Then, like a bubble bursting, I let out a breathy laugh.
Sawyer blinks at me, startled at first, then grins—wide and lazy. The kind of smile that settles in slowly and lights up his whole face. He rolls off me and onto his side to face me, propping his head on one hand, his curls damp and wild against his forehead.
“What’s funny?” he asks, brows lifting in amusement.
“Sorry, I was just—” I snort again, barely holding it back. “That was definitely a good distraction.” I finally manage to get out through the tail end of another breathless laugh.
He chuckles too, the sound deep and warm. “I mean, I do aim to please.”
I roll my eyes, smirking. “You’re so modest.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
The air in the room is still thick with the scent of sex and rain-soaked leather, but wrapped in this strange little bubble of warmth, it feels… safe. Real. Quiet.
“Though, fair warning, I’m also the type who eats the last sweet roll and blames it on someone else.” Sawyer says, voice low and amused.
I let out another soft laugh, rolling onto my side to face him. “Noted. So what are you—post-intimacy? Do you turn over and pretend I don’t exist, or…”
“Are you the post-cuddle type or the ‘awkward silence until I sneak out at dawn’ type?” he finishes for me, his grin turning teasing.
I hum, pretending to think. “Depends. Do you snore?”
“Only when I’ve had too much sugar.”
“Then I guess cuddles are acceptable.”
He doesn't hesitate. The moment the words leave my mouth, he’s reaching out, warm arms wrapping around my waist as he gently pulls me against his chest. His body is solid and warm, muscles relaxed beneath my cheek as I tuck my head under his chin. The steady thump of his heart is a grounding rhythm, and I find my breath syncing with his without even trying.
He tangles his legs with mine, the sheets shifting softly around us.
“Friendly cuddles, of course,” he murmurs, trying and failing to sound serious.
“Obviously.” I nudge his chest playfully with my knuckles, and he chuckles.
For a while, we just lie there like that, surrounded by the soft crackle of rain still tapping on the window. His hand traces idle shapes against my back—absentminded and soothing—and I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to melt, one knot at a time.
“You’re a surprisingly good cuddler for someone who sleeps in jocks,” I mumble.
He hums, amused. “And you’re surprisingly good at letting strangers into your bed.”
I snort, elbowing him gently. “Shut up.”
“Gladly,” he murmurs, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be the strong silent type from now on.”
“You? Silent?” I raise an eyebrow against his chest. “I doubt that.”
“Fine. I’ll just whisper sweet nothings in your ear until you fall asleep.”
“Like what?”
He lowers his voice dramatically. “You smell like wet socks and heartbreak.”
I burst into laughter, muffling the sound against his collarbone. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, here you are. Cuddled against the worst.”
“Shut up and go to sleep,” I grumble, still smiling.
His chest rises in a deep breath, and I can feel sleep slowly settling into his bones.
But just as I start to drift, Siscil’s voice threads into my mind, slipping through the mental walls I’d thought were sealed shut.
“You can chase distractions all you like, child. But your heart will not heal while you let your mind fester.”
My bubble cracks. Just a hairline fracture, but it’s enough to let in the flood of everything I’d been trying so hard not to feel.
Bodhi. Imogen. Dain. The ache of betrayal and confusion. The weight of my own mistakes.
I tighten my mental shields in a panic, slamming the door on Siscil’s words. Not now. Not tonight.
I’m not ready to feel. Not ready to face it.
Instead, I breathe in Sawyer’s scent—rain and warmth and comfort—and press closer to the steady beat of his heart.
I’ll deal with everything tomorrow.
But tonight, I let myself melt into this moment. Let myself rest in the warmth of someone who doesn’t ask questions, who doesn’t expect me to be anything more than a tired, hurting girl who needed a hand.
I let him hold me.
And with that final thought, I tuck my face into his neck, shut out the rest of the world, and fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing.
He kisses me again, rougher now. Starved. His tongue meets mine and I drown in the weight of him, the taste of him. My shirt rides up under his wandering hands, and when he tugs at the fabric, I raise my arms, letting him pull it over my head and toss it aside.
His eyes roam down my body slowly, reverently. Like he’s seen temples, and this is the first one he wants to worship at. The cool air of the room ghosts over my skin causing it to prickle under the heat of his gaze.
I take his hand and press his palm to my heart.
“Just this,” I whisper. “I need… this.”
He nods once, then kisses down my jaw, his breath hot and shaky. His mouth trails fire down my neck, and when his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him, gasping. I feel his length hardening against my thigh.
I want him.
He moved to my other breast, taking his time as he memorises every inch of my breasts. My hands find his curls, tugging him back up to kiss me again. I kiss him with need and desperation, which he returns. Our bodies slide together, all heat and need, and the blanket tangles around our legs.
His hand drifts lower, slipping into my shorts, finding the spot that makes my toes curl.
“Sawyer—” My voice is a breathy plea.
He groans, deep and rough, his mouth crashing back into mine like he can’t stand being apart for even a second.
His fingers stroke me in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing soft gasps from my mouth with every pass. At first it’s tentative—exploratory—but the second I arch into his hand and let out a trembling moan, he adjusts. Learns me. The pace, the pressure, the way to drag pleasure from me until my thighs are shaking and I’m clinging to his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing left.
He kisses me like it’s the only language he knows. Mouth hot and open, tongue tasting the sounds he’s pulling from me.
“Gods, Malia…” he mutters, breath catching against my cheek. “You’re so—fuck, you’re perfect.”
I let out a whimper when his fingers slide lower, gathering slick and pushing inside me with a slow, delicious stretch. I clutch at his back as he curls them just right, and the friction makes my hips stutter against him.
My mind is fog. Blissful, pulsing fog. There’s only him—his body, his hands, his mouth—and the way he’s undoing me like it’s a prayer.
“More,” I whisper, breathless. “I need more.”
Sawyer groans, his forehead pressing into mine as he stills his fingers. “You’ll get more. But I need to feel you.”
He moves fast then, shedding his last barrier, and I let my gaze roam down his body. He’s beautiful—lean but strong, pale skin flushed with heat, length thick and hard as he strokes himself once with a shaky breath.
My jaw slackens at the sight. Its slightly thinner than Dains was, but longer. Definitely longer.
“Can I?” he asks, fingers hooking in the band of my shorts.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He peels them down slowly, watching me with reverent eyes, and I swear I’ve never felt more bare. More seen.
His body covers mine again, and I part my thighs, inviting him in with a touch to his hip.
“What do you need Malia?” his voice is deeper than before and filled with want.
“I need you Sawyer. All of you.” I pant, our breath mingling, “I want you to fuck me until I don’t remember my own name.” He groans at the words and closes his eyes as if to maintain his last bit of sanity.
“I’m going to ask one more time.” He breathes, “Are you sure you want this Malia?”
“I’m sure Sawyer. Make me forget.”
He doesn’t need any more convincing before he slams his lips back onto mine. He leans his weight onto one arm as he guides himself to my entrance, and when he begins to slide in, my lips part on a silent cry.
The stretch is exquisite—more than fingers, thicker, deeper—and the way he pushes slowly, carefully, has my entire body lighting up. I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. Anchoring him to me. Sawyer groans low in his throat when he bottoms out, hips flush to mine. “Fuck, you feel incredible.”
We breathe there for a second, tangled and trembling, my nails leaving half-moons on his shoulder blades.
Then he moves.
The first thrust is slow and deliberate, the second a little harder, and I moan into his mouth as he sets a rhythm that sends pleasure spiralling through me with every stroke. Our kisses become sloppy, the pleasure numbing my mind and blurring the world around us. The sound of skin slapping and swallowed moans fill the room.
My hips lift to meet his, chasing the friction. The way he hits that spot inside me with every thrust is unbearable in the best way, and soon I’m panting his name like a plea.
“Right there—gods, Sawyer—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
His pace builds—smooth, controlled, until it starts to unravel us both.
“Let go for me, Malia.”
He follows me over the edge with a hoarse cry, hips jerking once, twice, before stilling. I feel him shudder as he releases inside me, heat blooming in my core.
I fall apart moments later, clutching him tightly as pleasure crashes over me, ripping through my core in waves so intense I cry out. My body trembles, fluttering around him as he groans my name like a curse and thrusts harder, deeper, chasing his own high.
For a moment, we just breathe. Sweaty and tangled, skin on skin, hearts pounding in sync.
