Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Keep your head up.” A voice commands from next to me, so quietly that for a second I doubt it even came from him and it wasn’t just one of the voices that have been shouting in my mind for the past few days.

I shake my head, acutely aware that I am behaving every bit like a stubborn brat. It is not the time or place for such childish obstinacy, but I don't want to look ahead - plain and simple. I can almost convince myself that by not seeing it with my own eyes, the reality is not as bleak and hopeless as I feel right now. Stupid, I know, but it is not like I have any other method of comforting myself, so desperate lies will have to do for now.

I have no desire to look at the endless rows of children being herded by stone-faced guards - judging by the navy blue uniforms, mostly infantry soldiers with just a handful of riders among them. Why would they send their elite soldiers on this pitiful parade when we pose no real threat to them? They could send first-year cadets from Basgiath, a few of them would overpower us with no problems whatsoever.

But above all else, I want to avoid looking at the sea of people lining the side of the streets we march through, all of them staring at us like we are a fucking parade, some sick form of entertainment in their fucked up minds - no surprise there. I don’t want to see the grins on the faces of those traitors, the scornful looks on their judgemental mugs... Their unbridled joy at the sight of our misery – as if it soothes their despicable souls... It says a lot about a society if it encourages finding pleasure in the suffering of innocents, especially when more than half of these innocents are kids under the age of twelve. I have seen enough gloating faces these past few days to conclude that they form the majority around here.

“Imogen, if you keep your eyes on the ground, they will think they succeeded. Don't give them the satisfaction,” The same male voice says, a little bit louder this time. I don’t fail to notice the hoarseness in his stern voice, the only telling sign of his internal turmoil masked by his collected exterior.

“And didn't they?” Huh, if my friend’s voice is different, I can honestly say that I barely recognize my own – wobbly is the only word that comes to mind to describe it and I hate myself for allowing such weakness. Why can’t I keep my voice even and emotionless like he does?

Now that I think about it… When was the last time I spoke? I remember shouting at guards when they broke into the house where all of the underage children of the rebels lived for the past few weeks of the secession. I remember arguing with a rider who was threatening a child to feed him to their dragon if he did not stop crying as they were gathering us – in hindsight, my resistance didn’t make any real difference – it only earned me a slap across the face. Despite that, I just couldn’t bring myself to sit by and watch them instill even more fear in the little kids who were already terrified and had no idea what was going on. I don't remember talking to anyone after that – not on the way to the small prison where they kept us for almost two days, crammed into small cells that forced the older ones among us to hold the little ones. The muscles in my arms are still sore from holding a three-year-old girl, but that pain is just a small discomfort compared to everything else. 

I hear the boy next to me snort a humorless laugh and the next time he opens his mouth, his voice is laced with defiance, the first real emotion I have seen in him today. “As long as we can still hold our heads up high, no. They have not.” I have heard his dad say that ever since we were kids, but right now this is like a fragile thread to hang onto – and I will take any guidance and comfort I can. It is not much better than my earlier attempt to avoid facing reality and barricade myself within the protective walls of my mind, but it’s something.

Slowly, I raise my eyes from the pavement, bracing myself to face the scene before me. As expected, people have crowded the side of the streets, looking at our pathetic procession with a range of emotions, going from scorching anger (honestly, I think the guards around us are the only thing keeping some of them from lunging at us) to cruel satisfaction. I can take those. They come as no surprise whatsoever, as I said. It's not the hate that makes me feel like all the air has been punched out of my lungs and my guts got twisted into knots – it’s the pitiful looks that make me feel that. People capable of feeling bad for us, aware that we are only kids, understanding that we did nothing to deserve this humiliating punishment and whatever they have in store for us at the end of our parade... but then again, these people are not exactly saints either, they just have enough compassion to fuel my pain. They couldn't understand that what our parents did was not wrong in the slightest. No, their apparent pity only causes an emotional reaction – you know, that kind of situation where you can kick and scream and be strong in the face of aversion, but crack at the slightest sign of softness.

Buried in my mind until this moment, I did not pay attention to the cacophony of sounds around me either. The joyful cheers, the furious insults and swears, the laments... the cries of the group around me. Muffled cries of small children, hushed comfort words from the older ones to make them stop before the guards notice. It is all like a song – no, a fucking concert at this point – for defeat, and behind every sniffle and gasp you can hear the faint sound of hope wilting and dying.

“Did they have to parade us like this?” I ask, trying to make my voice sound even this time around, willing myself to shake off my numbness and clinging to more productive feelings. Channeling some of my friend’s defiance, letting my anger rise to the surface – anything is better than despair and hopelessness.

I adjust my posture, straightening my back a bit when I realize just how hunched forward and pathetic I must have looked until now, then I turn my head to my right to finally face him. In almost fifteen years of knowing him, I don’t think I have ever seen that stormy look in his onyx eyes, the speckles of gold nowhere to be seen, but then again never before have we found ourselves on the way to the royal prison of Navarre and to almost certain death. 

But anyone who hasn’t known Xaden Riorson for as long as I have wouldn’t be able to pick up on his internal turmoil easily,  especially as he keeps his features schooled into a perfect mask of indifference, deceivingly calm and unbothered. Taken out of context, one might assume he is on a casual stroll through the streets of Calldyr, not on his way to one of the deadliest places in Navarre where our parents and loved ones are kept, awaiting their death, and where we will most likely find our end.

I haven't seen him lose composure at all. Not throughout the whole time our parents planned this rebellion, not for a second while he was tasked with keeping us all in line when we were sent to the safe house – all 105 of us, with no adults around for help and guidance. And not even after the Navarrian soldiers barged into what was supposed to be a secret hiding place and took us into custody. How can he be so calm?! I haven't had even half of that pressure on my shoulders and yet I feel close to my breaking point, wanting to wail in despair and pull at my hair as I let all my frustration, all my disappointment, all my premature grief out.

“They took the scenic route, too,” The person on my left chimes in and I crank my neck back to look at him properly. Unlike Xaden, Garrick is not putting so much effort into hiding his feelings under a mask of indifference or shit like that – his anger and hatred are on full display, mirrored in every line of his face – or at least I think it is evident to everyone. I find myself analyzing every single thing regarding Garrick Tavis lately and I have to remind myself sometimes that normal people don’t put that much effort into committing to memory such pointless details about their friends.

As for our gracious captors deciding to prolong our torment as much as possible – it doesn’t even surprise me at this point... Leave it to Navarre to put on a show of this magnitude. Had they put as much effort into actual strategy and thinking things through as they do into sending a message and patting each other on the back for “a job well done”… maybe they would realize that their strategy of hiding behind wards is not a lasting solution, but rather merely avoiding reality and postponing the inevitable. But in this world, the people who actually think are punished for not being fine with just standing by and watching idly from the sidelines…

“They want to prolong the show,” Xaden clarifies, looking straight ahead. Turns out I was not far off with my assumption that this is just a show.

That is all we are to Navarre. Not children. Not a threat. They don't even recognize us as human beings with feelings and emotions. We are merely a show. Parading us, the children of the rebels, around the streets is a way of showing everyone that the rebellion came to an end and that Navarre, like always, came on top. We mark the end of a bloody conflict, but we are at the same time a warning – to anyone who might still think of opposing the victors, of objecting to the strategy adopted by the king and his generals to be a shield rather than a sword. Blissful ignorance over action against the threat at our border. The message is clear: This is what happens when you stand against us - not even the children will be spared .

“What happens now?” Bodhi asks from beside Garrick, trying his best to mimic his older cousin's confidence – but, ultimately, failing. On any other day, the physical resemblance between the two cousins is striking – know those ‘find the differences’ games for kids where you give them two images that have a few differences you have to find? Xaden and Bodhi could be used for those exercises on a good day. But those minor distinct features are especially obvious today – Bodhi's softer features fail to conceal his fear and uncertainty the same way Xaden does; his onyx eyes are filled with worry rather than the dark defiance his older cousin sports and I notice the way he straightens his posture just before Xaden looks his way.

Any other day I would scoff at Bodhi's attempt to imitate Xaden to the t, but today I find myself unable to do so. Today, we are all looking up to Xaden for guidance – Bodhi, me, and even Garrick, who is usually on equal footing with Xaden and had a track record of bashing heads with his best friend whenever the four of us were planning games and pranks and whatever stupid beautiful things we filled our days with before this nightmare we can't wake up from started.

He has just celebrated his seventeenth birthday in March, just a month older than Garrick and one year older than me and Bodhi, but somehow, since our parents started to prepare and plan for the secession, Xaden gained the immaterial insignia of unofficial leader. The moment his father assigned him to look after all the underage children in the safe house only strengthened his new position in the eyes of every Tyr marching behind us today. Had it been me under so much pressure, as I already said before, I would have cracked at least a hundred times by this point.

Mr. Tavis and my dad were Fen Riorson's second and third in command and they’ve known each other since before they went to Basgiath, into the Infantry Quadrant, together, so it was logical for us as their kids to be close as well. I don't even remember a time before I had these three in my life and there is little we don’t know about each other – we developed a silent way of communicating with each other and our parents like to joke that we must have some kind of telepathic form of communication. But that look in Xaden’s eyes when he turns to look at the three of us? I can't for the life of me decipher it – I can get past the mask of confidence, but what’s beyond it gives me pause. For some reason, it reminds me of free falling.

He quickly hides his uncertainty, the cool, confident, unbothered mask sliding back up. For a moment, I even wonder if I imagined the fearful look, projecting my own feelings on others. “It's gonna be fine,” He reassures us and I want to believe him, really I do, but... We all know that even he doesn't believe himself at this moment. We are all aware we might be on our way to certain death, but we don't dare voice that thought yet, not even to each other.

I swallow the knot forming in my throat and keep my head up, looking straight ahead for the rest of the way. If we are marching to our death, at least I want to not crumble in front of an audience.

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The royal prison of Navarre is everything I expected it to be: a massive building, created not to look pretty, but to command respect and instill fear. I am not sure whether the stones have always been black or if that is just the effect of time – after all, this pit of hell has been around for centuries from what I remember from my history lessons that I wish I had paid more attention to. Although I doubt paying attention to them would have supplied me with information on how to escape from it – Navarre has long mastered the art of hiding information, they wouldn't make such a rookie mistake as to leave that knowledge lying around, right? They are stupid, but pros at hiding that fact.

There are statues of stone dragons, at least ten times as big as me, captured in different positions of attack, as if ready to lunch towards us and shred us to pieces to fulfill their duty of guarding the large entrance –  how is that for a warm welcome, huh? If the stone versions are not scary enough for you, the dozen real dragons perched on the high walls of the prison might do the trick. They are all different colors and my heart stops for a second upon seeing an orange swordtail, but I quickly remind myself that it can’t be Jyst, my sister’s dragon – no, he wouldn’t look at me and the others as if he were at the buffet trying to decide which dish in front of them looks the tastiest. No, it is not Jyst, just like the blue one is not Derik’s dragon, Anderson, and the red one is not Mr. Durran’s morningtail. 

As I scan the dragons in a hopeless attempt to find at least a familiar oversized lizard, one of them, a brown one whose tail I can’t see from here, leaves the wall, disappearing from view somewhere inside the prison. It is quickly followed by the red morningstar I mistook earlier for being Gluasad.

“Aimsir,” Garrick says from beside me, noticing my attention on the flying beast. “General Sorrengail's dragon. All the dragons here are bonded to high-ranking officers.”

For a moment, I am surprised by Garrick’s knowledge and ability to distinguish these dragons from one another so effortlessly, but then I remember that he and Xaden were sometimes allowed to take part in our parent's meetings and probably studied every file and card they could put their hands on regarding the Navarrian army. He must have picked up this information on one of those occasions and I wouldn’t be surprised if Garrick’s brother supplied them with extra pointers and information – Derik had always been more generous when it came to sharing confidential information than my sister. Maybe that is why she was promoted to Captain and not him.

Speaking of dragons… I am pretty confident in my assumption that the ‘rebels’ are imprisoned in this fortress of a prison, but what of the dragons? There haven’t been that many riders on our side, but we had some pretty strong pairs and powerful signets. My sister had been nicknamed ‘The Puppeteer’ for her ability to make people do exactly what she wanted by just telling them and Derik Tavis is one of the few menders on the continent. There is also Colonel Mairi, with her enhanced hearing signet, Colonel Durran who can alter the speed of any moving object or person and Eya’s mom who is downright terrifying sometimes with her ability to create clones of herself. I think our ‘army’ amounted to somewhere around fifty dragon-rider pairs. What would happen to the dragons now? Navarre wouldn’t go as far as to harm and punish the dragons, would they? Surely the laws of the dragons would overrule any human decision and at least they would be spared?

“Where is she going?” I find myself asking Garrick, referring to Aimsir.

“Probably to the prison courtyard to let her rider know that we are here,” Garrick offers, his hazel eyes trailing the movements of the rest of the dragons – perhaps trying to see if he can identify any others, but if he does, he doesn't share their names with me. Maybe it's better this way; what’s the point of learning the names of the dragons of the people herding us to the gallows anyway? It's not lime Malek will host trivia night.

Once inside, the enormity of the place makes me stop in my tracks for a second. There are at least three or four levels above ground from what I could see from outside, but there are also multiple levels underground, where they keep the prisoners... where they are currently holding my family too. I heard the stories – about the way they torture people in that labyrinth underneath, about the way they dispose of the prisoners the moment they do not need them anymore, once they squeezed all the information they could out of them in interrogation... the ruthless executions and the piles of corpses that are then turned into ash by the dragons.

Is that what we are about to be? Corpses tossed in piles about to be incinerated?

Probably sensing my fear, Garrick turns towards me and grabs my hand before the guards realize that I am no longer moving. His eyes soften for a moment – I know he senses my fear and, on any other day, I would chide myself for this show of weakness, but this shitshow has just gotten... real. Even that annoying voice inside of my head that usually rings like an alarm whenever Garrick touches me, reducing me to nothing but a blushing mess, is eerily quiet this time. 

Maintaining eye contact, Garrick inhales deeply and then pushes the air out slowly, squeezing my hand to signal for me to follow his lead and do the same. It is not enough to erase all the tension in my bones, but looking into his eyes and the hand squeezing timed with each inhale, his grip loosening gradually along with each exhale, help me remain somewhat lucid and not lose my mind completely to fear. Even after I give him a small nod to signal that I am better he continues to hold my hand, his fingers intertwined with mine. I am not sure whether he maintains physical contact to keep me anchored in the present or himself.

I finally brace myself to look at my surroundings now that I am somewhat sure I won't plunge into a panic attack. People are lining the walls of the room, standing at attention but very clearly prepared to draw the weapons they keep within reach at the smallest sign – all of them dressed in black leather. Riders. But they are not the stars of the show – that role is reserved for the two people standing on the stairs, commanding the respect of everyone present.

I don’t need anyone telling me exactly who these two are, their reputation precedes them and they look exactly how my sister used to describe them – the picture of ruthlessness and lethality, no trace of warmth or mercy in their emotionless eyes. By the way Commanding General Melgren regards our group, one could mistake him for a king surveying his subjects, who are no more than dirty peasants in his eyes – I am pretty sure he surpasses even King Tauri in the authority department. His icy eyes briefly settle on me for a moment and I hate the fact that my first instinct under his inquiring gaze is to cower, pushing myself a bit closer to Garrick. 

One would be tempted to assume that the woman by his side is inoffensive compared to the sheer power radiating from him, but I know better than to underestimate her. Newly appointed General Lilith Sorrengail, one of the deadliest riders on the continent – and the reason why we are all here in the first place. She has no qualms about adding to the population of Malek's realm, a fact supported by her promotion according to the conversation between the soldiers transporting us from the safe house to here that I eavesdropped on. It was she who saw to the capture of every single person who fought in the battle of Aretia, searching every corner of the city her army burned to the ground for every single rebel, no matter their contribution to the rebellion. 

From the same conversation, I learned that she only spared and bothered to bring to Caldyr the high-ranking officers, the people who had the power of decision in organizing the whole affair – a fact that brought me some hope upon hearing it as my mother held a seat in the Tyrrish council and was part of Fen's inner circle and with my sister being a rider it's guaranteed that they'll bring her here for further interrogation as well. Why hope? At least this way I know they were still alive and that I had a chance of seeing them again, to say goodbye.

When the two generals turn to leave I loosen a shuddering breath, but my relief is short-lived as Xaden picks that exact moment to spring forward from beside me and Garrick, dropping Bodhi's hand in the process. “General Sorrengail!” Xaden calls and, if he is scared or unsure of himself, I couldn't say from the strong, confident voice and the way he holds himself – chin up, back straight, nothing about him makes him look like a scared seventeen-year-old; he weirdly resembles his father more than ever before. “May I have a word in private with you, ma'am?”

If I was shocked when he first moved out of formation, now my eyes are threatening to fall out of their sockets and I dig my nails into my palm in the hopes that this is a hallucination and not actually happening. We are all going to die anyway, is he trying to hurry along the process or what? I look desperately towards Bodhi and Garrick, but they are just as surprised, their eyes so wide it would be almost comical to see in any other context. So this was not planned.

Xaden just stands there, in the middle of the room, not betraying even the slightest sign of discomfort or fear as he stares into the eyes of the cruelest General in Navarre. Fenn would either be proud of his son's bravery or slap himself for instilling so much stupidity into his only son. I am leaning towards the second option.

Melgren looks at the insolent seventeen-year-old in front of him with an arched eyebrow for a moment before turning towards the woman at his side as if he, too, was curious of her response to the demand of the brat of the man who started this whole conflict. I half expected him to have Xaden sent to be cremated by Codagh, his dragon, honestly.

But then General Sorrengail gives a curt nod and starts walking in the opposite direction from where she and Melgren were initially headed, not even stopping to look over her shoulder once to make sure Xaden is following. Which he obviously is. Melgren, on the other hand, spares one more glance towards his subordinate before turning around to go about his business as if nothing happened.

“What in fuck's name is he doing?!” Bodhi asks, still bewildered, but somehow able to snap out of his initial shock before Garrick and I manage to put two words together. “Did you two know anything about…?” But he doesn't need to finish his thought because the looks on our faces, perfectly mirroring his own confusion, are answer enough.

“We should go with him!” I argue, trying to make a step forward, but Garrick holds me in place, his grip on my hand tightening to the point it almost hurts. “We can't possibly let him go with her on his own!”

“I am sure he knows what he is doing. He would never act without a plan,” Garrick assures me, shifting in one swift move so he sneaks an arm around me to grab my other elbow after switching the hand squeezing my own. “We have no way of helping him even if we were to follow him, Im.”

I am about to argue against his logic, invoking all the stupid things Xaden ever did (which are not few, let me assure you), but I don't get the chance to recite the list as another rider comes to the top of the stairs, holding an actual list. The sight of the scroll he is carrying makes me push all concerns for Xaden aside for the moment, my focus set solely on the Navarrian rider and what he is going to say. Lists are usually a bad omen, as Braelyn and Derik used to say in their letters from Basgiath, and this one is sure not to be an exception.

“Colonel Haydn Araceli. Lieutenants Luella and Ivana Arlett. Lieutenant Captain Blaine and Erik Archer. Executive Officer Ranveer Aquila.” He begins to recite and I frown a bit in concentration trying to make associations as he continues to read a ton of other names - from what I can tell, the list is in alphabetical order, containing names from both the Navarrian and the Tyrrish side of the conflict. Luella and Ivana Arlett are twins, both of them riders and friends with my sister and Derik, but I recognize on that list names of infantry soldiers from my father’s old regiment and even one of my mother’s healer apprentices.

When the list nears the end of the names with B, Garrick pulls me even closer to him, until I am basically nestled into his side, and Bodhi grabs my free hand, squeezing it reassuringly. We all know that this is the list of casualties from the battle of Aretia and among the sobs of those who have already heard the names of loved ones on it, you can almost make out the silent prayers of those who are hoping not to join their grief. I have never been the religious type, but I find myself raising prayers of my own towards whatever gods are willing to listen. But it feels like the gods turned deaf today.

“Colonel Theron Cardulo,” The rider reads and I close my eyes in defeat.

I hear my uncle’s name, but I don’t register the implication of it for a few blissful seconds. Or rather, I refuse to acknowledge it in my desire to live, at least for at least a moment longer, in a world where he is still alive. 

After my father’s death three years ago, he stepped up, trying to fill the void left by his brother. He never had a family of his own, but he's always been there for my sister and me. I remember how he used to sit with me and Bri when we were little, long before tragedy struck our family, telling us about the Rider’s Quadrant – he was the reason my sister decided to become a rider in the first place and I always knew I wanted to follow in their footsteps. He applied for an extended permission when he heard of my father's health suddenly taking a turn for the worst and he shouldered all the heavy stuff while my mother and I were grieving. He had a wicked sense of humour and like any younger sibling, he was a bit wild, driving my father up the fucking walls at family gatherings, but I loved him. He was loud and the worst possible singer, he gave the best hugs even though he sucked at verbally comforting people and he encouraged my sister and I in many of our misdemeanours – he was the one who taught both of us how to punch someone and how to properly roll and smoke churram. Theron was the best uncle any kid could hope for and knowing he is no longer here…

It’s a kind of pain and suffering that is fueled by the addition of new familiar names. Only a little after my uncle’s name is read, we hear the name of Bodhi’s grandmother, an elderly woman who had been in the infantry herself back in her youth and who refused to come with us to the safe house, preferring to go and help my mother in the infirmary. It could have been minutes or hours later – time had completely lost its meaning to all of us – when Derik's name was called and it was my turn now to squeeze Garrick’s hand, allowing him to hide his face in my hair as the realization dawned upon him. 

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The next few moments pass in a blur - there were other names I recognized on that list, but the sounds around me are muffled, like my head has been shoved underwater. Huh, that might be a fitting metaphor for how I feel – drowning: drifting further and further away from the shore of reality with every thought and memory that comes crashing over me like a violent wave meaning to make me sink. But at the same time, that metaphorical water that threatens to drown me is not enough to put out the burning feeling in my chest that hasn’t ceased for a second since we learned of our losses.

But our suffering and inner turmoil is not something the Navarrians seem too concerned with. On the contrary – they seem eager to press and press, waiting to see when we would finally break, watching their grim satisfaction. One might argue that by reading the list, they at least offered us something, information about our loved ones, as cruel and painful as it was, but no. Had they wanted to do that or even if their goal were to make us suffer, they would have only given us the names of the rebels who lost their lives – the implicature behind the decision to also mention their own losses was clear: all these names were people, people who lost their lives because of your people's recklessness and stupidity, so you are to blame for all the suffering, not us . Because they certainly draw some comfort or satisfaction from blaming us, making us pay for all this blood that they prefer to smear on our hands rather than admit their part of the blame. Vindictive fuckers. 

So, in another show of their vindictiveness, as soon as they finish reading the death list, turning our worlds upside down in the process, the guards don't give us the time to even properly pick up all the broken pieces of ourselves off the floor before starting to bark orders, to push and nudge us with their weapons as they herd us towards wherever they want us now. We are just pawns for them to move around per their plans – they don't really care that these pawns are cracked, or chipped or that parts of them remain behind as they are herded like cattle to the slaughterhouse.

I can almost imagine that if I were to look back towards that lobby where we have just been, I would see bits and pieces of every kid's heart, parts of them that they will never regain, leaving behind an unhealable and unfillable gap.

The room we are transferred to is what appears to be a waiting room of some kind. Not exactly a cell – those are in the lower levels of the building and they certainly lack the chairs and benches we find in here. A small mercy, I have to admit. There are not nearly enough seats for all 105 of us, but at least the smallest of the kids can rest for a bit and the older ones among us, who understood that the names on that list were the ones who had failed, can process their losses however they might need to. 

The boys and I find a small area to sit near the corner closest to the door, with me and Bodhi sitting on the floor and leaning against each other – the physical contact is the only comfort the two of us can give each other right now, I suppose. Meanwhile, Garrick is pacing around in front of us in a way that reminds me of my mother whenever she lost one of her patients or people she cared for – they occupy themselves with an action, relying on the external movement to distract themselves from facing the internal reality, to keep the true depth of the pain at bay so they wouldn't completely lose it: not when they feel they can't afford to break down. 

For once, I try to avoid looking for too long at Garrick – he has always looked a lot like his older brother and, right now, I try to avoid thinking of Derik Tavis because I know that adding the pain of losing him on top of my grief over my uncle’s death would be too much. I can’t say I was exactly very close to Bodhi’s grandma – I barely even knew my own grandparents, both pairs having died when I was little, so I can’t exactly relate to Bodhi’s pain right now – but I have known Derik Tavis for practically my entire life. He has been Braelyn’s best friend since before I was born and he was a constant in my life – always around, always cracking a stupid joke and getting himself in trouble because he lacked any sense of caution, which usually meant my sister also got in trouble along with him. And the daunting prospect of losing a sibling… this one hits closer to home than losing a grandparent.

So, instead, I look around me at the other kids of rebellion leaders – not that it is a view that inspires more positivity. Sweet Malek, no. Again, my mom is the head healer in Tyrrendor, I grew up spending a lot of my time in the infirmary and in the waiting room, witnessing quite a few scenes of pain and suffering… and grief. The boys and I were dragged to memorials and funerals for soldiers and colleagues of our parents quite often as well, so I am somewhat used to seeing people grieve for their loved ones who didn’t make it and I came to understand that no two people grieve the same way.  But… It's unreal how clearly you can distinguish based on the facial expressions of every person in this room exactly what stage of grief they are stuck in. 

“Do you think they have the rest of our families here?” Bodhi asks, finally breaking the silence that had settled between us as each of us battled our own feelings. “Maybe some of them are still out there… maybe…”

“No one is coming to save us, Bodhi,” Garrick cuts him off, stopping his pacing around to look at us. “Think about it. Who knew about the location of the safe house? Only the high-ranking officers. The only reason we are here is because one of them probably broke under interrogation. And if they supplied that information, they surely gave them the locations of all the possible hiding places. Everyone who could have come to our rescue is already rotting in a cell somewhere in this godforsaken place!” 

I sigh and close my eyes – those thoughts have already crossed my mind as I am sure Bodhi has realized all of that himself, but he has always been the most hopeful among the four of us, capable of clinging to the bright side even when it is just the flickering light of a firefly. That’s the thing I love the most about him, but I also know that the moment his hopes are mercilessly crushed under the boots of the Navarrian soldiers he will be absolutely destroyed.

“None of the officers knew of all the hiding spots!” Bodhi argues, but there is no confidence in his voice – he sounds almost pleading. 

“No, but it is stupid to assume that only one of them broke,” I point out, turning a bit to look at Bodhi with a sad look on my face as I say that. I don’t like breaking the bad news like this and diminishing his hopes, but I can’t leave it all to Garrick anymore. “And General Sorrengail wouldn’t be here if there were any more rebels out there for her to hunt.”

We can only hope they will let us see our remaining family before they execute us all. That is the only mercy I still hope for and also the only thought keeping me somewhat together - I won’t have to live in a world where I am grieving for my loved ones for too long if I am close behind them on the way to Malek’s realm. There is something so comforting in the thought of death and that is so fucking messed up – I am sixteen, I shouldn’t be thinking of death as a great relief, I should have a whole life ahead of me to look forward to, I should… fuck! This is not how this was supposed to be. 

“Do you think Xaden is… you know…” I find myself asking, afraid of the answer but I can’t face these thoughts that plague my mind now on my own anymore. Because in spite of everything else going on and of my conviction that we are headed for the gallows soon, I still worry for that idiot.

“The bastard always liked to be the first. Why would it be different this time?” Garrick answers, closing his eyes and passing a hand over his face. Behind the harsh words and the admission of his similar belief that we are all going to die soon, I know there is pain – it's his best friend. If I am close to Xaden, Garrick is his other half. Rarely see one without the other. “And, besides, I doubt Sorrengail is in a merciful mood after her own son was on that list.”

I purse my lips, leaning my head against Bodhi’s shoulder and looking up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the mold spots so I wouldn’t have to see the looks on the boys’ faces. We are all aware of Lilith Sorrengail’s reputation and if she was ruthless before, I can only assume how cold and vengeful she must be feeling now that her eldest son died in the Battle of Aretia. And what better way to satisfy her thirst for revenge than to personally kill the son of the man responsible for starting the whole shit show? But the thought of Xaden being dead…

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, fuckers. Totally feeling the love.”

For a moment I think that it is another trick of my mind, but it hardly sounds like something a ghost or hallucination would say. I jerk my head in the direction of the door next to us and… for a ghost he is pretty damn solid-looking the way he sits there, slightly less confident and defiant, with his back a bit hunched over. And the devil dares to have his arms crossed over his chest and the corner of his mouth twitches a bit upwards, as if amused at our reactions. I can just imagine how ridiculous the three of us look like this, staring at our best friend we thought dead a few seconds ago.

Garrick is the first to recover from the shock, swiftly crossing the distance between where we were and where Xaden stands, but before he even reaches him, Bodhi and I are already on our feet, running towards them as well. I can’t put into words how messy and uncoordinated the hug is, but all three of us throw our arms around Xaden almost at the same time and I am not ashamed to admit that a sob escapes my lips, echoed by similar sounds of relief and surprise from Bodhi. The physical contact confirms that he is indeed here, still alive – unless Malek took to sending to the land of the living solid, slightly sweaty, and smelly ghosts, he is not dead.

Then we realize that jumping on him like this was a mistake. He doesn’t push away, but his whole body tenses, cringing and hissing in pain – a signal for all of us to take a step back. I look down at my hands, meaning to wipe what I assumed to be sweat on my pants… but sweat is not usually ruby. “Xay -” I look up at him in confusion, but he just shakes his head at us, the serious mask back in place.

“Not now,” he hisses, rubbing his neck and averting his gaze from all of us. “I will tell you about it, I promise. But now is not the time.”

“At least let me take a look at –” I try again, extending my hand towards him. I have never shared my mother’s talent in the infirmary, but I have spent enough time watching her and Derik made sure to teach me to inspect the seriousness of a wound and patch it up decently. 

Xaden grabs my hand before I can touch him and closes both of his palms over it, squeezing once, gently. “It is nothing serious, Im. Trust me,” he promises, but for some reason, I find myself unable to trust him on this. Noticing my hesitation, he adds: “I will let you take a look later, okay? There are more pressing things right now, like… what did I miss?”

Looking as unconvinced as I am, Garrick takes it upon himself to fill Xaden in on the death list and the names of the important people who were on it, leaving our own personal losses at the end. Honestly, I have no idea how the two of them manage to think of the general picture in this context, but I guess it is easier to think of virtually anything other than the thing you feel the need to talk about the most. What do you even say about this kind of thing? How do you tell someone else, for the first time, that your uncle or your brother or your grandmother lost their lives?

Fortunately, Xaden seems to have grasped our silently agreed-upon convention of not actually talking about it all. He just looks at each of us, his mask slipping away entirely as he says: “I am sorry…”

I know he means it and I know he is affected by the news in his own way, even though he didn’t lose a relative of his own – Bodhi’s grandmother has always been kind to Xaden even if they were not technically related; my uncle was around in his life in a similar way to how Fen was in mine… and Derik treated all three of us as extra little siblings, I suppose. I have gone through this before – people expressing their condolences and telling you how sorry they are for your loss. And in spite of the good intentions, it feels like pressing salt to the wound. The silence that settled over us after that tells me that Bodhi and Garrick share my feelings regarding this. 

Xaden doesn’t press. Instead, he pulls Bodhi in a hug and allows him to lean against him as I resume my previous seat on the floor, with Garrick next to me this time around.

“What happens now?” Garrick asks after a while, pulling me out of my thoughts. I notice that he doesn’t look up from where our fingers are intertwined in his lap – weird, I don’t even remember the moment he grabbed my hand in the first place.

Xaden straightens his back a bit – an action that visibly brings him pain and makes me worry about the extent of his injury again -, but doesn’t stop rubbing circles on Bodhi’s back. However, before he can say anything, the door opens and five guards enter – all of them dressed in black leather and I suppose they are some of the riders we saw earlier in the lobby, but I recognize only the one in the middle of the group. The same bearer of bad news as earlier, carrying another scroll in his hands, the sight of which makes me tense instantly. More names?

“Listen, I don't have the time to explain it all, but I need you to trust me. Everything will be alright, I made sure of that. Just… do what they say and it will be fine,” Xaden whispers to us, speaking so quickly that I barely register the words. What the hell does he even mean by that? He made sure of what? How?

But I don’t get a chance to ask him about any of that as the riders call us all to attention and the one with the list ceremoniously unravels it and starts calling names. It quickly becomes clear that this time around these are not the names of those fallen – at least, not fallen yet.

“Once you hear your name, you will have to follow us,” He announces, knowing that he doesn't have to resort to threats or anything else to make us follow his orders – we are a bunch of underage, unarmed and scared kids who have just learned that some of our loved ones are dead or are too young to even understand what is going on. We pose no threat and have no other option but to obey. “Xaden Riorson. Garrick Tavis. Liam and Sloane Mairi.”

Garrick squeezes my hand once more before pushing himself up to follow Xaden and I have to fight back the instinct to follow them. I stand up, exchanging a look with Bodhi instead, finding a perfect reflection of my own confusion and fear in his eyes. For as long as I can remember, Bodhi and I have been the younger ones within our group, always running after Garrick and Xaden and following their lead, complaining rather loudly whenever they kept secrets from us or did things that didn't include us. But never before have I ever felt so utterly lost and desperate to follow them. 

One of the guards arranges them into a line and I catch Xaden’s eyes before they are escorted out of the room as he is placed last in the procession. He shakes his head ever so slightly and mouths “later”. I know he promised it would all be alright, but I honestly doubt we would have the time for chit-chat – unless he is planning on having fucking Malek himself present for our discussion too.

Two of the guards leave with them – one to the front or the group and the other one behind them – and as soon as they leave the room, two other riders take their place. I am starting to see a pattern now.

After this brief break, the guy with the list continues to recite: “Bodhi Durran. Imogen Cardulo. Eya Gable. Soleil Telery.” It doesn't take a genius to figure out that they are calling us according to our parents’ importance in the rebellion: Garrick's dad had been Fen's right hand and strategist, Colonel Mairi has had command over all the riders, with Bodhi's dad being her second in command and my mom was one of the lead strategists and the head of the Tyrrish healers. Eya's mom was a rider and held a seat in the Tyrrish council, while Colonel Telery had a similar position as an infantry soldier. 

As I drag my feet towards the guards, taking my place in the line they arrange us into, I try to convince myself that Xaden wouldn’t have promised us it would be alright if he didn't have a plan. It's not like him to say something just to be supportive and shit, but then again… people do all sorts of things in the face of death. And whatever he thinks he “made sure of”... you can never fully trust the word of a Navarrian so there is no real guarantee. </p>

As if sensing my thoughts, Bodhi, positioned right behind me, brushes his fingers against my right hand – a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by our stone-faced guards. “Keep your hands at your sides where we can see them and your eyes straight ahead.” One of them barks.

My anger rises to critical levels hearing him and it takes every ounce of self-restraint I have in my body not to glare or punch the idiot who gave the order. By some miracle, I even managed to keep my expression neutral – if only my sister or Garrick were here to witness this! They always chide me for my short temper and like to say that I have absolutely no self-preservation instinct – turns out I actually do, I just choose to ignore it most of the time. This time is an exception because even I know that picking a fight with my hangmen would not be a good idea.

As I have anticipated, outside the door there is a line of guards, mostly riders, waiting their turn to enter and be assigned their own group to take Amari knows where. Guess we are going to find out soon enough… </p>

I try to commit to memory every twist and turn on our way towards this mysterious destination. My father always said that a good soldier has a keen sense of orientation and can come up with an escape plan in any situation, but at this point, I am not really trying to come up with an actual escape plan – no, I know I would be dead the second I stepped out of line. Weirdly enough, occupying my mind with this kind of stuff helps, however – it gives me something to think about other than our rather gloomy predicament.

We reach the lower levels of the prison, passing multiple corridors with cells, but I don't have the time to see if among the occupants of those cells are any familiar faces. There must be at least some, right?

We finally stop on a narrow corridor with four metallic doors, two on each side. There are no signs or numbers on the doors, nothing to give us any sort of hint as to what we would find behind those doors. Four more guards are stationed next to each door and our gracious guides break the line to join their colleagues to talk for a bit, as if they are just taking a break from a tedious task to crack jokes and exchange gossip with their friends.

I catch a few words from their conversation, something about a pregnant woman and something about a deal and selling something, but I just assume they are talking about their own lives and acquaintances. Instead, taking advantage of them being distracted, I turn a bit toward my best friend.

Bodhi gives me one of his cheeky smiles, but his lower lip is trembling a bit too much for it to have the reassuring and comforting effect he was aiming for. His dark curls are messy and sticking to his skin from the thin layer of sweat covering his olive skin that has taken a bit of an ashy undertone. There is a shadow clouding his eyes, almost drowning the speckles of gold in them, but in spite of that, his gaze is the same as always – warm, familiar, kind. 

For as much as I love Garrick and Xaden, Bodhi has always been my best friend. My first friend even. We were two or three when we first met, I think. His mother came to see my mom for some minor health-related issue and she had brought Bodhi along, leaving the two of us to play while they talked. Back then everything was easy and straightforward and it couldn't have taken us more than a few seconds to decide that we would be each other's best friends. Not long after that, I met the other two idiots, but it has always been Bodhi whom I was closest to – we had the same classes with private tutors and shared the same addiction for sweets that led to us ending in the infirmary more times than I care to remember… quite in a similar fashion to how Garrick and Xaden were always together, Bodhi and I were inseparable as well. And our dependence on each other only grew in time, understanding each other without even having to say anything.

“Well, what do people say in these kinds of situations? It's been wonderful while it lasted?” Bodhi says, shrugging.

“Wonderful is not the word I would use to describe it all,” I challenge him, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay okay, not exactly wonderful, I admit. But... it's been fun, at least,” He corrects himself, his lips pulling into a genuine half-smile.

“Oh certainly, I had a blast seeing you three morons every day for the past fifteen years. Nothing beats the absolute joy of having to reign my murderous impulses whenever you acted like complete morons. Which was daily.” I playfully roll my eyes at him, the shadow of a smile lingering on my lips.

“Oh, you gotta admit you loved every stupid thing we did. You would have been bored out of your mind otherwise.” He adds and for a second I see those shining specks of gold in his eyes shining again as we both think back on our childhood together. 

I think of all our games and adventures: the play pretends, with Bodhi usually drawing the short stick and being forced to play the damsel in distress whenever we played riders versus venins because I made it damn clear that I wouldn’t be caught dead in that role; going cliff-jumping and burying each other in the sand at the beach near Aretia; roasting marshmallows by the campfire on summer evenings, with Derik telling us scary stories that usually led to Braelyn biting his head off for scaring us and us ending up asking to sleep with them on those nights; the snowball fights and winter festivities our parents usually spend together; anniversaries and formal balls and parties where we somehow always managed to wreak havoc… that one time we decided we wanted to run away from home and managing to go through with that plan for a few hours – until we ran out of sweets and returned home with our tails between our legs. I also recall the festivals and celebrations in the village square for an event or another (especially for weddings or births) that we attended even when we didn’t know the people celebrating – nobody gave a flying crap about that; we all enjoyed the music and the dancing and especially the food. Oh gods, not to mention all those times we proved to be the worst nightmare of the staff of Riorson House – it is somewhat of a miracle that Aretia and the fortress stood for as long as they did as we almost set the whole place on fire. On multiple occasions.

“This past year aside, there is nothing I would want to change,” Bodhi admits earnestly, his smile a bit melancholic as he looks at me now. “And I am thankful to have had you there for all my happiest memories. Guess now we will have to find ways to cause havoc in Malek’s realm instead, huh?”

“Oh, fuck! And here I was hoping to finally be rid of you in death, Bo,” I tease him, squeezing his hand to compensate for my inability to come up with something as nice and sappy as him. I don’t need to, he knows exactly how I feel without me having to say it in so many words.

“Nah, I am afraid you are stuck with me for eternity, Immy. After all, you know you are my favorite, right?” He adds with a wide grin on his face. 

“I better be.” I grin right back at him, reluctantly releasing my hold on his hand when the guards seemingly remember that they are on the job and not here to gossip and socialize. “You are my favorite too,” I add in a small voice just before he is escorted by the soldiers toward one of the four rooms. 

With one last wink and a confident grin that does nothing to hide the scared and anxious look in his eyes, Bodhi enters the room and the door is closed behind him. I have exactly ten seconds before another one of the guards grabs my arm and pulls me towards another one of the doors, a fact I am thankful for – the rooms are probably warded, but even so, I wouldn’t want to risk it, and be here to hear whatever sounds would escape from there. It would completely destroy me to hear them killing my best friend – I would rather keep this, us laughing and joking around as my last earthly memory of him.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The first thing I notice when I enter the room is that it is empty. I am not sure what exactly I was expecting to find - instruments of torture? chains and shackles? at the very least some weapons and a person to wield them? But no, the room is completely empty – stone and granite walls and floor and another identical door to the one I have come through on the other side of the room. 

After pushing me inside, the guard accompanying me inside walks right past me towards the other door, completely ignoring my existence. He just… leaves me here. Confusion is an understatement for how I feel right now – isn’t this the moment he was supposed to end me with a twist of his wrist or something? Hello, Mr. Hangman, aren't you forgetting something? Not that I am complaining about still drawing breath, but you know… 

I am not sure how much time passes this time before the door the guard had disappeared through earlier opens again and I brace myself for the worst. I think back to all the fighting tactics I know, although I doubt I would be able to last long in a fight with highly trained riders and Navarrian soldiers. Winning is out of the question, but at the same time, it feels wrong to go down without putting up a bit of a struggle at least. 

However, it is not the guard from earlier who walks inside the room this time around. At the sight of the two women stepping inside, my eyes instantly fill with tears and I dig my nails into the pad of my hand to make sure that it is not another instance of my mind playing tricks on me. The sound that escapes my throat when I realize that they are indeed here, alive, is somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

Fearing that my legs will give out any second now, I run while I still have the strength and collapse in my mother’s outstretched arms, burying my face in the once-white apron of her uniform. “Mami…” I don't even bother trying to bite back my tears when I feel her arms tightening around me in a protective hug.

“You have twenty minutes,” A manly voice announces, followed by the slam of a door, but I don't care about that anymore. My world narrowed down to the familiar warmth of my mother’s embrace, to the way she combs through my hair gently as I cry into her chest.

“Shh, it's alright, sweetheart. I am here. We are here,” my mother whispers soothingly, kissing my forehead and pushing my hair out of my face. Then she slides her hands to my elbows and pushes back a little to inspect me, looking for any signs of injury. “Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head. Physically, I am in peak condition and even if I wasn't, I wouldn't want to worry my mother with it anyway. Not when I see the clear exhaustion on her face – I haven't seen her in almost three weeks, but it looks as if she had aged by a few decades: her blonde hair is pulled out of her usual tight bun, cascading down her shoulders in a mess of matted locks, the lines of her face deepened, giving her a gaudy look and there are well-defined violet bags under her tired honey-colored eyes. She is still dressed in her healer uniform, but it is so dirty and ripped that I barely recognize it – my mother, the ultimate clean freak and the most put-together person I know… “No, mami, I am fine,” I assure her, biting my lower lip at the sight of the cuts and bruises visible through the holes in her uniform and I pray to Amari that the blood decorating her apron is not hers.

“Good. That's good,” my mom whispers, wrapping her arms around me and I melt into her embrace as we both sink to the floor, clinging tightly to each other. That's when I know she has finally cracked and instead of the pulled-together healer who never loses her composure in the eye of the storm, before me stands a mother who is an emotional mess and fearful for her children. “My brave little girl,” she sobs against my head.

I kiss her cheek and then I finally look at the other person in the room, currently crunching down next to us. My sister gives me a sad small smile as she grabs my hand, squeezing it three times – a silent way of saying “I love you” that we have been using since we were little when we started to feel like we were too old for something as cringe as expressing affection. “You look like crap,” I manage to say, my voice cracking badly, but she just shakes her head, letting out a short, humorless laugh. 

It is not exactly a lie – Braelyn does look like a mess, but that is to be expected in the current context. Like our mother, she is still dressed the same way as I last saw her, but in her case, the uniform consists of her black flight leathers, her jacket unzipped to reveal the unsettling sight of a wide hole into her shirt, hastily bandaged with what looks to be the material of what was once a shirt. There is a black bruise right under her eye and an ugly cut extending from her neck to her delicate jaw, but it looks to be superficial. Her shoulder-length auburn hair is still pinned into a braid, but it is considerably looser than how she usually has it when she flies with Jyst, some of the shorter strands at the front getting in her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t want to be seen with you in public like that either, monkey,” Braelyn teases me back, extending her other hand to caress my cheek affectionately. I don't miss the hoarseness of her voice, but I try not to think how much she must have used her powers for it to lose its usual sweetness. Or how much she must have cried and shouted, judging by the haunted look in her pale green eyes.

Just for a little bit, I allow myself to bask in the comfortable warmth of their presence, content to just know that they are here with me. And doing my best to ignore the painful absence, but I utterly fail in this regard, my eyes filling with tears I haven't allowed myself to shed until now. “Uncle Theron…” I whisper between sobs.

Braelyn moves a bit closer, closing her eyes for a moment. I am taken back to all those times when it was just the three of us at home, waiting for news from my father whenever he left for battle or to visit the outposts closest to the border. Back then we were afraid of ever living in a reality where he and uncle Theron would not return – now we are. “Colonel Tavis said he fell in battle, taking down half a squad by himself,” My sister tells me. “He died the way he always said he would want to, in battle.”

“As if there is any comfort in that…” I mutter to myself, but I know they heard me as my mother stiffens and Braelyn averts her gaze.

“There is. It's an honorable way to go and he would have preferred that to…” Braelyn stops mid-sentence and I see the hesitation in her eyes before it is replaced with steely determination. “What have they told you about what is going on?” 

“Nothing. To them, we are little more than a herd of sheep to move from one place to another to their convenience,” I say, frowning as I brace myself for the next bit. “What is there to know anyway? They are going to execute us all, aren't they?”

“No,” My mother contradicts me, lifting my chin so I would look at her tear-stained face. “They are not going to harm you kids. We don't know the details, but what we do know is that they decided you are more useful to them alive, to make an example out of you.”

My throat suddenly feels very dry and my eyes widen. “But that is… no. No no no!” I start shaking and agitating in my mother's embrace as I realize what this meeting actually is – they brought me here to say goodbye. But I don’t want to say goodbye! The only thought keeping me together until now was the conviction that I would not have to live for long in a reality without them! “I don’t want to-”

“Imogen!” My sister cuts me off, sternly, and I instantly freeze. Yes, as sisters we have frequently quarreled and fought, but she very rarely used that tone with me. For a moment I wonder if she used even a sliver of her powers on me, but I realize that there is no need for that anyway – the desperate look in her eyes was enough. “We don't have a lot of time so I want you to listen to me now. I know it's a lot and you must be terrified… for fuck's sake, I would be losing my mind if I were you too, but right now that is not an option. Okay?”

Losing my mind right now seems like a favorable option, but I find myself pursing my lips in a tight line and nodding. I don't want to think about what is going to happen, but I know that these are my last moments with my sister and mother – and if they can stand here in front of me and still form coherent thoughts after everything they went through, I have no excuse. I can do it. I have to.

I shift a bit in my mother’s arms so I can look at my sister. “Do you still have the rune from Colonel Mairi?” Instinctively, I reach into the pocket of my jacket to take out the stone. Every single one of the kids in the safe house had these stones with special protective runes made by Colonel Mairi – and we were ordered to have them on us at all times, so even when the Navarrian soldiers took us out of the safe house, we still had them on us. “Good, keep it within reach. You will need it.” She sighs, relieved at the sight of the rune.

“Why?” I stupidly ask, frowning a bit at the stone in my lap. “Didn't you say they are not going to execute us?” 

“They are not,” my mother says gently, caressing my hair. “But they are going to execute us. And the rune within that stone will give you an advantage, in case things don't go as planned and they change their minds.” 

 “If it's a protective rune, why can't you take it? Maybe then we could…” 

Braelyn shakes her head, cutting me off, “That is not how it works, Immy. The rune is made in such a way that it can only protect you upon our death. It will most likely be death by dragonfire, so the rune will grant you protection from whatever signet the rider of that dragon has,” She explains and I sense her patience running out by the second, so I don’t push it anymore. 

Death by dragonfire. The punishment for those whom Navarre deems traitors. It's gruesome and dishonorable – being put into a tight formation, awaiting the blazing flames to eat away at your flesh, reducing you to a pile of smoking ashes carried off by the wind. I now understand why Braelyn said that Theron's death in battle was better – his name will be tarnished by those scribes writing down the story, but to a man who prided himself on his honor and loyalty, dying like a traitor would have been the biggest disgrace imaginable to him. But the selfish part of me would have rather had him survive the battle, sentenced to this despicable fate… just so I could see him one more time.

“They are not telling us any more than they are telling you about their plans, so we don't know where they will send you or how they are planning to assure your submission. And they will certainly try, Imogen,” My sister goes on, taking over completely as my mother seems to barely be holding on to her emotions right now. “There will be no one else coming to defend you and you should never expect any stranger's pity or mercy. Don’t give your trust to just anyone and even when you think you could trust someone… never do it blindly or completely, not when your survival is at stake.”

Survival… I never imagined there would come a time I would think of something like this, but I find myself wondering if there is any point in surviving at all in this case. Survive in order to… what? I am about to lose the people I loved all my life, I can never go back to Aretia – there isn't even an Aretia to go back to, in the first place! – and, yes, everything in my future is uncertain, but there is one certainty in all this: whatever awaits me will be brutally painful, hard, and lonesome. 

As if sensing my thoughts, Braelyn pushes closer to me and puts both her hands on my shoulders. “You will survive, Imogen. Yes, it will be hard and not at all pleasant, but at least you will be alive. And that matters because you can still make a difference. You still have a chance at a life and I don’t want to see you throw that away! Don't you dare let it all go to waste!” Her tone matches the fierceness that burns behind her pale green eyes. I am not sure what she is asking me not to let go to waste – my life? my potential? all of their efforts that didn't come to fruition? all of the above? As awful as that sounds, the rebellion and the reasons behind it couldn't matter any less to me right now. Not when that honorable and rightful rebellion is the reason why my family is going to die, the reason why my uncle and Derik are already dead.

“You will survive,” Braelyn repeats, but this time it is not a plea or an order, but a statement. As if she is banishing any other option. “And you will not be alone, remember that. You will still have the boys – Garrick, Bodhi, Xaden, they are going through the exact same shit and you can lean on each other through it all.”

“You just said I can't trust anyone,” I point out. </p>

“You can trust them - all three of them are idiots, but somehow their idiocy matches your own. If you can trust someone, it’s them.” Braelyn rolls her eyes, but I don't fail to notice the way her lips twitch slightly upwards. Maybe I should take a page out of Bodhi's book of saying stupid things to lighten the mood more often. 

“Be careful around the other kids,” My mother says, a sharper edge in her voice now. “They might be going through the same hell, but it doesn’t mean that they are walking alongside you. People have different ways of dealing with pain and everyone has selfish reasons and goals.” 

I remember Garrick's words from earlier, about how someone must have cracked during interrogation. How someone betrayed the information about the safe house. That explains the resentment and anger in my mother's voice, I guess. For her, the backstabbing traitor was someone she worked with, someone she probably trusted. 

“Mom is right, Im. Your priority from now on is to protect yourself, no matter how many corpses you have to walk over.” Braelyn agrees and I swear she has never looked more like our father. Physically, she has always shared some of his features: the curly auburn hair, the upturned nose, and the same pale green eyes. But now it is more than that, the determination, the heroic grief, the ability to push aside her inner turmoil and despair… And that unapologetic ruthlessness. “I am not telling you to be unfeeling or to become the perfect obedient puppet Navarre wants you to be, far from it. I am telling you to be clever about how you act around them - play by their rules, but don’t ever let them change what you know to be true and right. Bide your time until you will have the means to stand up to them.”

My earlier hate towards the rebellion and the cause they all dedicated their hopes and efforts to completely washes away. The truth is I know what they fought for was honorable and brave, and it is not the cause that is taking them away from me – no, for that I have Navarre and their illustrious generals to blame.

“I wish I had the time to tell you everything I never got the chance to.” Braelyn sighs and the brave face she had until now crumbles as she pulls me in a tight embrace, a sob escaping from her throat. “There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but it is not the time, nor the place for it. And I am sorry I have to put so much pressure on you – gods only know how much we tried to keep you kids away from all of this so you would have a chance at a normal childhood…”

And indeed they tried. Almost every day for the past year there was someone to tell us “You are children. You are supposed to be children, not soldiers.”. And for Dunne’s sake, we all hated that line, never understanding just how precious that barrier was, just how much we would come to yearn for that protection and to have someone to say that to us. Now our childhoods are going up in flames. 

I bury my face in my sister’s shoulder, trying to commit to memory every little thing about this moment – it will probably be the last time I ever hug her, after all. And I realize with a sense of guilt that I wish I had hugged her more whenever I had the chance, but I was too proud to admit that I loved the comfort and sense of security hugging her gave me. Somehow, even underneath the smell of blood, dirt and grime, I can almost make out the faint floral scent of her favorite perfume. “I love you,” I sob into her shoulder. “This is not how it was supposed to be. I don’t want to live a life without you in it. I can’t. I need you…”

“I love you too, monkey. And it is just as painful to me as it is for you, but you don’t need me. Not really. You have always been strong and independent…”

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t still need my sister!” I argue, tears flowing down my cheeks freely by this point. I will always need my parents and I love them dearly, but it is Braelyn that I find it harder to imagine a life without – she has been with me since my first moment on this earth and she was supposed to be my lifelong companion. That's the role of siblings, right? She has been the one to teach me how to climb a tree, the one to help me with my homework and show me the first fighting techniques. It was her arms that I ran to far more often than anyone else whenever I had a problem and more than half the things I know I learned from her. My first friend, my role model, the person I knew I could count on no matter what. How am I supposed to say goodbye to her?

“I know, monkey,” She sobs against my hair. “I also know that you don't want to hear all that sappy bullshit about me not actually going anywhere and watching over you or living in your heart. But just so you know, if I am given any choice in the matter, I would do all of that. Fuck Malek. For you, I would become a damn fucking cliché. But you have to promise me that you will keep on living. Not just surviving, actually living.”

I honestly don't believe that it would be possible for me to ever enjoy life again. Not the way I did before. But I still find myself nodding in agreement to her request. “I promise.”

I feel another hand rest on my back and I raise my head a bit to look at our mother, kneeling down next to us on the floor to join our hug. Long gone is our ability to think or talk about anything else – no, we sorted most of our affairs already and we know, in broad lines, what awaits us. This is the time – the only time – we are given to grieve as a family, to let out all of those feelings we have kept bottled up until now. We are grieving the people we lost – dad, Theron, Derik and all those people who have been in our lives and whom we came to care about and love, whether they are already dead or will soon be –, but we are also grieving the future we were robbed of. Coherency and logic have abandoned us too, but they are not needed anyway. They are not necessary for us to say all those words we wasted so much time not saying – “I love you”s and “thank you"s are said over and over again between sobs. This is not how it was supposed to be. Not at all. But within our own little bubble, at least for a little while longer, it is alright. It is not how it was supposed to be, but it is good enough for us.

But that is the thing about bubbles, they burst, shattering and leaving you to face the harsh reality again. The door opens again and three guards come in, unceremoniously separating us and forcing us to our feet. I kick and scream at the man holding me upright – no, not yet, I need a little more time with them. I need more time to look at them, to commit to memory every little thing about them because the possibility of forgetting even the smallest detail kills me. I need more time to listen to the sound of their voices. I need more time to hold and talk to them. I need a thousand more tomorrows and a thousand more “I love you”s. I need more time. But they could give me another twenty minutes or twenty hours and even twenty days and I would still not be ready. It would never be enough and I would never be prepared to say goodbye. 

I see Braelyn open her mouth and for a second I am convinced she is going to use her signet on these guards to buy us more time, but she renounces that idea, pursing her lips in a tight line instead.

“What is it, Cardulo? Has the great Puppeteer finally lost her voice?” One of the guards snickers, taunting her as he ties her hands behind her back with more force than necessary as she doesn't put up a struggle at all. But in spite of that resignation in her movements, her eyes burn with anger and disdain, bearing a similar defiance as I have noticed in Xaden's this morning.  

“Maybe I am just saving my breath, Soluth. After all, for someone to be my puppet, they would have to have a functional brain in the first place. I doubt you even have one, so why bother?” Her voice doesn't waver and she doesn't even flinch when he wrestles her arm at a painful angle. The she-devil even has the nerve to give the rider an arrogant smirk over her shoulder, as condescending as the sing-song sweet voice she uses.

The jab hits its mark, the rider sneering and losing the overly confident demeanor from a few moments ago. He is young, probably my sister's age, and based on her use of his last name, I assume they were probably together in Basgiath. “All that bravado might have been impressive before, traitor. Let's see if you can talk back and smirk when you turn into a bonfire,” Soluth says with a sense of grim satisfaction at the pained gasp his taunting gets out of my mother.  

But Braelyn still remains unfazed by his words, keeping her chin up high and betraying absolutely no fear. “Better a traitor than a liar and a coward. At least I will go out knowing I fought for what is right, can you say the same?” She bites back, narrowing her eyes.

Soluth jerks his head towards the door in a silent command to the other riders restraining me and my mother to follow him, before he pushes my sister forward towards it. “And look what your so-called rightfulness earned you – a spectacular barbecue party.” He turns around to throw a look in my direction and the slyness in his voice is clear as he adds, “Don't worry, Cardulo. For old times’ sake, I saved your sister the best fucking seats in the house – front row for the show!” 

That finally gets a reaction out of my sister – as the guards keep pushing us down the corridor, I can't properly see her face from where I am behind her and my mother, but I see her stopping in her tracks and turning her head to finally look towards the other rider, her eyes wide in disbelief. “What are you talking about?” she whispers, her voice weak. 

“What, no one told you?” he feigns surprise, the smile on his face so wide it makes me feel sick to my stomach as the meaning of his words finally hits me. “We can't let your little sister and her friends miss out on the event of the year, can we? After the shit you put us through, we can't possibly allow these brats to think they can just pick up from where you left. We are showing them exactly what such foolishness would get them.”

My mind goes blank for a moment, refusing to acknowledge it. No, this is too vile and cruel, even for Navarre. They can't possibly have us watch as they… as they execute our families. It's pure evil! But the gleeful look on Soluth's face and his dark satisfaction at our horrified looks tells me that this is not a joke. 

“They are just children! They did nothing wrong!” My mother cries, trying to wrangle herself out of her guard's hold – to no avail. The rider restraining her might be a woman, but she is much sturdier and has much more training than my healer mom. “Please! They don't deserve this… they are innocent!” she pleads, her desperation clear in her voice. 

My mother is a proud woman and I know that under no circumstances would she beg and plead for her own life - not in front of these people, not even in front of King Tauri himself. But she does it now, for the almost nonexistent chance that I wouldn’t have to watch it. I don’t know which is more hurtful to watch – my mother’s desperate attempt to shield me from this pain or my sister’s painful resignation because she knows nothing she could say would change anything, not even her powers. Deep down, my mother knows that too. 

“Innocents!” The female rider snorts, pure disgust and venom dripping from her voice. In my shock-induced numbness, I turn to look at her - rider leathers, but instead of the lines that lieutenants receive upon graduating, she has three stars on her collar, so she is still a cadet. I knew Navarre called third-years in service early when Fen announced the secession, and I am aware that she knows absolutely nothing about what is actually going on beyond the border - all the information she gets is filtered by Command and the scribes to fit their narrative and she’s probably never even seen a gryphon, let alone a venin. Yet I still wish I had a knife to bury in her ignorant skull. “Every single person who went into battle to stop your foolishness was innocent too - they had no fault, only a desire to protect our country. Yet they still paid the ultimate price for your foolishness, backstabbing traitors!” 

“That is quite enough!” The third rider, the one holding me, finally snaps at his colleagues. I think he is a little older than them, maybe a couple of years older than Braelyn and judging by his uniform, higher in rank. “We are here to escort them, not to argue and threaten them. Just do your fucking job and do it quietly!” he adds sternly and, even though I know he didn't do it for our sake – most likely, he was just sick of all the shouting –, I appreciate his intervention and I might be imagining it but I feel his hold on me loosening just a tiny bit. Not enough to give me an opening to free myself, but it is not as hurtful as before. 

 ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ 

The next few moments pass in a blur. I am only vaguely aware that I am moving, but I don’t register anything I pass by and all that effort from earlier to make a mental map in case I get the opportunity to escape goes out the window. Frankly, whoever expects me to be able to concentrate on the maze of narrow hallways and stairs in my current situation is a fucking idiot. I can’t make sense of my own thoughts, let alone of my surroundings. 

I couldn’t tell how much time passed until we reached an area almost as wide as the foyer of the prison where the death list was read earlier. There are six other paths that open into this wider area, with a big wooden door with dragons and gryphons engaged in combat carved into it – unbelievable how far this Navarrian propaganda goes! And from each of the six other paths other groups of people emerge, most of whom I recognize: there is Eya with her mother and her two older cousins; Colonel Mairi followed by her son, Liam, with the girl, Sloane, clinging to her brother; Soleil along with her parents and one of her twin older brothers… I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Bodhi, walking behind his father and paternal grandfather – there is a small comfort in knowing that at least he is alright, that he is here with me and I see my relief mirrored on his face.

I anxiously look towards the remaining path, chanting under my breath over and over again the same word – “please”. I am not even sure to whom I am addressing this plea to or why I still bother – force of habit, I guess. The gods clearly turned their backs on us a long time ago, deaf and blind to everything happening or otherwise plainly uncaring to it all – that is if they exist at all. 

Then I see Colonel Tavis, as stoic and collected as ever, but turning ever so often to look over his shoulder at a ghoul-like looking Mrs. Tavis who is mostly dragged by the soldier restraining her and, right behind them… I swear my heart almost jumps out of my chest when I see Garrick emerge from that dark hallway a few seconds later. His hazel eyes scrutinize the crowd around us, the same inspection I did myself, before they settle on Bodhi and then on me. Uncertainty, fear and confusion are clearly painted in every line of his face and in his tense stance – those seem to be the emotions of everyone here and I wonder to myself if they had been informed of where we are being taken and what we are about to see. Truth be told, I would prefer the blissful uncertainty to this cursed knowledge of what awaits us. 

These are all people I know well, people whom I grew up with or whom I saw on a daily basis around Riorson House whenever the boys and I played there or even around my own family estate, visiting my parents. Within every group, there is a gap, an absence that hangs heavily on all of us: Eya’s aunt, Soleil’s other brother, Bodhi’s grandmother… my uncle and Derik Tavis. Maybe, after all, my sister is right. Maybe they are the lucky ones, having been spared such a horrible end with their loved ones watching. 

And there is one other unexplainable absence, or rather two. But I am not left wandering about this one for long as the great wooden door is pushed open to reveal a wide field. I figure this must be the inner courtyard of the prison as it is encircled by different wings of the fortress on all sides, but it is ridiculously big. This whole prison is probably bigger than an entire village and I certainly don’t want to know what they need so much space for in the other wings of it. 

But the size of the courtyard is justified – had it been any smaller it wouldn’t fit all these dragons. There are at least fifty dragons, some of them aligned in formation on the ground, while the rest sit perched on the walls of the prison, but they barely spare a glance our way, their focus being on the other dragons on the field. The dragons of the riders who had been on our team, I realize when my eyes land on Jyst, then on Lystra and Gluasad. 

I shouldn’t be surprised at this point that they are making the dragons watch the execution of their chosen riders – after all, they showed us no mercy in this regard. However, I find it strange that the dragons, who are so set on not bowing to the rules of humans, agreed to subject their own to this torture. I know that maybe in their eyes they are traitors as well, but it is still beyond cruel for a punishment. 

On one side of the field there is a high tribune, the kind you would expect to see at the theater or something like that, every seat occupied by people who are dressed to the nines – most are dressed in fancy uniforms with shiny medals put on display, advertising their importance in the military ranks of Navarre, but there are also some dressed in aristocratic suits, with jewels and riches to advertise their wealth and power outside the battlefield. After all, maybe I was not wrong in comparing this crowd to that attending a spectacle – for them what is about to happen is indeed a show, like everything that we have been subjected to today. But it is also a celebration of their victory, so I would not be surprised if after all is said and done, they would throw an actual party to pat each other on the back for their cowardice. 

And, of course, at the top of the tribune, in a freaking lodge, there is the royal family – King Tauri, his wife and their two oldest sons, Crown Prince Halden and Prince Alic. The twin princes are not much older than I am, but from where I am standing, I don’t see any emotion on their faces – it's as if they are not going to see actual human beings about to be burnt alive right in front of them. 

Next to the tribune, there is some sort of scene, directly overlooking the center of the field where everyone's attention is directed. The black dragon in the middle of the field would be hard to miss even if he hadn’t been standing in such a strategic position – Codagh, General Melgren's dragon. The brown dragon I saw earlier, Aimsir, and a red clubtail flank both sides of the black dragon, but even they seem to try to keep some distance between themselves and the dragon who is at least twice their size. 

When we reach the stage, our group is divided into two, to my horror. The guards escorting me and the rest of the underage kids, force us onto the stage, while the rest are herded toward the center of the field. 

No, no, no! Not yet! I need to hug my mother and sister one more time! I haven't properly said goodbye to them yet! It's too soon, I am not ready! None of us are, if the sobs and wails around me are any indication. 

Once we are on the stage, the guards restraining us take a step back, leaving us free. They no longer need to hold us now, not when we can't move our feet. One of them must be a rider with an immobilizing signet or something of that kind because I feel my feet glued to the wooden floor of the stage where I stand between Bodhi and Garrick. 

Gradually, more and more groups of high-ranking rebel officers and their families show up, being divided the same way – the children, regardless of their age, are put on the scene with us, while the adults are placed in formation in front of Codagh. With one exception – the pregnant wife of Colonel Croia is placed on the stage with us. Nice to see that Navarre is at least capable of mercy in the case of unborn kids. 

By now everyone probably figured out why we are here and what is going to happen, but we are all too overwhelmed and scared to talk. Or maybe they silenced us as well, who knows? 

My eyes don't leave the place where my mother and sister stand at the front of the formation and they turn to look my way every once in a while as well, sketching what are supposed to be reassuring smiles. I close my fist around the smooth surface of the rune stone, raising prayers to whatever god might be listening. 

The last group to come consists of four people: General Sorrengail and another man in black rider leathers, his chest decorated with multiple medals attesting his rank, and, walking in front of them, there are Xaden and his father. At the sight of them, there is a murmur in the audience – of course, there he is! The man responsible for this whole rebellion is finally brought to ‘justice’. 

Xaden is forced to sit three steps in front of us on the wide platform, his position mirrored by his father. He turns around to look towards the three of us, his eyes shadowed by sadness and anger. But I also notice the unshed tears – he can't cry, not here where everyone is looking at him. 

Probably to acknowledge her contribution in putting an end to the rebellion, it is General Sorrengail who begins reciting the official sentence and the execution order, but I can’t concentrate on what she is saying. Isn't this supposed to be the moment when I woke up from the nightmare? This can't be real… it can't be fucking happening! But the bone-crushing hold Bodhi has on my right hand tells me that I am not dreaming, that we are indeed here and this is truly happening. 

For a moment, remembering Bodhi's words from earlier, I try to fool myself that there is still hope for someone to come and save us all, putting a stop to this fucked up show. But there is no one left and even if there was, no one would have the power to go against King Tauri and Melgren. Then I think that surely the dragons wouldn't just sit idly while their riders are killed – but they are just as helpless as we are. The dragons perched on the high walls are ready to kill all of us at the slightest sign of disturbance. 

No one is coming to our rescue. 

The names of each of the rebels are read afterward, starting with the lower ranks this time around and ending with the ones within Fen Riorson's inner circle. By the time I hear my mother's and my sister's names, tears are flowing freely down my cheeks, my sobs joining the chorus of cries and wails of all the kids, some of whom are too young to even understand what is happening. 

“... that being said, for your involvement in actions against Navarre, we hereby sentence you to death by dragonfire. May Malek have mercy on your souls,” General Sorrengail concludes, folding back the scroll she had been reading from and taking a step back as Codagh cranes his neck forward, opening his wide jaws and readying to incinerate everyone in one go.

Everything happens so fast. My vision is blurred by tears, but I still see that last look they give me – my mother's teary eyes and my sister's stoic resignation. For a fraction of a second, I even get the impression that she is smiling – a genuine, soft smile before it all ends in literal flames.

The cries of the other children are almost as deafening as the grieving roars of pain of the dragons. And had it not been enough, the psychical suffering is only fueled by the searing pain – my right arm, with which I’ve been holding the protective rune stone, felt like it was burning – like some of Codagh's flames somehow reached me as well, engulfing the skin of my arm in fire. </p>

In that same second right after it all happens, Xaden turns around and wraps his arms around Bodhi, protectively, just as Garrick pulls me to him. He allows me to hide my face into his chest as I bawl, clinging to him so tightly I might have bruised him. But he doesn't seem to care about that – he presses his cheek against my head, one of his hands tightly coiled around my waist as the other one holds the nape of my head, his fingers tangled into my hair. His body shakes as he cries, but neither one of us utters a single word and we don’t move until the screams of agonizing pain from the field completely die out and all that is left of our families is a pile of smoking dust carried away by the wind and the dragons’ lament quieted down. 

That day, something broke inside of me – broke so violently that I felt it ripple like an earthquake through me. The person I was before today burned alongside my sister and mother and only dust remains of her, a pale shadow of whom she used to be – even my name knelt down inside of me, pleading to be spared. And the same happened for every child on that platform, now bearing a swirling set of lines on their arms from that last protection their loved ones gave them upon their sacrifice. 

Do the gods love us now? After all, everyone knows that the thing the gods love above all else is a tragedy – and we might be the biggest one yet.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ 

Four years ago

The infirmary is mostly empty when we get there, which is not unusual for a Sunday afternoon. There are two or three healers on duty, mostly busying around to check on the medical supplies and clean around – the kind of administrative work that my mother, the renowned tyrant of order, usually leaves to the novices. I see some of these young healers straighten their backs as Derik and I enter, nervously chuckling as they greet us and hurry back to their duties with renewed fervor – it shows that they are new, otherwise they would know that in spite of me being the daughter of the head of the infirmary and Derik being my mother’s star pupil, we are not in the habit of giving a fuck if we see them lazying around, let alone bothering to snitch them to my mother. 

“You know I enjoy making people nervous, Tavis, but you better have a better reason than that to drag me here. I was kind of in the middle of something, you know?” I groan in annoyance as Derik holds the door to one of the private examination rooms open for me to enter.

“You should thank me for interrupting, Midge. Your sister was close by and I know Malek would have more mercy on those three idiots than Lyn will when she sees that project of yours.” He snorts a laugh, closing the door behind him before going to rummage through the supply cabinet next to the examination table. “What was that abomination anyway? You desecrated that poor training dummy!” 

“We improved it! Now it moves faster and swings weapons too!” I correct him, but even I have to admit that he is right about my sister’s reaction. I wouldn’t particularly want to be there when she sees our invention spit fire towards us - it sounded like a brilliant idea at the time; after all, in real combat, we should be able to dodge dragon fire and explosions, right? And fire signets are very common too! 

“Yes, you sure did. You transformed it into a death trap,” Derik chuckles, returning to my side with a sewing kit, gauze, disinfectant and some other bottles with tinctures I don’t recognize. “Dunne help us if the four of you are ever in charge and calling the shots. No one would be safe anymore.”

He puts the supplies on the table next to me and I raise an eyebrow seeing them, not understanding their necessity right now. “Come on, I don’t even need all that! I had worse burns from grabbing hot cups, Tavis,” I argue, referring to the minor burn on the back of my arm from the fire-spitting dummy.

“I should hope you don’t!” He says, pushing me away from the examination table so he can jump on it. Then he takes off the leather jacket he had on, carelessly throwing it on the chair behind him. “You need a steady hand for sewing. I am not that fond of scars, you know?”

I frown at the sight of the fresh cut across his abdomen and I mentally slap myself for not noticing that he was injured before. “What the fuck, Derik!” I say, making to turn towards the door, meaning to call one of the healers, but he grabs my arm to stop me. “You need someone to look at that thing!”

Derik fucking Tavis has the audacity to give me a grin, as if he finds my concern at his not-so-minor-looking injury amusing. “That’s why you are here, Midge,” He simply says, nodding towards the sewing kit next to us. “Now, the first thing you need to-” </p> 

“This is not funny! I have no medical training! There are actual healers right outside this room and that looks serious!” I begin to panic a little, but Derik just gives me a patient look, waiting for me to be done. I am starting to understand why Braelyn always says she wants to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face.

I have never had any interest in healer stuff. Yes, my mother is the head healer in Aretia. Yes, I have basically spent half my life in this infirmary, both as a visitor and as a patient (more times than I can count). But in spite of all that, I never cared to learn this craft – yes, it is useful and my mother would kill me if I ever uttered a disrespectful word against the importance of healers, but I have always been more inclined towards inflicting wounds than patching them up. In that regard, I resemble my father and sister. And Derik Tavis fucking knows that!

“Are you done? No hurry, I am just bleeding over here, take your time freaking out,” He jokes and then, at my irritated glare, he finally sighs and puts on a more serious face. “Look, Midge, I know you don’t like healer stuff, but you need to learn the basics at least. And what better time than the present!” 

“You are not making Garrick, Bodhi or Xaden learn this stuff!” I frown, taking a good look at the wound. 

Derik lets out another laugh at that. “Gods, no! Those three have the finesse of a dancing dragon. I wouldn’t trust them with a simple bandage!” He chuckles, his hazel eyes – the reverse of his brother’s, with the green surrounded by the warm brown – sparkling with amusement. “But they will need someone to take care of them after Lyn and I leave for Basgiath in a few months. I am not expecting you to be the greatest healer this continent has ever seen, but it might come in handy to know the basics. You understand?” 

I hesitate, still looking warily towards the wound. We are always running around doing stupid stuff and ever since Derik became my mother’s apprentice, we went to him whenever he got injured. Better to have him chastise us for our foolishness than risk our parents’ punishments – and sometimes he even kept our adventures a secret from Braelyn too, although that didn’t happen frequently and certainly not when I am the one sporting a new injury. In less than a year he and Braelyn will be at Basgiath and he knows we won’t stop doing stupid stuff or trying to avoid our parents finding out, so what Derik is proposing does make sense. I just nod. </p> 

“Good. Now, as I was saying, the first thing you need to do is to assess the injury. And to do that you need to get a clear view of it,” He starts explaining, giving me a pair of scissors. “This is not a critical wound, but it is always better to remove the layers without making the patient exert themselves too much. The last thing you need is their guts spilling out of them when you move them.”

I always thought Braelyn was the better teacher out of the two of them, considering Derik’s impatience and temperament, but his instructions are easy to follow – assess the wound, clean it with whatever you have at your disposal to avoid infection, apply ointments if you have them after you have already stitched up the wound (only after disinfecting the needle) and then dress the wound tightly. And, funny enough, sewing skin is way more satisfying than the needlework my mother once tried to teach me. 

“I take it this is one of those things we are not going to tell Bri about?” I ask as I finish the stitches.

“A little tighter there,” He instructs, barely flinching although I am sure it is painful to have a needle prodding through your skin like that. “About my injury or about these secret lessons?”

“Something tells me the answer is one and the same for both.” I snort a laugh.

Derik gives me that signature crooked smile of his that apparently managed to charm half of the female population of Aretia and got him out of trouble more than a few times. It never worked on my sister, though. Or on my mother. Or on me, for that matter, so I guess Cardulo women are immune. “And that, Midge, is why you are my favorite.”

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

Those lessons Derik gave me on how to tend to wounds seem to be a lifetime ago, but my mind works on autopilot as I tend to Xaden’s injuries this time. I have none of the medical supplies I had back then – no gauze, bandages, nothing to disinfect the countless cuts on my friend’s back with and the floor of our prison cell is far from a sterile environment. One of the guards took pity on us and brought us a bucket of water and I sacrificed my thin jacket so we could cut it into pieces to wash the cuts with. We established that Garrick's jacket, being of another kind of material and bigger, will be good enough to use as bandages later on.

I am not sure how much time has passed since the guards brought us and the Mairi kids down to this cell – it could be hours or even days at this point. It all ceased to matter in <i> that </i> moment. For a long time, we sat on the floor of the cell where we were thrown, clinging to each other as we mourned – we didn’t talk to each other, but the physical touch was enough of a reassurance to know that we were not alone in this suffering. What was even there to say, to discuss? 

Eventually, I noticed Bodhi pulling away in concern when Xaden’s breathing became more and more labored, the whines escaping him not so much from his crying as from the pain. That was when we all remembered about his injuries and it gave us something else to focus on. And the first look at the bloody mass on his back was enough to made us nauseous (I was sure Sloane Mairi was going to vomit at the sight, but she managed to hold it down) – I honestly have no idea how Xaden managed not to howl in pain all this time. Or how even as Garrick and I clean the cuts he only lets out little hisses or whimpers. 

“What does the deal entail?” Garrick asks, his knuckles white on the blood-imbued cloth. We knew the moment we saw the cuts what they meant – after all, we are all Tyrs, we know about this bloody tradition. He took responsibility for all of us, all the underage kids, and he somehow managed to keep us alive.

Xaden flinches when I press my cloth to a particularly deeper cut, squeezing Bodhi’s hand tighter in turn. In the corner of my eye, I catch Sloane Mairi cringing in sympathetic pain, clinging to her brother’s arm tighter. “We will all be conscripted into the Rider’s Quadrant when we turn twenty. No exceptions,” He explains, leaving us to fill in the gaps. The four of us have always wanted to become dragon riders, we have been training for it for years already, but not all the kids in these cells do – the horrified looks on Liam and Sloane’s faces are proof of that. It will sure be fun to break the news that we are headed to the deadliest Quadrant to the other kids who now bore the same dark lines on their arms. Not to mention that those very marks, coming from our parents’ desire to protect us, are now like a target on our backs, signaling us out in a crowd.

“Why the Rider Quadrant? Aren’t they afraid we will bond a dragon and pick up from where our parents left?” Liam asks, his brilliant blue eyes moving between the four of us, clearly puzzled. 

“Because of the death rate,” Garrick snorts, his eyes trailing my movements as I drop the bloody cloth and reach for a new, somewhat cleaner one before he decides to follow my lead. “Why dirty their hands when the people in the Quadrant will take care of that for them? This way, they are hitting two birds with one stone – they get rid of us and still maintain the merciful image because they technically allowed us to live and gave us a chance. Fucking propaganda.”

“Still, there is still a very big chance the dragons would choose to bond with some of us. Maybe they are actually giving us a chance…” Liam presses on and I am not sure whether he is clinging to this foolish hope Command is capable of mercy for his sake or for his sister’s. The poor little thing is literally trembling where she sits nestled in her brother’s side. 

But I have had enough of foolish hope and my patience is slowly running out. How can someone even hold on to something as fickle as blind hope after everything that happened? “Can you honestly believe something like that? Look what happened to the dragons who chose our side! They know that if the people in the Quadrant don’t end us, the dragons will,” I sneer, closing my eyes and clenching my fist around the wet cloth as I remember the deafening roars and shrieks of the dragons, how the earth itself seemed to shake under the weight of their pain. Some of those dragons didn’t rise again, falling victim to the cruelty of Navarre when the bonds with their riders were severed – Gluasad, the red morningstar bonded to Bodhi’s dad, was one of them. So was Jyst.

I meet Garrick's eyes for a moment – silently agreeing with me, while Bodhi averts his gaze, looking down at the dirty cement. A strangled sob leaves Sloane’s throat and Liam glares at me, opening his mouth to probably argue with me or to complain about my bluntness, but Xaden cuts him off: “That’s enough! It doesn’t matter what Navarre wants or what their plans are. We are alive and, for now, that is enough. Conscription is still years from now and a lot can change. What happens once we get to Basgiath and the dragons’ decision is not something we can control, but we will do everything that is within our power – we will train, we will keep our heads down and play by the rules. We will see from there.”

That sounds a lot like my sister’s words. Survive, that was the last thing she and my mother asked of me and the last thing I want to do right now. As if sensing my thoughts, Xaden turns to look between me and Garrick, his onyx eyes burning with anger and defiance as he wordlessly makes a promise: we will bide our time, we will play by the rules, until we can finally have our revenge.

“What is going to happen now?” Bodhi breaks the silence, leaning back against the wall but still holding his cousin’s hand as Garrick and I resume our job of tending to the 107 fresh cuts.

“They are going to send us to different foster homes. Most likely with families that proved their loyalty to Navarre,” Xaden says, anger still radiating through every pore of his body. “They think that by keeping us separated we will be divided. That won’t happen.” The last part comes as a promise to me, Garrick and Bodhi, but Xaden also turns towards the Mairi siblings. “We will all see each other at Basgiath.”

Garrick and Xaden will be the first to be conscripted, being one year older than me and Bodhi. A whole damn year is a long time and a lot can happen, especially in a place like Basgiath, but I don’t want to think how these might be the last moments I will ever have with them. If there is someone who can survive in there, it’s them, right?

“Come to think of it, it’s not that bad. A nice little vacation away from you three? Pure bliss,” Bodhi tries to joke, but his voice shakes a little too much for it to have the desired effect. He seems to be aware of that because his shoulders drop and now instead of the forced grin, he gives us a weak, yet hopeful little smile. “It’s just four years, right? Five until Liam joins us and then Sloane. We can do this; we will write to each other all the time and we will barely feel it. Before we know it we will all be together again!”

I wish I could share his hopefulness, I really do, but my mind is racing with all the things that could possibly go wrong in four years. Four full years away from the only family I have left! I don’t even want to think how hard it would be for Sloane and Liam who will be separated for six years!

But we all swear right then and there, in that filthy prison cell, to make it through the next four years and meet again. I don’t know what is going to happen, I don’t have high hopes, but I will make sure to do everything within my power to make it to that day four years from now.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ 

At some point in the next few days, some guards came to take Sloane and Liam, saying that they will be taken to see their father, Isaac Mairi. We all know without being explicitly told that they are going to watch another execution, even though their father had been separated from their mother and had no involvement in the rebellion whatsoever – to Navarre he is a possible threat: what if he decides to talk about all the things he knows from his ex-wife, in an attempt to support his children? I wonder how many others will be forced to relive the nightmare of watching their remaining family members die – and just because they are related to them and there is a slim chance of knowing the truth! 

That same day, another guard comes for Garrick and Bodhi, announcing that they have been assigned to a foster home. Together. That was the best possible scenario – they would not be alone; they would not have to face everything on their own. For the next three years, we can all rest assured that at least the two of them will be alright.

Those three minutes we are given to say goodbye are confusing. We are crying, laughing and hugging each other and I try to hold on to them for as long as I possibly can. At least I know they are not going to die right away, that this goodbye is not forever, but that doesn’t mean that my emotions aren’t all over the place – I am happy for them, I truly am, and I would never hold this lucky coincidence they got against them.

But, at the same time, I am only human. As soon as the cell door closes behind them, my eyes fill with tears and I dig my fingers into my palm to keep me from actually crying. It is not even sadness – or, more like, not only sadness. I feel awful for it, but I am jealous. I am envious of how they will get to spend the next three years together, helping each other through it all, while I will be all on my own. And that last thought, the knowledge that I am going to be alone with all my fears and feelings, alone with all my pain, terrifies me more than anything. 

I look up when I feel a hand on my shoulder, finding the same conflicting feelings in Xaden’s onyx eyes, an almost perfect mirror of my own inner turmoil. “I know,” he whispers, pulling me to him in a tight hug. “It’s going to be okay, Im. I promise, it will be alright. I will make sure of it. In four years from now, we will all be okay.” </p>

In all the years I have known Xaden Riorson, he never broke any of his promises – I sure hope he won’t start now. Because that promise might just be the only thing keeping me together.